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daryltwdixon · 4 months ago

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Sundress

Joel Miller x Reader

Joel prides himself on his patience, but that little sundress of yours that you’re wearing to the summer solstice? It’s his undoing. He does his best to behave...until he gets you alone.

|| smut mdni 18+, he sure does fuck you in the sundress, pinv, f!receiving oral, teasing, pussy pronouns whoops, daddy kink, pet names praissseeeeeeee kinkkkkkkk, joel is in love, jackson!joel, established relationship, I pictured game!joel but you do what ya want || Inspired by these wonderful requests x x If you found this before I updated the banner sry

First and foremost, Joel was a polite man.

He was raised to say yes ma’am and no ma’am, never forgetting his please and thank you’s. It was something a Southern man like him held onto, even after the world had gone to hell.

Respect came first. Restraint. Control.

But then spring came to Jackson, and your layers of clothing started to shed. Bit by bit, the cold loosened its grip, and so did his discipline. Your neck was no longer hidden beneath those thick scarves you loved, your arms bare when the sun was shining, and every so often, he caught a glimpse of soft, warm skin—the dip of your lower back, the curve of your stomach when you stretched to reach something, the way your t-shirts lifted just enough to tease.

He told himself it was nothing—just the natural way of things. He’d seen you naked in his bed enough times to know your body like the back of his own hand. Cherished and kissed and loved every inch. Warmer weather just meant lighter clothes, more sun on skin.

Nothing to make a man lose his damn mind over.

And then—Christ—summer arrived, and he was no better than any other man.

Somehow, this was worse. Because now, that soft, sun-kissed skin he worshipped in the quiet of your home was everywhere.

Teasing him.

Tormenting him.

Joel had spent the whole morning baking under the sun, sweat clinging to his skin, dust settling in the creases of his shirt. The construction site had been brutal—hauling lumber, setting up new fencing, fixing the shit that kept breaking down in town. His muscles ached, his skin was hot, and by the time the afternoon rolled around, all he wanted was a cold beer and a quiet place to sit.

But Tommy had other plans.

“C’mon,” his brother had grinned, clapping him on the back as they finished up for the day. “Solstice picnic’s startin’.”

And as Joel opened his mouth, about to argue that he needed to get back to you, Tommy had cut him off, already a step ahead.

"She’s already there. Maria put her to work stringin’ up lights and pickin’ flowers or somethin’. Now get movin’ before she starts wonderin’ if you forgot about 'er."

Joel grunted, stripping off his work gloves and tucking them into his belt. His palms were rough, lined with grit, and as he wiped the sweat from his brow, he swore the damn heat had sunk into his bones.

Wouldn’t be the first time he showed up to one of these things straight from work, sweat-streaked and worn. No one gave a shit. So he walked beside his younger brother, looking forward to getting through another one of the town's little parties.

That was when he saw you.

That little sundress. White, lacy, soft. Light enough that it barely touched your skin, the summer breeze slipping beneath it and lifting the fabric just enough to reveal the bare skin of your upper thigh.

Joel swallowed hard, the heat rolling through him having nothing to do with the damn sun.

You were glowing—golden in the late afternoon light, hair catching in the breeze, your smile easy as you laughed at something Maria said. Just standing there, sipping something cool, completely oblivious to the way he’d stopped in his tracks the second he laid eyes on you. Tommy excused himself as they arrived, saying a short ‘catch up with you later’.

Joel made himself move, rolling his shoulders, setting his jaw.

Polite, he reminded himself. Gentle.

Joel had been raised right, after all.

So when he walked up to you, he made it seem easy, effortless. Like his hands weren’t itching with the need to touch. Like his pulse hadn’t just kicked up something fierce.

“Hey, baby,” he murmured as he approached behind you, his wide grip settling low on your hips.

You twisted around to face him, eyes lighting up at the sight of him. “Hey, handsome.” Your hands slid around his neck as you pressed up for a kiss—soft, warm, sweet with the taste of iced tea and that cherry chapstick you always wore.

Joel had to fight with every fiber of his being not to haul you over his shoulder and carry you straight home.

Didn’t help that you hummed against his lips, content and tender, fingers brushing at the sweat-damp curls at the nape of his neck.

He exhaled slowly, steadying himself before he pulled back just enough to murmur, “Pretty thing like you’s got half of Jackson lookin’.”

You grinned, fingers still playing lazily with the curls at his nape. “That so?”

Joel huffed, the corner of his mouth tilting up, but there was something weighted behind the way his fingers flexed against your hips, pressing in just a little firmer.

“Mm,” he hummed, voice dipping low. “S’pose I can’t blame ‘em.” His thumb brushed the fabric of your dress, right where it pressed into the soft skin of your waist. His restraint was hanging by a thread. “Ain’t their fault you’re the prettiest thing out here.”

“You’re sweet,” you said, a tinge of pink painting your cheeks.

His hand squeezed at your hip, just once, and then he exhaled sharply, pressing a quick kiss to your temple before finally—finally—forcing himself to step back.

Because if he didn’t, this picnic was about to end real fast.

You turned to grab him a beer from the cooler, Tommy’s homemade brew—practically gold now that the days were creeping past eighty degrees. The glass was cool against your fingertips as you popped the cap and turned back, pressing it into Joel’s waiting hand.

“Figured you could use one.”

Joel took it with a small nod, taking a slow sip. “Thanks, darlin’.”

His voice was warm, easy like he hadn’t spent the last several minutes imagining what he planned to do you tonight.

You tilted your head, teasing. “Anything for you, cowboy.”

His mouth quirked up at the corner, “Don’t say that just yet,”

Something in the air shifted, something subtle, something unspoken but you felt it coursing through you, a warmth that brought a flush to your neck.

Joel’s eyes lingered, dark and steady, holding yours like he had all the time in the world. A slow, searching kind of stare, like he was committing the sight of you to memory, like he had something he wanted to say if you were surrounded by a crowd.

You felt the heat of it traveling from your cheeks to your stomach with toe curling intensity..

The fire crackled nearby. Someone laughed in the distance. The music played on.

But before either of you could say anything else, someone clapped him on the back—Tommy again, grinning, dragging him into conversation with a few others, leaving you standing there with a knowing little smirk.

Still, you stayed close.

And so did he.

The afternoon passed in a slow, easy blur. Music drifted through the warm air, laughter rang across the field, and Joel—Joel was everywhere.

His hand at your lower back as you walked through the crowd.

His arm slung over the back of your chair when you sat beside him at one of the makeshift picnic tables.

His fingers brushing over your thigh when he leaned in to murmur something low in your ear, just for you.

It wasn’t deliberate, at least not in the way most folks would notice. But you felt it—felt the way his touches lingered a second longer than necessary, the way his gaze dropped to your legs when the hem of your dress rode up just a little, the way his jaw clenched whenever you gave other men any of your attention–as kind and endearing as you were. It wasn’t your fault. You were kind, warm, effortlessly magnetic. People were drawn to you, it was just who you were.

Joel Miller was trying to behave.

And failing miserably.

By the time the sun had long dipped below the mountains, the stars shining in the dark blue sky above, he was done pretending.

You were settled on his lap, your bare legs draped over his, firelight flickering against your skin. The air was balmy, thick with the scent of burning wood and cool summer breeze, but your skin was warm against him.

His hand rested easy on the outside of your thigh at first, a casual thing, his fingers tracing idle patterns against your skin. But as the fire burned lower, so did his restraint. Slowly, lazily, his palm inched higher—skimming up, up, until his fingers slipped beneath your dress, disappearing into the soft folds of fabric.

And then he gripped you, fingers pressing into the juncture of your thigh and ass, squeezing like he just needed something to hold onto.

You jolted slightly, a sharp breath slipping past your lips as you swatted at his arm. “Joel.”

“Hmm?” He didn’t even pretend to be innocent, his fingers flexing again, kneading the flesh beneath his palm.

You tried to glare, but the traitorous smile pulling at your lips ruined the effect. “Behave yourself.”

Joel huffed out a quiet chuckle, looking up at you with something wicked in his eyes. His hand stayed exactly where it was.

“You gon’ make me?” he murmured, voice low, rough enough to leave goosebumps in its wake.

Your breath hitched. And then, almost like he hadn’t meant to say it out loud—like it had slipped past his lips before he could stop it—he exhaled, voice all gravel and want:

“This dress.”

His hand beneath your dress slid back down, fingering at the hem of the white lace, so pale now compared to your warm skin.

Your breath caught, eyes flickering down to where his fingers toyed with the fabric. His own gaze stayed locked on your face, watching every little shift, every little reaction.

When his thumb ghosted over your kneecap, you swallowed hard, thighs pressing together instinctively.

“Look so pretty, baby,” he murmured, voice thick and rough with want as he leaned into the shell of your ear. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d think you were tryin’ to drive me outta my mind.”

And maybe you were.

You knew how much Joel loved you in dresses. It was something about the way they softened you, how the fabric clung to your curves just right, how effortless and feminine you looked draped in lace and light cotton. He never outright said it, but you saw it in the way his hands lingered, in the way his eyes darkened whenever you wore something delicate—something that made you look like you were made for pretty things.

Joel might have been a rough man, all grit and strength, but it was the softness that undid him.

Your back arched into him just an inch, barely anything, but enough that he felt it. Enough that the warmth of your body, the scent of you, the soft brush of your hair against his cheek made his brain go sluggish, thick with something hot and needy.

And then you looked at him.

Heavy-lidded, dazed, lips parted just slightly—like you were already halfway gone before he’d even laid his hands on you. It made something tighten in his chest, made his fingers dig into the soft flesh of your thigh, an involuntary reaction to just how badly he wanted to feel more of you.

Your hand came up to his face, and before either of you could think twice, you were leaning in.

The kiss was nothing like the ones you’d shared earlier—no teasing, no gentle sweetness. This was urgent, all heat and hunger, your tongue kitten-licking at his bottom lip, testing, tasting, making his half-hard cock twitch beneath his jeans. He nearly groaned, nearly let it slip from his throat, but his grip on control was thin, fraying at the edges.

Because when you pulled away, instead of giving him space, you leaned in, lips brushing his ear, your breath warm and an octave lower than your usual sweet lilt.

“Let's go home,” you whispered, kissing along his earlobe, voice barely there—but it hit him like an electric shock.

That was all it took.

Joel was like an animal waiting for his trigger word, waiting for the command to be free, to take what he wanted.

He stood slowly, deliberately, trying to keep himself cool, calm, polite—saving face only because he owed that to you. Not because he cared what people thought. Hell, half of Jackson already had enough to say about him.

But he behaved for you.

For his girl.

Joel stood slowly, setting your legs down gently as he rose, his palm grazing the small of your back—just barely, just enough to feel the warmth of you beneath his fingertips. You stayed close, bodies still humming from the heat of each other, lingering even as you murmured your goodbyes.

But the further you got from the crowd, the needier your touches became.

Your fingers curled around his arm, holding tight, your body leaning into his, pressing into the solid warmth of him with every step. And Joel—Joel wasn’t any better. His hand had already found its way around your waist, fingers spreading over your hip like he couldn’t stand not touching you.

It wasn’t until you turned the corner onto your own street—finally alone—that Joel came to a sudden stop.

Your brows furrowed, about to ask what was wrong, but before you could even get the words out, he bent down and hauled you over his shoulder in one smooth, effortless motion.

A sharp gasp left your lips. “Joel!”

“Shoulda done this an hour ago,” he muttered, not even remotely apologetic. His grip tightened around the back of your thighs, adjusting you against him like you weighed nothing. And then—just to make sure you knew exactly what kind of mood he was in—his palm slid up the back of your legs, landing a sharp swat against the bare skin of your ass.

A squeak slipped from your throat, your fingers digging into the back of his shirt as you squirmed in his hold.

“Joel!” you hissed, but he could hear the grin despite the scandalized tone.

“Shh…” He chuckled, his grip tightening around your thighs as he strode up the porch steps. “Don’t want the neighbors pokin’ their heads out, do ya?”

The wood groaned beneath his boots, but he didn’t so much as hesitate, not even as he crossed the threshold, kicking the door shut behind him without breaking stride. He had one thing on his mind.

One destination.

You barely had time to process the familiar path of your home before Joel was hauling you up the stairs like you weren’t even there—still slung over his shoulder, still gripping onto him as your laughter mixed with the sound of his heavy footfalls.

And then suddenly—you were airborne.

A startled gasp left your lips as he bounced you onto the bed, the mattress dipping beneath you, breathless and winded. You propped yourself up on your elbows, hair tousled and wild, looking up at him as he stood at the edge of the bed, staring you down like he was about to devour you whole.

Your chest rose and fell, your pulse thrumming with a mixture of anticipation and amusement.

“What’s gotten into you, old man?” you teased, breathless but grinning.

Joel exhaled hard through his nose, shaking his head slightly as he pulled off your boots. Once discarded, he hooked his arms under your knees, dragging you down the mattress, pressing you into him. The motion sent your dress hiking up around your waist, leaving you spread open beneath him, your panties on perfect display.

“Oh, hunny,” he drawled, looking at the damp patch on the fabric, “you keepin’ this from me?”

Before you could answer, he leaned down, hands trailing up your thighs, easing them over his shoulders. The first brush of his lips against the fabric was slow, deliberate—a kiss to your panty-clad mound, soft but enough to make you shudder.

Then he kept going. Mouth trailing lower, teasing.

Your head tipped back at the feeling of his beard grazing your sensitive skin, a breathy moan slipping out as your elbows gave, dropping you onto the bed completely. One hand found his hair, gripping, your fingers tangling in the dark curls streaked with silver. He watched you, eyes drinking you in.

“N-no,” you breathed, “Always yours, Joel,”

“I know, baby, I know.” he cooed, voice softer now, full of reverence. He reached up, gripping the gusset of your panties, wrapping a thick finger around the damp fabric, tugging it to the side to reveal exactly what he wanted. His beard scraped against you when he kissed the skin of your thigh, sending a shockwave through your body, making you twitch beneath him.

A whimper left your lips, your hips lifting without thinking.

Joel chuckled, low and knowing, watching as your pussy clenched around nothing.

“Aw, she’s flirtin’ with me, baby,” he murmured, voice thick with amusement, pressing another slow, deliberate kiss against you. His hands tightened on your thighs, holding you open, keeping you exactly where he wanted. “Wish you could see just how pretty she looks right now.”

“Joel.” It was a whimper, a plea, a warning.

His lust blown eyes flicked up to yours, his mouth still hovering just over where you needed him most. “What is it, baby?”

You swallowed, hips shifting, heat pooling low in your belly.

“Please.”

Joel hummed, dragging his mouth closer but still not giving you what you wanted. “Please what?”

Because hell, he’d spent all damn day watching you, aching for you, burning with want while you smiled and laughed and let that damn dress drive him to madness. If anything, he deserved to have his fun now. He needed to hear you say it.

Your fingers flexed in his hair, a little tug, a little desperation, “Please touch me, Daddy.”

Joel’s blood turned molten. Heat roared through him so fierce, so instant, it nearly knocked the air from his lungs. And maybe you knew exactly what that word did to him.

He dipped his head back down, tongue sliding through your folds, groaning against you as he finally gave in. You were so warm, so slick, so ready for him that he had to take a second just to breathe, just to let himself have this.

His hands gripped your thighs, thumbs pressing into soft flesh as he held you open for him, his mouth working slow, savoring. You shuddered beneath him, your fingers twisting into his hair, your body already arching toward his mouth like you couldn’t help yourself.

His tongue flicked against your clit, lazy at first, teasing, before dipping lower to drink you in, groaning as he tasted you properly. Slow and deep, his tongue pressed inside you, inching in, sliding out, before licking back up and pursing his lips around your clit, sucking and grazing his teeth, making your hips jerk against his mouth.

His beard scraped against your thighs, rough and warm, the contrast making you tremble harder beneath him. Every movement was deliberate, unhurried, like he was relearning you all over again, savoring every sound, every twitch, every sharp gasp that slipped past your lips.

Joel’s hands flexed against your thighs, thumbs rubbing slow, soothing circles into your skin, grounding you as his mouth worked you into a pliant mess.

“Need to get her ready for me,” he murmured, voice muffled against you, words spoken more to himself than to you. His mouth never left you as one broad hand slid between your legs, and you gasped as his fingers traced over your entrance, prodding the pool of arousal there.

“So damn soft,” he muttered, dragging his mouth down to kiss the inside of your thigh, his breath hot against your slick skin. “And already so wet for me. She likes it when I take my time, don’t she, baby?”

You could barely think, barely breathe, too lost in the slow, perfect way he touched you.

You only nodded, voice failing you as his finger finally pushed inside—just one at first, easing in with aching patience, stretching you open. A ragged moan left your lips, fingers twisting in his hair as he curled it just right, pressing against that spot inside you that made your whole body shudder.

He hummed in approval, lips finding your clit again, his tongue swirling slow, matching the rhythm of his fingers.

“You make the prettiest noises for me," he murmured against you, his voice thick and rough with hunger. He slid another finger in, stretching you wider, pumping them in and out in a slow, steady pace, feeling the way your walls fluttered around him.

Your body was already tightening, your thighs trembling, your breath hitching into soft, broken whimpers. You couldn’t stop yourself from rocking into him, chasing that feeling, your pleasure building with every slow, deliberate stroke of his fingers, every teasing flick of his tongue.

Joel could feel it, the way you clenched down around him, the way your legs shook against his shoulders.

“There she is,” he murmured, pressing a kiss right over your clit before sucking it back into his mouth, his fingers pressing up into your soft, velvety walls. “Come on, sweetheart. Let me feel her.”

That was all it took–your body tensed, the pleasure cresting and crashing all at once as you came around his fingers, a sharp, broken cry slipping from your lips. Your thighs squeezed around his head, but Joel didn’t stop, didn’t slow, working you through it, his tongue lapping up everything you gave him.

He groaned low, almost like he was the one falling apart, dragging his fingers slow as he eased you down, his lips pressing soft, open-mouthed kisses along your inner thigh.

“So goddamn sweet for me,” he muttered, voice wrecked, his breath warm against your sensitive skin.

Your body was still trembling, the aftershocks rolling through you as Joel pressed one last lingering kiss to the inside of your thigh before pulling back.

He looked wrecked.

His beard glistened, slick with your release, lips swollen and parted, chest rising and falling a little too fast. His eyes were dark, heavy-lidded, drinking you in like he still couldn’t quite believe you were real.

His hands slid up your legs, slow and deliberate, until they gripped your waist, spreading you open beneath him as he crawled over you, pressing his weight into you. The fabric of your dress was still bunched around your hips, the lace soft beneath his calloused hands, but he liked that you kept it on.

Something about how pretty you looked in it, something about knowing he was the only one who got to see you like this.

His hands found your face, cupping it, tilting your chin up, and then his mouth was on yours. Hot, deep and unyielding.

You moaned softly into the kiss, your fingers sliding into his hair as he stole every breath from your lungs. You could taste yourself on his lips, on his tongue, his beard damp against your chin as he pressed in harder, hungrier. It was so much—too much and not enough all at once.

When he finally pulled back, just enough to breathe, you were looking up at him, your thumb brushing against the slick sheen on his jaw, your heart pounding.

"Can I take care of you, daddy?" you whispered, voice warm and so damn sweet it made his chest ache.

But he was already shaking his head, already unbuckling his belt, already too far gone to let you do anything but take him.

"Not tonight, baby," he murmured, his low drawl barely audible. His belt hit the floor, his jeans sliding low on his hips as he leaned down, pressing another kiss to your lips, softer this time.

"I need to feel you," he admitted, his voice quieter now, more raw. His hand ran down your thigh, fingers pressing into soft skin, feeling you, grounding himself in you. "If you put that pretty mouth on me, there won’t be a chance in hell I get to feel you cum on my cock, ‘cause I’d be done in minutes with the state you got me in."

You let out a breathy laugh, eyes warm as your hands smoothed down his sides, fingers dipping into the waistband of his jeans, helping him push them lower.

"That bad, huh?" you teased.

Joel exhaled a shaky chuckle, dropping his forehead to yours, barely holding himself together as he pulled himself free.

"Worse," he admitted.

His cock was thick, flushed, leaking, the head dragging through your slick, teasing you. Joel groaned low at the feeling of your slick arousal coating the tip of himself, his lips brushing against yours as he lined himself up, his voice just a whisper.

“Gonna let Daddy take care of you?”

You nodded. “Yes.”

You arched your back into him, the flimsy straps of your dress slipping down your shoulders as you reached for him, arms winding around his neck, legs hooking around his waist like you couldn’t stand the thought of space between you.

Joel sucked in a sharp breath as you pulled him in, his body pressing flush against yours. His one handed planted by your head, the other guiding the wide tip of his cock at your weeping entrance, then slowly sank into you like he’d been starving for it all damn day.

He had, in fact.

“Jesus,” he rasped, voice strained as he bottomed out completely, a moan tearing through his throat as his forehead dropped to your shoulder. He held still for a second, letting you adjust, letting himself breathe before his lips brushed against your ear. “You feel so fuckin’ good, baby. Always take my cock so good,”

You were breathless, feeling split in two around him, your lips parted, jaw slack, head falling back against the bedspread. Joel took his time kissing along your jaw, lips trailing soft and slow as he felt the way your body tightened around him. His cock twitched despite how patient he was trying to be.

“Daddy,” you breathed, voice barely there, and as he pulled out inch by inch, he watched your eyes flutter shut, your body clenching down on him like you never wanted to let him go. Joel groaned, pushing back in, slow but deep, not stopping until his hips were pressed flush to yours.

And when he pulled out again, the obscene, wet sound of your slick walls taking him made you both moan in tandem, his agonizingly slow pace making every sensation sharper, every sound deeper, more electric.

Joel kissed the corner of your mouth, voice thick. “Doin’ so good for me, sweetheart. S’like she was made to take me, huh?”

You whined softly, hands fisting in the fabric of his shirt, legs tightening around him, desperate for more.

“Need—need you to—” you tried, but your mind was foggy, wrecked, gone. You needed more. Needed him to let go, to take it. Needed to feel the weight of all that pent-up frustration from the day, from the way you’d teased him with every flash of your thigh, every fleeting touch, every slow, knowing smile.

Joel kissed your temple, his hands roaming, soothing, adoring, wanting. “Tell me, baby,” he murmured, “tell me what you need.” His lips brushed against your ear, his voice low and full of something tender. “I’ll give you anything—give you the whole damn world if you asked.”

Your heart swelled, warmth pooling in your chest before another wave of want took over. You smiled up at him, fingers smoothing up his back, knowing exactly what you wanted to hear from him.

"Want it harder, Joel." Your voice was thick as you swallowed, mind finally clearing enough to put your need into words. "You were so good all day, even when you knew I was teasing."

You heaved a breath as his eyes opened fully, locking onto you, dark and unreadable as he listened.

"So polite," you murmured, pressing a slow kiss to his lips before your fingers slid into his hair, tightening just enough to make him exhale, "Such a gentleman. Show me, Joel—show me what you wanted to take all day."

His eyes twinkled with amusement for a brief second—right before you clenched down around him, your walls fluttering, pulling him deeper. His cock twitched, stiffened, his breath stalling as his fingers dug into your skin.

"You want me to fuck you stupid, baby? That what you need?" His voice was low, wrecked, something dark laced in it now. "Cause all I wanted to do all damn day was bend you over and shove my cock in you so goddamn bad. Show you exactly how crazy you make me."

"Show me," you whispered, pressing a kiss to his chin, his beard tickling your lips as it trailed along his jaw. "Please, Daddy. Let me feel it."

Joel didn’t hesitate.

His hands tightened at your waist, steady and commanding, before sitting up and rolling you onto your stomach in one fluid motion. His cock stayed inside you, the shift in position knocking the air from your lungs, the new angle making you feel every inch of him in a way that had your fingers digging into the sheets.

Before you could even process it, his palms pressed between your shoulder blades, guiding you down until your chest met the mattress, ass lifted, legs spread, completely open for him.

That’s when you felt the delicate lace of your dress catching beneath his knee, the soft fabric now bunched awkwardly between you.

Your breath wavered. Fingers twitching against the sheets, you hesitated before murmuring, "Should I take this off?"

He smoothed a hand over your ass, his other gripping the bunched-up fabric of your dress so it was pulled into his fist.

"You're keepin' it on," he murmured, his voice edged with something rough, something final. The way his fingers tightened in the fabric told you just how much he'd already thought about this moment—how long he'd wanted it, pictured it, waited for it, "want you just like this."

You barely had time to whimper before he pulled you back into him, sinking deep, stretching you open all over again.

Joel groaned, a long, deep, guttural noise from his throat, his one hand at your waist, the other pulling you back via his fist in your dress as he set the pace. He was slow at first, making sure you felt every thick inch, every ridge and vein of his throbbing cock before pulling out and snapping his hips forward again.

"Christ," he rasped, his free hand sliding up your spine, pressing between your shoulder blades, holding you steady as he leaned over you a bit, "You feel that, baby? Feel how fuckin' deep I am?"

All you could do was nod, moaning brokenly as he buried himself to the hilt, again and again, dragging you back onto him each time.

Joel groaned, dropping his head forward for a second before his grip tightened on your dress again, using it to pull you back into him.

"Greedy little thing," he murmured, his fingers gripping tighter at your waist as he rolled his hips deeper. "That what you wanted, baby? Want me to fuck you just like this?"

"Yes," you gasped, voice breaking on the word. "Just like that, Joel."

Your breath came rough and uneven, and then his grip on your dress tightened, fingers bunching up the fabric at your waist. He used it to pull you back onto him, meeting each thrust with an unrelenting force, his other hand splaying across your back to keep you steady.

"Look at you," he muttered, almost to himself, his voice thick with something wrecked and reverent all at once. "Takin’ it so good. My perfect girl."

The praise sent heat licking up your spine, your body tightening around him in response. He felt it, too—felt the way you clenched down on him, the way your legs trembled as he drove into you harder.

"Fuck, baby," he groaned, leaning over you as his hand slipped under you, fingers finding your clit and rubbing slow, teasing circles that made your breath hitch. "You gonna come for me again? Hmm?"

You nodded frantically, pushing back into him, desperate for more. "Please, Joel," you whimpered. "Need it."

"Yeah, I know," he murmured, his voice softer now, lips brushing the back of your shoulder, his thrusts still deep but growing rougher, more urgent. "Gonna give it to you, sweetheart. Gonna feel you come all over me."

His fingers pressed firmer against your clit, circling in a perfect rhythm as his cock dragged against that sweet spot inside you, his name slipping from your lips in a broken moan as the tension in your belly tightened, ready to snap.

"That's it, baby," Joel groaned, voice ragged. "Come for me, let me feel her on my cock."

And with the way he was moving, the way he was touching you, the way he was whispering those wrecked, adoring words against your skin—you had no choice but to let go.

Pleasure sparked white over you in waves, your walls fluttering around him as your body shook, your voice lost in a strangled cry. Joel cursed under his breath, his thrusts faltering for a moment as he felt you unravel around him, his hands gripping you tight, holding you through it.

"That's my girl," he muttered, voice thick, pressing soft kisses to the back of your neck as he kept moving, chasing his own release, determined to follow you over the edge, "Good fucking girl,"

Joel’s thrusts turned sloppy, desperate, deep, his hips stuttering as he chased his own release. His grip on your waist tightened, his breath coming in sharp, uneven gasps.

“Fuck,” he groaned, voice thick and wrecked, his body locking up as he buried himself to the hilt, pressing deep, holding you there.

And then he was gone.

A deep, guttural moan tore from his throat as he spilled inside you, heat flooding you as his cock pulsed, his arms wrapping around your waist, pulling you flush against him as he rode it out. He pressed his forehead against your back, breath warm against your skin, hands smoothing over your hips as if grounding himself, holding you tight, keeping you close.

He stayed there for a moment, still inside you, his chest rising and falling against your back, lips trailing soft, absentminded kisses along your shoulder as he caught his breath. His hands never stopped moving, stroking your skin with quiet adoration.

"You okay, baby?" he murmured into your hair as he placed a kiss on your head, voice low and tender, so different from the way he’d just wrecked you.

You nodded, still catching your breath, body still trembling from the intensity of it all.

Joel pressed a final kiss to your cheek before slowly, carefully pulling out, groaning low at the sight of where he’d filled you up, his release already starting to slip out of you.

"Made a mess of you, darlin’," he muttered, his voice warm, affectionate. "Stay right there."

You barely had the strength to move, muscles still loose and spent, but you felt the bed shift as Joel slipped away. You blinked sleepily as he disappeared into the bathroom, only to return a moment later with a damp cloth.

His hands were gentle, reverent as he cleaned you up, taking his time, murmuring soft words of praise under his breath.

"There we go, baby," he whispered, pressing a soft kiss to your lower back as he worked. "Always take care of my girl."

Once he was satisfied, he reached for the bunched-up fabric of your dress, his fingers sliding beneath the hem.

"Let’s get this off you, sweetheart," he murmured, voice thick with exhaustion but still warm, still full of something tender.

His touch was unhurried, guiding the fabric up your body, letting the fabric peel away from your skin, soft and slow. as you held your arms up for him. He didn’t rush, didn’t let the moment pass without appreciating you all over again.

Once it was gone, he tossed it aside and crawled up beside you in the bed to pull you into his arms, rolling you onto your side, tucking you against his chest.

His arms were strong, solid and warm, one hand smoothing up and down your back, the other tangling in your hair as he pressed a lingering kiss to the top of your head.

"You still with me?" he murmured, lips ghosting over your temple.

You hummed softly, pressing closer, letting yourself melt into his embrace.

"Good," he sighed, voice low, spent, but content. His fingers traced slow, aimless circles along your spine, his heartbeat strong and steady beneath your cheek, anchoring you to him, "Love you, sweetheart,"

"I love you, Joel." you murmured, your voice barely there, the warmth of him pulling you under into a deep sleep.

#joel miller #joel miller x you #joel miller x reader #joel miller smut #joel miller tlou #the last of us #joel miller fic #joel miller one shot #tlou joel

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honeyandruin · 16 days ago

Text

Only in the Dark - DBF!Joel Miller x Reader

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Pairing: dbf!Joel Miller x f!Reader

Summary: Your dad’s best friend has been sneaking around with you for months. But secrets don’t stay buried forever.

Warnings: 18+ MINORS DNI. Age gap. Secret relationship. Unprotected pi/v. Praise & light degradation. Breeding kink. Sneaky sex. Overstimulation. Soft choking. Oral (f receiving, from behind). Rough sex. Conflicted feelings. Emotional tension. Guilt. Possessiveness. Slight angst.

Word count: 15.2k

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It starts like it always does.

You look too long. And he looks back.

Joel’s standing by the grill with your dad, one hand wrapped around a sweating beer bottle, the other resting on his hip like he’s already sick of standing still. The sun’s high, heavy on his back, catching on the salt-slick sweat at the base of his neck. His shirt—an old gray one with the Miller’s Construction logo faded across the chest—sticks damp to his shoulders, clinging in places your eyes have no business landing.

He talks like he’s distracted. Answers half-asked questions. Grunts through conversation. And every time you glance his way, there’s tension in the set of his mouth—like his jaw is wired shut, like every syllable tastes wrong.

You’re across the yard, curled into one of those plastic lawn chairs that sinks in the middle, one leg tucked under you. Your dress rides up a little more every time you shift. It’s nothing obscene. Nothing anyone would notice.

Except Joel.

You take a slow sip from your drink. Run your thumb along the rim of the cup. Pretend not to notice the way his eyes track the movement. You cross your legs, careless, slow. The hem slides up again—just a touch. Not enough for anyone else to care.

But enough for him to clench the bottle tighter in his hand.

He doesn’t say a word. Doesn’t even glance at you directly.

But his fingers twitch when he sets the beer down. His brows pull in when he thinks no one’s looking. And when he shifts his weight, the fabric of his jeans pulls tight across his thighs—and you catch yourself looking just a second too long.

That’s when his eyes find you.

Direct. Steady. Loaded.

You freeze, your glass halfway to your mouth.

The air pulls tight.

It’s not innocent. Not casual. Not a glance that glances and forgets.

He looks at you like he knows. Like he’s already punishing himself for wanting to look.

And still—he doesn’t look away.

Not for a long second. Not until your stomach flips and your skin burns and your thighs press tight together under your dress.

You’re the one who looks away. You always are.

You shift again in your chair. Run your fingers through your hair. Let it fall back behind your shoulder in a soft sweep that feels just a little too performative.

You laugh when someone calls your name from across the yard. Smile. Sip again.

And all the while, you can feel him watching.

Even when you don’t dare look up.

Joel is careful. He always has been. That’s what makes it worse—how quiet he is about the way he looks at you. How long he holds back before finally giving in. Like his restraint is some kind of mercy. Like not touching you is the best he can offer.

He talks to your dad. Drinks another beer—then a third. Paces around the grill like something’s burning under his skin and there’s no fire he can put out. You see the way his hand curls tight around the neck of the bottle, how his gaze keeps drifting your way only to snap back, like it betrays him every time.

You’re crouched beside the cooler now, fingers digging through the ice as you pretend to search for something buried deep. The hem of your dress rides up against the backs of your thighs, and for a moment, you don’t fix it. You let your back arch just a little. Let your fingers linger.

There are voices nearby. Your cousin. Maybe your dad–Michael, again. You’re surrounded on all sides. But still—you feel him.

Before he even steps onto the patio, before the wood creaks beneath his boots—you feel the air shift. Heavy. Loaded.

His shadow stretches across the cooler. You don’t turn.

“I told myself I wasn’t gonna come over here,” he mutters.

You straighten slowly, your fingers brushing water from your wrist, letting your movements stay slow. Intentional. You smooth your dress down like you don’t know he’s watching your every motion.

“You always say that,” you murmur into your glass.

His voice stays low. Measured. Already strained, like he’s been losing this argument with himself all day.

“You always make it hard.”

You glance at him over your shoulder, lashes low. Your voice soft. Sweet. Dangerous. “Me? I haven’t said a word to you all day.”

“Didn’t need to.”

He’s closer now. Not touching you, but close enough that the heat radiates off him, thick and unmistakable. Close enough that if someone rounded the corner, you’d have to step back. Laugh. Pretend this was nothing. That it’s always been nothing.

Joel lowers his voice, just for you. “That dress. No bra. Nothin’ under it, is there?”

You turn—slow and deliberate. Let your gaze drag up his body, past his chest, his throat, until your eyes find his.

You smile. Sweet. Sharp. Like a blade in honey.

“No.”

His expression cracks—just for a moment. Like it hurts. Like he wasn’t ready to hear it said aloud.

But he doesn’t move. Doesn’t touch you. He never does—not out here. Not with your family buzzing behind the hedges. Not with your father three yards away, beer in hand and none the wiser.

Still, you can feel the weight of his want. Pressing. Building.

“This is gonna kill me,” he says softly.

Your dad calls out from the patio then, voice casual but loud enough to carry.

“Hey, Joel—you mind givin’ her a hand with that old cabinet upstairs? Damn thing’s been wobblin’ again.”

Joel blinks. You watch his throat work as he swallows something down.

He hesitates. Just for a second.

You can see it—the flicker in his expression. That split second of panic, of restraint, of God, not now, but your dad’s already waving him off like it’s no big deal.

“She’s been complainin’ about it all week,” he adds, tipping his beer toward the house. “Should only take a minute.”

Joel shifts his weight, eyes skating toward you like it hurts. “Yeah,” he says, quiet. “Course.”

You smirk. Sweet as honey.

“Thanks,” you chirp. “It’s just the knob on the top drawer—it keeps sticking. Come on, I’ll show ya.” Your voice is softer than it needs to be. Your smile just a little too wide. Joel clocks it immediately. His jaw ticks.

And maybe your dad doesn’t notice, but you do.

Joel scratches the back of his neck. Doesn’t meet your eyes. Doesn’t say anything else as you lead the way into the house, your bare feet padding softly across the tile.

You don’t look back.

Not until the door clicks shut behind you—and the silence wraps tight around the two of you like a secret.

The house is cooler than it was outside, the air humming with the low whir of an old ceiling fan and the muffled sound of laughter spilling in from the patio. You lead him through the kitchen without a word, every step deliberate, measured. He trails a few feet behind you—just far enough to keep himself honest.

You open the door to the hallway and gesture toward your bedroom. “It’s just in here.”

Joel exhales slow, like he already regrets this. “Don’t know why your dad doesn’t just buy new furniture.”

You glance at him over your shoulder, your smile coy. “Maybe he likes things that are broken.”

Joel huffs. Doesn’t answer.

You walk ahead, hips swaying gently beneath the soft cotton of your dress. You can feel him behind you—feel the weight of his gaze pressed against your back like a brand.

The room smells like your lotion and the faint trace of summer air drifting through a cracked window. Joel steps in behind you and pauses, hands on his hips, eyes scanning everything but you. You point toward the old cabinet tucked beside the window.

“There,” you say lightly. “Top drawer sticks. Thought maybe it just needed tightening or something.”

He walks over to it. Crouches down. Pulls the drawer halfway out, just to see how bad it really is.

And you?

You step in behind him–too close. Close enough that the hem of your dress brushes his shoulder. Close enough that he can smell your shampoo—feel the warmth of your bare legs, the hum of your breath when you lean just slightly over his shoulder to peek at the drawer.

“Think you can fix it?” You ask, voice soft. Sweet. Barely above a whisper.

Joel stiffens. His fingers pause on the handle. You can see the tension in his arms, the way his shoulders rise just slightly—like every inch of him is screaming don’t.

“Maybe,” he mutters. “Maybe not.”

You hum. “Guess I’ll owe you either way.”

He pulls the drawer out farther than he needs to. Not really looking at it now. Not really seeing anything at all. He’s gone still, like something inside him is locking up. Holding him back.

Your chest brushes his arm when you shift your weight. You lay your hand on the top of the dresser like it’s nothing, fingers splayed, pink polished nails catching the light. Joel’s eyes drop to them for half a second before he jerks his gaze away.

“You’re not making this easy,” he says, low. Rough. Almost like it hurts.

You blink, feigning innocence. “What do you mean?”

He rises slowly to his full height. Not touching you—but close enough to tower.

You tilt your head and smile. “I haven’t done anything.”

Joel’s jaw clenches. His hands flex at his sides.

You turn back toward the dresser like you’re going to give him space, give him a chance to breathe—and that’s when he moves.

His hand wraps around your wrist, gentle but firm. “You really gonna keep pretendin’ this ain’t killin’ you too?”

His gaze drags over you slowly. Not like he’s trying to intimidate you—more like he’s trying to survive it. His eyes trace the outline of your parted lips, linger on the delicate curve of your chest, then fall to your thighs, pressed a little too tightly together in anticipation.

There’s a flicker of something in his expression. Like amusement. Like disbelief that you’re really here—doing this to him again.

“You know what your problem is?” He murmurs, voice low and hoarse.

You swallow hard. Try to speak, but nothing comes.

Joel steps in close, his breath warm against your ear. “You look at me like that,” he says, a half-laugh tucked in behind the words. “Bat those fuckin’ eyes… all soft, all sweet. Like I don’t know what you’re doin’.”

You feel heat rise up your spine. Your stomach clenches.

“And this dress?” He goes on, mouth brushing just beneath your jaw. “No bra. No shame. Bein’ real generous with your thighs all afternoon. In front of everybody.”

It’s not cruel. It’s not harsh. He says it like he’s teasing you for getting away with it. Like he’s impressed. Like it’s killing him and he doesn’t even want you to stop.

You shift your weight, unsure if you’re trying to get away or lean into him.

He doesn’t let you do either.

Your lips part. You want to play innocent. Want to tease him back. But your voice catches somewhere behind your tongue.

Joel sees it—sees the flicker of doubt, of want, of that same ache carved between your ribs that’s been digging into his all damn day. He smiles then. Not smug. Not cruel. Just tired. Like he’s been carrying this weight for too long and finally stopped pretending he can.

He doesn’t rush.

One hand slips to your hip, the other flattening against your lower back, guiding you—not roughly, but firmly—until your thighs brush the edge of the bathroom counter. His touch is steady. Certain. The kind of sure that says this has been a long time coming.

Then he turns you.

You don’t realize you’re holding your breath until his hand splays wide across your belly—warm and heavy, grounding you to the bathroom counter. Joel’s behind you, chest brushing your back, his mouth hovering over your shoulder like he can’t decide whether to kiss it or bite.

In the mirror, his eyes drag down your reflection—your parted lips, the tight grip you’ve got on the edge of the sink, the way your thighs press together like you’re trying to keep something in.

“Look at you,” he mutters, breath warm against your skin. “All worked up and I haven’t even fuckin’ touched you yet.”

You swallow hard. You’re soaked already. You know he can feel it—your heat bleeding through the thin cotton of your dress, your pulse fluttering just beneath his palm.

Joel’s hand slides up, slow and deliberate, over the slope of your ribs, the curve of your breast. He doesn't grope. He just holds—firm and steady, like he wants to feel the beat of your heart against his fingers.

You lean back into him, needy, aching.

He laughs—quiet, wrecked. “Knew this dress was gonna kill me. Knew the second I saw you sittin’ out there like you wanted to be dragged in here.”

You whimper, and he dips his head, nose brushing your jaw.

“Didn’t say a word all afternoon. Just sat there lettin’ that little thing ride up higher and higher—knowin’ damn well I was watchin’.”

His other hand slips lower—beneath the hem, over your thigh. His touch is light, maddening, fingers skimming until they brush the bare, soaking heat of you.

He hisses, teeth clenched. “Fuckin’ hell.”

“Joel—” you whisper, but it’s nothing. A sound. A breath.

His fingers slide between your folds, slow and obscene, slick spreading across your skin. His palm cups you from behind, fitting against your body like he was made for it.

“So wet,” he groans, pressing in just enough to make your knees buckle. “You like this that much? Me watchin’? Bein’ this fuckin’ filthy with your whole family sittin’ twenty feet away?”

You don’t answer. Can’t.

His hand slides up your chest again—this time to your throat. Just resting. Not squeezing. But it makes your breath stutter anyway. Makes your knees tremble.

You nod—barely—and he smirks at your reflection.

“That’s what I thought.”

And then—

He drops to his knees behind you.

You gasp, hands tightening on the counter, heart pounding.

Joel grips your hips, pushes your thighs apart, and then presses a kiss—hot and open-mouthed—to the curve just beneath your ass.

“You’re drippin’,” he mutters, voice muffled by skin. “Fuck me.”

You whimper, try to look back, but he tugs your hips gently and says, “Eyes on the mirror. You watch what I do to you.”

You do.

You watch as he spreads you open with both hands, thumbs parting you gently, reverently. His breath hits your folds and you jerk, moaning into the air.

And then his mouth is on you.

His tongue licks a thick, wet stripe from your entrance to your clit, then circles back—slow and messy and devoted. Like he’s trying to memorize the way you taste. The way you shake. The way your body reacts to every drag of his tongue.

He groans against you, the sound low and guttural, like he’s the one losing control.

Your thighs quake. “Joel—oh my god—”

He sucks your clit into his mouth and your vision blacks out for a second. Your hands scrabble for purchase on the counter.

“Fuckfuckfuck—” you cry, biting your lip so hard you taste blood.

“Yeah,” he pants against you. “That’s it, baby. Let me hear it.”

He eats like a man starved. Sloppy, relentless, nose buried in you, fingers digging into your thighs to keep you right where he wants you.

You’re shaking. Your knees nearly give out.

Joel notices.

He pulls back just long enough to rasp, “Don’t fall on me now—ain’t even fucked you yet.”

Then he’s back at it. This time with fingers.

He slides two inside you without warning—thick and rough, knuckles brushing your walls while his mouth stays on your clit.

You choke on a moan. “Joel—please—I’m gonna—”

He groans. “Come for me. Right now.”

You fall apart.

You come hard, gasping, legs trembling, one hand slapping against the mirror as your whole body locks up, your muscles clenching around his fingers.

Joel curses into your cunt. Keeps licking through it.

“Shh—it’s okay. Let me have it. Just like that. So fuckin’ good for me.”

You sob. Actually sob.

And he doesn't stop.

He lets you ride it out, lets you shake and pant, and then—he slides his fingers back in.

You jolt. “Too much—Joel—”

He hums. “I know. S’why I’m doin’ it.”

You cry out, forehead pressed to the mirror.

His free hand comes to the back of your calf—gentle again, grounding, petting, almost—and he nuzzles into the back of your thigh, licking soft and slow while he works you open all over again.

“You wanted this,” he breathes. “Wanted me wreckin’ you in your daddy’s house. Don’t go shy on me now.”

You moan. Loud. Messy.

“You’re mine, ain’t you?” His voice is a rasp now. Wrecked.

You nod.

He presses a kiss to your ass. “Say it.”

“I’m yours,” you whisper.

He stands then. Fast. Pulls you back into him.

You can feel how hard he is—straining in his jeans. He fumbles with his zipper, breath ragged.

And when he pushes inside—

It’s blinding.

You both gasp. He grips your hips, steadying himself.

“Fuck—always so tight,” he growls. “So fuckin’ perfect for me.”

He thrusts slow at first. Long, deep strokes that make your eyes roll back. That make the mirror fog up.

Then faster. Rougher. Hands gripping you hard. Like he wants to leave bruises. Like he needs proof this happened.

Your cries are high-pitched now, desperate.

Joel leans in, mouth against your ear. “That’s it, baby. Take it. So fuckin’ pretty like this—face all flushed, eyes tearin’ up.”

He thrusts deeper. “You’re gonna make a mess, ain’t you? Gonna come all over my cock like a good girl.”

You nod, mouth open, moaning.

“I’ve got you,” he whispers. “Mine. All mine.”

And when you come again—when your whole body shakes and you scream his name against your own wrist—Joel fuckin’ loses it.

He groans your name, spills inside you, buries his face in your neck with a guttural curse that sounds like regret and worship tangled together.

And still, he doesn’t let go. Not right away.

His arms wrap around you, holding you close, hips still pressed to yours, his breath slowing against your skin.

The mirror’s fogged. Your thighs are soaked. The counter’s cold beneath your palms.

And Joel’s mouth is at your ear again, soft and real.

“You okay?” He whispers.

You nod. “Yeah,” you breathe. “Fuck. Yeah.”

He kisses your shoulder.

And you smile—wrecked and ruined and still so full of him.

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You show up just after lunch rush, a brown paper bag folded neatly in your arms, still warm against your chest. You’re wearing jeans and a loose shirt—something casual, safe. Your hair’s pulled back in a clip. No makeup. Nothing intentionally done to catch attention.

And still—he looks.

The construction site stretches out like a skeleton of something half-born. Steel bones. Exposed wood. Sawdust clings to the air like fog, and the sky above is sharp, cloudless, cruel.

You walk past the truck bays and toward the break area, boots crunching over gravel. A few guys nod as you pass. Most don’t.

You’re not here for them.

You spot your dad’s hard hat first—bright white with a strip of flaking duct tape across the front. He’s crouched beside a scaffolding rig, barking something at a worker below.

Joel’s standing a few feet off, one hand braced against the frame of the trailer office, his other wrapped tight around a water bottle like he’s trying to remember what it’s for. His shirt is stained at the collar. Dusty. Clings to his chest in places it shouldn’t. His pants hang low on his hips, a smear of something dark across his thigh.

He sees you before you call out. Sees you before you even mean to be seen.

The way his jaw locks—quick and brutal—tells you everything.

You wave at your dad. Lift the bag a little. “Brought lunch!”

He grins. “Jesus, you’re a lifesaver. That sandwich place?”

“Your usual.” You pass it to him and he gives your shoulder a quick squeeze before digging in like he hasn’t eaten in days. His attention shifts immediately back to the site, already barking out instructions between bites.

Joel still hasn’t moved.

You turn toward him slowly. Tilt your head. Smile like you don’t know what you’re doing.

He shakes his head once. A warning. A plea.

You ignore it.

“You eat yet?” You ask softly.

He glances around—quick, sharp, like he’s expecting eyes.

“Don’t,” he mutters under his breath. “Not here. Not—fuck, not now.”

But you’re already crossing the distance. Not enough to touch. Just enough for the scent of your shampoo to reach him.

Your voice stays low. “You looked hungry.”

His jaw twitches. He steps back. Barely. Like it physically hurts to put space between you.

“Your dad’s right there,” he hisses.

“And?”

Joel’s eyes darken. His throat works.

“And I just spent the last two hours tryin’ not to think about what I did to you in that fuckin’ bathroom.”

You smile.

Then—quietly, sweetly, so softly it barely counts as a sin: “You wanna do it again?”

His eyes snap to yours. He looks at you like you just spit holy water on him.

And still—he doesn’t say no.

He doesn’t answer.

Not with words, anyway.

Joel’s hand shoots out—rough, calloused, certain—and wraps around your wrist. He doesn’t pull hard. Doesn’t have to. You stumble forward easily, chest brushing his as he backs you toward the side of the trailer, behind the stacks of lumber and plywood. The break room door creaks open just as you disappear from sight.

Someone calls out a joke. You barely register it.

Joel slams the trailer door shut behind you and locks it without thinking.

Then he turns to you.

His chest rises hard under the fabric of his shirt. There’s sweat at his temples, clinging to the curls behind his ears. His fingers flex at his sides like he doesn’t trust them not to grab you again.

“You got no fuckin’ clue what you’re doin’ to me,” he mutters, stepping in so close you can feel the heat radiating off him. “Showin’ up like that. Smilin’ like you ain’t already got me on my knees.”

“I think you like it,” you whisper.

His eyes drop to your lips. His voice dips lower. Rougher.

“I think you like pushin’ me.”

You smile—barely—and Joel’s already moving.

He backs you against the trailer wall, one hand cupping your jaw, the other already sliding down your side, dragging over the curve of your ass with a low groan.

“This is so fuckin’ stupid,” he says, but his mouth is on yours before the sentence even finishes.

It’s not gentle. It never is with him.

His tongue sweeps into your mouth with a hunger that steals your breath, and he presses his hips hard against yours until you feel him—already thick and heavy through his jeans. You whimper into the kiss, fingers fisting the front of his shirt.

Outside, footsteps crunch over gravel. Laughter. Your dad’s voice, faint.

Joel curses and breaks the kiss, panting, forehead pressed against yours.

“We don’t have time,” he says.

“So don’t waste it,” you whisper.

That’s all it takes.

His hands are under your shirt in seconds—palms rough against your stomach as he drags the fabric up, exposing bare skin inch by inch. You reach for his belt, fumble with the buckle, but your hands are shaking too hard.

Joel growls low in his throat and does it for you.

He frees himself just as you tug your panties down, not bothering with anything else. The moment they hit your knees, Joel’s hands grip your hips and lift you—just enough to set you back on the edge of the supply table behind you, your ass barely balancing there.

The surface is cold. His body is hot. The air between you, electric.

You spread your thighs instinctively and Joel groans—deep and broken.

“Fuck, baby—already wet for me?” He runs two fingers through your slick, slow and deliberate, like he’s dragging it out on purpose. “You need me that bad?”

You nod, biting your lip. “Joel—please—”

That’s all he needs.

He lines himself up, grips your thighs hard, and pushes in—a slow, thick stretch that knocks the breath right out of your lungs. You gasp, fingernails digging into his shoulders.

Joel swears, low and dangerous.

“Every time,” he growls, bottoming out. “Every fuckin’ time you feel better than I remembered.”

He doesn’t give you a chance to adjust—he starts moving, thrusting into you with sharp, desperate rolls of his hips, the table creaking beneath your weight.

You wrap your arms around his shoulders, legs locking around his waist.

“Gonna get us caught,” he mutters, teeth grazing your jaw. “You that needy for me, baby? Can’t even wait till I get off work?”

“You didn’t stop me,” you pant.

He laughs—wrecked, breathless. “Didn’t fuckin’ want to.”

His rhythm picks up—fast, brutal, unforgiving. His hands grip your thighs, your hips, your waist—like he can’t decide which part of you he needs more.

Your back arches. The table groans again.

Joel leans in, mouth against your ear.

“Y’know what I was thinkin’ about all mornin’? That mirror. That look on your face when you came all over my fuckin’ tongue. Thought about it till I was fuckin’ hard in the damn truck.”

You moan, loud.

He clamps a hand over your mouth. “Shhh—don’t you dare.”

Your eyes flutter. He slams into you again.

“You wanna get caught? You want your daddy to come lookin’ for you and see me buried in his little fuckin’ girl like this?”

You whimper against his palm.

He growls.

“God, you do.”

He lets go of your mouth just long enough for you to moan his name.

Then he grabs your throat.

Gentle. Steady. But enough to make you whine.

“Mine,” he whispers. “Say it.”

You’re barely holding on. “Yours. I’m yours.”

Joel loses it.

He fucks you hard, fast, reckless—his breath ragged, forehead against yours. You come with a cry, clenching around him so tight it nearly brings him to his knees.

“Ah, god damnit—” he gasps, thrusting deep once, twice—

And then he comes.

It’s raw. Guttural. He groans into your neck like he’s falling apart.

You stay like that for a second—just breathing. Just shaking. Just trying to remember where you are.

Then—

“Hey!” Your dad’s voice cuts through the open air like a gunshot. “You see my daughter? She wander off again?”

Joel jerks back, eyes wide.

“Shit—”

He pulls out, tucks himself away fast, grabbing for a rag off the table to clean you up with. You’re still gasping when he yanks your panties back into place, helps straighten your shirt.

Footsteps. Closer.

Joel grabs your jaw, kisses you once—fast and rough.

“Act normal.”

Then he’s out the door.

You follow a second later, cheeks flushed, fingers shaking as you tuck your hair behind your ear. You can’t help the grin that threatens to pull at your lips, still feeling Joel’s.

Your dad’s already turning the corner.

“Where the hell’d you go?”

You smile. “Bathroom,” you lie. “You good?”

He nods, takes another bite of his sandwich.

Joel doesn’t look at you.

But you can feel him still.

Burning through every inch of your skin.

━━━✵━━━━━━✵━━━━━━✵━━━━━━✵━

It’s already dark when you grab your keys.

Not late—not quite—but the kind of dusk that hums with quiet. The heat’s still clinging to the windows, thick and sticky, and every room in the house feels like it’s holding its breath.

You check the mirror again.

One last time.

Hair loose, brushed soft over your shoulders. A sundress—low-cut, thin-strapped, clinging in the summer heat. You told yourself it was nothing special. Just enough to keep cool. But the way you keep tugging at the hem, the neckline, the way you keep glancing at your reflection like it might betray you—

Yeah. You know who you’re dressing for.

You slide on a light sweater anyway, just to be safe. Something to keep things modest enough for your dad to glance at you and not look twice.

He’s still on the couch when you step into the living room, one hand nursing a half-empty beer, eyes glazed from the TV. He doesn’t look up right away.

“Where you headed?” He asks, voice rough from too many years and not enough sleep.

You slip your keys into your pocket. “Lisa’s. Just for a bit. Movie night.”

He grunts. “You drivin’?”

“Yeah,” you say quickly. “Her place is further out now. New apartment.”

He doesn’t question it. Just nods, eyes still on the screen. “Be smart. Don’t drive back too late.”

“I won’t.”

Your voice is sweet. Normal. The way it always is.

“Alright. Love you, kid.”

You give him a smile—one that doesn’t tremble—and head for the door. “Love you too.” You call out over your shoulder, willing your voice to stay neutral.

The porch creaks under your feet. The air outside is cooler than inside, but not by much. You walk fast across the gravel, sweater tight around your waist now, already feeling the sweat bloom at the nape of your neck.

Your car sits in the driveway. Engine still warm from earlier.

You slide in, shut the door soft and start the ignition.

And when you pull away, your fingers are already shaking on the wheel.

Not from nerves. Not exactly.

From want. From anticipation. From knowing exactly where you’re headed.

There’s no Lisa. No movie night.

Just a field about fifteen minutes out past the highway, where Joel’s waiting in the back of his pickup, cooler packed, blankets laid out in the bed, headlights off.

No one for miles.

Just stars.

You park a little ways down the road from the pickup, engine ticking as it cools beneath the hood. Lights off. Windows cracked. The air outside hums with cicadas and the faint rush of night wind, warm against your bare skin where the hem of your sundress brushes your knees. You tug the cardigan tighter around your shoulders, heart beating too loud in your chest.

He’s already there.

You see the outline of his truck up ahead—just beyond the bend where the woods break open into a patch of field, stars spilling wide across the sky like they’ve been waiting all day just for this.

You sit for a second. Breathing.

It’s been weeks.

Too many hours spent pretending not to care. Dodging glances at family dinners. Playing dumb every time your dad mentioned him in passing. And now—you’re here. Heart caught in your throat. Thighs already pressed a little too tight together.

You grab your bag from the passenger seat. Slam the door quieter than you mean to.

Your sandals kick up dust along the roadside, gravel whispering beneath your steps. The sweater hangs off one shoulder. The sundress sways with every movement. And even though you’re alone, even though there’s no one to see—you feel watched.

Anticipated.

The moment you round the front of his truck, the door swings open.

And there he is.

Joel stands just behind it, leaning one shoulder against the frame. T-shirt stretched across his chest. Jeans slung low on his hips. Hair a little messy, like he ran his hands through it too many times waiting for you. His eyes catch the light from the dash and flash warm. Familiar. Wanting.

His mouth curves slow.

“Hi, darlin’.”

Your stomach drops. That voice. That look. That fucking pet name. It never fails—it gets you every time.

You smile, soft and breathless. “Hi.”

Joel watches you walk the last few steps like he’s soaking it in. Like you’re something he’s starved for. His gaze drags down over the dress, the sweater sliding off your shoulder, the bare stretch of thigh, the faint pink polish on your toes.

“You look…” he trails off, shaking his head. Doesn’t finish the thought.

You stop in front of him. Close enough to feel the heat radiating off his chest.

“What?” You murmur, tipping your head.

He just looks at you.

And then—he sighs, stepping forward to wrap both arms around your waist, dragging you in against him like he doesn’t trust himself not to fall apart.

“Missed you,” he says into your hair. Quiet. Hoarse.

Your hands slide up his chest. You nod into his shoulder. “I missed you too.”

Joel pulls back just enough to look at you. His fingers trail down your arms, over the sides of your waist, grounding himself.

Then he gestures toward the back of the truck. “Come on. Brought a blanket.”

You climb into the bed of the truck with him, the old metal groaning beneath your weight. It’s already spread out—a thick old quilt, fraying at the edges, familiar from a dozen other nights you weren’t supposed to share.

You sit cross-legged, facing the field. He sits beside you, knee brushing yours.

There’s no rush.

The stars stretch wide overhead, sharp and endless. The wind moves through the tall grass like it’s whispering secrets you’re not meant to hear. Everything smells like earth and woodsmoke and a hint of his aftershave.

He reaches for your hand.

You give it to him.

His thumb rubs slow along your knuckles, rough calluses dragging over soft skin. He doesn’t say anything for a while—just looks out at the dark. Like the silence is safer than whatever he’s feeling.

You lean your head on his shoulder.

He lets you. Presses a kiss into your hair.

Then—quiet, steady, honest—

“I think about you all the time.”

Your breath hitches. You sit up, just enough to look at him.

His jaw is tight. His brows pulled. Like it hurt to say. Like it hurts more to mean it. “I know it’s fucked up,” he says. “But I can’t stop.”

Your heart breaks a little.

Because it is fucked up. And neither of you have ever pretended otherwise. But this—this moment, this night, this feeling—it’s real. It’s been real.

“I think about you too,” you whisper.

He turns toward you then. Cupping your cheek with one hand, thumb brushing your jaw. His eyes search your face, like he’s looking for something he lost.

And then—barely audible, barely real— “I love you.”

You freeze.

Not from fear. Not from regret. But from how deeply it lands. How fast it settles into your bones.

Your lips part. You blink.

And you say it back.

Not loud. Not sure. But true.

“I love you too.”

Joel closes his eyes like he’s in pain. Pulls you in. Kisses you.

Slow. Reverent. Like he’s praying.

And when he lays you down on the blanket beneath the stars—he takes his time.

The quilt scratches softly beneath your spine, the summer air curling around your skin, and Joel’s body hovering above yours feels too heavy and too perfect all at once. His palm braces beside your head, the other smoothing along your thigh, pushing the fabric of your sundress higher until it bunches at your waist.

He’s already looking at you like he’s trying to memorize everything. Like the moment’s too big, too fragile to rush.

You reach for him—one hand curling around his wrist, the other brushing along the side of his neck, feeling the soft bristle of his beard beneath your palm.

Joel bends down slowly and kisses you again.

It’s different now.

Not just slow. Not just sweet. But intentional. Like every touch is something he means. Something he’s been waiting to give you.

When he pulls back, your lips are kiss-wet and parted, your breath catching as his fingers slide up beneath the hem of your dress, dragging the cotton-soft fabric higher until it’s no longer in the way. His touch lingers on the inside of your thigh—just enough to make you whimper.

“You sure?” He asks softly, voice low and rasping.

You nod, eyes wide.

But he doesn’t move—not until you say it.

“Please,” you whisper, so soft it barely makes it past your lips. “I want you.”

Joel exhales like he’s been holding that breath for days.

His hand shifts, fingertips brushing between your legs, finding you already soaked. He groans low in his throat, almost reverent.

“Goddamn.”

He sinks two fingers into you, slow and careful, watching your face. You gasp, your back arching, thighs twitching. His thumb brushes your clit once—light as a whisper—and you nearly come undone already.

“You’re so wet for me, baby,” he murmurs, leaning in to press kisses down the side of your neck. “Didn’t even have to work for it, did I?”

You shake your head, panting. “Wanted you all day.”

He fucks you with his fingers slow and deep, curling them just right. “Yeah?” His voice is lower now. Tighter. “Thought about me?”

“All the time,” you breathe. “Joel—please—”

“Alright,” he says, kissing your cheek, your temple, your jaw. “Okay. I got you.”

He pulls his hand away just long enough to unbutton his jeans, shove them down past his hips. His cock springs free—thick, flushed, already dripping for you. You watch him stroke himself once, twice, his eyes still locked on your face.

“You look so fuckin’ pretty like this,” he murmurs. “Laid out for me. Dress bunched up, legs spread, beggin’ for it.”

“Joel,” you gasp, squirming. “Please. I want you—”

“I know, baby,” he breathes. “I know. Gonna give it to you.”

He lines himself up, the head of his cock slipping through your slick folds, and he groans when he feels how wet you are—how ready.

Then—slowly—he pushes in.

You gasp, legs instinctively wrapping around his waist as he sinks deeper. It’s overwhelming—the stretch, the fullness, the intimacy of it.

Joel’s head drops to your shoulder. “Fuck—you’re so perfect—”

He doesn’t thrust. Not yet. Just stays there, buried to the hilt, his chest pressed to yours, your breaths syncing in the heavy silence.

“Feels so good,” you whisper, your hands clinging to his shoulders, nails digging in.

Joel moves then.

Slow. Deep.

His hips roll into yours like waves—long, dragging strokes that have you gasping into the night air. Every thrust knocks the breath from your lungs, every movement laced with something tender and breaking.

You whimper, arching into him. “Don’t stop—don’t stop—”

“Not gonna,” he pants, pressing a kiss to your collarbone. “Not stoppin’—not ever.”

You come with a sob.

It builds like a storm, low and tight and aching—and then it snaps. Your body seizes around him, thighs squeezing, fingers clawing at his back. You cry out his name, helpless and wrecked, trembling beneath him.

Joel curses, barely holding on. “That’s it, baby. Just like that. Fuck—so good for me—so fuckin’ good—”

And then he’s chasing his own release, hips stuttering, breath hitching in your ear.

You feel it when he comes.

The way his whole body tenses. The way his arms tighten around you like he’s afraid to let go. The soft, broken sounds he makes into your hair—like he’s praying and falling apart all at once.

When it’s over, he doesn’t move. Just stays pressed against you, his cock still inside, one hand cradling the back of your neck.

You can feel his heart pounding against your chest.

You kiss his shoulder. Whisper against his skin.

“I love you.”

Joel’s eyes are closed, his face tucked into your hair. “I love you too, baby.”

The stars stretch quiet and endless above you, the warm breeze rustling the grass around the truck bed.

And for once, neither of you say anything else.

Because you don’t need to.

You lie on your side, one leg slung over his, the weight of your body still settling from what just happened.

Joel’s hand rests on your thigh. His thumb moves slow, back and forth, the barest touch, like if he lets go you might vanish.

Neither of you have spoken in minutes.

Not since you curled into him, still trembling, breath catching from the last wave that rolled through you. Not since his lips brushed your hairline and stayed there, unmoving, like maybe he was afraid of what would slip out if he opened his mouth.

The night stretches wide above you—quiet, open, endless. The stars are the only witnesses.

You draw in a slow breath. The truck smells like him. Sweat and soap and heat.

“I hate this part,” you whisper finally.

Joel doesn’t ask what you mean. He knows.

“This is the part where everything starts to feel too real,” you murmur. “And then it gets quiet. And then I start thinking.”

He hums low in his throat, almost like a warning. “Don’t do that.”

“I have to,” you say. “One of us has to.”

Joel shifts beside you, the mattress rustling under his weight. He’s still not looking at you. “We’ve already talked about it.”

You blink up at the stars, throat tightening. “We said we’d wait. We never said when.”

“Back then it was still a maybe,” he says quietly. “Now it’s not.”

There’s a pause. Long. Heavy.

His hand is still moving on your thigh.

You swallow. “I don’t know how to tell him.”

Joel’s voice comes quieter than before. “You think I do?”

“I’m scared,” you admit.

He nods. Not mocking. Just… understanding. “Me too.”

You press your face into his shoulder for a second. Breathe him in. Let your fingers drift across the inside of his forearm, the soft patch of skin that always feels too intimate to touch.

“I keep thinking about how it’ll sound,” you whisper. “Like—‘Hey, Dad, you remember your best friend? The one you’ve worked with for twenty years? Yeah, I’ve been sneaking around with him for months. He makes me scream his name and then drives me home like nothing happened.’”

Joel flinches. Not visibly—but you feel it, in the way his stomach tightens beneath your hand.

“I don’t feel proud of it,” you murmur. “Even though I… I care about you.”

Joel finally turns toward you then. Really turns. His hand stills on your leg.

“I never wanted you to feel ashamed of me.”

“I’m not ashamed,” you say quickly. Too quickly. “I just—this isn’t what I expected.”

His brow pulls. “You mean us?”

You shake your head. “I mean how much it hurts.”

Joel doesn’t respond. He just watches you. Quiet. Intense. Like he’s trying to memorize every word without letting it show.

You trace a small circle against his arm. “You were supposed to be the one I couldn’t have. You know that?”

He exhales through his nose. “I was the one you couldn’t have.”

“And now I do,” you say softly.

Joel shifts. His hand slides from your thigh to your waist, curling there. Holding. Steady. He leans in until his forehead brushes yours.

“You don’t just have me,” he says quietly. “I’m yours.”

━━━✵━━━━━━✵━━━━━━✵━━━━━━✵━

It’s been a few weeks since that night in the truck.

Since the stars and the slow touches and the whispered I love yous that neither of you could take back—even if you wanted to.

And you don’t. Not even a little.

Things haven’t cooled off since then. If anything, they’ve deepened—evolved into something even more dangerous. Even more fragile. You see him more now. More than ever. Little excuses. Stolen afternoons. Late-night drives that last until morning. Joel’s been sweet, too—so much sweeter than anyone would guess. Like saying it out loud cracked something open in him. Something he’d been holding back for a long, long time.

It’s made the hiding worse.

Harder.

And tonight… tonight will be the last time.

You’re standing in the doorway, sweater slung over one arm, keys dangling from your fingers. The sun’s dipping low, the light slanting soft through the living room windows. Your dad’s on the couch, half-watching a ballgame, a soda sweating in his hand.

“Hey, I’m headed out,” you say, casual.

He turns his head. “Another night with the girls?”

“Yeah,” you lie smoothly. “We’re doing that stupid wine and paint thing. Someone’s gonna end up crying over a sunflower again.”

Your dad huffs a laugh. “Sounds tragic.”

You grin. Shrug your sweater on.

But his gaze lingers a little longer than usual. Not suspicious—just soft. Curious. Thoughtful.

“You’ve been out a lot lately,” he says. “Smilin’ more, too.”

You pause in the act of tucking your phone into your bag. “That a bad thing?”

“No,” he says quickly. “Hell no. It’s a good thing. Just…” He tips his head a little. “What’s got you so happy these days?”

You freeze.

Just for a second.

He doesn’t notice—or at least he pretends not to. He takes another drink, smiles around the rim of the can.

“It a boy?” He teases gently. “Someone new?”

You laugh. It sounds almost normal. “What makes you think that?”

He shrugs. “You’ve got that look. That… light. Whoever he is, he must be a good one if he’s put it there.”

Your chest aches.

Your fingers tighten around your keys.

He doesn’t know. Not yet.

You step toward the door and force a smile over your shoulder. “Yeah. He’s a good one.”

You wave once before slipping into the driver’s seat, shutting the door quick, before he can see your hands shaking.

You sit for a second. Just breathe.

Then you pull out of the driveway and head down the road, stomach fluttering like it always does when you’re about to see him.

It’s not the first time you’ve pulled into Joel’s driveway.

The gravel crunches beneath your tires the same way it always does. The porch light glows soft and golden in the fading dusk, casting long shadows over the steps you’ve memorized by heart. You park behind his truck, cut the engine, and sit for just a moment—fingers loose on the steering wheel, stomach fluttering.

You’ve been here before. Countless times now. But tonight feels different.

Because it’s the last time you get to come here like this—sneaking away under a lie, knowing he’s waiting behind the door with that look in his eyes and his shoulders already easing the moment he sees you.

You step out, the hem of your sundress catching on the breeze, the sweater sleeves bunched at your elbows. Your shoes scuff against the walk as you make your way to the porch, and before your hand can even reach the door—

It opens.

“Hi, darlin’.”

He says it soft. Like a prayer. Like the sound of you on the gravel was enough to pull him out of the living room.

Your breath catches. Joel’s leaning in the doorway, one hand braced against the frame. He looks like he’s been pacing. His hair’s a little tousled, like he’s been running his hand through it. There’s a crease in his brow that only softens when his eyes land on you.

He doesn’t smile—not fully—but there’s something close to it. Something warm. His eyes flick over you, quick and reverent. Sweater. Dress. Bare legs. Familiar.

But the way he looks at you? That part still makes your chest ache.

“Hey,” you say, breathless.

He steps back without a word, just enough to let you inside.

The door clicks softly behind you. The quiet of his house wraps around you like a blanket—low hum of the fridge, scent of laundry and sawdust and the faintest trace of his cologne still lingering in the air.

You drop your keys into the little dish by the door. Joel’s watching you like he always does—silent, heavy-lidded, like he’s drinking you in. Like he’s already wondering how he’s supposed to let this part go.

“You nervous?” You ask.

He huffs a breath, steps closer. “A little.”

You nod. “Me too.”

He doesn’t say anything at first. Just reaches for your hand, his fingers curling around yours like they’re meant to be there. His grip is warm. Steady.

Then finally, he murmurs, “Feels like this might be the last time it’s just us.”

You look up at him. “It won’t be.”

But even as you say it, your voice wavers.

Joel exhales through his nose. His thumb drags across your knuckles.

“I’ve been thinkin’ about what your dad’s gonna say,” he mutters. “What he’s gonna do.”

You nod. “I know.”

His eyes find yours again—tired, worried, but still so soft.

“You still wanna tell him?” He asks.

You hesitate. Not because the answer isn’t yes. But because yes is terrifying.

And you both know it.

You nod.

“Yeah,” you say, voice quiet. “I do.”

Joel pulls you in slowly, arms sliding around your waist, his chin resting against the top of your head. The beat of his heart is steady beneath your cheek. Familiar. Safe.

“We’ll tell him together,” he says.

You close your eyes.

And hold on tight.

⁂

Joel makes dinner.

You offer to help—more than once—but he waves you off with a quiet go sit down, sweetheart, and the kind of stern look that makes your heart flutter in your chest. So you perch at his kitchen table instead, sweater sleeves tugged over your hands, watching him move around the small space like he’s done it a thousand times.

He’s good at it. Fast. Focused. Efficient without being rushed.

He cooks the same way he does everything else—with purpose. With care.

Chicken and vegetables. Roasted potatoes. Garlic bread that fills the kitchen with the warm, buttery smell of something that feels suspiciously close to home. He doesn’t talk much while he works, but you can tell he’s nervous by the way he wipes his hands on the same dishtowel over and over again, the way he keeps glancing at you like he’s checking to make sure you’re still there.

When he finally sets the plate down in front of you, you laugh under your breath.

“What?” He grunts.

“This looks incredible,” you murmur. “You didn’t have to do all this.”

Joel shrugs. “Wanted to.”

You both eat quietly for a while. There’s music playing softly from the old speaker in the corner—something with strings, low and meandering. Every now and then your knees bump under the table, and neither of you pulls away.

He watches you when you take your last bite. Quiet and full of something like pride. Or awe. Like he still can’t quite believe you’re here.

And when he clears the plates and turns back toward you, his expression shifts.

It’s subtle. But you know that look–you know what comes next.

The shower is steam and skin and whispered promises.

You laugh when he pulls you in, still half-dressed, your sweater hitting the floor before the bathroom door even clicks shut. His hands are slow on your skin, warm beneath the spray, and everything feels both too fast and too soft—like you’re holding onto something fleeting. Like the world might shift the moment you step out of this room.

His mouth finds your shoulder. Your neck. Lower.

You gasp.

He groans.

But this time—it doesn’t go further. It stays slow. Gentle. The kind of touch that says I love you without needing to say anything at all.

Later, when you’re curled beneath the sheets, your head tucked against his chest and his arm slung heavy over your waist, you feel the weight of it settle in your chest.

Hope.

Fear.

Everything in between.

Joel kisses your hair and doesn’t say a word.

You fall asleep with your fingers curled in his shirt and the sound of his heartbeat in your ear.

⁂

The sun is barely up when you wake.

Your clothes are folded at the foot of the bed. Joel’s already up, padding around the kitchen in quiet half-steps, trying not to make too much noise. You sit on the edge of the mattress, staring down at your hands. Everything in your body feels slow. Floaty. Like you’re walking through someone else’s dream.

This is it.

You dress in silence. Joel helps you with your sweater like it’s a ceremony. And then you both stand in the doorway, keys in hand, looking at each other like there’s too much left unsaid.

“You sure?” he asks softly.

You nod. “Yeah. I’m sure.”

Joel reaches for your hand. Holds it just long enough to make your chest ache.

Then you both step outside.

Together.

The walk to the house is slow.

You’d driven separately, like always. Parked down the street like always. But this morning—there’s no space between you. Joel walks close. His hand brushes yours once, then again, until you finally lace your fingers through his and hold tight.

You both know you shouldn’t be touching.

Not here. Not now.

But it’s your last chance to do this before everything changes, and you can’t let go. Not when your chest is aching. Not when your palms are sweating. Not when every step feels heavier than the one before it.

Joel’s quiet beside you.

His face is set. Determined. But the muscle in his jaw ticks, and he keeps flexing his free hand like he can’t stop fidgeting. Like if he doesn’t move, he’ll explode.

When you reach the porch, you both pause.

The house is still. Quiet. You hear the creak of a chair on the back deck, the faint clink of a mug being set down. Your dad’s up. Probably halfway through his first coffee. Probably has no idea his entire world is about to tilt sideways.

You glance up at Joel.

He’s looking straight ahead. His jaw clenches.

You squeeze his hand. “You sure?”

His eyes drop to yours—warm, steady, terrified.

“Yeah,” he says. “I’m sure.”

You nod. Swallow hard. And knock.

Your dad answers the door with a smile already forming—slow and a little tired, like it’s too early for anything heavy. He’s barefoot, still in his T-shirt and sleep pants, a mug of coffee in one hand and a newspaper tucked under his arm.

His eyes flick between you and Joel. The smile falters, just a hair.

“Joel?” He says, blinking. Then back to you. “You’re with her?”

Joel nods once. Quiet. “Hey, Mike.”

Your dad hesitates—but only for a breath. Then he steps back slowly, still watching the two of you like he’s trying to solve a puzzle with only half the pieces. He waves you in anyway.

“Come on in. Coffee’s fresh.”

The door clicks shut behind you with a final-sounding thud.

You follow him inside, every footstep sounding louder than it should. Joel stays close behind, his hand brushing yours like he can’t help it—even now, even here. You don’t look at him. Not yet.

You step into the living room like it’s the last time you’ll ever see it exactly this way—unchanged, safe, familiar. The couch you grew up on. The crooked photos in the hall. The faint scent of laundry detergent and leftover coffee and something warmer you can’t name.

Joel hovers behind you, quiet. Not fidgeting, not nervous—but held still by something heavier. He hasn’t said a word.

Your dad moves into the kitchen, setting his mug down with a clink before turning slightly, watching the two of you over his shoulder.

“You two carpoolin’ now or somethin’?” he asks, trying for light, but there’s a thread of confusion woven through it.

You can’t lie. Not today.

You shake your head once. “We came to talk.”

That gets his attention.

He straightens, blinking at you both like he’s waiting for the punchline. “Everything okay?”

Joel’s voice is quiet. Steady. “We just need a few minutes of your time.”

Your dad narrows his eyes—not angry, not yet. Just… off-balance. Guarded. “Alright…” He jerks his chin toward the living room. “Let’s sit.”

He walks first. You follow second. Joel follows last.

Already, you feel it—that subtle shift in the air. Like the house knows something you haven’t said yet. Like the walls are listening.

He shuffles toward the kitchen again, calling over his shoulder as he moves, “You guys eat yet?”

You glance at Joel—at the man who still hasn’t said a word since you stepped inside—and then call out, “We’re good, Dad. Thanks.”

“Suit yourselves.”

He’s humming now. Something soft and tuneless. You hear the cabinet open, the scrape of his mug being set down again, the clink of the coffee pot. Everything is so normal. So painfully, dreadfully normal.

Joel shifts beside you, leans close enough to murmur, “You wanna wait, or…?”

Your stomach flips.

“No,” you whisper. “We tell him. Just… let him sit down first.”

Joel gives a tight nod, his fingers brushing yours again, quick and fleeting.

Your dad returns a minute later, fresh coffee in hand, newspaper folded beneath his arm. He sinks into his usual chair—the one that groans under his weight, the one no one else dares sit in—and leans back with a sigh.

He looks at you first.

Then Joel.

Then back again.

“What’s got you both lookin’ like you just ran over somebody’s dog?”

You try to laugh. It comes out too sharp, too thin.

He raises an eyebrow. “What’s goin’ on?”

Then his face hardens—not with understanding, but with something more hesitant. More off.

“Didn’t think you two spent much time together,” he says slowly. His voice is still casual, but there’s something behind it now—something cautious. “Figured it was one of your friends makin’ you sneak out all the time.”

He chuckles once. It’s dry. Strained. “Sure as hell didn’t think it was Joel.”

Silence.

Thick. Heavy. Choking.

Your dad’s eyes narrow just slightly. He looks at Joel now—really looks at him. And you can see the pieces beginning to shift behind his eyes. One by one. Every memory. Every absence. Every little thing he didn’t question before.

He laughs again. But it’s empty this time.

“No,” he says flatly. “No, I don’t wanna hear it.”

“Dad—”

“No.” His voice is louder now. Sharper. “You’re tellin’ me this’s been goin’ on behind my back? You and him?”

You flinch. Joel stays still. Tense. Silent.

Your father stands, coffee forgotten on the side table, paper sliding off his lap.

“You’ve been lyin’ to me. Both of you.” He looks at Joel, betrayal breaking clean across his face. “You were supposed to be my friend.”

You open your mouth. Try to speak.

But Joel steps in first—just a little. Not enough to crowd. Not enough to scare.

But enough to stand beside you. Steady. Certain. “Mike,” he says, low and careful. “Let us explain.”

Your dad stares at Joel like he doesn’t recognize him. Like the man standing in front of him—the one he’s known for years, trusted with goddamn everything—is a stranger wearing Joel’s face.

“Explain?” He repeats, voice low and tight. “You want to explain?”

Joel doesn’t flinch. “We didn’t plan it this way.”

“Plan it?” Your dad’s voice breaks, somewhere between disbelief and rising anger. “Jesus Christ, Joel, she’s my daughter. You think that justifies it? That you didn’t plan it?”

You step forward, heart pounding. “It’s not what you think—”

He cuts his hand through the air, eyes blazing. “Don’t. Don’t tell me this is anything but betrayal. From both of you.”

Joel’s jaw tightens. “It wasn’t like that.”

Your dad rounds on him. “Then how was it? Huh?” His voice is raw now, sharp. “You just woke up one day and thought, yeah, let me fuck around with Mike’s daughter behind his back? Sneak around like some goddamn teenager?”

“Hey.” Joel’s voice finally cracks through, firmer. “That’s not what this is. I care about her. You know I do.”

Your dad laughs once. Bitter. Disbelieving. “You care? That’s what you’re going with?”

You can barely breathe. You feel the shame hot on your skin, the panic twisting deep in your chest.

“Dad, please—”

“Don’t,” he snaps. “You think this doesn’t gut me? You think I don’t sit here feelin’ like an idiot? My best friend and my kid—”

Joel steps forward, tone even. “I would never hurt her, and I sure as hell don’t wanna hurt you.”

“That’s the fuckin’ point, Joel!” Your dad yells. “You already did! You both did.”

Silence falls—heavy and vibrating with tension.

Your dad turns his back. Paces. Runs a hand through his hair. And then, quieter, voice cracking: “I trusted you. Both of you.”

Joel doesn’t speak. Doesn’t move.

You do.

You step forward, voice soft but steady. “It wasn’t meant to happen like this. But it’s not a fling. It’s not a mistake. I love him.”

Your dad’s shoulders tighten.

Joel breathes in deep, like the words settle in his bones.

And when your dad turns again, there’s no disbelief left—just hurt. Real and bare. “I need some time,” he says finally. “I need you both to go.”

The words hang in the air like smoke.

I need you both to go.

You freeze, mouth half open. “Dad—”

“Go.”

He doesn’t yell this time. Doesn’t bark or snap. But it’s worse that way. Worse because it’s flat. Final. Said with the kind of hollow certainty that doesn’t need to be loud to be devastating.

Joel shifts beside you. “Mike…”

Your dad doesn’t look at him. Doesn’t look at either of you.

He stares at a spot just left of the couch, like if he keeps his eyes on anything else—anything but you—he might be able to keep from breaking.

“Don’t make me say it again.”

And for a second—just a breath—you almost fight. Almost tell him that you’re not a child anymore, that you don’t need permission to feel the way you do. That you’re happy, maybe for the first time in your life.

But you don’t.

Because he’s still your dad.

Because he’s right.

You lied to him. Both of you did.

Joel’s voice is quiet when he says, “Come on.”

You don’t look back as you follow him to the door. Your feet feel numb. Your heart feels worse.

The silence stretches behind you like a wound.

You step onto the porch. Joel shuts the door gently behind you, like closing it soft might make it hurt less.

But it doesn’t.

Not even close.

The morning air is too bright, too clean. The world feels wrong in the way it keeps moving—birds singing, cars passing on the street, nothing stopping just because your chest feels split wide open.

Joel walks you to the truck, but he doesn’t touch you. Not yet.

Once you’re inside, seatbelt fastened with shaking hands, he exhales slowly—like he’s been holding his breath since the moment your dad opened the door.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper. Your voice is small. Barely there. “I shouldn’t have—”

Joel cuts you off, not harsh, just firm.

“No,” he says. “Don’t.”

You look at him. Really look at him.

He’s pale. Sweating. His hand trembles faintly against the steering wheel like it hurts to keep still. But his jaw is set. His eyes are dark with something deeper than guilt.

“He’ll come around,” Joel murmurs, though you can’t tell if he believes it or if he just needs you to.

You nod. Because you have to.

Because the only thing worse than what just happened… is the thought that it could undo all of this.

━━━✵━━━━━━✵━━━━━━✵━━━━━━✵━

The first two weeks were good.

Not perfect. Not easy. But good in a way that made you start to believe maybe it could last.

You stayed with Joel. Slept in his bed, wore his old shirts, woke up with his hand already on your waist like his body didn’t know how to let go. He made you coffee every morning, cooked dinner every night—real meals, too. Not just quick shit. The man slow-roasted vegetables. Seared steak like he’d been born doing it. He kissed your shoulder while you washed your hair. Held your hand on the couch. Smiled more.

It wasn’t always soft—sometimes it was messy, sometimes quiet—but he tried. Harder than he ever had before. Like he was making up for all the time you’d spent hiding. All the guilt. All the fear. You could feel him working at it, even when he didn’t say much.

And for a while, it worked.

You laughed. Ate better. Stopped checking your phone every time it buzzed, afraid it was your dad, saying the worst had finally come.

But then Joel started to pull away.

It was subtle at first. Long pauses between conversations. Nights where he’d sit out on the porch too long with a beer, staring at nothing. You’d touch his arm and he’d flinch—not away from you, but like he was startled. Like he’d forgotten you were there. Like he’d been somewhere else entirely.

When you asked what was wrong, he said nothing.

When you asked again, he kissed you too hard and pressed you into the mattress like he could convince you with his body instead of his words.

You should’ve known.

He picked the fight the next morning.

Over something small—something about the dishes, maybe, or you staying past the weekend. Something dumb enough that you almost laughed. But Joel didn’t laugh. He didn’t even look at you. Just stood by the kitchen counter with his jaw clenched, arms crossed, saying words that didn’t sound like his.

He said maybe you should take a break.

Said maybe you needed time to patch things up with your dad.

Said maybe he’d made a mistake.

But you saw it—clear as day. In his face. In the way he stood like he was bracing for something awful. He was lying. Not about how he felt—but about why. He thought pushing you away would fix it. That if you hated him, maybe your dad would forgive you. Maybe things could go back to normal.

So you left.

Packed what little you had, still crying, too angry to speak. Joel didn’t stop you. Didn’t follow you. Just stood there with his hands in his pockets, watching the door like it was some punishment he deserved.

You went home.

Your dad didn’t ask questions when he opened the door. Didn’t yell, didn’t gloat. Just stepped aside and let you in. You walked past him, dropped your bag in the hallway, and shut yourself in your room without a word.

He didn’t come in. Not that night. Not the next one either.

He let you stay.

That was all.

⁂

Time passed.

Not quickly. Not gently. But it passed.

You stopped texting Joel. Stopped checking to see if he had texted you back. At first out of pride. Then out of pain. Then because you couldn’t bring yourself to open the thread. Couldn’t stand to see his name sitting there, untouched, like a bruise you kept pressing just to prove it still hurt.

Your dad didn’t bring him up. Not once. Not even when you passed each other in the hallway. Not when he made dinner for two but only ate one plate. Not when you sat beside him on the couch but didn’t speak, didn’t laugh, didn’t look like the daughter he knew.

He didn’t ask if you were okay, but he also didn’t ignore it.

Not really.

He started to notice things.

The way you didn’t go out anymore. Didn’t see your friends. The way you pushed food around on your plate and took your dishes to the sink half-full. How you stayed curled up on the couch long after the TV had gone dark, long after he’d gone to bed.

He noticed the crying, too.

You tried to be quiet. Covered your mouth, turned your face into the pillow. But the walls weren’t that thick. And the silence between you had become a living thing—heavy, breathing, always listening.

One night, he stopped in the hallway. You didn’t hear him at first—just felt the way the floorboards creaked under his weight, how the air shifted near your door. He didn’t knock. Didn’t open it.

But he stood there for a long time.

Just stood there, while you bit your lip and let the tears roll silently down your cheek, hoping the weight of him outside the room meant something was still left between you. That he still cared. That maybe he just didn’t know how to fix it.

Neither did you.

⁂

It starts small, deliberate.

A mug set down beside yours at the table. A fork pushed toward you with a quiet, “Eat.”

He doesn’t say much at first. Doesn’t press.

You pick at your food like always—slow, mechanical, dragging your fork through syrup that’s already gone cold. He watches you across the table, hands wrapped around his own mug like it’s the only thing tethering him to the moment.

“I was thinkin’ about takin’ the boat out this weekend,” he says casually, eyes on his coffee. “Could use the company. Not as fun drinkin’ beer alone on the water.”

You don’t look up. “Maybe.”

He doesn’t push–just nods. Swallows it down.

The silence stretches. Long and uncomfortable. You stare at your plate like it might swallow you back if you sit still long enough.

Then he tries again. “You sleep okay?”

You nod.

“Yeah.”

He doesn’t believe you. You both know it. But he nods anyway, pretending to accept it—pretending he didn’t hear you crying last night. Or the night before that. Or every night since.

“You been talkin’ to anyone?” He asks gently. “Your friends? That girl with the red Jeep—what’s her name?”

“Jess.”

“Yeah. Jess.”

You shake your head. “Haven’t really felt like it.”

Your dad shifts in his chair. Rubs a hand over his jaw. Looks older today. Tired. “You know you can talk to me, right?”

You finally glance up.

The look in his eyes nearly breaks you. Not angry. Not disappointed.

Just… lost.

“I’m fine,” you say. It comes out flat. Unconvincing, but he nods anyway.

“Alright.”

He doesn’t believe you. He’s trying not to let it show. Trying to reach you without making you run.

But when he stands to clear the plates, you see the weight in his shoulders. The way he pauses at the sink—quiet, thoughtful—like he’s already halfway to making a decision he hasn’t told you about yet.

⁂

You’re outside when it happens.

Wrapped in a sweatshirt too big for you—one that still smells like sawdust and cedar and Joel’s damn soap. You shouldn’t be wearing it. Should’ve stuffed it in the bottom of your drawer the moment he left. But it’s the only thing that’s felt warm these past few weeks, the only thing that hasn’t asked you to explain.

You’re curled up in the corner of the porch swing, knees tucked into your chest, eyes unfocused as the late afternoon light drapes gold across the yard.

You don’t hear the truck. Don’t notice the front door open, or the footsteps across the porch boards. Not until—

“Hi, darlin’.”

Your heart stutters.

You look up too fast.

He’s standing a few feet away, hands in the pockets of his jeans, boots scuffed like he never stopped moving after that night. There’s a hollow behind his eyes. His face is drawn, unshaven. He looks like he hasn’t been sleeping either.

Like he hasn’t been breathing right without you.

You don’t speak.

The porch swing groans beneath your weight, the night air thick with humidity and the distant hum of crickets. You keep your legs pulled to your chest, arms wrapped tight around your knees, drowning in the oversized, faded navy sweatshirt that was soft from too many washes.

Joel sits beside you. Not too close. Not far either. Elbows on his knees, hands clenched, head bowed like he’s waiting for a verdict.

Neither of you says anything.

The silence stretches. Long. Awkward. Familiar in the worst kind of way.

You keep your eyes forward. On the edge of the yard. On the dark tree line beyond it. On anything but him.

He doesn’t look at you either.

And still—you feel him. The weight of him next to you. The guilt rolling off his shoulders like smoke.

You break first.

“You didn’t even fight me on it.”

Your voice is quiet. Flat.

Joel’s jaw flexes.

“You made me think you didn’t care.”

Still, he doesn’t look at you.

Didn’t have to. You can feel the ache moving through him, the same ache that’s been living in your chest since that night. The one that cracked open when he raised his voice. When he said maybe you should go. When he didn’t come after you once you turned your back.

Joel’s voice is low when he finally speaks. Rough. Like it costs him.

“I thought it’d be better for you.”

You laugh. Bitter and tired. “You thought pushing me out would help?”

“I thought maybe if I was the one to break it,” he says, eyes still on the floorboards, “maybe you and your dad could put it back together.”

That’s what shatters you.

Not the fight. Not even the silence after.

But that.

Because even now—even now—he’s still trying to save you from the mess he made.

You blink hard.

“Joel—”

He cuts you off gently. Finally meets your eyes. “I’m sorry, darlin’.”

The words aren’t pretty. Not dressed up. Just true.

And they ruin you.

⁂

Your dad doesn’t say much at first.

Not after Joel showed up that night, standing on the porch like the weight of the world had finally broken him down. Not after you folded the second he said “Hi, darlin’”—barely more than a whisper—and collapsed into his arms right there on the steps. Not after he sat beside you without speaking, just staying, like that was the only way he knew how to ask for forgiveness.

And not after your dad let him.

Because he didn’t say much then, either.

Now, days later, the worst of it has passed—but only in the way a storm moves through. There’s still water pooled in the aftermath. Still wreckage in the corners.

You’re already on the porch when your dad steps outside. The sun’s low, brushing amber against the grass, and the old hoodie hanging from your frame is one of Joel’s—left behind in a moment of weakness or maybe given on purpose. You haven’t taken it off.

He settles next to you with a quiet groan, the boards creaking under his weight. There’s a pause. He doesn’t speak, just exhales hard through his nose, like he’s been carrying something for too long and still doesn’t know how to set it down.

Then he says, not looking at you, not even really to you—just out into the yard:

“Y’know I was gonna ask him to help with that busted drawer again this week.”

Your heart jumps.

He doesn’t need to say Joel’s name. Doesn’t need to explain who him is. The meaning is already in the silence between his words.

He taps his thumb against his coffee mug. “Could still use the help.”

You don’t answer right away. Don’t even know if he’s really saying it to you. But your hands are clenched around your knees, and you can feel the pulse rising to your throat.

So you just nod. Barely.

Your dad shifts beside you, takes a sip, then mutters, “He looked like shit when he showed up.”

You let out a breath. Almost a laugh. “He wasn’t the only one.”

“Yeah,” he says, almost softer than the breeze. “I know.”

For a while, you just sit there. No big resolution. No sweeping, emotional reunion. But something loosens in your chest, anyway. Something tired and hopeful and trying.

It’s not forgiveness.

But it’s a start.

#joel miller #joel miller fic #joel miller x reader #joel miller x you #joel miller smut #joel smut #smut #the last of us #joel miller fanfiction #joel miller tlou #tlou #joel miller fanfic

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ilovolderman · 2 months ago

Text

Dinner Interrogation

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x reader

Summary: Sam hosts a dinner to uncover the truth about you and Bucky’s relationship.

Word Count: 1.8k

Warnings: humor, fluff, secret dating, lasagna, lie detector abuse

A/N: this can be read as a standalone even though it's part of a series called "You Said What". it doesn't necessarily follow a specific order, but if you want to check out the other parts, here they are: part 1, part 2, part 3, part 4, part 5, part 6, part 7, part 8. thanks for reading, i hope you like it :)

Sam Wilson was finished pretending.

Tonight, he was pulling out all the stops: Dinner. But not just dinner. A full-on sting operation with lasagna and lightly weaponized appetizers.

This wasn’t just a meal. This was war. Operation: Love Actually (But They're Lying).

"Casual, not suspicious" was the theme. He wore a turtleneck for authority. And the guest list? Handpicked for psychological pressure:

You (suspect #1)

Bucky (suspect #2)

Sam (the host, investigator, and emotional wreck)

Natasha (because she lives for drama)

Tony Stark (for tech backup and snark)

Steve Rogers (for “dad energy” and moral guilt leverage)

And Peter Parker, who thought he was just invited for lasagna and board games.

The living room was dimly lit. The table was set. The lasagna was pre-ordered. And in the center of it all, hidden beneath an innocuous decorative centerpiece? A portable StarkTech lie detection device.

Sam checked it one more time. Still green. Still calibrated. Still ready to catch romantic criminals.

You arrived first. Oversized hoodie. Sleepy smile. Suspiciously content.

Sam narrowed his eyes. "That hoodie is two inches too long in the sleeves. EXHIBIT J."

Bucky arrived a few minutes later. Entered through the kitchen like this was a sitcom. Casual. Too casual.

Sam narrowed his eyes. “Staggered entry,” he whispered to himself. “Classic deflection tactic.”

Steve gave Sam a look. “This is a friendly dinner, right?”

Sam didn't blink. “Oh, it’s friendly… to the truth.”

Dinner began.

You sat across from each other. Just far enough to look innocent. Close enough to smile at each other when no one was looking. Too choreographed. Too coordinated.

The lasagna was passed around like a peace offering. Peter asked three times if it had walnuts. (It didn’t. He still didn’t trust it.)

Then Sam stood.

“Game time,” he said with a smile that had war crimes energy. “We’re doing a little truth circle. Like spin-the-bottle but without the bottle. Or the fun. Or the spinning.”

Tony groaned. “Oh great, here comes summer camp counselor Sam.”

Steve frowned. “Is this really necessary?”

Natasha was already pouring herself wine. “Shhh. This is better than HBO.”

Beneath the table, the lie detector pulsed.

Sam began.

“Alright. Easy question. Bucky—ever been in love?”

Bucky gave a slow shrug. “Once or twice.”

Green.

“Recently?” Sam pressed.

Bucky raised an eyebrow. “Define recently.”

“Within the last six months.”

Bucky just smirked. “Hard to say. Time’s a social construct.”

Still green.

Peter blinked. “This feels intense for lasagna night.”

Tony sipped his drink. “You have no idea.”

Sam clenched his jaw. “Right. Fine. You,” he pointed at you. “Same question.”

You looked positively angelic. “What, if I’ve been in love?”

“Yes.”

“Absolutely.”

Green.

“Recently?”

You tilted your head. “In a cosmic sense?”

“IN THE LAST SIX MONTHS.”

You smiled. “Possibly.”

Green.

“Can i go next?” Peter asked

Sam ignored him. “Okay. Next question. Ever kissed someone who lives in this building?”

You and Bucky shared a brief glance.

Then, in perfect sync: “No comment.”

Green.

Sam nearly flipped the table. “WHY IS ‘NO COMMENT’ STILL GREEN?!”

Natasha actually laughed into her wine glass. “It’s calibrated to detect lies,” she said, sipping wine. “Not cheeky evasion.”

“Then they are hiding something!” Sam barked, pointing at you “That proves it!”

Bucky leaned back, arms crossed. “Proves we’re smart. Not guilty.”

You bit your lip to hide a smile.

Sam rounded the table. He pointed to your hoodie. “That is HIS hoodie.”

You raised your brows. “Is it?”

Bucky shrugged. “All hoodies look the same.”

Natasha muttered, “Lies. That’s his ‘Wednesday hoodie.’ I’ve seen him fold it.”

Sam snapped his fingers. “HA! COLLATERAL CONFIRMATION.”

You smiled serenely. “Or maybe we just do laundry on the same day.”

Peter whispered to Steve, “This is better than that time Vision tried to cook.”

Sam glared. “Alright. Final question. And I want both of you to answer. Clearly. Slowly. With eye contact.”

He paused for effect.

“Are. You. Dating.”

You both paused.

Then turned to each other.

Then to Sam.

And in the exact same deadpan voice: “No.”

Green.

Sam stared at the device. Then at you. Then at the ceiling. Then back at the device.

“I’ve been betrayed by science.”

Bucky leaned forward. “You okay, man?”

“No!” Sam snapped. “I’m living in a romantic Truman Show and none of you are helping!”

Tony patted his back. “Want some wine?”

“I want answers!”

From under the table, the lie detector shorted out with a sad little pop. Probably from emotional overload.

Peter leaned over to Natasha. “Do you think I could fake-date someone for this kind of dramatic energy?”

Natasha didn’t even look up. “You’d crack in three hours.”

You stood and stretched. “Well, this was enlightening. Thanks for dinner, Sam.”

Sam stood, pointing dramatically. “This isn’t over! You hear me? You can lie to the machine. But you can’t lie to me forever!”

Bucky stood too. “Wanna bet?”

You both started walking toward the door.

Sam pointed wildly. “They’re leaving at the same time!”

Peter: “So?”

Sam: “They didn’t come together!”

Natasha: “Neither did your sanity.”

The door closed behind you.

Sam collapsed into his chair.

Five steps out the door. You both broke. Laughter exploded between you like a popped balloon.

Bucky slung his arm over your shoulders as you leaned into him, giggling helplessly.

“That—” you wheezed, “—was actually cruel.”

He grinned, crooked and smug. “He’s going to short-circuit in his sleep.”

You gave him a sideways look. “The lie detector literally did.”

“Friday probably auto-filed it under 'emotional casualties.’”

You both collapsed into laughter again, and after a moment, he held out his hand with that familiar spark in his eyes.

“C’mon. Lets go to our spot.”

He led you up onto the building’s roof. The door creaked open and the city met you with open arms — the soft hum of traffic below, the wind gentle in your hair, and a sky stretched out like a quiet secret. The rooftop was empty, peaceful. The kind of place that felt like it belonged to you and no one else.

Bucky pulled off his hoodie and draped it over your shoulders without a word. You didn’t even protest, just slid your arms into the sleeves and hugged it close.

It smelled like him. Warm. Safe. You sat down against the low wall at the edge, legs stretched in front of you, and he sat beside you, one arm around your shoulders like it had every right to be there.

Silence settled between you again. but the good kind. The kind that felt earned. Easy.

“I’m perfect,” you said after a while, answering the question he hadn’t yet asked.

Bucky turned his head toward you, a little surprised.

“I just… I don’t love pretending around them,” you admitted, looking out at the skyline. “I mean, I know we’re not lying. Not really. But… it kind of feels like we are. Like we’re sneaking out after curfew.”

He was quiet for a second. Then: “We don’t have to pretend forever.”

“I know.” You leaned your head on his shoulder. “But it’s also kind of fun.”

“Very fun,” he agreed. “Especially when you get that smug look.”

You blinked up at him. “What smug look?”

He grinned. “That one. The one that says ‘we made out in the stairwell and Sam has no idea.’”

You groaned, laughing into his shoulder. “We are going to be the reason he needs therapy.”

“Worth it.”

Bucky leaned down and kissed your forehead. Then your nose. Then finally your lips—soft and lingering, like you had all the time in the world. His hand cupped your cheek as your fingers tangled in the hem of his shirt. When he pulled back, you stayed close.

“Think they’ll ever figure it out?” you whispered.

He looked at you like you were his whole world. “I kind of hope not.”

You laughed softly and leaned against him, your hand finding his, your fingers slipping into the spaces like they belonged there. Above you, stars peeked through the clouds, and below, the city buzzed on like it didn’t know your little secret.

From far below, through a cracked window, Sam’s voice echoed faintly into the night:

“FRIDAY, CROSS-REFERENCE EVERY PHOTO OF THEM FROM THE PAST YEAR. I WANT BLINK RATES. I WANT STANCE ANALYSIS. I WANT SHADOWS CHECKED FOR HAND-HOLDING.”

You leaned your head against Bucky’s shoulder.

“Yeah,” you murmured. “We’re safe.”

Back inside, Sam stood triumphantly at the whiteboard he had forcibly dragged into the living room, the wheels squeaking on the hardwood floor as if the entire house was questioning his sanity.

Natasha leaned lazily against the wall, wine glass in hand, her expression somewhere between bemused and concerned.

Peter and Steve were seated at the dining table, playing Scrabble — although Peter had already exhausted every single letter in his limited vocabulary to spell out variations of “Stucky.” (He was still trying to get “Stucky” onto the board despite Steve pretended not to know what it meant.)

Meanwhile, Tony, as usual, was on the couch, projecting photos into the air with what could only be described as a mix of disappointment and genuine curiosity. He flipped through a series of images with the skill of someone who had spent years perfecting the art of snooping.

"Okay," Tony said, clicking through the photos on his holographic display like a man on a mission. "Three feet apart in May. 1.7 feet apart in July. September? Clearly sharing one churro. No context. But I’m sure that was more than a snack.”

Sam scowled at the screen, scribbling furiously on the whiteboard like he was composing the next great espionage novel. “Okay, okay,” he muttered to himself, pulling down a string of yarn across various photos of you and Bucky, as if it was going to somehow solve the mystery. "I need a new plan. A better plan.”

Tony glanced over at him, the kind of look only someone who knew Sam for way too long could pull off. “What’s your next move? Secretly record their Netflix history and analyze their most-watched shows for clues?”

Sam paused for a moment, considering it. Then he snapped his fingers. “...Actually, that could work.”

Natasha slowly lowered her glass, an expression of disbelief dawning on her face. “Sam. You’re kidding, right?”

Sam stood back, “Get ready,” he said ominously. “This will work. I will finally know the truth.”

Natasha looked at the others with a half-smile, then back at Sam. “You’ve officially lost it.”

Tony nodded sagely, popping a piece of popcorn in his mouth. “I feel like we should all start taking bets on whether Sam will completely implode by the end of this.”

Sam, grinning maniacally, “Let’s just see who cracks first.”

next part

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matt-murdockk · 2 months ago

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Nine-Nine!

an extremely self indulgent brooklyn 99 and criminal minds crossover

pairing: spencer reid x reader (with a tiny bit of almost jake peralta x reader for funsies)

words: 3.0k

warnings: none, this is fluff and comedy <3

summary: Spencer Reid’s grip on sanity? Loose. (Y/n)’s patience? Tested. Jake Peralta? Accidentally in the middle of a romcom finale with no snacks. There’s banter, jealousy, a tasered vending machine, and one (1) emergency love confession.

a/n: crossover episode my beloved; this was extremely fun to write lolllllll, hope you like it <3

Spencer was already three tangents deep into the geographic profile, talking fast, hands moving like the words were trying to escape faster than his brain could handle. (Y/n) had learned years ago to just let him go. He’d loop back around eventually. Usually.

“The spacing of the disposal sites suggests he’s sticking to a routine. All within a tight radius— three miles or so. That kind of pattern almost always means it’s familiar territory. Could be work, could be home base. Most likely night shifts, given the dump times— between 2:10 and 3:30 a.m. Which means fewer witnesses, less traffic—”

“Or he just likes moonlight and solitude,” (Y/n) said absently, scribbling something in her notebook. “Creepy guys tend to romanticize the weirdest stuff.”

Spencer didn’t look up. “That’s… statistically consistent with other narcissistic or compulsive offenders, actually.”

She glanced over at him. “You know you could just say ‘you’re right.’ It won’t kill you.”

He did look at her then, quick, with the faintest smirk pulling at his mouth. “I’m not sure I’ve tested that hypothesis thoroughly enough to risk it.”

She snorted. “Tragic. I thought you loved me.”

Spencer didn’t miss a beat. “I do. But not enough to sacrifice academic integrity.”

“Wow.” She pressed a hand to her chest. “Wounded. Devastated. Utterly betrayed.”

“Noted,” he murmured, turning back to his screen with an annoyingly smug look.

Derek leaned forward from his seat across the aisle. “Are y’all gonna do this the whole flight?”

JJ didn’t even look up from her file. “They’re gonna do this the whole case.”

“I’m sitting right here,” (Y/n) called over.

“And yet, you keep doing this,” Emily muttered, sipping her coffee. “Every case. Without fail.”

Spencer turned his tablet toward (Y/n), pretending not to hear them. “There are five possible buildings inside the comfort zone. Abandoned commercial spaces, all accessible. No cameras.”

She leaned closer, squinting at the screen. “That one. Tucked behind the construction site. No visibility from the road.”

He nodded. “I had that ranked third.”

“I outrank your list.”

“You outrank logic?”

“I outrank you, Reid.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Bold claim for someone who once tripped over their own shoelaces during a takedown.”

“You’re never letting that go, are you.”

“Absolutely not.”

(Y/n) sighed, grabbing her coffee and slumping back in her seat. “You’re lucky I find your chaos charming.”

Spencer, without looking up, murmured, “You’re lucky I find you charming.”

And just like that, she paused.

It wasn’t even the words— it was the way he said it. Like it was obvious. Like it wasn’t meant to land the way it did.

Her fingers stilled on the coffee cup. Just for a second. Then she shook her head, eyes narrowing. “You trying to throw me off before we hit the ground? Because that’s a dirty tactic, Reid.”

He smiled, faint. “If I wanted to throw you off, I’d bring up that time you accidentally used your taser on the vending machine.”

“That was one time.”

“I still have the video.”

Derek threw up his hands. “Okay, I need noise-canceling headphones or a fire alarm. One or the other.”

“Let them have their foreplay,” Rossi grumbled from behind his paper. “Just as long as it doesn’t slow down the case.”

(Y/n) rolled her eyes, but she didn’t stop smiling. Not even a little.

And Spencer? He didn’t say anything else.

But his knee brushed against hers under the table.

And he didn’t move it.

——————————————————————————————————

The precinct was pure, barely-contained chaos. Phones ringing, printers jamming, someone yelling “I said decaf!” from the breakroom. (Y/n) stepped in behind the team, her eyes scanning the flurry with the kind of calm that only came from years of being thrown headfirst into crime scenes that smelled like old pizza and adrenaline.

Then— like he was summoned by the gods of caffeine and chaos— a voice cut through the noise.

“FBI? Oh thank god. Tell me you’re the FBI. If one more lieutenant hands me a case file on raccoon-related vandalism, I’m going to start speaking in riddles.”

The guy had two coffees in one hand, a folder under his arm, and the kind of face that said yes, I’m sleep-deprived, but I’ve made it part of my personality now.

“Detective Jake Peralta,” he added, stepping forward and immediately handing one of the coffees off to a passing officer. “You must be the reinforcements. Welcome to our deeply unfortunate circus.”

(Y/n) stepped forward with a polite smile. “Agent (Y/l/n), BAU.”

Jake looked at her and forgot what vowels were.

“Oh. Cool. Yeah. Wow.” He blinked. “Hi. Sorry. That was… a very professional reaction to a federal agent. I’m super normal.”

(Y/n) raised an eyebrow, amused. “Totally. You look extremely normal.”

Jake pointed at her like he was confirming her existence for himself. “And funny. She’s funny, too. Great. Just awesome.”

Spencer, two steps behind her, tilted his head the tiniest bit. Not enough to be obvious. Just enough that Emily, walking next to him, noticed immediately.

“So,” Jake said, already spinning on his heel and motioning them toward the evidence board, “we’ve got three victims, matching M.O., a dump site triangle, and a ton of questions. I’d love to walk you through it. Bonus: I also know where the best snacks are hidden in this precinct. Critical intel.”

“Let me guess,” (Y/n) said, falling into step beside him, “you keep gummy bears in a murder folder?”

Jake gave her a wide-eyed, deeply serious nod. “Listen, I can’t solve murder with low blood sugar. That’s just biology. Forensics and fruit snacks— two pillars of modern justice.”

She actually laughed, bumping her shoulder lightly into his. “That’s what you’re going with? Fruit snacks and felony charges?”

“Look,” he said, glancing at her with a grin, “some people have badges, some have instincts— I have a snack drawer and a vibe.”

(Y/n) shot him a look. “And a lot of confidence, apparently.”

“It’s the only thing holding me together.”

Spencer, still watching from behind, clenched his jaw and stared very intently at the murder board— as if sheer willpower would make Jake Peralta spontaneously combust.

Derek leaned over slightly. “You good?”

“I’m fine,” Spencer said. Way too quickly.

“Uh-huh.”

(Y/n) looked over her shoulder, smiling. “Spencer, you coming?”

Spencer blinked. “Right behind you.”

Emily raised an eyebrow as he passed, giving him that look— the one that meant I know, and I’m about to say it out loud.

He walked faster.

Behind them, Emily whispered to JJ, “We have now entered full-blown Jealous Spencer territory.”

JJ winced sympathetically. “He doesn’t stand a chance.”

——————————————————————————————————

The dump site was taped off, abandoned and eerie in the late afternoon light. A narrow alley backed by cracked concrete walls, discarded furniture, and silence— except for the occasional buzz of Spencer’s pen clicking in his pocket. Repeatedly.

Jake and (Y/n) were walking ahead of the rest of the group, ducking under the tape, their steps crunching through gravel.

“Okay,” Jake said, scanning the alley. “I know it’s not exactly a five-star view, but I promise this is the cleanest murder site we’ve had all week. That’s a weird sentence.”

(Y/n) laughed. “It’s fine. We spend half our lives in parking lots and basements. Honestly, this is kind of charming.”

Jake pointed at a tipped-over dumpster. “Ah, yes. Classic small-town ambiance.”

She crouched near a drainpipe, tilting her head. “He’s dumping at night. No cameras. But the dumpster’s too obvious— too accessible. He’s not just hiding the bodies, he’s watching them.”

Jake blinked. “Okay. That’s… both creepy and very insightful. You do this a lot?”

She looked up at him, playful. “Solve murders? Yeah. Flirt at them? Not usually.”

He smirked, a little lopsided. “Hey, I haven’t even started flirting yet. That was just me being charming.”

“Oh, just charming?” she teased.

Jake leaned against the wall, watching her. “Let me know when you’re ready for the full Peralta experience. It includes sarcasm, emotional baggage, and an impressive knowledge of Die Hard trivia.”

(Y/n) stood, brushing off her knees. “That’s a lot to take in on a first crime scene.”

He grinned. “So you’re saying there’ll be a second?”

A beat. Just a pause. She didn’t answer right away.

Spencer, across the lot with Derek and Emily, had stopped mid-sentence, his entire expression shifted from mildly focused to openly horrified.

“She’s laughing,” he said flatly.

Emily glanced up from her notes. “Yeah, that tends to happen when people are enjoying themselves.”

“With him.”

“Oh no,” Derek muttered. “We’ve lost him.”

The rest of the team returned to the SUV, but Emily stayed behind, as if she knew this wasn't done yet.

“She’s laughing at his jokes,” Spencer repeated, eyes still locked on the two figures across the alley.

“She laughs at yours,” Emily said.

“That’s different. She knows mine are objectively not funny.”

“Okay, you know what?” Emily snapped her folder shut. “We’re doing this now. Let’s go, Genius.”

Spencer blinked as she grabbed his elbow and dragged him toward the SUV.

“What? No— I’m working.”

“You’re spiraling,” she corrected. “And doing it in a crime scene, which is new.”

Behind them, (Y/n) was still talking to Jake, standing closer now, arms crossed and leaning in like she didn’t even realize she was doing it.

Spencer’s voice dropped. “Emily, I’m fine.”

“You’re jealous,” she said, eyes sharp. “And for a guy who can read microexpressions from thirty feet away, you are shockingly bad at clocking your own.”

��I don’t get jealous,” he said, almost insulted.

She gave him a look.

“…Okay, I am jealous,” he admitted under his breath. “But I don’t know what to do about that.”

Emily leaned against the SUV, watching Spencer like she was trying to figure out whether she needed to slap sense into him or hug him. Maybe both. Probably both.

He was pacing. Not frantically, just… tightly. Hands in his pockets, jaw tense, doing that thing where his eyes tracked the ground like the answers were written there.

“I mean, it’s fine,” he said finally, like he was trying to convince the air. “She’s allowed to laugh at someone else’s jokes. I’m not— entitled to anything.”

Emily stayed quiet.

He glanced back at the alley where (Y/n) was standing with Jake. She was leaning on one foot, comfortable. She looked happy. And it gutted him.

“It’s just— he’s charming,” Spencer muttered. “And funny. And he’s got that whole casual swagger thing going on. I mean, who even has swagger in 2025? Apparently, Jake does. And she’s… she’s smiling.”

“You’re allowed to be upset,” Emily said, her voice soft, even.

Spencer didn’t answer. His hands were twitching in his pockets now.

“I’ve had… crushes,” he said finally, like it was painful to admit even that much. “A few. Not a lot. But some. And usually they’re easy to understand. You think someone’s cute. You like their voice. You want them to notice you.”

He shook his head.

“This isn’t that.”

Emily just watched him.

“I notice everything,” he went on, his voice quieter now. “Not because I’m profiling her. Not because I’m analyzing anything. I just… do. I know when she’s about to make a bad joke because she gets this look— like she’s proud of it already. I know she only pretends to like black coffee when we’re around local PD because she thinks it makes her look tougher.”

A pause. His voice dipped even lower.

“I know the sound of her laugh when it’s real. I know when she’s tired, even if she’s smiling. I know when she’s faking being okay. And I know when she’s actually okay. And I know that right now…” He looked up, eyes fixed on her across the lot, where she and Jake were still talking, still laughing.

“…She’s really okay. With him.”

Emily stepped closer, gentle. “Spence.”

He didn’t look at her.

“I think about her all the time,” he said, like he was just realizing it out loud. “Not in a way I… planned. Just— suddenly I’m at a bookstore and wondering if she’d like the cover of something. Or I hear a song and I can’t tell if I like it until I know if she would. It’s— constant.”

He laughed once, breathy and humorless. “And statistically, I know crushes fade. The brain adjusts. The novelty goes away. But this? This has been over a year. Maybe longer.”

Emily tilted her head. “And?”

Spencer blinked.

“…And I think I’m in love with her.”

A pause. Then—

“Oh,” he breathed. “Shit.”

Emily smiled, just barely. “Took you long enough.”

He ran both hands over his face. “I don’t— what am I supposed to do with that?”

“You tell her,” she said gently.

“What? No, I can’t.”

“You can.”

“Emily, she's quite possibly the closest friend I have. What if it ruins everything?”

Emily didn’t answer for a second. She just looked at him— really looked at him— and said, “Spencer. You're already miserable. At least ruin it with some dignity, damn it.”

He looked back at (Y/n). She was saying goodbye to Jake now, walking back toward the team, tucking her hair behind her ear like she always did when she was distracted. She looked like home.

Spencer exhaled. “Yeah. Okay. I’m completely screwed.”

Emily nodded. “Yeah. You are. Oh, and for the record, I thought I was your closest friend, and honestly, I feel so attacked right now."

"You'll live."

"Hey!" retorted Emily, followed by a smack to his arm.

——————————————————————————————————

The sun had dipped low, casting long shadows across the precinct lot. The case was wrapped, files turned in, media dodged. (Y/n) was leaning against the SUV, arms crossed, sipping from her now-cold coffee like it was still doing something.

Jake jogged up to her, slowing as he approached. Not suave. Just… trying.

“Hey,” he said, offering a lopsided smile. “So, weird question for the end of a triple homicide, but— any chance I could take you to dinner sometime?”

(Y/n) blinked. “Oh.”

She smiled, a little surprised. “Jake, you’re— great. I had fun working with you.”

Jake’s grin faltered just enough to be human. “But…?”

“But—”

“Wait!”

Both of them turned.

Spencer was standing about ten feet away, looking like he had sprinted here but didn’t want to show it. His hair was windswept, his shirt slightly crooked, and his expression somewhere between resolute and deeply alarmed.

(Y/n) blinked. “Spencer?”

Jake glanced between them. “Should I…? I can come back.”

“No, no,” Spencer said quickly, stepping forward. “You’re fine. I mean— not fine, you’re not staying. I mean, yes, you’re staying right now, I just—”

He looked at (Y/n), all the air gone from his lungs.

“I need to say something.”

(Y/n) tilted her head, cautious now. “Okay…”

Spencer glanced at Jake. Then at her. Then back at Jake.

“This is going to be weird with him here,” he muttered.

“I can pretend to be a lamp,” Jake offered, backing up slightly. “I’m excellent at furniture-based camouflage.”

“Jake,” (Y/n) said, half-laughing, “you don’t have to—”

“I really think I do,” he said, hands raised. “There’s a lot of emotion in the air and I don’t want to get hit by it.”

Spencer ignored him. His eyes stayed on her.

“I wasn’t going to say anything,” he said softly. “I told myself it wasn’t the right time. That we had too much to lose. That maybe I was just… projecting.”

He swallowed. “But then I watched someone else get to make you laugh. I watched you lean in, and talk like he already belonged in your world. And I realized— I’ve been pretending that I didn’t already live there.”

(Y/n)’s breath caught.

Spencer took another step closer. “I know the way you look when you’re solving a puzzle you don’t know you’ve solved yet. I know how you take your coffee differently when you’re pretending you’re fine. I know that you hum when you’re reading case files, and that you’ll always find a way to make the worst days seem funny, just to keep us all going.”

He paused, voice low. “I notice everything about you. Not because I’m profiling you. Just… because it’s you.”

Jake mouthed oh my god to himself, backing up another step.

(Y/n) stared at Spencer, wide-eyed. “You— you’ve never said any of this.”

“I didn’t know how,” Spencer admitted. “But I’m in love with you. And it took me way too long to say it. So if you’re going to say no— please do it fast, before I combust.”

Silence.

Then—

“Spencer,” she said softly, stepping toward him. “You’re an idiot.”

His face fell— until she reached out and grabbed the front of his jacket and kissed him.

It was fast. Then slow. Then somewhere in between. Like they’d been waiting for years but were still trying to catch up.

Jake, standing off to the side, made a quiet choking sound.

“I am so intruding,” he muttered. “You know what? I’m gonna go. I’m gonna walk into the woods and never come back. I’ll start a new life. Join a wolf pack. Change my name. Just... yeah.”

They didn’t hear him.

(Y/n) pulled back just slightly, forehead still resting against Spencer’s.

“You’re in love with me?”

He nodded, breathless. “Deeply. Disastrously.”

She let out a laugh— half relief, half disbelief— as her forehead rested against his. “Oh, thank God. It was killing me thinking it might just be me.”

Jake was halfway to the sidewalk when Spencer called out— without looking—

“Thank you for not asking her out.”

Jake froze. “I did. You just… intercepted mid-sentence.”

Spencer blinked. “Oh. Sorry.”

Jake clapped once. “Well, that was the best romcom finale I’ve ever witnessed. I’m gonna go cry in my car.”

He turned again, walking toward his car like a man who had just lost a bet to fate.

God, I’m never gonna hear the end of this from Rosa.

1K notes · View notes

youthguk · 3 months ago

Text

✦ Encore | jjk (m) ✦

pairing: idol! jungkook x editor! reader

genre: smut, ex lovers, second chance au, angst with smut, toxic ex au

summary: You loved him before the lights, before the headlines, before he learned how to disappear.Now he’s back — older, hotter, famous — and this time, you’re the one calling the shots. But Jeon Jungkook doesn’t do endings. Only encores.

w.c: 10k

author's note: writing and creating stories takes a lot of time, and no matter how much i love doing this and jungkook, i would love your support and feedback 🖤

You’ve always known how to keep secrets. It’s a requirement—the requirement—of survival in an industry that trades on whispers, scandals, and carefully curated lies. Fashion is ruthless, a pretty monster wearing designer heels, and no one understands that better than you.

Two years of blood, sweat, and designer tears later, you've earned your throne at Vogue Korea. A glass-walled office overlooking Seoul's constellation of lights, your name etched in gold next to campaigns that make lesser editors weep with envy. You didn't just climb the ladder; you conquered it in six-inch heels.

They call you the Ice Queen of Editorial. Untouchable. Unshakeable. The woman who can stare down Korea's biggest idols without so much as a flutter of mascara-coated lashes. Your boundaries aren't just lines in the sand—they're walls of steel and glass, keeping your personal life locked away where it belongs.

You’ve been handed the crown jewel of assignments: the exclusive BTS cover story.

The kind of story that turns editors into legends. Or ruins them completely.

“You must be feeling the pressure,” Hyerin teases, nudging your elbow as you both stand by the studio coffee station. “If I had to face seven of the most beautiful men on Earth, I’d probably collapse.”

You smile lightly, perfectly controlled. “Luckily, fainting isn’t part of my job description.”

Hyerin laughs, tossing her silky hair back. “You’re seriously not nervous? Not even a little?”

Before you can respond, another voice cuts in—cool and sharp as glass.

“Y/N’s never nervous,” Kara says smoothly, sidling up with a carefully constructed smile. Her eyes skim over your perfectly ironed blouse, searching for any flaw she can exploit. “Even when she probably should be.”

You meet her stare evenly. “There’s nothing to be nervous about. It’s just another day at work.”

“Oh, sure,” Kara shrugs, delicately adjusting her blazer. “Just the biggest magazine cover of the year. With the biggest K-pop group in history. But you’re right—no pressure at all.”

You hold your tongue, refusing to give her the satisfaction of seeing you flustered. Kara’s smile widens, eyes glittering dangerously.

“Don’t worry,” she says softly. “We’re all rooting for you.”

As she walks away, Hyerin gives you a sympathetic glance. “Ignore her. She’s just mad they picked you.”

“She’ll get over it,” you say calmly, taking a sip of coffee. But privately, you wonder if she ever will. Kara’s eyes feel permanently locked on your back, waiting for you to slip—and she’d love nothing more than to watch you fall.

You inhale slowly, forcing the tension from your shoulders as you remind yourself that Kara isn’t your concern today. No — your concern just stepped through the studio doors like he owned the light that followed.

So you lift your chin, smooth the edges of your expression, and bury the frantic thrum of your heart beneath that practiced, glassy calm you’ve spent years perfecting.

You feel Jungkook’s presence before you see him. Hear the chatter ripple across the set, feel the shift in the air. Turning slowly, you catch sight of him walking toward makeup, tTattooed fingers, midnight hair, confident smile charming everyone in his orbit.

He hasn’t noticed you yet, but your pulse already quickens. You haven’t been face-to-face since he vanished from your life years ago, choosing fame over what you once shared. Not even your closest colleagues know about your past—not Hyerin, certainly not Kara. To them, you’re the girl who can handle any celebrity without batting an eye.

But Jungkook isn’t just any celebrity. He’s your first heartbreak. Your only weakness.

And the moment his eyes find yours across the room, his casual smile fading into something raw and hungry, you realize secrets never stay hidden forever.

Not when every glance he sends your way feels like a promise—Encore. We’re not done yet.

Your breath catches painfully in your throat, stomach twisting into a knot so tight it leaves you dizzy. For all your polished composure, the sight of Jungkook still manages to unravel you like loose threads on a designer gown.

Seeing him again feels like reopening a wound you spent years pretending had healed. It floods you with memories you'd promised yourself to forget—quiet nights tangled in sheets, whispered promises that felt unbreakable, how he used to hold you as if you were the most precious thing he’d ever touched.

But then came the silence. Slow at first, then deafening. A text left unread, calls unanswered. You waited like a fool, convinced something must've happened, sure he’d reach out again and say everything was fine. But days turned into weeks, then months, and eventually you stopped counting—stopped waiting.

He'd left you in a silence louder than any goodbye could've been.

It still haunts you, that hollow uncertainty. All those unanswered questions, the ache of wondering why you hadn't been enough—why something that had been your entire world had apparently meant so little to him.

Even now, standing across a crowded room from him, you feel nineteen again, confused and heartbroken, questioning yourself: Was it you? Was it fame? Or was he just that good at faking forever?

Your hands tremble slightly, and you quickly clasp them behind your back, steadying your breath, forcing your expression back into neutrality. You are not that girl anymore. You're not nineteen, naive and waiting.

You're the woman who clawed her way up the ladder, who built herself from the ground up, and who refuses to be unraveled by Jeon Jungkook ever again.

Yet, as his gaze locks onto yours and his expression shifts—something fragile breaking beneath the confident mask—you realize you might not have a choice.

You're the woman who clawed her way up the ladder, who built herself from the ground up, and who refuses to be unraveled by Jeon Jungkook ever again.

You grit your teeth, straightening your posture defiantly. No, you're not going to fall apart because he decided to show up now, years later. It doesn’t matter how familiar his gaze still feels, or how your stomach flips traitorously when his eyes linger a second too long. It’s just shock, you reason. The surprise of seeing someone from your past. He means nothing now. He can’t mean anything—not after he left you drowning in unanswered questions.

And yet, as his gaze locks onto yours and his expression shifts—something fragile breaking beneath the confident mask—you shove down the dangerous impulse fluttering inside you.

Because you won’t allow it. Not today. Not ever.

But Jungkook tilts his head slightly, eyes darkening with an intensity you know too well, and you feel your carefully constructed resolve begin to tremble at the edges.

It doesn’t matter, you remind yourself harshly. You’ll never make the same mistake twice. Not for Jungkook. Not for anyone.

Still, the moment he takes a step toward you, your heart skips—just once. And you hate yourself for it.

And it’s terrifying how much your body still reacts, how tightly your stomach knots, how you feel yourself leaning backward without meaning to. You don’t even realize you’ve stopped breathing.

But just before he can get closer—

“Jungkook! Manager wants you in the briefing room, now!”

The shout cuts across the set, snapping him back to reality. He hesitates. A small shift of weight. A flicker of something unreadable in his eyes. Then he turns, walking toward the exit without another glance.

You make yourself go still, expression smooth, breath finally releasing. He’s gone again. And you hate how that emptiness still lingers in the space he almost crossed.

✦

The studio smelled like caffeine, expensive cologne, and urgency.

Light rigs hummed above, shifting shadows across white backdrops. Stylists darted like bees between racks of designer coats and racks of idols. The floor was a mosaic of garment bags, wires, coffee cups, and carefully controlled chaos.

And you were in the eye of the storm.

Clipboards. Checklists. The shoot brief folded neatly in your tote, annotated with sharp red edits. You’d been here since seven. Confirming the team, adjusting the timeline after a last-minute delivery delay, nodding politely through the photographer’s temper tantrum over lighting angles.

Professional. Polished. In control. Just like always.

Hyerin only nodded, already lifting her phone to send the message.

And then a shift. Subtle, at first. Not a sound, not a movement, but something in the air tightening, thickening — the kind of change you feel against your skin before your mind can name it. Like the slow drop in pressure that happens before thunder splits the sky.

You didn’t need to turn. You already knew.

BTS had arrived. This time, all of them. Fully, unmistakably, overwhelmingly present.

Voices lifted across the space. Polite bows, excited murmurs, stylists practically vibrating. You focused on your clipboard, eyes locked on the line that read: Group cover, final set — standing profile + seated variation.

You could feel it before you saw him. Like a magnet realigning in your chest.

Jeon Jungkook. The name alone was supposed to mean nothing now. Not here. Not in this room. Not in this life you built without him.

But your gaze lifted—just once, just for a breath—and there he was.

Dark hair, slightly damp. A black oversized tee clinging to his frame like it had no choice. Tattoos curling down his arm like vines. He was talking to one of the stylists, something easy in his body, but then—

His eyes found yours. Again.

And froze. As if the moment before seemed unbelievable to him, and now he got a confirmation that it was truly you who he saw before.

For one suspended moment, the studio blurred. Sound dulled. All you could hear was the low pulse in your ears, thudding like memory. His gaze didn’t flicker. Didn’t flinch.

It lingered. You turned away first. Professional, you reminded yourself. You could breathe later.

Behind you, a quiet voice laced with syrup and venom sliced through the air. “Well, don’t you look composed.”

Kara.

You didn’t bother turning. Her heels clicked as she approached, each step full of intention.

“I’d be shaking,” she continued, feigning casual amusement. “If he looked at me like that.”

Your clipboard didn’t move.

“I don’t mix work with fantasy,” you said coolly.

Kara laughed, bright and biting. “Right. Of course. You’re very composed.”

Before you could answer, the studio door opened wider, and the rest of the crew flooded in behind the members. Lights adjusted. Cables plugged. The moment passed.

But your stomach? Still twisted.

You didn’t have time for this. Not the memories. Not the questions. Not the way your breath still stumbled just because he was in the same room.

You crossed the set in brisk, deliberate strides, addressing the camera assistant without once glancing his way — you didn’t have to.

The air shifted again, electric with movement, and you felt it before you saw it. He was walking toward you. He wore that perfect, easy smile — all charm, all textbook idol — as if the cameras had never stopped rolling. But his steps were purposeful, and they were headed straight for you.

Still, you didn’t move. Behind him, Taehyung watched with a slight tilt of his head, a flicker of something unreadable tightening his brow.

“Where’s he going?” he murmured to Jimin, his voice low enough not to carry.

Jimin looked up from his water bottle, following the path of Jungkook’s steps.

“Who is that—” He paused. Squinted. His expression shifted slowly. “No way,” he muttered. “Is that… Y/N?”

Taehyung’s eyes narrowed as he got a better look. “Damn,” he said under his breath. “She really changed.”

“She doesn’t look like a college student anymore,” Jimin added, then whistled low. “She looks like she’d step on your throat for blinking at the wrong moment.”

Taehyung snorted. “And Jungkook’s walking straight toward her like it’s nothing.”

Jimin’s smile faltered, just slightly. “It’s not nothing,” he said, softer now.

The glance he shared with Taehyung was brief, but loaded — a silent recognition passing between them that didn’t need words to say what they already knew: this was going to get complicated.

Jungkook stopped just close enough for it to be plausible. Two colleagues. Two professionals. A friendly exchange in the middle of a crowded set.

But you felt the heat of him at your side. The static in the air between your bodies. The weight of five years in the space between his next breath and your silence.

“Didn’t expect to see you here,” he said. His voice was lower now. Smooth, familiar. Dangerous.

You kept your eyes on the call sheet in your hands. “Then maybe you should’ve read your shoot brief.”

He let out a quiet, amused exhale. “Guess I was distracted.”

You finally turned to face him, slow and deliberate. He looked at you like you were a memory he wanted to taste again. And you hated how much you felt it in your knees.

“Still pretending I don’t exist?” he asked softly.

You smiled—polite, cold. “You’re not that hard to ignore.”

He tilted his head, amused. “You used to say I was impossible to forget.”

You didn’t blink. “People change.”

Something flickered behind his eyes. The smile dimmed, only slightly. And you hated that it made your chest ache.

“Yeah,” he said quietly. “They do.”

You stepped back first. Not because you were retreating—but because if you stayed, you’d say something you’d regret.

“We’re about to start,” you said, voice crisp. “Please get into wardrobe.”

He didn’t argue. But his gaze lingered like the brush of fingers on skin—something remembered. Something unfinished.

You turned on your heel and walked away. And behind you, Jungkook watched like he was seeing something he thought he'd lost forever.

You walk with your back straight, spine stiff, each click of your heels against the polished floor louder than the last. The studio spins in a blur around you—shutters firing, stylists buzzing, interns darting past—but your body moves like it’s on autopilot.

You don’t need to see him to feel the weight of his stare still pressing into your skin, hot and searching. Your lungs burn quietly, your heart hammering beneath the silk of your blouse in a rhythm that doesn’t belong to a woman in control.

You handled that well, you tell yourself. He didn’t rattle you. Not really. It was nothing—just a greeting. Just a ghost in designer boots. You didn’t flinch.

But your fingers still tremble as you slide the clipboard into your bag. And his scent—faint on the air, sandalwood and heat—lingers like a bruise. That voice you used to fall asleep to.

He said so little, but it was too much. Too soft. Too knowing. Too close to the edge of the past you buried under ambition and late-night edits and deadlines that couldn’t be missed. A past that still knows exactly how to make your mouth dry and your pulse quicken.

You exhale through your nose, slow and tight, pressing your thumb into your palm until it stings.

This isn’t college. This isn’t your bedroom at 3 a.m. waiting for his text. You are not that girl anymore. And he doesn’t get to reach into your life now just because he remembered how to say your name.

Across the studio, a pair of eyes followed your every step.

Kara leaned against a lighting rig, one arm crossed lazily over her chest, a paper cup of overpriced coffee in hand. She wasn’t watching the shoot, not really. Her gaze was fixed on you—your clenched jaw, your too-smooth posture, the slight tremble in your fingers as you adjusted your sleeve.

Her lips curled just barely at the edges. She didn’t say anything just sipped her coffee and tilted her head thoughtfully, like a girl already collecting dots to connect.

And when her eyes flicked over to Jungkook, now slipping into wardrobe, and then back to you. Something in her expression sharpened. She had nothing solid. Not yet. But Kara had always known how to smell blood long before the wound appeared.

✦

The shoot was already in full swing by the time you were called in.

High-key lighting flared against the matte white backdrop as the photographer directed the rest of the group into place. Jungkook hadn’t shot his solos yet — he’d been saved for last, as if they all knew the best tension builds slowly.

You were reviewing proofs on a monitor when the stylist approached you, breathless and mid-hustle.

“Sorry, Y/N—can you approve the jewelry for Jungkook’s third look? We’ve got the options prepped, but he wants to wear the chain without layering.” She didn't wait for a full answer, already turning back. “He’s in the fitting room.”

You don’t hesitate. Don’t sigh. You just nod once and follow, clipboard in hand, pulse tucked neatly beneath your professionalism.

It’s just another detail. Another decision. You’ve approved a hundred accessories today already but you haven’t approved him.

The fitting area isn’t private. Just a curtained nook off the main set, half-lit by dressing bulbs and cluttered with half-dressed mannequins and hangers heavy with sponsored silk.

And he’s there when you slip inside. Shirtless, silver chain dangling from his fingers, tattoos curling down his arm like they belong to a different man than the boy you once knew.

He looks over his shoulder the moment he hears you enter. His lips curve slowly, like this is a scene he’s played in his head a thousand times already.

“Oh,” he says. “They sent you.”

You don’t react. You’re too tired for games and too exposed for softness.

“Only because the chain needs editorial sign-off,” you say coolly.

He turns to face you fully, unhurried. Like the air between you isn’t thick enough to choke on.

“Then by all means,” he murmurs, offering the necklace like a dare, “approve me.”

You step forward without flinching, though every part of you wants to be somewhere—anywhere—else. The chain is cool in your palm. His hand is warm. The heat of his body radiates as you move into his space, standing just close enough to clasp the piece around his bare neck.

His skin smells like cologne and memory. Like summer and sweat and one a.m. phone calls you’ll never get back.

You keep your eyes down. Your fingers are steady as you drape the chain across his collarbones, lock it into place behind his neck. He watches you in the mirror and doesn’t blink.

“Still pretending I don’t affect you?” he asks, low enough that no one outside this curtain will ever hear.

You don’t look at him. Don’t let him win.

“You’re not that hard to ignore.”

He laughs, soft and sharp. It brushes the side of your cheek like smoke. “Liar.”

You step back; one clean motion with no hesitation. Your eyes scan the chain against his chest. Simple. Effective. Professional.

“It works,” you say.

He’s still looking at you. Not with smugness now, but something quieter. Studying the way your arms stay crossed. The way your voice never shakes, even when your throat does.

“You always liked this one,” he says, tapping the charm. “You said it made me look dangerous.”

“That was a long time ago.”

His smile shifts. “You still look at me like it’s not.”

You leave before you can answer. Let the curtain fall shut behind you like a closing door.

And you don’t breathe again until you’re halfway down the hallway.

The bathroom is cold and sterile and mercifully empty.

You close the door behind you, flip the lock, and let your clipboard fall to the counter with a dull clatter.

It’s only then—only then—that your shoulders drop.

Your hands brace against the sink, breath coming out in one sharp exhale like it’s been trapped under your ribs since you walked into that fitting room. Your reflection in the mirror is still composed, still precise… but your eyes are too bright, and your skin is too warm, and the chain you touched is still clinging to your fingertips like a memory you can’t scrub off.

The cold water against your wrists and temples helps clear your mind as you gather yourself in the bathroom. This is just another work assignment - he's just another subject to photograph. You've dealt with far more challenging situations than being near someone who once made you believe in forever.

With practiced efficiency, you touch up your lipstick and straighten your blouse. When you emerge into the hallway, your composure is flawless, your expression revealing nothing of the storm beneath. The studio has quieted now, with only essential crew remaining.

Light rigs now buzz on low. Laptops closed, garment bags zipped, coffee cups abandoned on carts. A few stylists linger in quiet conversations by the exit, voices hushed with the kind of fatigue that only comes after a perfect shot.

The hallway outside the dressing area is empty except for you and the steady hum of the hard drive transferring the final export. Metal and stale sweat linger in the air, a reminder of the day's shoot. You've maintained your composure perfectly throughout, every interaction calculated and professional.

But when you hear those footsteps approaching - measured, purposeful, unmistakable - your carefully constructed facade threatens to crack. You don't need to look to know who it is.

“Didn’t think you’d still be here,” Jungkook says, voice low behind you.

You glance over your shoulder. He’s out of wardrobe now, in a simple hoodie and sweats, hair still slightly damp from styling. His tattoos are half-hidden under the sleeves, but his eyes are all sharp edge and unfinished business.

You straighten. "Waiting on a drive."

He moves closer, maintaining a careful distance. "They left in a rush. Didn't even say goodbye." The words carry a weight you both understand - he's not talking about the crew.

"It was a long day," you reply, your voice measured.

"You always were good at making things efficient," he observes, a hint of something unspoken in his tone.

You turn to face him with your perfected expression - the unflappable editor no one dares to question. "Did you need something, Jungkook?"

His composure shifts, tongue pressed against his cheek. "I need to know why you're acting like we didn't matter."

The words land with the weight of years unspoken. You meet his gaze steadily. "Because you acted like we didn't."

The silence stretches between you as the truth of it settles. He doesn't deny it. "I didn't know how to end it back then. I was selfish."

"You were a coward," you reply, voice steady despite the burning in your throat. "A call, a text - anything would have been better than disappearing."

"I thought it would be easier if I let you hate me."

A bitter laugh escapes you. "Easier for who?"

He closes the distance between you until you can feel the heat radiating from his body, his familiar scent mixing with the dim emergency lights that line the floors. "I still remember everything," he murmurs. "Your old apartment with the mattress on the floor. How you'd cry over unfinished articles. The way you'd fall asleep against my chest like you belonged there."

You remain frozen, breath caught somewhere beneath your ribs as he leans in slightly, the air between you crackling with tension. "Do you remember any of it?" he whispers.

The memories flood back unbidden, but you refuse to give him the satisfaction. Instead, you tilt your head and deliver the words with practiced indifference. "You're five years too late."

You walk away before he can notice your trembling hands, and he remains rooted in place, torn between the urge to follow and the knowledge that he lost that right long ago.

✦

The suite smells like charcoal-grilled meat and takeout beer. The shoot’s over. The glamor is gone.

They’ve all crammed into Namjoon’s apartment for a late dinner, half-unwinding, half-rehashing the chaos of the day. Yoongi’s in the corner scrolling on his phone. Jin’s talking over everyone about how the lighting made him look “unfairly youthful.” But Jungkook hasn’t touched his food.

He’s nursing a beer. And he hasn’t said more than a few words all night.

Taehyung notices first.

“You good?” he asks, lazily tossing a cushion at him from across the couch.

Jungkook doesn’t look up. “Yeah.”

Jimin lifts an eyebrow. “You’ve been zoning out since we left the studio.”

There’s a beat of silence then Jungkook exhales and runs a hand through his hair. “She was really there.”

Jin, mid-chew, frowns. “Who?”

Jungkook glances at the ceiling, leans back, eyes unfocused. “Y/N.”

The name still tastes strange in his mouth. “She’s… she was our editorial lead. For the cover.”

Yoongi finally looks up. “Seriously?”

“She didn’t even flinch,” Jungkook mutters. “Like I never existed.”

Namjoon gives him a long look. “You expected a welcome hug?”

“No,” Jungkook says, quieter. “I don’t know what I expected. But not… that.”

He thinks of the way she stood—straight-backed, calm, like she’d stripped him from her system entirely. He thinks of her voice. How carefully detached it was. You’re five years too late.The line replays in his chest like a lyric.

“She looked good,” Jungkook says after a pause. “Better than before.”

“Better without you,” Yoongi says flatly.

Jungkook doesn’t reply. Taehyung sighs, sitting up. “It’s insane that you’re surprised. You ghosted her while fucking your way through rookie girl groups.”

“I didn’t—” Jungkook winces. “I didn’t mean for it to happen like that.”

“But it did,” Namjoon says, voice firm. “You left her. And you never gave her a real goodbye. You just vanished.”

Jimin shifts, arms crossed. “You think she forgot? That she sat around waiting while you made headlines with girls you didn’t even text back?”

“I was overwhelmed,” Jungkook snaps, frustration leaking out. “We were finally being notice, I was twenty, the world was on fire—”

“And she was in the middle of it with you,” Taehyung cuts in. “Until you acted like she was a phase you could leave behind.”

That shuts him up. Jungkook stares at the label on his bottle. His jaw ticks.

“She looked right through me today,” he says quietly. “Like I never touched her. Like she doesn’t still exist in my head every fucking day.”

Silence falls over the room. Then Jin sighs and pats his shoulder. “Well. Maybe now you know how it felt.”

✦

You hold the final print like it owes you something.

Not just a paycheck. Not just another spread to fill your portfolio. But proof that you belong here.

Vogue Korea – October Issue. The one everyone wanted to work on. And you got it.

The paper stock is matte heavyweight — no gloss, no gimmick. The cover design minimal: just the group’s name in clean serif and the issue title in metallic foil, whispering luxury. Echoes of the Future.

You flip through the pages like you haven’t already memorized the entire layout. But it still hits. The gravity. The precision. The power of it.

Each editorial frame is stripped to its bones — no backdrops, no props, no distractions. Just symmetry, shadowplay, and seven of the most photographed men in the world, captured like you’ve never seen them before.

Jimin in sharp Céline tailoring, wet hair pushed off his forehead, lips parted like he’s about to ruin someone.

Namjoon in a crisp Ferragamo overcoat and nothing underneath. Minimal styling. Maximum command.

Taehyung draped in silk Givenchy, silver rings on every finger, a single brow arched like a dare. Yoongi — Gucci and attitude. Seated. Unbothered. A king tired of his throne. Jin in a Bottega turtleneck with sculptural shoulders, the kind of silhouette only he could make feel warm. Hoseok’s frame wrapped in a monochrome Rick Owens layered set, gaze tilted away from camera — like he knows you’re looking. And Jungkook. Front and center. Mugler suit. Bare chest. One silver chain. Wet strands falling over his brow, a half-smirk caught between innocence and provocation.

You chose that shot. Pushed for it. It’s not about sex. It’s about control. Power. Presence.

There’s no overstyling. No theatrics. Just tension. The kind that doesn’t need words.

When you close the issue and step into the elevator of the JW Marriott rooftop lounge, your reflection catches in the mirror: off-the-shoulder Alaïa column dress in black crepe, Louboutin heels, lips painted the exact shade of silent danger. You look expensive. Untouchable. Editorial. Exactly how you planned it.

The party has already started by the time you arrive — hosted in the private event wing, high above Seoul’s skyline. Dim, golden lighting. Smooth jazz threaded with ambient house. Crystal glasses passed by silent staff in Tom Ford uniforms. Everyone here is someone.

Vogue doesn’t just launch a cover — it celebrates it. Especially one this anticipated. Especially when the entire campaign broke engagement records before it hit print.

And when the subject is BTS? The fashion world watches. So tonight isn’t just a party. It’s an affirmation. For the magazine. For the editorial team. For you.

You float through it with your usual ease — nodding to the creative director from Boucheron, chatting with the head of marketing from Dior Beauty, accepting compliments on the issue from half the room without blinking.

Until someone mentions it. “Did you hear BTS might actually show tonight?”

You maintain your composure, letting the champagne brush your lips as you smile with practiced nonchalance. The air in the room shifts subtly, and with the slightest turn of your head, you see him.

Jeon Jungkook. Walking in through the side entrance, flanked by two staffers and dressed in black-on-black: a Saint Laurent suit jacket left open over a silk shirt, sheer enough to tease the curve of his chest. No tie. Just skin, chain, stare.

He looks different tonight - transformed from both the idol whose image you curated and the ghost who haunted your hallway last week. There's something raw and deliberate in his presence now, a man who arrived with clear intent. His eyes find you immediately across the room, heavy with purpose, and you notice with a start that he came alone.

Namjoon had RSVP’d but sent a polite decline. You’d caught wind of Jimin flying out for a brand shoot in Tokyo. The rest were likely busy or deliberately laying low — as expected.

But he showed up, of all people, leaving you unsure whether to laugh at his audacity or grip your glass tighter.

Jungkook doesn’t approach you. Not at first. You feel his gaze like pressure behind your bare shoulder. But he moves slowly through the room — greets the Vogue team with a bow, gives the photographer a brief, easy hug. Accepts a drink from a server. Ends up near the bar with a woman you vaguely recognize from the Seoul fashion circuit — a model with collarbones sharp enough to cut glass, her dress barely skimming the line of decency.

She leans in when she speaks to him. Laughs too brightly. Touches his forearm once, casually.

He barely acknowledges the model's attention, his gaze fixed elsewhere in the room - on you. Through the evening, his eyes find you repeatedly, not with desire but with careful observation, like he's memorizing every detail. The looks fall into a steady rhythm, yet he maintains his distance while others gravitate toward you.

You’re halfway through your second glass when two men — suits, handsome, not strangers to the room — flank you near the edge of the terrace. One is from an ad agency you’ve worked with before. The other’s from an international menswear brand.

They talk shop. Compliment your dress. One of them offers you another drink before you can say no. The other leans in when he speaks, a little too close to your ear, and you catch the ghost of his cologne mixed with something slightly sour.

You offer your practiced, polite smile But you're aware of how their eyes follow the dip of your neckline like they’ve been given permission. One of them lets his fingers rest too long against your elbow. The other jokes, "Are all editors this pretty or are you the exception?" and doesn’t seem to care that you don’t laugh.

Your eyes drift across the room unbidden to find him exactly where he's been all evening, his steady gaze never having left you.

Jungkook’s grip on his glass is tighter now. The model beside him keeps talking, oblivious. He’s not listening. You know that jaw too well. The tension behind it. The twitch when he’s about to break.

You take another sip. Feel the flush of alcohol under your skin. Your vision gets softer at the edges, but the awareness sharpens. You know how this ends. You feel it humming beneath your ribs, hot and inevitable.

And when the man beside you brushes your wrist again — subtle, casual, entitled — you don’t pull away fast enough.

Without warning or spectacle, Jungkook materializes beside you with the practiced grace of someone who's spent years in the spotlight. His movement is fluid, deliberate - sliding between you and your unwanted admirers with a hand ghosting the small of your back. His body creates a subtle barrier, the gesture so smoothly executed that it appears almost accidental, yet the message is unmistakably clear.

“Didn’t realize I was late to this conversation,” he says smoothly.

You catch the flicker of recognition on the men’s faces. One of them steps back half a pace, suddenly less charming. The other adjusts his collar and offers a polite smile that doesn’t reach his eyes.

“Jeon Jungkook,” the taller one says, offering a hand. “Didn’t know you were here.”

Jungkook shakes it. Calm. Collected. “Figured I’d say hello to the team who made the shoot happen.”

His eyes flick toward you, then back. “Though it looks like I should’ve come earlier.”

It’s almost nothing. Just a hint. A slip beneath the surface. But you hear it. Feel it in the weight of his voice. The way his hand stays just a fraction too close to yours.

Possessive. And yet — perfectly palatable for a crowd.

No one would question this display of protectiveness - the touch, the timing, or the implications. The men's faces fell as their evening plans crumbled, replaced by hasty excuses about drivers and text messages from L'Officiel. They melted into the crowd, leaving as quickly as they had appeared.

Jungkook watches them disappear into the crowd with that unreadable expression you remember from his early idol days. When he didn’t know how to speak with words yet — just stares.

“You didn’t have to do that,” you say, voice quiet, cutting.

“I know.”

“Then why?”

He shrugs. Still watching the crowd. “Didn’t like how they were touching you.”

“That’s not your concern anymore.”

He turns to face you then. Full. Real. And the look in his eyes is darker than the mood lighting.

“It never stopped being my concern.”

That does something to your throat. Tightens it.

You want to roll your eyes. Push him away. Instead, you take a half-step back and fix your dress strap.

“You can go now,” you say, coolly.

But his jaw tightens. That’s when you know you’ve hit something.

“I’m not going anywhere.”

He says it so quietly. But it doesn’t feel soft. It feels like something pulled from the center of his chest.

You scan the room out of instinct. Too many eyes. Too much potential noise.

Jungkook notices. And he moves.He doesn’t ask.His hand brushes your wrist—light, guiding—and then he’s walking. Confident. Unbothered. Heading toward the side hallway just past the lounge bar, near the VIP exit where only staff and talent are allowed to pass.

You should stop him but instead you follow.

The hallway is quiet, dimmer than the rest of the event. A velvet rope keeps guests from entering, and a private elevator tucked at the end promises anonymity to anyone important enough to use it. You’ve seen it before. Watched stylists hustle idols through that door like ghosts, like secrets.

Jungkook stops just out of view.

The corner of the hall is shadowed, walls covered in gold-veined marble and muted hotel art. The muffled bass from the party barely reaches here. His back is to you.

He turns when you stop. And then he steps in.

Close. Too close. He doesn’t touch you. Doesn’t raise his voice. But he towers.

The heat from his body sears into yours. His jaw clenches once before relaxing, like he’s trying to hold back a thousand versions of the same mistake.

“You know what they wanted from you,” he says, voice low. “And you were going to let them?”

“I wasn’t going to let them do anything.”

“You let them touch you.”

“You fucked half the industry,” you snap, too fast. Too exposed. “Don’t start pretending I’m the one who crossed lines.”

That lands. Sharp. But he doesn’t retreat.

“I haven’t loved anyone except for you.”

Your breath catches in your throat as the weight of his words sinks in, leaving you dizzy and unsteady.

You want to argue. You want to scream liar.But he’s looking at you like it’s gospel. Like the weight of that confession has been killing him slowly every night since. And god, he’s close.

You feel your body respond before your brain can stop it. The heat between your legs. The flush rising beneath your skin. The sharp, brutal ache that coils low in your stomach just from the way he’s standing there — like he’d throw himself between you and the world all over again.

You glance down — mistake. The open collar of his shirt frames his chest like it was designed for your hands. The chain you once clasped glints against his skin, half-damp from heat. You remember how he tastes. Wonder if he still does.

Your thighs press together instinctively as his gaze drops to notice the movement. The knowledge that he can still read your body's reactions makes your stomach twist with loathing.

“You have no right to be jealous,” you say, voice barely a whisper.

“I know.”

“You left me.”

“I know.”

Your heart is pounding. Your mouth is dry. And when he leans in just a little closer — breath brushing your ear, his voice raw and unfiltered — it takes every ounce of strength not to melt against the wall.

“You can hate me all you want,” he says. “But I still know how to make you come apart.”

Jungkook’s stare is heavy. Focused. Unflinching.

He says nothing for a long, charged second, and you hate how your body reacts to that silence — like it remembers something your brain is still trying to forget.

“You don’t get to act like this,” you say, and it comes out sharp, acidic. “You don’t get to touch me now and pretend it means anything.”

His jaw tenses, but his voice stays level. Quiet. Deadly calm.

“I’m not pretending.”

You scoff, rolling your eyes, shifting your weight — and that’s when he does it.

His hand slides down with deliberate intent, finding its target. He squeezes your ass with possessive familiarity, the firm pressure making your breath catch. Though you maintain your composure, your body betrays you - skin flushing hot, thighs pressing together as desire coils in your stomach.

“You’re disgusting,” you mutter through your teeth.

But he leans in, his mouth brushing the shell of your ear.

“You didn’t stop me.”

You shove at his chest, but there’s no real strength in it. Not when your knees feel like static and your pulse is hammering between your legs. Not when your own body is already betraying you, flooding with heat from the base of your spine to the ache you’ve been pretending doesn’t exist.

“You’re the one who fucked other people the second you got famous,” you snap. “Don’t come near me like we have unfinished business.”

“You think I don’t remember how you taste?” he breathes, low and lethal. “How your thighs shake when I—”

“Shut up.” You cut him off, voice breaking around the edge. “You’re pathetic.”

But his hand is still on you. Still burning through the fabric of your dress.

And now he's walking.

You're not sure when his hand left yours. You're not sure when your legs decided to follow. But you're moving. Toward the private elevator at the end of the hallway. It dings as it opens — discreet, slow, waiting for no one else.

“Don’t,” you say, half-hearted, hovering just outside the doors.

He steps inside the elevator and glances back, waiting with an unspoken challenge in his eyes.

“Unless you're scared,” he murmurs.

You could slap him. You should, but instead you step into the elevator with feigned composure, despite your trembling heels.

The doors close with a soft click, leaving you enveloped in thick, electric silence. His presence looms behind you, coiled and simmering, while you maintain your dignity - chin raised, gaze fixed steadily on the elevator doors.

Your mind races as the floors tick by, but you've already surrendered to whatever destination he has in mind.

You tell yourself it’s just physical. You’re tired. Your bones are tired. You've been carrying ambition like armor for too long and you want — god, you want — to feel something. Something that doesn’t require you to smile, or pose, or win.

You want to stop being the calculated editor, the polished image, the embodiment of perfection - if only for one night. And if it has to be Jungkook, the only man who ever witnessed you come undone, then so be it. After all, if he's determined to shatter your composure again, you'll make sure he crumbles right alongside you.

The car ride settles into a weighty silence, charged with unspoken tension that fills the space between you.

A stretch of velvet air between you, thick with all the things neither of you are brave or stupid enough to say.

Jungkook’s limo is absurd. Sleek black leather, blue LED trim humming at your feet. A built-in bar you ignore. Curtains drawn. City lights blur past the tinted glass as if the world outside has nothing to do with what’s about to happen inside.

You sit rigid, legs crossed. The dress has ridden up just slightly — the soft part of your thigh kissing cool air — and he notices.

He notices immediately. His hand moves with quiet confidence, as if remembering a familiar path. Fingertips rest briefly on your knee before sliding upward, his thumb drawing lazy circles where silk meets flesh.

Though you avoid his gaze, busying yourself by twisting your hair between your fingers, your body betrays you - thighs pressing together as his touch ventures into dangerous territory. The corner of his mouth lifts in a knowing smirk.

“I forgot how stubborn you are.”

You glare. “You forgot a lot of things.”

His fingers don’t retreat. He slides them just a breath higher, pulling the hem of your dress with them.

“You can say stop,” he murmurs, voice dropping low. “You know I’ll listen.”

You hate the truth of it, hate even more that you don't want to stop him. Your thighs remain locked together as heat builds between them, as if friction alone could erase what's about to happen.

He stays perfectly still, his touch a gentle reminder on your skin. Patient. Waiting. Your body responds to his presence with a familiar ache, your pulse quickening as it remembers his touch.

Through the window, city lights blur past while you try to steady your breathing. There's no denying what's about to happen - you knew it from the moment you followed him from that party.

Tonight, you’re not Vogue Korea’s untouchable ice queen. You’re just a woman.

Lonely. Starving. So fucking tired of pretending she doesn’t want to be ruined.

✦

The car stops in front of La Premiere, one of Seoul’s most exclusive residential towers — all glass, obsidian stone, gold accents that shimmer even at midnight. You’re not surprised. This is the kind of place you only enter if your name is a brand.

The lobby's marble floors echo beneath your heels as you follow him to the private elevator, where a thumbprint grants access to the upper floors. The doorman's familiar greeting only amplifies the tension crackling between you.

Your heart pounds against your ribs as the elevator climbs to the penthouse. The space unfolds before you - a stunning expanse of high ceilings and concrete walls, with floor-to-ceiling windows offering a breathtaking view of Seoul's glittering skyline. But you barely register the luxurious details.

The moment the door clicks shut behind you, he presses you against the wall, his mouth capturing yours with desperate intensity.

He kisses you like a man starved, like he's been haunted by the memory of your taste. His hands roam possessively over your body while his tongue claims yours in a heated dance of desire. When an involuntary moan escapes your lips, his mouth curves into a knowing grin against yours.

“Still pretending you don’t want this?”

You shove at his chest, breathless.

“Still pretending you don’t want to be fucked?”

His laugh is dark. “You want to feel me inside you, don’t you?”

You don’t answer and he takes it as a yes.

He lifts you like you weigh nothing, carrying you down the hallway. You catch glimpses of modern art, black marble floors, absurdly expensive furniture you could write articles about.

But then...His bedroom.

Of course it’s massive. King-sized bed draped in jet-black sheets, one wall entirely glass, Seoul glittering behind it like a crown.

He lays you down. Stares at you for a second. Then bends. Presses a kiss to your shin. Your knee. Your inner thigh. You arch.

“You’re not going to tease me,” you spit, breath shaky.

“Oh no?” His voice is warm silk wrapped around something feral. “I think you’ve been begging to be teased.”

And then he’s peeling your dress up, up, over your hips, dragging it slowly, deliberately, like he’s unwrapping a sin he’s already claimed.

His hands never stop moving.

He spreads your legs with ease, dress bunched high at your waist now, the cold kiss of air meeting warm skin. You feel obscenely exposed and utterly alive — laid out against his sheets in nothing but a paper-thin pair of black lace underwear that does nothing to hide the heat soaking through.

And when his eyes land there, dark and molten, his breath catches.

“Fuck,” he mutters, more to himself than to you. “You’ve always been unreal.”

You watch his throat move, swallowing thickly. His fingers trail from your calf to the inside of your thigh, slow and reverent.

“I’m gonna fuck you so good,” he murmurs, eyes locked on your heat like he’s watching a meal he’s about to ruin. “You’ll forget how to hate me.”

You don’t have time to snarl back before his mouth is on you again — dragging up your body, lips trailing over your stomach, your ribs, your bra. He finds your breast with one hand, slipping beneath the delicate cup, warm palm cupping it, squeezing just enough to make you gasp. Then his tongue is there, licking over your nipple through the lace, wetting it until the fabric turns transparent and your back lifts off the bed.

You whimper. Loud. And you hate that it sounds like relief.

His other hand finds your ass, gripping it with the kind of pressure that says mine, pulling you closer to the edge of the bed as he grinds down against you, clothed cock heavy and hot against your inner thigh.

He nips at your breast, tongue flicking, eyes on your face.

“Still pretending you don’t remember what this feels like?”

You pant, fingers buried in his hair. “Just fuck me already.”

But he’s not done teasing. He slides lower again, mouth kissing a path down your torso, tongue tasting your skin like it’s his.

When he reaches your panties, he pauses. Licks his lips.

“These need to come off.”

You lift your hips. He slides them down your legs, slow and smooth, like he’s savoring every inch of skin revealed.

And then he groans.

“Fuck, baby…” His thumb brushes over your slit. “You’re soaked.”

You glare. “You’re not special.”

He chuckles. “We’ll see.”

Then he kisses you again, deep and dirty, hand slipping between your thighs, two fingers sliding through your folds with ease, coating themselves in everything your pride is trying to hide.

He presses in — just one finger, shallow and slow — and you gasp into his mouth.

“You’re so fucking tight,” he breathes against your lips. “You really haven’t let anyone else stretch you like this?”

You don’t answer.

But your moan says enough.

He adds another finger. Curling them. Moving them just right.

“This is me preparing you,” he murmurs, voice all silk and sin. “I’m gonna make it good. Gonna make you cum on my fingers before I even fuck you.”

Your eyes flutter shut. “God, Jungkook—”

“I love when you beg,” he growls, “but not yet.”

You reach for him then, desperate, fingers tugging at his open shirt — sheer and slippery beneath your grip. You want to see him. Need to.

He feels it. “Patience,” he smirks, but he lets you undress him anyway.

Jacket drops first. Then that ridiculous silk shirt that slides off his arms like water. You make a sound low in your throat when you see him again, bare and sculpted and dangerous. Then he pushes his pants down, black slacks pooling on the floor, and all that’s left is his boxers — stretched tight over his cock, which is very obviously hard.

And huge. Your mouth parts. He sees it. Smirks again.

“Don’t act surprised,” he murmurs, leaning in. “You’ve had it before.”

His body covers yours, the warmth of his skin burning against you, his cock pressing hot and heavy between your thighs. He grinds once, slow, and you gasp — the length of him perfectly aligned against your soaked slit, dragging between your folds like he’s memorizing the shape of your desperation.

He doesn't push in yet.

Just teases. Rubs the head against your clit. Circles it. Slips down, catches your entrance, then pulls back again.

You bite your lip so hard it stings.

“Jungkook,” you pant, voice breaking.

He kisses your jaw, your neck, his voice low and smug and maddening.

“You’re gonna say please.”

You don’t say please.Not with your mouth.

But when you look down and see him reach for the nightstand drawer, tear open the foil packet with steady fingers, and roll the condom down his thick, veined length...Your mouth parts on instinct.

God.

You forgot what he looked like like this. Not just big — devastating. Long, hard, flushed dark at the tip, heavy in his own hand. Your core clenches around nothing, heat flooding your stomach.

You don’t mean to moan. But you do. His smirk falters for a split second.

“You’re still so easy to ruin,” he murmurs, fisting his cock, stroking once, lining himself up between your thighs. “I barely touched you.”

“You’ve been talking too much,” you whisper, chest heaving. “Shut up and—”

But the words die the second he starts to push in.

You gasp — your whole body tensing — and your hands fly to his shoulders, nails digging in hard.

He groans above you. “Shit—you’re tight.”

You feel the stretch like it’s the first time. A slow, thick pressure as he sinks in inch by inch. Every muscle in your body coils, thighs trembling, breath catching.

His mouth finds yours again — wet, open, filthy — kissing you through it, licking into your whimper like he’s feeding off your pleasure.

“Just breathe,” he whispers, one hand cradling the back of your head, the other gripping your waist. “I’ve got you.”

You do. You let him in.

And god, you hate how good it feels — to have him deep inside, to feel the way your body opens around him like it remembers exactly where he belongs.

When he bottoms out, hips flush to yours, he groans into your throat.

You’re both panting. Stunned. Then you move. Your legs wrap around his waist. Tight. Holding him there. His back arches into it, and he nearly chokes on his breath.

“F-fuck,” he stutters, voice cracking. “You’re gonna make me cum just like that.”

You grin, delirious. “Control yourself.”

“Impossible,” he groans, but he stays still, grinding his hips in slow, rolling circles, letting you feel all of him, the friction igniting fire where your nerves used to be.

Your hands slide down his back — hot, damp with sweat — and you whisper between shaky breaths:

“You feel so good, Jungkook… so fucking good—”

That does it. He starts to move. Slow at first. Deep. Letting you feel every inch drag through you, the way your walls flutter around him. He groans again — long and low — kisses you like he’s starving.

Then he leans back just enough to slip a hand between your bodies, tugging at your bra strap.

“Off,” he pants. “I want to feel all of you.”

You arch for him, and he peels the lace away, throws it somewhere behind him without a second glance. His mouth latches onto your breast immediately, tongue circling your nipple while he thrusts deeper now, rhythm gaining speed.

Your moan rips from your throat — helpless.

The room is filled with slick, obscene sounds. Wet kisses. The slap of skin against skin. His name. Your name. Every broken breath in between.

He fucks you like he never stopped wanting you. Like every other girl was just a placeholder. Like this is what he’s been chasing for years.

You meet him thrust for thrust, body to body, every part of you singing from the friction and the fullness.

“Jungkook—” you gasp, legs shaking around him.

He presses his forehead to yours, eyes shut tight.

“I’m close—fuck—I’m gonna—”

Your nails dig into his back. Your mouth finds his. Hot. Messy. Breathless.

And you both fall.

You cum around him with a strangled cry, legs locking, mouth open, his name your only word. He follows seconds later — hips jerking, body shaking, groaning into your mouth as he spills into the condom, both of you swallowed in heat and noise and everything you said you’d never feel again.

The room goes still except your breathing. And the heartbeat pounding between your ribs like a warning.

Your body is still shaking when he collapses beside you, skin damp and breath ragged, his palm pressed flat against your stomach like he needs to anchor himself to something that’s real.

Neither of you speak. Your lungs are too full of what just happened — of the heat still lingering between your thighs, of his scent on your skin, of the kiss still wet on your mouth.

And then he moves again.

You feel it before you see it — the subtle shift of his body behind yours, the press of his chest against your back, the way his hand slides down your stomach, lower, lower, fingers brushing over your still-sensitive slit with the softest, filthiest reverence.

Your legs twitch.

“Jungkook…” your voice is nothing more than a broken breath.

But he’s already hard again. His cock slides against your ass, hot and ready, nestling in the curve of your body like it belongs there. Like it never stopped belonging there.

“I can’t stop,” he whispers, voice husky and wrecked. “Not yet. I need more.”

You don’t argue because the truth is, so do you.

You feel the crinkle of another condom. The soft hiss of him rolling it on. And then he pushes in from behind.

This angle — lying on your side, body curled into his, his arm wrapped tight around your waist — it’s too much. Too deep. Too intimate.

You cry out softly as he fills you again, slower this time, his hips moving in lazy, grinding rolls that feel like velvet dragging through your core.

He groans low into your neck.

“Still so fucking tight. So warm,” he pants. “You’re made for me.”

Your hands scramble behind you, reaching for anything to hold. You find his hair, his neck, your fingers threading through damp strands and pulling him closer. His mouth finds yours again — messy, hot, upside down, your teeth clashing a little before they part.

The kiss is deeper than it should be. Slower. Desperate in a different way.

Like neither of you are trying to cum anymore. Like you’re just trying to stay here.

He fucks you like he’s drunk on you — like your body is a drug he’s been forced to quit and now can’t get enough of. His hand slides over your breasts, then down again, gripping your thigh to tilt your hips back, opening you wider.

You whimper into the pillow, moaning his name over and over, helpless.

“Feel so good, baby,” he murmurs, forehead pressed to your shoulder. “I can’t—fuck—I can’t stop.”

You don’t want him to, you’re shaking. Sweat-slick. Eyes wet.

You twist your neck just enough to kiss him again — messy, slow, tongues tangling mid-thrust, like your mouths can’t stay apart even now. His pace stutters.

You feel him start to lose it, his rhythm breaking as you clench around him, your walls pulling him deeper with every snap of his hips.

And when you cum again — this time quieter, slower, your body trembling as you squeeze your eyes shut — he goes with you.

He groans your name into your skin as he spills into you again, the rhythm fading into soft, tired rolls of his hips, your bodies still locked together under the sheets.

For a long while, neither of you move.

You just lay there. Breathing. Tangled. Spent.

He kisses your shoulder once. Light. Almost careful.

And then sleep pulls you both under — not out of comfort, but out of collapse. Because neither of you came here looking for peace.

You just needed an escape.

And you found it in each other’s ruin.

✦

Your eyes snap open before your alarm ever has the chance.

The room is quiet. Dim gray light filters through blackout curtains. The sheets smell like sex and sweat and a mistake you swore you'd never make again.

Slowly opening your eyes, you feel the weight of memories flood back.

The kisses. The way he moaned your name. His hands, his mouth, the sound of skin slapping skin. The taste of him on your lips. The way he said you’re mine without ever needing the words.

“Fuck,” you breathe, pressing your hand over your eyes.

You sit up slowly.

Your body aches in all the right ways and all the wrong ones — thighs sore, lips bruised, a pulsing between your legs that still flutters when you shift.

Next to you, Jungkook sleeps facedown. Bare, sprawled, shamelessly beautiful. The sheets only just cover his waist, one arm bent beneath the pillow, the muscles in his back stretching in long, carved lines.

Your gaze lingers on his sleeping form. He looks peaceful and unguarded, making him all the more dangerous in his vulnerability.

You bite your lip hard, fighting back unwanted feelings.

Your fingers twitch with the urge to trace the curve of his spine, but you stop yourself. Because you don’t have time for softness. You have work. You always have work.

Dragging yourself out of the bed, you start collecting your clothes — your dress crumpled in the corner, your heels under the chaise, your bra on the floor beside the door like a monument to your downfall.

When you catch your reflection in the bathroom mirror, you wince.

Mascara smudged. Lips bitten raw. Hair wrecked. You look like a woman who had a night.

And in less than an hour, you need to look like a woman in charge of the most powerful editorial campaign of the year.

You move fast. Cold water. Concealer. Lip balm. Breath mints. You finger-comb your hair and twist it into something sleek. But the problem isn’t the face — it’s the clothes.

Your dress is a dead giveaway. Wrinkled, short, undeniably last night.

You move to Jungkook’s closet. Rows of Saint Laurent, Givenchy, Alexander McQueen. Racks of custom suits and silky button-downs. Not a single item designed for discretion.

But then — a structured black blazer. Boxy, masculine, clean-cut enough to pass.

You slide it on. It swallows your frame. The hem falls past your thighs, hiding your dress completely. You roll the sleeves once. Twice. Pair it with quiet confidence and a pair of sunglasses from the entryway table.

You almost look like a Vogue editor again. You don’t let yourself look at him again.

You just close the door behind you, call a taxi, and vanish into morning traffic with nothing but your pride duct-taped together inside that blazer.

The office pulses with energy when you arrive, as your colleagues look up with warm, welcoming smiles.

“Y/N! Congrats again on the October issue—” “That cover is insane, seriously, you killed it—” “You must be exhausted after last night’s party!”

With a practiced smile, you offer polite thanks to your colleagues while trying to ignore how your skin still carries traces of last night - a mix of sex and his signature cologne. When an intern approaches with coffee, you accept it with silent gratitude, thinking you've almost made it through unscathed.

Until Kara appears.

“Wow,” she says, voice honeyed and loud. “You look… rough.”

The conversation halts like a car crash. A beat of awkward silence. Someone clears their throat.

Meeting her gaze, you watch as Kara's smile spreads across her face, predatory and sharp.

“Late night?” she adds, mock-innocent. “Or should I say… early morning?”

Without a word, you lift your coffee and stride forward, but she trails behind you through the main office hallway. As you approach the glass-walled door of your boss's office, it swings open to reveal your editor-in-chief - a vision of authority in sharp heels and an immaculate outfit, her penetrating gaze already assessing the situation.

Kara laughs softly and says, “She probably didn’t even go home. Just look — same dress as last night’s party. Slept over somewhere fancy, though. That’s not hers.”

Time seems to slow as your muscles tense. Your boss's calculating gaze sweeps over you, her expression as impenetrable as marble and twice as cold.

“Y/N,” she says. “My office. Now.”

Your stomach plummets as you head toward her office, acutely aware of Kara's self-satisfied smirk and the way she bites her thumb, savoring her apparent victory.

Your phone buzzes in your palm.

Unknown Number: That blazer suits you. But you’ll have to pay me back eventually. Preferably not in cash.

Your pulse quickens at the message, and you don't need to guess who sent it, you slip the phone into your pocket before knocking on your boss's door.

part 2

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