#we are not good at the scheduling function

[owlcafe]

Please feel free ignore my inane, barely-related ramblings

Perhaps the most memorable conversation of my life was with a bus driver, on the regular route I took home from university when I was a grad student. He and I had both landed a Tuesday graveyard shift, so I was the only person getting on this bus at 10pm or so. The week before, the bus had arrived late, while I was waiting, so this driver had come up to me and asked if I minded if he took his break now - apparently it was timed such that he would entitled to his break either now or after the return route. Without much thought I said something to the effect of "hell yeah brother rest up", for obvious enough reasons. The following week, it was raining, and I was scrambling to find cover in a place where I could still see the bus stop. The bus came early this time, and the driver rode up to the stop and let me on the bus early to get out of the rain. I didn't initially recognise him as the same driver, but apparently it had meant a lot to him that I hadn't flown into a rage insisting I be delivered home on schedule by an overworked and tired driver.

As you do, we got to talking, and the obvious course of the conversation was to ask what had gone wrong in our lives that we were mutually on this godforsaken bus at 10pm on a Tuesday night instead of doing literally anything else. His story was more or less what you expect - it was the best job available to him to make the kind of money you need to support a family these days. My story was simply that I'd signed on for a PhD, and with it a pretty good helping of teaching hours, including the occasional 5-9pm lab class (a process which, incidentally, more or less prevented me from having a driver's licence at the time. Don't worry about the details, but it's important to the story).

At this point, I had just begun the process of emerging from a series of self-loathing spirals - the one that stems from being an autistic child, then the one that comes from simply being 14, then the one that comes from being bisexual, then the one that comes from being non-binary, to the bonus round of growing up in a stereotypically male way while being non-binary and the unique way that makes you feel like your body is betraying you when your hair starts thinning at 19, and and fun and fresh ways these all bleed into each other. At some point in that whole whirlwind, I'd become quite convinced I wasn't going to make it out alive, despite never having any real risk to my life externally or even really internally, so my early to mid 20s were a period of discovering that I did indeed survive and now I needed a plan. This led to me falling into a lot of things just cause they sounded nice. I took a lot of odd jobs because they sounded interesting or paid well, I signed on to the PhD simply because I was asked to by my supervisor and I liked the idea of earning myself a gender neutral title, as if putting Dr [extremely common male name] on my mail was actually going to make people think twice about whether or not I was a man. This all to say, I was in the beginning of cultivating my "just a guy" self-image. It's easier, in that circumstance, to cut away the grandeur and the pompousness, because you can easily recognise them as fake. It's harder to cut away at the ways in which you undermine yourself, hate yourself, discredit yourself, because it feels like humility (and, especially in an emergent and incomplete social justice mindset, it's easy to invoke your privileges with the aesthetic of checking them, but the function of whipping yourself for "not earning" the things that you have, only further centralising your feelings as a member of the oppressor class).

To finally get to the point of all this, whenever you mention you're doing a PhD there's a pretty common social script that happens. The other person says that's very impressive, you bat it off, they say oh no I could never, and then you either make some joke about the absolute buffoons with PhDs you've inevitably met in your time in academia or just laugh awkwardly and move on. The bus driver starts the script normally, with an "oh that's very impressive" and I follow up with the canned response of "oh its not really all that, anyone could do what I'm doing". And then, I remember very precisely, he said "it seems that way to you because you can, the same way I think anyone could drive this bus because I can. But, I couldn't do what you do anymore than you could drive this bus."

And that pierced through it for me in a way that's really stuck with me. If I wanted to do the ivory tower academic thing, I could semantically dissect his statement - I could drive the bus and he could do my PhD, it's more accurate to say that the power structures surrounding us wouldn't have permitted it because I didn't have a licence to satisfy the local laws and he didn't have the educational background to pierce through the veil of graduate school exclusivity. I don't necessarily think it's literally true, what he said, but it was very powerful to me emotionally at the time. Because, in that moment in the bus at 10pm, we were both just some guy. We'd ended up in different places because of our circumstances, our identities, our choices, but we were still just some guy. In that moment, I had the same capabilities and limits as he did, just distributed differently. And for me, I'd spent most of my adolescence and much of my early 20s desperately projecting this ideal of like. A renaissance man, I guess? I needed people to believe that I was perfect, unlimited, infinitely skilled but also unflinchingly humble, lest they detect the parts of me that I assumed they would hate (because I hated them about myself). That someone I'd never really met before could so precisely and sincerely cut through it all, simultaneously denying me my instinct to degrade myself and reminding me that I am indeed subject to many and varied limitations, denying me even the privilege to bemoan that of course I can achieve these things because I'm white and middle class and so on, so I'm really not that remarkable. It really affected me. It brought me to a new level of being just some guy, and really helped me calibrate my vision of myself.

Obviously, it didn't fix everything in that single moment, but it helped me build a new frame I could use to look at things. If I started to feel shame or fear over not being able to do some particular thing that I wanted to do or felt compelled to do socially, I could remember that moment and how my path in life has given me limits as well as possibilities. And that's kept both halves of my ego in check ever since - I don't feel that I'm somehow entitled or should naturally have "lesser" skills on account of having access to "greater" ones (I can run advanced stats like nobody's business but I still can't drive a car), and I also don't feel the guilt and shame of not having certain skills that are considered basic because I have other skills that I've developed instead (yes I can't drive a car, but I can run advanced statistics).

I am once again just yapping with no real purpose but this idea really strikes a chord with me I guess. I just wanna say these things cause I want to. I don't particularly feel that there's untold wisdom or anything, it's a pretty milquetoast case of this whole thing occurring, but if anything I guess I feel compelled to pass on the wisdom I got from that bus driver that night. For better or for worse, we're all just some guy.

i really do believe that the answer to a lot of people's self hatred is not to try and reassure them that they are wonderful and okay and enough, but instead to remind them theyre a completely unremarkable regular ass person who is not the center of the universe or especially important so why would they expect themselves to be some superhuman savior. like there really is a kernel of out of control self importance at the heart of thinking youre an evil lazy piece of shit. because why would you expect you be anything but just like some guy. if you wouldnt expect the guy who works at the vape shop or your mailman or whatever to be able to do something then why would you expect yourself to? youre just some random ass person. its fine

[followyourfleart]

ᴄʟᴀᴜsᴇ 𝟷𝟶: ᴡᴏʀᴋ-ʟɪғᴇ ɪɴᴛᴇɢʀᴀᴛɪᴏɴ

Word Count: 22. 1 k

Pervious/Next

“Do I look better in burgundy or black?”

Joel groaned from where he stood outside the dressing room, a pair of straight-legged dress pants slung over his shoulder like a disapproving father at prom. “I think you look good in anythin’ that gets us closer to that checkout.”

You snapped your head up to him, squinting hard. “Wow. Romance really is dead.”

He gave you a look. Flat. Dead-eyed. “I’ve died and come back three times since we walked in here. First time was when you were fussin’ over socks.”

Tommy, ever the peacekeeper, looked up from the tie rack he’d been quietly judging. Unlike Joel, who looked like he was moments away from chewing through the nearest hanger, Tommy was at least trying to play along.

“I think black,” he said diplomatically, arms crossed. “Matches what we already picked. Looks sharp. Feels unified. Professional. Just like you said—we should look like a united front.”

You nodded thoughtfully, stepping out fully so they could see the tailored slacks and blouse you were testing. “Glad you’ve learned something. If we’re gonna convince people we’re a real company, we have to look like one. Not like we got dressed in the dark with our eyes closed.”

Joel gestured at his own outfit as you gave him a pointed look—plain jeans, boots, that one flannel he wore on every job site. “This is my company outfit.”

You gave him a slow once-over, then turned to Tommy. “Is he always this stubborn, or is he just allergic to not looking like a disgruntled divorcee from a commercial?”

Tommy smirked. “This is his polished look. You should’ve seen him before I got him outta that grease-stained hoodie when we first started.”

Joel muttered something under his breath about ‘wastin’ time’, but didn’t storm off, which meant you were winning. Slightly.

You returned to the rack of blouses. “I’m thinking this one for the dinner mixer. Professional, but with a little edge. Something that says, ‘Yes, I manage accounts and maybe also have a black belt in cutting through bullshit.’”

“Is there a shirt that says all that?” Tommy asked.

“There is,” you said, holding up the sleek black blouse with subtle pinstripes and a cinched waist. “And I just found it.”

Joel eyed the growing stack of clothes clutched in your arms and in the cart and sighed with a sound. “You’re actually gonna try all that?” he muttered, half-amused, half-incredulous.

“Of course,” you replied, a wry smile tugging at your lips. “How else am I supposed to know if they fit? You know I’ve got standards.”

Joel sighed like a man who had truly given up on ever seeing daylight again. “I was hopin’ you’d just know by lookin’ at ‘em, but sure. Let’s all torture ourselves in this nightmare.”

Tommy, having taken a break from his own mission to dig through ties, finally returned with his own little stack of clothes. He walked toward you with a grin. “I think I’ve got the whole ‘professional-but-casual’ thing down. Ready for the runway?”

You raised an eyebrow at him. “Just try on what you’ve got, Tommy. No one’s getting a runway walk tonight. We’re on a schedule.”

He threw his hands up in mock defeat. “Alright, alright. But you know, the second my suit impresses you, I expect a full applause.”

“Fine,” you said, gesturing to the fitting rooms. “Get to it, model. We’ll be here.”

You then turned back to Joel, who was still standing there, looking like he was already mentally checked out. His stack of clothes was neat, functional, but—strangely—no ties.

You blinked, an eyebrow quirking in disbelief. “Joel.”

He glanced over, grunting in acknowledgment.

“Where the hell are your ties?”

Joel’s face twisted in that way it did when he was trying to pretend he didn’t know something was obvious. “I don’t need any damn ties.”

You gave him a pointed stare. “You do for the dinner event, Joel. Come on.”

“Look, I’ve been workin’ construction for years. You can’t just throw a tie on a guy and expect him to look all... sophisticated,” he grumbled, crossing his arms.

You didn’t even bother rolling your eyes this time. Instead, you grabbed the sleeve of his jacket and started pulling him towards the tie section. “Don’t care. You need something sharp, and I’m not letting you walk around looking like you’re here to fix a sink at a wedding.”

Joel muttered something unintelligible but didn’t resist as you tugged him through the aisles of fabric and patterns.

You dumped your clothes carefully into the shopping cart and began shifting through the neatly arranged ties on a display rack. Scarlet silk, navy cotton, a patterned number with small, geometric prints—all were carefully laid out like options for a crucial pitch.

“Alright, how about this one?” you suggested, holding up a narrow, charcoal tie that almost shimmered in the light. You stepped closer to Joel, holding it near his face to see if it might suit his features. “Does this say ‘checkmate’ or ‘corporate warrior’?”

Joel’s eyes narrowed as he regarded it for a long, silent moment before releasing a short, incredulous laugh. “You really want to put that one of me?” he said, voice low, though the hint of a smile betrayed him. “I’ll look like a damn banker if I wear that.”

You arched an eyebrow. “Oh really? Well, let’s see if your ties agree.” You tossed the tie aside and pulled out another—a subtle burgundy one with a fine weave. “This one?” you asked, letting it slip through your fingers like a promise.

Joel stared at it like it was a foreign object he didn’t understand. “This is dumb.”

You didn’t even flinch at his comment. You were too used to his resistance by now. You just smirked, holding the tie up a little higher, inching it closer to his face. “Joel, this is how this works. You put the tie on, I say you look great, and we go get lunch.”

“You’re not puttin’ that thing on me,” he grumbled, reaching out to take the tie from your hands. “I know how this goes. You’re gonna try to tie it all fancy, and I’ll look like an idiot.”

You laughed under your breath. “God, you’re so dramatic.”

He scowled. “I’m not dramatic. I’m just tellin’ the truth.”

You just stared at him, your gaze unrelenting. “Fine, you’re not dramatic. But this is happening. You’re gonna look great in Dallas, and if that means I have to suffer through choosing your clothes, so be it. Just trust me, alright?”

Joel sighed heavily, but after a moment, he took the tie from your hand. “You better not be makin’ me look like an idiot.”

“You’ll look fine,” you said, still holding back a smile. “Trust me.”

Joel grumbled something incoherent under his breath—something about strangling himself with said tie—but you caught the edge of reluctant amusement behind it. He shifted his weight again.

The funny thing was, not too long ago, that same tone from him would’ve lit a fire in your chest. You would’ve snapped back. Stormed off. But not today.

It was strange, how your fights had softened into something smaller. Not less meaningful, but less destructive. Like sharp stones finally smoothing in a rushing river. The words were still barbed sometimes, but there was no war anymore. Just stubbornness and a growing happiness you can’t quite name.

Just then, the door to one of the fitting rooms creaked open. Tommy stepped out dramatically, smoothing his jacket with a showman’s flair. His suit was clean and tailored well—black with a subtle check pattern, paired with a white shirt and no tie yet.

You gasped like he’d just emerged from a magazine shoot. “Oh my God,” you said, placing a hand over your chest, feigning tears. “You did it. He evolved. Look at our little Tommy, all grown up.”

Tommy’s expression flattened. “I regret everythin’.”

Joel grunted. “What does that even mean?”

You ignored him “It looks great Tommmy. I think its a keeper.”

“Maria’s not gonna be able to take her eyes off of me when I come back in the house with this.” He dug his hands into his pockets, as if he was posing for Maria.

Joel made a sound like he was as child who just saw his parents kissing, however, you had already busy scanning your own items again, now that the boys were mostly occupied. 

Your cart had everything: pantsuits, skirt suits, a little blouse here or there. But the one thing sitting at the very top was a dress—a long, black, sleeveless evening dress. Formal. Classy. A showstopper, really. Something for the fancy dinner you were all supposed to attend the first night in Dallas.

You glanced at Joel and Tommy one more time—both were busy comparing lapel lengths—and then grabbed your pile. You slipped into the dressing room next to Tommy’s and began changing.

The dress went first.

You peeled off your jeans and tank top, folded them neatly, and carefully tugged the fabric over your head, smoothing it down as you adjusted the cinch at your waist and the way the hem grazed your ankles. The dress was everything you didn’t let yourself wear often— flowing, and so unforgivingly beautiful that you almost didn’t recognize yourself in it. The mirror reflected something you hadn’t seen in weeks: poise. Maybe even elegance. But mostly, the whisper of a version of you that used to exist before Austin.

You quickly undid your bra and tossed with the rest of your clothes, the look of the dress in full effect. You turned, seeing each side, every angle. Your moth tattoo was out, their wings in full effect. They suited the dress.

You stood there for a beat too long, blinking at your reflection. Still, you opened the dressing room door slowly and stepped out.

Tommy had just gone back in to try another jacket, and Joel was fiddling with a new tie when his gaze lifted lazily—then stilled.

His hand paused mid-motion. The tie slipped from his fingers to the chair. And for a moment, he didn’t say anything.

You didn’t either. You suddenly felt all too aware of the way the fabric hugged your body, the little dip at your back, how exposed your shoulders felt. You instinctively reached up to tug the neckline, but Joel’s eyes didn’t leave yours.

“Well?” you asked, attempting casual even though your voice sounded one shade too soft.

Joel cleared his throat, glancing to the side like it would help ground him. “That the dinner one?”

You nodded.

He didn’t respond right away, but his jaw flexed a little. “Looks good.”

You tried not to beam at that, but you still turned your head slightly so he wouldn’t see the smile tugging at your lips. “Just good?”

Joel blinked slowly. “Fine,” he amended, in that quiet way he always spoke when he had more than he could say.

“Wow,” you said. “Such enthusiasm. You know, if you hype me up too much, my ego might explode.”

“I’m not gonna yell across the mall about it.”

You rolled your eyes, laughing under your breath, and turned back toward the dressing rooms. But you caught it—just as you turned away from him—the way his eyes tracked the curve of your shoulder and the small of your back. Not hesitant. Just thoughtful. Like he was filing it away. Like he didn’t notice it before and now he couldn’t help but see.

You didn’t acknowledge it. It felt vulnerable, almost bare to try on clothes with Joel. Domestic even. You hoped that the heat that crept up your neck didn’t show.

Instead, you slipped into the dressing room and closed the door behind you with a soft click.

For a second, you just stood there, dress still fitted to your frame, your back against the wood, a twitch at the corner of your lips. You didn’t bother with the mirror this time. You already knew this one was a yes.

One by one, you tried on the rest of your choices—pinstripes, slacks, pencil skirts, button-downs. Some worked, some didn’t. You built two neat piles: one for keep, one for return.

When you finally stepped back out, Joel and Tommy were—predictably—doing something dumb.

Tommy had a navy tie around his forehead like a bandana, and Joel was holding two different patterned ties over his face like a barber bib, making some exaggerated expression like a man deeply pondering the mysteries of paisley versus plaid.

You groaned, muttering under your breath, “Idiots.”

Neither of them noticed. Tommy was too busy fake-interviewing Joel for the “position of tie-wearing lumberjack.”

You rolled your eyes, walked right past them, and returned the items you didn’t want to the return rack with the resigned grace of someone who was clearly babysitting two grown men. Then you flopped into the plush gray chair outside the dressing room, sighing like you’d just run a marathon.

You lifted a hand and pointed at Joel. “Your turn. Go.”

Joel glanced down at the clothes he had slung over his arm, visibly unimpressed.

“I already know what fits.”

You raised a brow. “Do you?”

He grumbled something unintelligible and disappeared into the dressing room, the lock clicking shut behind him.

Tommy settled into the chair beside you with a dramatic exhale. “Maria and I have a date tonight,” he said, proud and a little smug.

Your attention perked. “Ooo. Is that why you were posing earlier? Cute. What’s the plan?”

He beamed. “Dinner. Just the two of us. No bills talk. No construction talk. No baby talk.”

You smiled, leaning your head against the chair. “Look at you, pulling out the romance.”

“Damn right,” he said. “I’ve even got a bottle of that fancy wine she likes. The one in the back that she reserves special nights.”

You laughed, then straightened. “You should get her something. Like a little gift. Surprise her.”

Tommy paused, then let out a dramatic curse. “Shit. You’re right.”

You smirked. “Always am.”

He tapped a thoughtful finger against his temple. “Something small. Sentimental. Not too cheesy. Alright—I got it. I’ll go scout.” He stood, already halfway to the exit of the dressing rooms. “Don’t let Joel walk out in flannel and boots or we’re screwed.”

“Noted,” you said, a faint laugh catching in your throat.

The moment he was gone, the quiet settled like dust. You leaned back in the little chair outside the dressing room—uncomfortable, rickety, probably not meant for actual sitting—and pulled out your phone.

Scrolling was mindless. Easy. Your thumb moved automatically, feeding your brain a steady stream of nothing. Ads. Posts. Headlines. You weren’t really reading, just falling into the rhythm of it. A temporary cocoon of noise and images and distance.

Then—

“Tommy?” The voice was muffled, but unmistakable. Rough, deep, and tinged with uncertainty. 

You grinned immediately, mischief creeping into your veins like caffeine. Quietly, you set your phone down and tiptoed across the tile. You didn’t answer. You just knocked twice.

Joel sighed. “Well? You gonna say somethin’ or just stand there like a stranger?”

You stayed silent.

The door creaked open a second later. Joel didn’t even glance up as he muttered, “Swear to God, if you start laughin’, I’m gonna—”

He looked up.

Saw you.

And jerked back like he’d touched a damn live wire.

You raised your eyebrows, lips twitching with delight. “Go on. Gonna what?”

“Jesus.” His voice jumped half an octave. “You’re gonna give me a heart attack.”

You were already laughing, unable to stop yourself—loud and full, the kind that bubbled straight from your chest. You leaned back against the wall, covering your mouth, tears almost forming at the corners of your eyes.

Joel scowled, his hands dropping to his sides in defeat. “You’re real proud of yourself, huh?”

“Unbelievably,” you managed between snorts.

Your laughter slowed, eventually tapering into a breathless grin—just enough for you to actually look at him.

His shirt was an absolute train wreck. The collar was popped on one side, tucked in on the other like it had a vendetta against symmetry. The buttons were off by one, dragging the whole thing up so the hem sat unevenly across his waist. It pulled awkwardly across his chest in a way that made it clear he had zero idea how sizing worked.

It was wrinkled, untucked, and somehow looked both too stiff and too soft at the same time.

His sleeves were rolled exactly halfway up—like he’d tried once, then gave up halfway through and decided, screw it, that’s good enough.

But the pants?

The pants were perfect.

“Did you even try?” you asked flatly, eyeing the chaos of fabric with exasperated amusement.

“The shirt’s too damn tight.”

“It’s supposed to be fitted, Joel. Not... thrown on in the dark.”

He crossed his arms. “It’s stupid.”

You stepped into the dressing room without asking. Closed the door behind you with a soft click. Joel immediately shifted his weight, his brows raising.

“Uh. What’re you—”

“Fixing you,” you said, already reaching for his collar.

Joel didn’t move. Just stood there with the air of a man waiting for a scolding.

You straightened the collar first. Then unfastened the buttons and redid them correctly, one by one, fingers brushing the soft cotton as you went.

“You know,” you murmured, smoothing the lines of fabric flat against his chest, “These shirts are designed to fit snug. That’s what makes them looked tailored when you can’t afford the real thing. You actually have to wear them properly.”

Joel huffed. “Unreasonable.”

You gave him a pointed look. “You know what’s unreasonable? Not knowing how to button a shirt.”

His eyes narrowed. “I do know—”

“Mhm.”

You adjusted the sleeves, brushing them down until they sat properly on his forearms. Then—without thinking—you reached for the hem of the shirt and began to tuck it into his pants.

Your knuckles grazed the waistband.

Joel’s hand shot out, catching your wrist with surprising speed.

Your eyes met.

He didn’t grip hard—just enough to pause you.

“I can do my own damn tuckin’,” he muttered.

You blinked, caught somewhere between amusement and that weird, breathless tension that only existed in tight spaces.

You tugged your hand back, still feeling the grip of his fingers on your wrist. “Suit yourself.”

He turned away, muttering under his breath as he finished the job, tugging the shirt down with more force than necessary. You leaned against the wall, arms crossed.

When he turned around, you were holding out the suit jacket. “Here,” you said, dangling it from two fingers.

Joel stared at it like you’d offered him a boa constrictor. “This material’s too damn fancy.”

“That’s because it’s supposed to be, Joel.” you gave it a light shake. “It’s a suit jacket, not a shirt you found on the floor of your truck.”

He gave you a dry look but slid his arms into the sleeves anyway.

You reached forward, adjusting the shoulders where he’d jammed one in crooked. “Stop manhandling it like it insulted your mama.”

“You didn’t see the price tag,” he grunted.

You smoothed down the lapels. “You’re not paying for it. I am.”

He looked like he was about to argue, but you silenced him with a sharp raise of your brows and a pointed tug at the hem of the jacket.

“You rip this,” you said sweetly, “I’m calling Lorraine.”

Joel glared. “Low blow.”

“Necessary one,” you replied, brushing invisible lint from the collar.

Then you turned, plucked a handful of ties from the hook by the mirror, and held them up like swatches on a paint chip. “Alright. Pick one.”

Joel groaned. “You serious?”

“Pick,” you said, wagging the ties in his face. “You’re the one who said you’re a grown man who can tuck his own shirt. Surely you can pick a tie.”

Grumbling, he grabbed a dark charcoal one with a subtle texture. Simple. Clean. Safe.

You nodded in approval. “Good choice.”

Then you stepped forward, close enough to smell the warm scent of cedarwood clinging to him. You flipped up his collar and then the tie around his neck, looping it with smooth, practiced motions. Joel froze.

Because there was nowhere else to look.

His gaze flicked down to your hands, then up—straight into your eyes. He stared. Quiet. Focused. Like if he blinked, he’d miss something.

“How’d you get so good at this?” he asked, voice low.

You smiled to yourself, working the knot. “Had a someone back in college to pratice on. He got this fancy internship where he had to wear a tie every day, which was surprising cause he couldn’t tie one to save his life. I got tired of fixing it for him, so I just… learned how to do it fast.”

Joel’s brows ticked up. “Boyfriend?”

You shrugged. “Nope. Just a friend. A needy one. Always overslept. Half the time I’d be tying it while he brushed his teeth.”

Joel hummed, not sure what to say to that.

“Said that I did it perfect every time.” You grinned. “Which makes sense cause I’ve been told I’ve got magic fingers.”

His gaze snapped to yours. You traded him a smirk.

Joel scowled instantly. “Christ.”

You laughed, looping the tail of the tie into place and stepping back to admire your handiwork. “Oh, come on. That was objectively funny.”

“Debatable.”

“Joel,” you sing-songy, putting the collar back to normal, “You’re wearing a tie and fitted pants and look like an actual functioning adult. Can we not ruin this with that face?”

He glared harder, which only made you grin wider.

You gestured to the mirror. “Go on. Take a look.”

He stepped toward the full-length mirror, adjusting the tie slightly.

There was a pause. One heartbeat. Two. Then he nodded once. “It’s not bad…”

Your hands flew into the air. “Finally!”

Joel turned slowly. “You’re real proud of yourself, aren’t you?”

“Extremely.” You crossed the tiny space, satisfied. “You finally learned how to button a shirt and wear real pants. It’s like watching a caveman discover fire.”

He rolled his eyes.

You reached up, cupping his jaw suddenly with both hands and squishing his cheeks slightly.

“Only thing left,” you teased, tilting his face side to side, “Is to tame this face situation.”

He looked murderous. “What face situation?”

You traced your thumb along the stubbled edge of Joel’s jaw, tilting his face gently side to side like you were examining a prized sculpture in a dressing room.

“Just needs a little trim,” you mused, narrowing your eyes like a surgeon planning an incision. “Clean the neckline, maybe shape the beard a bit. Something civilized.”

Joel’s eyebrows ticked upward, looking straight into your eyes. “I ain’t lettin’ you near my face with scissors.”

You scoffed, “Really?” Then before he could speak, you slid your fingers down to his chin and turned his head left, then right, studying him like an over-caffeinated stylist mid-makeover. “Okay, but imagine—just imagine—a solo mustache.”

Joel opened his mouth slightly in shock. “Absolutely not.”

“C’mon,” you said, biting your grin. “Like, classic cowboy. All mustache, no beard. Think Tombstone. You’d look very rugged.”

“I don’t want to look rugged.”

“You could be ‘wilderness-has-consumed-me’ rugged. I mean, curated rugged. Mustache rugged.”

“I don’t even know what that means,” Joel mummbled.

“Okay, okay,” you said, ignoring him completely as your hand tilted his head up. “What about a goatee?”

“I ain’t auditionin’ for a boy band.”

“Not a boy band. Like, artsy dad energy. Little soul patch, maybe?” You tapped just under his bottom lip, smirking. “Joel ‘The Lounge Singer’ Miller.”

He barked a laugh. You grinned, trailing your fingers down the column of his throat to where his bread faded away. “Ooh, what about totally clean-shaven? Baby-smooth Joel. Let’s see if you still got a jaw under there.”

He swatted at your hand, but you dodged it, laughing.

“Stop that,” he said, voice lighter now, fighting a smile. “You’re gonna break somethin’ if you keep yankin’ my head around like that.”

“Oh, don’t be a baby. Your neck’ll survive.”

“You don’t know that.”

You huffed and grabbed him again, fingers curling under his jaw like you were squaring up a stubborn doll. “Hold still,” you muttered, eyes narrowing. “I’m thinking mutton chops. Big, bushy ones. Real Civil War reenactor.”

Joel’s eyes glinted, but his body stayed stubbornly still beneath your grip. “You try that,” he warned, voice a low rasp, “And I’ll shave your damn eyebrows clean off in your sleep.”

You snorted, but it came out a little shakier than intended. “You wouldn’t dare.”

He took a slow step back, hands brushing his bread like you got dirt on it. “Don’t test me. I got surgeon-level precision.”

“Please,” you shot back, taking a step forward, just enough to keep that maddening little distance between you. “You wear flannel with holes big enough to qualify as windows. Your threats are as empty as your sock drawer.”

That made something flicker behind his eyes—something fast and sharp. He lunged suddenly, and you squealed, ducking under his arm with a breathless laugh, spinning out of reach like muscle memory. Just not far enough.

His hand caught your wrist in a flash, tugging you back with a deliberate pull that sent you stumbling—straight into him. Hard chest, solid grip, that familiar scent of cedar and heat and something distinctly him.

His other hand found your waist, steadying you without hesitation.

You heard it. Low and unmistakable.

It was barely audible—but you it was there. The way he deeply chuckled like this was the most amusing thing to happen to him today. You saw the way his fingers twitched against your waist, the way his gaze darkened just slightly.

Silence choked the dressing room. There was nothing to do but look at him, breathless from laughing.

So you did what you always did when things got too quiet, too close.

You leaned in a little more, let your voice drop, smooth. “Careful, Miller,” you murmured, eyes dancing between his. “You hold me like that much longer, I might start thinking you like us like this.”

That usually did it. That little trick. That teasing tilt of your head, the syrup-sweet dare in your tone—Joel always folded under it. Gruff grumbling, averting his eyes, muttering something about how you were full of yourself.

That kind of filth laced with sweetness, the one you were so used to.

But today?

He didn’t back off.

Instead, he stepped in closer. His thigh almost slotted between yours. His hand, still firm on your waist, didn’t budge.

“You keep runnin’ your mouth,” he drawled, voice low and dangerous. “And I’m gonna make sure it’s the last thing movin’ when I’m through with you.”

Your stomach dropped and flipped at the same time. Blinking up at him, your breath was stolen, lips parted—but no words came.

Joel tilted his head, just a little. Smug. Dangerous. “What?” he murmured. “Cat got that filthy little tongue?”

Your lips twitched. And just like that, you were back.

You leaned in, slow and deliberate, until your mouth hovered just beside the shell of his ear. Your voice dropped to a whisper—silken, slow, molten just for him.

“No, Joel. Just calculating how many times I’d have to ride you before you finally shut the hell up.”

Joel froze.

His fingers went tighter around your wrist. His breath caught—audibly. Then he made a noise low in his throat, halfway between a groan and a curse, and stepped back like your words had physically scorched him.

You cackled. Full-bellied and unbothered, like you weren’t still breathless, like your heart wasn’t slamming against your ribs loud enough for both of you to hear it.

“Oh no, don’t run now,” you teased, palm still flat against his chest, feeling the way it rose and fell unevenly beneath your hand. “What happened to all that bark, Miller?”

Joel opened his mouth. 

Nothing. 

Closed it. 

Tried again. 

Still nothing.

You grinned wider, smug and sweet, tilting your head just enough to make it cruel. “Mm-mm. Still haven’t beaten the master.”

He muttered something low under his breath—meant to be a warning, probably. But it came out too rough. Too frayed at the edges. Like it barely held itself together.

You let out a mock gasp, eyes widening. “You practicing for a date or something? That it?” You leaned in like it was a secret. “Running lines on me like I’m your little warm-up act?”

Your gaze dipped—slow, deliberate, dragging down the length of him and back up until it met his. Bold. Unapologetic. “Where’d you even find the confidence, Miller?”

He looked like he had a comeback locked and loaded. Lips parted, brow tense. But then—you saw it.

The shift.

A flush. Just the faintest bloom of color, creeping up his neck, warming the tops of his cheekbones like a secret trying to hide.

It hit you like a shot of adrenaline straight to the chest. You froze for half a heartbeat. Then your lips curled—bright, wicked, victorious, and you surged toward him with a delighted little gasp.

“No fucking way—Joel.” Your palms cupped his face, fingers spread across that newly blushed skin like you were holding a rare flower. “You’re blushing.”

“I’m not,” he said too fast.

“You are!” You giggled like you’d just won a bet with God. “Oh my god, look at you. Pink suits you.”

Joel turned his head, trying to twist out of your grip. But you followed, relentless, hands sliding to frame his jaw.

“I’m serious,” you cooed, eyes gleaming. “We should get you a pink tie. Bring out your natural coloring. Maybe even a little matching pocket square—hell, we’ll go full Barbie.”

“Get off,” Joel grumbled, but it was weak, broken, betrayed by the twitch of his mouth. He was smiling. Barely. But he was.

“Oh, no no no,” you beamed, bouncing on your toes as you framed his face. “I’m gonna remember this forever. Joel Miller, blushing ‘cause I flirted too hard. This is going in the scrapbook.”

“You’re unbelievable,” he muttered, but the edges of his voice were fraying—torn between amused and exasperated.

“Say cheese,” you teased, lifting an imaginary camera with both hands, squinting one eye like you were lining up the perfect shot.

“I swear to God—”

“You look cute.”

That did it.

His jaw clenched, sharp enough to make the muscle twitch. Like he was trying to grind the heat right off his skin. Like he could force it down with sheer will alone.

Then—

A muffled voice filtered in from the hallway of the dressing room. “No, no, sweetie, those aren’t toys.”

You both froze.

Another voice followed, high-pitched and tragically familiar. “But I want themmm.”

Joel’s whole body stiffened like he’d been electrocuted. His eyes went wide, then narrowed, jaw tightening again—this time not from flirting.

You knew that look.

The inhale. The twitch of his lip. That dangerous glint in his eye. Like steam building in a pressure valve.

He was going to say something. Loud. Probably involving the words “for fuck’s sake” and “we’re screwed”

Your hand flew over his mouth before the first syllable had the chance to escape.

“Don’t you dare,” you hissed, eyes wide, wild, and warning.

Joel’s brows shot up. His whole face slackened under your palm, surprised and borderline offended—as if you’d just slapped a muzzle on a wolf mid-howl.

You didn’t care.

You held him firm, like he was seconds from detonating, your other hand wagging a single finger in front of his face like you were disciplining a toddler who’d just learned the word ‘shit.’

Joel made a sound behind your hand—probably cursing you in several creative ways.

“I know,” you whispered urgently, nearly laughing despite yourself. “I know, trust me. But if you get us kicked out of this store because someone thinks we’re doing something weird in here—”

You didn’t even have to finish the sentence. The implication hung there between you, heavy and ridiculous. Joel’s expression twisted like he was this close to combusting.

He glared at you, deadpan, brows raised. But he didn’t speak. Just stood there his entire aura screaming I hate you.

You lowered your hand slowly, smug as hell. “Behave.”

He didn’t respond.

You smiled wider. Because he couldn’t.

Joel stood completely still, like if he moved an inch he’d combust. His arms were stiff at his sides, the flush still high on his cheeks, and his eyes locked on some invisible spot over your shoulder like it might save him.

Outside the door, the toddler’s voice drifted farther away.

Velcro squeaks. A harried mother’s sigh. Then finally—silence.

You tilted your head, listening, just to make sure.

Another beat passed.

And when it was clear—when the hallway was quiet and the coast officially clear—you leaned back on your heels and clapped your hands together softly.

“You can breathe now, Miller. It’s all fun and games.”

Joel exhaled through his nose like it physically pained him. His shoulders dropped half an inch, but the rest of him stayed locked. Coiled tight. Still visibly vibrating with secondhand frustration and something a little less righteous.

Joel gave you a look. Blank. Tense. As if fun was the last word he'd assign to anything that just happened.

“I mean, I had fun,” you amended, eyes dancing.

He opened his mouth. Shut it again. Then rubbed a hand across his jaw like it physically pained him to be standing in the same room as you. Which, honestly? You took as a compliment.

“Think you survived with your dignity intact?” you asked, breezy.

He shot you a flat glare.

You patted his arm gently. “No. Yeah. Me neither.”

And with that, you turned back toward the mirror like nothing had happened, humming softly as you adjusted your tank

He muttered something about tyranny and goddamn ties under his breath, but you just rolled your eyes and turned toward the door. You peeked out into the store, scanning the hallway like a secret agent on high alert. No kids. No judgmental shoppers. Just mannequins and awkward music playing over the speakers.

You looked over your shoulder. “Change. Properly this time.”

Joel gave you a deadpan look like he was trying to figure out how many more years he’d get a life sentence if he throttled you. But he didn’t argue. He just muttered some more things and turned toward the mirror, tugging the tie loose.

You slipped out of the dressing room, heart still thudding a little too hard, and just in time, Tommy rounded the corner with a goofy grin and a small bag in hand.

“For Maria,” he said proudly, holding it up. “Think she’ll like it?”

You sighed in relief, immediately sliding into normalcy. “Perfect timing. And yeah, she’ll love it. You’re not as dumb as you look.”

“I get that a lot,” he said, winking.

You walked over to your clothes, flipping through the tags and calculating the price. 

Just as you finished the math, Joel emerged from the dressing room looking halfway decent—tie now hanging from his fingers, hair mussed, his normal clothes put back on and everything he wants on his forearm.

He dropped his stack of clothes on top of yours like it was symbolic. “I’m done.”

“Finally,” you said, scooping it all up like a champion. “Let’s check out before you all start whining again.”

Tommy snorted. “That’s rich comin’ from the woman who made be try on seven blazers and gave a speech ‘bout lapel width.”

“That was educational,” you retorted.

You herded the both of them to the checkout line. Joel hovered near the impulse-buy snacks like he might actually walk away just to escape, but you snagged the sleeve of his flannel before he could wander too far.

The cashier blinked at your haul—four large bags’ worth of sleek convention outfits, ties, shoes, jackets. You pulled out your card and started to say your email.

Tommy stepped in beside you, pulling his wallet out. “No way. Let me pay for mine and Joel’s—”

“Nope.”

“C’mon. It’s not even that much—”

“You’re right, it’s not,” you interrupted smoothly, swiping your card. “Especially not compared to rent in New York. I have enough savings to fund all our outfits, a celebratory steakhouse dinner, and probably a small moon landing.”

Tommy groaned. “Let me feel better about draggin’ you through this, please.”

“You want to pay me back?” you said sweetly, gesturing to the tower of bags. “Hold everything.”

His mouth opened. Closed. Then opened again. “That’s blackmail.”

“Call it what you want. You're the one that said you wanted to help. I’m just giving you something to do.”

Joel chuckled under his breath and snatched two bags out of Tommy’s hands before they could keep bickering. “We gonna carry this argument to the food court or what?”

You grinned, jerking your thumb toward the wide open stretch just outside the store. “I’m so hungry I could eat someone. Let’s go before I start gnawing on Tommy’s fancy little wife gift.”

Tommy immediately clutched the gift bag to his chest like it was sacred. “Back off. She likes glassware.”

Joel shot you a look, dry as ever. “You threatenin’ a man’s marriage over low blood sugar?”

You shrugged. “If the shoe fits—and it’s edible—I’m eating it.”

The three of you headed out into the mall, the sound of crinkling paper bags and tired footsteps echoing around you. Every bag swing felt like a victory.

You pushed open the door to a sit-down spot tucked next to the escalator—dim lighting, booths along the wall, the comforting clink of silverware on ceramic. The warm scent of grilled meat and garlic butter wrapped around you like a hug.

“Smells like redemption,” you muttered, already beelining for a booth near the back.

You all slid in, and you immediately collapsed against the leather seat with a dramatic groan. “I deserve ten fries. And a pitcher of something bubbly. Preferably alcoholic. But I’ll settle for carbonated.”

Joel quirked a brow as he shrugged off his jacket. “That how you order in fancy restaurants?”

Tommy snorted. “She’s hungry. And dramatic.”

“I contain multitudes,” you replied, straight-faced.

A waitress came by and jotted down your orders—burgers all around, fries for the table, something “with a kick” for Joel, and for you, the very questionably named Manager’s Margarita.

You watched her walk away and then leaned forward, elbows on the table, your gaze ping-ponging between the brothers.

“Alright. Let’s talk Dallas.”

Tommy perked up. “Honestly? I’m lookin’ forward to the venue tour. That’s supposed to be first thing Thursday, right?”

You nodded. “Yep. Then the fancy mixer in the evening, which means you better wear that tie.”

Joel grunted. “We’ll see.”

You jabbed a finger in his direction. “Nope. You’re wearing the whole thing. Shirt, tie, jacket. If I have to wear heels, you have to look like someone who knows what a conference is.”

“That’s the difference,” Tommy muttered. “You like wearin’ heels.”

You narrowed your eyes, taking a slow sip of your drink. “At least I’ll die sharply dressed.”

Joel gave a low grunt of amusement, and just like that, the table settled into the kind of easy quiet that only comes with good food and company that knew how to pick at each other without drawing blood. When the food came—burgers with thick-cut fries, drinks that had just enough kick—you all tucked in like survivors of some harrowing ordeal. Which, in a way, you were.

Joel and Tommy started talking about the kids—light conversation at first, just surface-level stuff. Tommy mentioned Kevin, who had apparently taken to stuffing Legos into the VCR. You smiled at that, taking a bite of your burger, content to let the brothers fill the space with soft talk and shared family stories.

“And Maria’s in that phase where she’s thinkin’ about the deatils,” Tommy said between sips of soda. “We’re talkin’ names now.”

“Oh yeah?” Joel asked, interested.

Tommy shrugged. “She likes Ezekiel. I said I’m not namin’ my boy after a prophet. We compromised. I shut up and told her she’s beautiful.”

Joel chuckled. “Smart man.”

“And Sarah?” Tommy asked after a beat.

“Runnin’ ‘round. She’s been obsessed with my stupid watch.”

“Dad’s watch?” Tommy questioned, brow furrowing.

Joel nodded. “Told her it was broken and that it didn’t matter.”

“Dedicated.” Tommy said as he swallowed an unnaturally large fry.

“She doesn’t care what I have to say though.” Joel added with a small, reluctant smile.

You kept chewing, head tilted slightly, letting their conversation wash over you like background music—easy, familiar, and not yours to interrupt. Talk of kids, teenage drama, parenting woes… It wasn’t your world. But it was warm. Like sitting near a fire you didn’t have to tend—just close enough to feel it.

Then Tommy, mid-bite and far too casual, turned to you. “And where are your kids?”

You froze, mid-chew. Blinking once.

“Come again?” you asked, one brow lifting in slow amusement.

Joel immediately choked on his drink, sputtering into his napkin as he tried not to laugh. His mouth twitched, barely containing a smirk.

You stared at Tommy, deadpan. “Are you calling me washed up?”

“What? No! God, no—” Tommy’s eyes went wide. He looked seconds from flinging himself under the table. “That’s not what I meant. You know that’s not what I meant—”

You started laughing, shaking your head as you reached for your drink. “Relax, Miller. I’m messing with you.”

He sagged back in his seat like you’d just spared his life. “Jesus.”

You popped another fry in your mouth, chewing slowly. “But seriously,” you said after a beat, brushing a crumb off your shirt, “I don’t know. I don’t think marriage or kids were ever really in the cards for me.”

Joel looked up at that. Not surprised. Not judging. Just… listening. His eyes flicked to your face and lingered, brows drawn slightly.

Tommy frowned. “Don’t say that.”

“It’s not sad,” you said, shrugging. “It’s just true. Honest.”

You dragged a fry through a smear of ketchup, your voice a little softer now. “I haven’t been with anyone seriously in a while. It was always something—work, moving, bad timing… life.”

Joel didn’t say anything. Just watched you. Quiet. Attentive. Like he was hearing more than you were saying.

You exhaled, lips tilting into a wry smile. “Maybe kids, maybe not. Depends on the guy. The timing. I’ve kind of given up trying to plan it all out.”

The silence that followed wasn’t uncomfortable. It was thoughtful, grounded. A little heavy, sure—but not in a way that pressed down on you. Just in a way that made you feel seen.

And then—

“Mommy!”

A tiny voice pierced through the hum of the food court, high-pitched and desperate.

You blinked. Turned your head.

And a second later, a tiny little girl—couldn’t have been older than four—came barreling into your side like a missile. She launched herself at you, arms tight around your waist, face buried against your shirt as she cried like her whole world had just ended.

You nearly flew out of your chair with the impact. Your arms flailed a bit before instinct kicked in and you held her, eyes wide and heart pounding.

“Mommy!” she sobbed, loud and hiccupy, “I—I lost you!”

Your mouth opened. Closed. “Uh—sweetheart—?”

Tommy froze, burger halfway to his mouth, eyebrows raised so high they were practically in his hairline.

Joel blinked slowly and leaned back, chewing thoughtfully. “Spoke it into existence, huh?”

You turned sharply to him. “Joel. Not the time.”

He shrugged, but his eyes were twinkling. Absolutely zero help.

You looked down, still cradling the trembling weight of the child in your lap. Her tiny fingers clutched the fabric of your blouse like it was the only thing tethering her to the earth.

“Sweetheart,” you whispered, brushing a curl from her tear-streaked face, “I—I think you might have the wrong—”

The little girl looked up at you.

And then her face crumpled.

Right in front of your eyes, the realization hit her like a ton of bricks—and then came the waterworks. Loud, sudden, and heartbreaking.

She wailed.

“Oh my god,” you muttered, wide-eyed. “Okay, okay—don’t panic—shit—don’t cry—don’t—um—”

You glanced helplessly between Tommy and Joel, eyes wild.

“Little help here?” you hissed.

Tommy looked panicked. “I—I’ve only ever seen Kevin cry when we take his toy.”

Joel just stared. “She’s ain’t mine.”

“Neither is she mine!” you whisper-shouted, trying to bounce the girl gently on your lap like you’d seen mothers do in passing.

You rubbed her back awkwardly, trying to think of something—anything—calming.

“Hey, hey, sweetie. What’s your name?”

Through the sobs, you barely caught it. “M-Maddie.”

“Maddie, okay,” you nodded, voice calm even if your soul was panicking. “How old are you, Maddie?”

“Four.”

“Good, good. You’re doing amazing. And where did you last see your mom, baby?”

“At the… at the restaurant place,” she hiccuped, wiping her nose on your sleeve. “I was holding her hand, and then I saw a ballon animal, and then—and then—I couldn’t find her anymore—”

Your heart gave a solid thump.

“Oh, honey…”

She sniffled hard and then climbed fully into your lap, pressing her face into your chest and clutching at you like you were a life preserver.

You sat stock-still.

Sure, you’d babysat Kevin once—but having a sobbing, stranger’s child in your lap in the middle of a food court? That was a different story.

Tommy looked horrified. Joel… Joel looked like he was watching a documentary he didn’t sign up for.

“Okay,” you murmured, arms slowly coming around her. “Okay, Maddie. We’re gonna find your mom, alright?”

Her little head jerked up. “Really?”

You nodded. “Of course. I swear on every soft pretzel in this mall.”

She blinked up at you. It was like watching the storm clouds part just enough to let a little sunlight through.

You turned to Tommy and Joel. “Alright, ditch your burgers. Pay. We’ve got a mission.”

Tommy was already wiping his mouth and grabbing his wallet. Joel, still chewing, just grunted and followed suit. You stood up with Maddie still glued to you, adjusting her on your hip with only a small wince of back pain.

You carried her out of the food court, weaving through tables while whispering calm little things in her ear. Outside, the mall air was just as loud and chaotic, but it felt like the three of you had entered a different reality.

“Alright, Maddie,” you said gently. “Let’s think back. What does your mom look like?”

“She has your hair. And a red purse. And a necklace with a heart on it.”

“Okay, that’s helpful. We’re gonna keep our eyes out.”

You paused, scanning the crowd. Still no sign of a frantic mother. No one running or calling Maddie’s name.

Tommy jogged up beside you with the shopping bags like a pack mule, already out of breath. “Y’know, when we said ‘Dallas trip shopping,’ I didn’t think it meant child rescue unit.”

You patted his shoulder. “Consider it your good deed for the week.”

Joel caught up a second later, his boots thudding a little heavier against the tile as he slowed beside you. “What now?”

You turned toward him, adjusting the squirming toddler on your hip. Maddie huffed against your shoulder, sticky-cheeked and pouty-lipped, her arms loosely looped around your neck like a sleepy koala.

You tilted your head, eyeing the bags hanging from Joel’s fists like anchors. “Now? You go get her ice cream.”

Joel blinked, his brow furrowing like he hadn’t heard you right. “I what?”

You gave Maddie a gentle bounce and nodded toward the food court. “You’re the most threatening-looking of the trio,” you said, voice light but pointed. “I think it’s best if you make yourself less scary by walking away and returning with something sweet. Preferably frozen.”

Joel’s scowl deepened. “Most threatenin’?” he repeated, insulted.

You didn’t even glance at him. “Wallet’s in my back pocket,” you said over your shoulder, shifting Maddie again. “Get vanilla.”

There was a pause—a beat where you could practically hear him grind his molars—then the quiet shuffle of his boots as he stepped closer.

You felt the warmth of him behind you first, and then his hand brushed your lower back, hesitant, almost like he was actively thinking about pulling his hand back.

He slid his hand down slowly, fingers slipping against the sliver of exposed midriff from the tank top, knuckles grazing bare skin as they moved toward your pocket. The denim was tight—snug from wear—and he had to work his hand in carefully, thumb curling inward to fish for the wallet wedged deep in the seam.

You yelped, your spine snapping straighter. “Watch the nails, Miller!”

His low mutter tickled just above your ear. “Then don’t wear tight jeans to a mall.”

With a victorious huff, he finally tugged the wallet free. Then he stepped back without another word, turned, and stalked off toward the kiosk like it had personally insulted him.

You turned back to Maddie, who’d finally stopped crying—her breath still catching here and there in little hiccups, but her grip on you had relaxed. She was curled close, her face tucked into your neck, tiny fingers now occupied with tugging gently at one of your earrings, her curiosity returning like sunlight after a storm.

You gently pried her hand away, soft but firm. “Let’s not rip my ear off, sweetheart. Eyes up.”

She blinked at you, wide-eyed and shiny-cheeked, the kind of look only a recently consoled child could master—half-innocent, half-tragic.

“Okay,” you said, brushing a bit of damp hair off her forehead, “let’s try this again. You were near the fancier restaurants, yeah? Where the tables have tablecloths and the menus don’t have pictures?”

She gave the smallest nod.

“Were you inside one of them? Or just walking past?”

Her lips pressed together. Then: “Inside.”

Just then, Joel returned, holding a tiny paper cup of vanilla ice cream and a plastic spoon like it had offended him personally.

“One overpriced peace offering,” he muttered, extending it toward you.

You took it with one hand, offering a faint smile. “Thank you.” Then, pointedly, “You may return my wallet to the exact location you found it.”

Joel didn’t even blink. He just stepped behind you again, slow and deliberate. One of his hands came to rest lightly on your hip, steadying you—not that you needed it—while the other slid your wallet back into the rear pocket of your jeans with an obnoxiously measured pace.

He leaned in, close enough that his voice brushed your ear. “Done.”

You turned your head just enough to meet his eyes over your shoulder. “We are not making this a habit.”

He smirked like it was already too late. “Sure we’re not.”

Before you could roll your eyes, he passed the ice cream to Maddie, who took it in both hands like he’d just handed her a crown. She dug in without hesitation, sniffling quieter now, her small shoulders relaxing as the sugar kicked in.

You let out a slow breath and looked between the two men flanking you—Joel with his signature scowl fading into something softer, and Tommy a few feet off, scanning the crowd.

You adjusted Maddie on your hip again, her little fingers sticky from melted vanilla and still clutching the empty cup like it was a priceless artifact. “Alright,” you said softly, eyes scanning the crowds, “Let’s retrace your steps.”

And the three of you walked through the mall—her tiny cup of ice cream slowly melting, Joel silently keeping pace beside you, and Tommy still muttering about how exactly he got roped into all this.

But you weren’t really listening anymore.

You had Maddie. That was the priority.

You guided her through the maze of the mall, gently asking her more questions.

“Was it upstairs or downstairs?”

“Did she order food already?”

“Do you remember what the restaurant looked like?”

Maddie’s eyes darted from storefront to storefront until, suddenly, they lit up.

“There!” she shouted, practically bouncing in your arms and pointing hard to the left, toward a corridor lined with the upscale joints—the ones with mood lighting, matte black menus, and host stands guarded like fortresses. “That’s it! That one!”

Your arms burned from holding her, but you didn’t let go until you were right at the entrance of the restaurant she was pointing to. She bucked and squirmed in your grip, too antsy to wait, so you finally knelt and set her down, immediately grabbing her hand before she could take off.

The moment you crossed the threshold, it hit you.

The inside was quiet. Dim. All dark wood and leather booths, the soft sound of clinking glasses and low, grainy jazz humming from invisible speakers.

Your feet faltered slightly as you looked around, something about it snagging in your chest. It reminded you of New York. The after-hours networking dinners. The kind of places where old money whispered and new money shouted in well-fitted suits.

But instead of leading you to a booth, Maddie tugged your hand toward the bar.

“That’s where we were!” she said brightly, already pulling.

You felt your throat close up as your eyes landed on the figure hunched over one of the tall stools.

A woman.

She was slumped over at the end of the bar, half-hidden in the shadow of a flickering wall sconce. Her head rested in one hand, elbow braced against the lacquered surface. A single cocktail glass—mostly full—sat beside her, sweating onto a black napkin. Her hair had slipped from its clip, strands tangled against the collar of her coat. Her makeup was smudged just enough to betray the passage of too many hours. Her breathing was slow. Shallow.

And alone.

Something twisted in your chest—deep and low, a wrong kind of recognition. Your grip on Maddie slipped.

She let go before you could stop her.

“Mommy!”

You flinched.

The word sliced through you, clean and fast. Maddie took off toward the bar, clambering up the tall stool with practiced ease and hurling herself into her mother’s lap. The sudden weight startled the woman awake, her arms reacting before her mind caught up, wrapping instinctively around her daughter.

“Maddie?” she murmured, her voice low and slurred. “What the hell, baby? Mommy’s head hurts…”

You inched forward, unsure. Unsteady.

Maddie hugged her tightly, face pressed into her mother’s shoulder. “I got lost,” she said, her voice small and proud all at once. “I was lookin’ for you for so long. But I found them—” She twisted and pointed toward you. “They helped me.”

The woman blinked, eyes struggling to focus. You watched the fog clear in slow motion—the realization creeping in behind her bloodshot gaze. Her arms tightened protectively around Maddie as she stood on shaking legs, the girl clinging like a lifeline.

She swayed.

You stepped forward, on instinct.

But Joel’s hand closed around your arm from behind—firm, grounding. He didn’t say a word. Just held you there, steady, watching like he knew better than to let you move.

The woman turned to you, her gaze landing hard.

Her lipstick was smudged at the corner of her mouth. Her breath hit you even from a few feet away—sour, sharp with alcohol.

“Thank you,” she slurred, swaying slightly with Maddie pressed to her chest. “Thank you so much.”

You nodded, stiffly. Numb.

But the words didn’t come. Not because you were stunned. Not out of politeness.

You couldn’t breathe.

Because suddenly, you weren’t standing in a restaurant with jazz and leather booths.

You were six years old again.

Standing in the dim hallway outside a bar that smelled like spilled liquor and cigarettes, arms crossed tight over your chest, watching the door and counting the minutes. Mom said she’d only be twenty. You believed her the first five times.

You hadn’t cried. Not once. But you remembered the way your throat burned from holding it in.

Looking at Maddie now—her small arms wrapped around her mother’s neck, her face tucked tight into the woman’s shoulder like she still trusted the world to hold her—felt like someone had stripped the years off you with one sharp, unforgiving breath.

Your fingers curled into fists at your sides, nails biting into your palms. Not hard enough to draw blood, but hard enough to stay standing.

You nodded once—tight, mechanical—and turned on your heel.

Joel let his hand fall from your arm, slow and hesitant. Tommy didn’t say a word, but his eyes tracked you carefully before he glanced at his brother, something quiet and unspoken passing between them.

You didn’t wait.

Didn’t look back.

You moved through the restaurant with heavy, even strides, like if you let yourself pause for a single second you might shatter. The jazz faded behind you, replaced by the chaos of the mall—the bright lights, the echo of laughter, the hum of air conditioning fighting off the dying heat of the day. But none of it felt real.

Your body was here. Your mind was still trapped somewhere darker. Somewhere smaller.

A hallway outside a bar. A door that never opened. The sharp, sweet burn of cherry lip gloss and vodka on your mom’s breath.

You didn’t know how long it took to reach the mall exit, but suddenly the glass double doors were there—looming like a finish line you hadn’t meant to run toward.

“Let’s just head back,” your voice came too smooth. Too easy. The kind of smooth that screamed don’t ask questions. But it cracked near the end, and you coughed, cleared your throat like it would bury the splinter. “I’m kinda… I’m done with the mall for today.”

Neither man objected.

Tommy didn’t offer a teasing comment, didn’t flash that crooked grin he usually relied on to cut through tension. Joel didn’t grunt out one of his sarcastic, under-the-breath remarks.

They just followed. Quiet. Steady. A flanking guard of silence.

It stretched around you like an invisible umbrella—wide and protective and unspoken. No one dared fold it up.

Outside, the evening air had cooled just enough to take the edge off the day’s heat, but it still clung to the truck in waves, making the metal shimmer faintly under the parking lot lights. Joel opened the back door and tossed the shopping bags inside without a word.

You slid into the backseat from the other side, sinking into the familiar leather with a kind of weary relief. The scent of pine air freshener and old cologne wrapped around you, comfortingly sterile. You pressed your forehead against the window, not caring about the cool glass against your skin or the way the condensation from your breath fogged the edge.

Joel climbed into the driver’s seat. Tommy next to him.

The engine rumbled to life, low and steady, but it didn’t fill the silence. Not really.

No one spoke.

Not until the mall had shrunk behind you, nothing more than a blur of neon and tinted glass in the side mirror. A minute, maybe two into the drive, Tommy shifted in his seat just slightly. Enough to glance at you.

“You alright?” he asked.

You didn’t lift your head.

“Yeah.”

One word. Flat. Too fast. Too neat.

A lie dressed up like truth.

No one called it out.

Joel’s hands tightened on the wheel, the leather creaking faintly under his grip. He didn’t say anything, but you could feel him glancing at the rearview mirror—once, twice, then again.

You didn’t speak the rest of the ride home.

Didn’t need to.

The weight of it said everything.

And no one dared to touch it.

❛ ━━━━･❪ 🎕 ❫ ･━━━━ ❜

July 4th, 1989

“Mom?”

Your voice echoed through the quiet house, muffled slightly by the sharp click of the front door shutting behind you. The summer heat followed you in like a shadow—heavy, clinging, too still.

“Left your damn trophy behind, Dad,” you muttered to yourself as you spotted the cooler your dad asked for. You adjusted your grip on it, the faded blue handle slick against your palm from sweat and condensation.

You glanced down at the ridiculous sticker he’d slapped on the lid. "Coldest Beer in Bell County." A gift from Raymond, no doubt—one of their many inside jokes in that never-ending pissing contest they called friendship.

Your dad and Raymond were strange that way. Constantly ribbing each other, seeing who could barbecue better, who could throw a cleaner spiral, who could build a better deck without “consulting a damn manual.” But they were loyal.

You stepped into the living room, squinting as your eyes adjusted to the dim light. The ceiling fan hummed lazily, doing nothing to push away the heat. The house was too quiet. No radio. No TV. No clatter in the kitchen.

“Mom?” you called again, louder this time. “I thought you were getting ready. The party started an hour ago.”

Nothing. Just the faint tick of the wall clock.

You walked further in. Something felt… off. Your stomach tightened, the way it always did when silence wrapped around this house like plastic. The air had a different weight to it. Not heavy from heat—sour, somehow. Familiar.

Your nose twitched.

You knew that smell.

It was faint. But not faint enough. 

You followed it. Past the kitchen. Down the hall. The guest room door was cracked open. You hadn’t even realized it was shut.

The cooler slipped from your hand and hit the carpet with a soft thud when you peeked inside

There she was.

Curled up on the edge of the guest bed like a broken thing—knees tucked, cheek pressed into the inside of her elbow, one arm hanging limp off the mattress. A bottle—cheap gin, always gin—balanced on the edge of the nightstand like it was mocking you. Three-quarters empty.

You stared.

Her shoes were still on.

So was her makeup—half-smudged, like she tried to pull herself together and failed halfway through. A crusted ring of salt clung to the corners of her mouth. Her breath was soft. Not quite snoring. But not peaceful either.

Your throat closed up.

Your hands curled into fists, then flexed again. You didn’t cry. You didn’t scream. You just stood there. Letting the betrayal settle into your chest like a stone dropped into a well.

Almost a year. She’d almost made it a year.

And then—

The stillness broke like a bone.

You shoved the door open, hard. It slammed against the wall with a crack that shook the frame. The bottle—clear, cruel gin—toppled off the edge of the nightstand, hit the carpet with a dull thunk, then rolled under the bed with a mockingly lazy spin.

“Are you kidding me?” you hissed.

No answer.

The air reeked. Not just of alcohol—but the sharp, sour, sickly scent of a hangover in progress. Sweat, bile, and old perfume, like something that had curdled in the heat.

“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me,” you repeated, snapping even harder.

Your mother stirred—barely. Her body was limp, her cheek still mashed against her arm like she’d passed out mid-thought. She blinked, eyes watery and dull, her lashes clumped with dried mascara. Her lipstick was smeared at the corner of her mouth like she'd missed her aim. Twice.

“Wha—” Her voice came out dry, cracked. “What’s all the—what’s all the yellin’?”

You stormed across the room in three steps, ripped the blanket from her legs. She startled like a kicked dog, trying to gather herself, trying to sit up, failing miserably.

“Look at me.”

She tried. She really did. Her gaze wobbled to your shoulder, then somewhere past your ear.

“I said look at me!”

She blinked, slow and useless. “You’re mad,” she slurred.

You could’ve laughed. You could’ve screamed.

“No shit, I’m mad!” You nearly spat the words. “Jesus, Mom—how long has it been? How long have you been drinking again?”

Her shoulders curled inward. She didn’t answer.

“How long?” you repeated, stepping closer, voice rising. “How many days? How many bottles? Have you even stopped since last year? Or were you lying every single time you looked us in the eye and said you stopped?”

“I didn’t mean to—” she started, flinching again.

“Don’t.” You raised a finger, voice trembling with fury. “Don’t you fucking dare say that. You didn’t mean to? You didn’t mean to hide a bottle in the guest room? You didn’t mean to drink yourself stupid on the one day Dad was so happy? Are you—are you kidding me?”

Her eyes welled. She shook her head weakly, hair falling into her face.

“I tried,” she murmured.

“Bullshit.” You shoved your hands into your hair, pacing. “You almost made it. You were eleven months sober. You were laughing again, showing up again. Dad was—god, he was so proud of you. You know that?”

She sniffled.

“He cleaned out the shed for you. Did you know that?” Your voice cracked now, unwilling and ugly. “He was gonna build you a little garden back there. Said you needed something peaceful. Said you deserved it. And I just—I let myself believe him.”

Her lip trembled. “I—I didn’t know how to stop.”

“You did!” you shouted. “You were stopping. You did it. And then what? What the hell happened?”

Silence. Just the faint hum of the ceiling fan above you. The cheap bottle of gin glinting from where it had rolled under the bed.

“I messed up,” she said weakly.

You laughed—mean and sharp. “No. Messing up is burning the toast. This?” You pointed to her. “This is a full-on betrayal.”

She looked at you now. Really looked. Her eyes were pink-rimmed, glassy, full of regret and barely-sober fear. “Don’t say that. Please don’t say that.”

But you were already backing away. Already pulling your fists into tight, trembling balls.

She cried. Soft and slow, fingers twisting in the blanket like a child caught stealing.

You stood there, chest heaving, watching the woman you once called a hero dissolve in front of you. And for the first time, you didn’t want to help. You didn’t want to hug her. You didn’t want to carry her out of it.

You wanted her to feel it.

You turned toward the door.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered behind you. “I really am Baby girl.”

The words landed like ashes. Like nothing. Like the thousands of other times she’d said it and meant none of it.

You stood there, your back to her, your hands shaking.

“You’re sorry?” you said, voice low and shaking, teeth gritted like you were trying not to spit. “You’re fucking sorry?”

She flinched.

You turned, then stepped toward her, fists clenched, eyes burning. “Do you know how many nights I sat on the floor of my room just listening—listening to you cry, or scream, or vomit, or pass out? You know how many times Dad had to lie to me just so I wouldn’t think badly of you?”

She looked down again. Coward.

Your voice rose. “You don’t get to be sorry. You don’t get to say that and expect it to mean something.”

Her lip trembled, and still—you didn’t stop.

“You’ve been a ghost in this house for years, and the second you came back, we let ourselves hope. You think that’s easy? After everything you did? We hoped, and you pissed it away on a fucking bottle of cheap gin.”

Tears burned down your cheeks, but your voice never cracked.

“You’re not sorry,” you growled. “You’re just empty. And maybe that’s all you’ll ever be.”

You turned again. Hand on the doorknob. Just one more wound to give.

“If you’re so desperate to disappear…”

Your voice dropped to a hiss.

 “Go ahead and drink yourself to death next time. Just make it easier for the rest of us.”

❛ ━━━━･❪ 🎕 ❫ ･━━━━ ❜

You woke up in a panic.

Chest heaving. Sheets tangled around your legs like restraints. The echo of your own voice still ringing in your ears.

“Just make it easier for the rest of us.”

It came back all at once—her face, the way she’d looked at you. The way the bottle had rolled under the bed. The way you’d meant it.

You couldn’t breathe.

Your throat felt tight, like a fist had closed around it. The air in your lungs was too thin, like you were still underwater, still drowning in that room, in that day.

So many things came rushing to you. Your mom, the smell of gin that wafted around that stupid bar at the mall

That Maddie girl, her expression of pure love for someone who wasn’t present enough to see it. All too familiar, all too fast. It was like a weight on your chest.

You sat up sharply, hand gripping the edge of the mattress. The room was dark. Too quiet. The fan whirred overhead like it was mocking you. Outside, a dog barked twice—then silence.

Your skin felt clammy. Cold. Like the guilt had seeped through your pores in your sleep and now wrapped you up tighter than the blanket ever could.

You swallowed hard and pressed your palms to your eyes.

It wasn’t real. Not now. Not again.

Calm down, calm the hell down.

But your body didn’t listen.

It never did when it needed to most.

Your pulse spiked so fast it felt like your heart was trying to claw its way out. Your hands trembled, cold and useless as you pressed them to your chest, then your face, trying to trap the panic in your palms like you could hold it still. Cage it. Control it.

You couldn’t.

The room was shrinking.

Or maybe it was you.

Your vision tunneled, rimmed in static. The walls felt too close, the air too thick. The weight of your own breath—too loud in your ears—was choking you. You opened your mouth, but nothing came out. No scream. No sob. Just the ragged rasp of someone trying too hard not to lose it.

I’m a shitty person. I’m a shitty daughter. I said that. I fucking said that.

You stumbled out of bed like the floor was moving beneath you. Sheets tangled around your ankles. You kicked them off and crawled toward the door, using the walls like anchors, pulling yourself down the hallway one palm at a time. You didn’t even realize you were crying until your knees hit the hardwood and the tears splattered against it.

The living room wasn’t just darker than your bedroom, but colder, too. More real.

And then—

A soft thump.

A low whine.

Aspen.

The heavy thud of her paws moving across the floor was the only sound grounding you. The Bernese lumbered toward you from her usual spot by the door, ears low, tail still, whining with concern as she nudged your shoulder gently with her nose. Her breath was warm against your skin.

You folded into her like she was something sacred. Buried your face into her thick fur and let out a strangled sob you didn’t know you’d been holding.

“I want my Dad,” you choked out. “I want Dad.”

But the house was empty. His absence rang like a gong in a chamber, no response, just the flutter of your loneliness in the space.

Your hand fumbled across the end table until it knocked your phone onto the carpet. You snatched it up like it was the last life raft in the ocean.

Flicked the screen. Contacts. Scrolling.

You hit Maria first. Straight to voicemail.

Right. Date night.

You cursed under your breath, but still tried Tommy next. It rings. Then nothing.

“Fuck.” You wiped your nose with the back of your hand, breathing sharply and fast. Your thumb hovered. Just one name left.

Joel.

You hesitated.

And then hit call.

It rang once.

Twice.

Three times.

Please. Please pick up.

Click.

“Hello?”

His voice was low and scratchy—half-asleep, half-alert. You could hear the rustle of fabric, the distant hum of whatever show he’d probably fallen asleep to still playing in the background.

“...It’s late. Everythin’ alright?”

Your breath caught. The moment you heard his voice—real, solid, familiar—something in you cracked. You squeezed your eyes shut like it would stop the sting, but it only made everything worse.

“I—” Your voice cracked, barely above a whisper. “I can’t— I can’t breathe, Joel.”

Aspen whined beside you, her big head nudging your side, warm fur pressed to your ribs. You could feel her panic too, her soft little sounds like she was trying to fix you with nothing but presence.

“I’m—” You gasped. “I’m sorry, I just— I didn’t know who else to call, I didn’t know— I tried calling Tommy and Maria but I knew they were out and I—” You couldn’t finish. The walls were shrinking, the air turning into concrete. “I think I’m having a panic attack.”

There was silence on the other end—just for a second. Then the couch creaked, and his voice came back sharper. Awake now. Focused.

“I’m comin’. Right now.”

“Please,” you whispered, and it wasn’t graceful—it cracked right down the middle, like something inside you was breaking apart under its own weight. “Please come, Joel. T-the walls are gonna crush me.”

That did it. You could hear the shift in him. The sheer terror in your voice short-circuited whatever sleepy fog he’d been in.

“Shit. Okay. Okay, I’m gettin’ in the truck. Just stay there, alright? Stay on the phone. I’m not hangin’ up.”

You nodded, even though he couldn’t see. Your fingers twisted tighter into Aspen’s thick fur, your knuckles bone-white. She didn’t move—just pressed herself into you like she understood exactly what you needed. Like she was the only thing keeping you from floating right out of your skin.

“I’ve got you,” Joel said again, his voice rough, grounded. “You’re gonna be okay. Just keep talkin’ to me, sweetheart. I’m on my way.”

In the background, you heard it—his voice dropping low, speaking fast to someone else. “Sarah, baby, I need you to stay in bed. Somethin’s up, alright? I’ll be back soon. Don’t open the door for nobody but me.”

The next sound was a door opening, the jangle of keys. A truck door slamming shut, the engine turning over. Tires on gravel. He kept the phone pressed close the whole time, like letting go for even a second would be too risky.

You curled tighter into yourself, then just let go—let your knees buckle fully as you slumped onto the floor in the living room. Aspen shifted with you, nudging her nose beneath your arm. You were shaking so hard your teeth chattered.

And that’s when the rambling started.

“I—I don’t know what’s wrong with me,” you said, your voice high and raw and nearly unrecognizable to your own ears. “I was fine. I was fine, Joel, and then I wasn’t and I can’t get it to stop. My chest hurts, I can’t think, and my fingers are—fuck, I can’t feel them. I—I feel like I’m falling and I’m not even moving.

“I can’t stop shaking. It’s in my teeth. My hands—Joel, it feels like they’re full of bees. I can’t catch my breath. I—I’m not okay. I’m not okay.”

Joel cursed under his breath, like he didn’t expect to hear him. “Shit. Just like last time.”

You didn’t respond.

Because that memory—that memory—came with its own wave of nausea, too sharp to ride. Fireworks outside, your mom curled up on the bed, slurring apologies she’d forget the next day.

You rushing to something, someone. Joel holding you like you were the only thing in the world. Sobbing into his chest, clawing at his shirt. The feeling of not being able to breathe.

It was back for you.

You curled tighter against Aspen, your breath hitching, rapid and shallow.

“I didn’t mean it,” you whispered, but not to Joel. You weren’t even sure you meant to say it aloud. “I didn’t mean it when I told her to—when I said that thing—I didn’t—”

Joel was still talking. Still driving. Still there.

“You’re okay. Just breathe for me, yeah? In through your nose, real slow—just like that. You hear me? I’m close. I’m real close now sweetheart.”

But your ears rang like a struck bell. The sound of his voice warbled in and out like it was coming from underwater. Your mouth felt like sandpaper, too dry to form words that made sense. You were drowning in yourself—memory, guilt, air that wouldn’t stay in your lungs. The room tilted. No, you tilted.

Aspen barked again—sharper this time, panicked, as if she could feel you slipping.

And then, you heard it.

The low, rumbling growl of a truck engine pulling up to the curb. The wash of headlights bled through the curtains, cutting across the floor like floodlights. Tires crunched against gravel. Doors slammed.

Then his voice—closer. Real now.

A thud. Then three harder, heavier pounds against the door. The doorknob rattled furiously.

“Goddamn it—locked,” Joel muttered through the phone, breath loud in your ear. “Open the door if you can, sweetheart—c’mon—”

You tried to stand, but your legs gave out with a tremble. Your lack of breath was chocking you, just like your mom, like how she tried to get the rope to—

You clutched at the couch cushion, dragging yourself up just enough to croak into the phone:

“Key. Spare key—under the big rock—by the porch light.”

There was a pause. Then his boots scraping the steps.

You could hear him breathing hard now—grunting under his breath as he searched, hands scraping stone and dirt. Aspen was at the door, barking like her whole body was an alarm, claws scraping wildly against the wood.

A metal clink—then his voice again. “Got it.”

The lock turned.

The door burst open.

Cold air hit first, then boots—heavy and fast—thudding across hardwood. Aspen skittered out of the way, tail whipping as she darted behind him, barking once more for good measure before circling back to you.

“Hey—hey, I got you—” Joel dropped to his knees beside you before the door even shut behind him.

The phone hit the floor somewhere behind him, forgotten.

His hands were on you—not too tight, not too light. Just there. Grounding. One settled at the base of your neck, the other on your arm, fingers wide and warm and worn with work. He pulled you toward him until your cheek hit his chest and you could feel his heartbeat—fast, steady, real.

“You’re okay now. I’m here. Just breathe with me, alright?”

You couldn’t. You shook your head, whole body trembling, breath coming in jagged bursts that refused to even out. His shirt bunched in your fists as you clung to him like the only thing left holding you to the ground.

“I can’t—I can’t—” you gasped. “It won’t stop—Joel, it won’t—stop—”

“Shhh.” He shifted so he could cradle you fully against him, wrapping his arm around your back and bracing your weight like it was nothing. “I know. I know, darlin’. Just let it out.”

And you did.

Your voice broke around a sob you didn’t know you were holding. It came out ugly and raw, your whole body wracked with it. You hated crying like this. Hated being seen like this. But Joel didn’t flinch. He didn’t pull away.

He held you tighter.

“Same thing happened that night on the Fourth,” he murmured against your temple, not expecting you to respond. “You remember? You couldn’t catch your breath. I came in and found you curled on my bed like the ceiling was gonna come down.”

Your teeth clenched. You hated that you remembered. Hated that he did.

“I’ll stay as long as it takes,” he whispered. “Ain’t goin’ anywhere.”

You don’t know how long you stayed like that—on the cold floor, in his arms, while Aspen pressed her big, warm body against your back like she was guarding you from the dark.

But then… it wasn’t enough. Your breaths were still uneven, your body greedy, like him just holding you wasn’t enough.

Your hands moved before your thoughts could catch up, fisting tighter in his shirt, tugging like you needed more—like you needed all of him to keep from breaking again. You pulled yourself up, uncoiling from the fetal knot you’d been in, crawling closer until your knees bracketed his thighs and your arms wrapped around his neck.

You pressed your cheek to his.

His stubble scraped against your skin. Warmth bled between your bodies, all the cold pushed out by the frantic ache of needing something solid. Something real.

You half-expected him to pull back.

Joel always did when things edged too close. Like he did in the dressing room earlier today. Like how he always was.

But he surprises you.

He didn’t flinch. Didn’t freeze. He melted.

You felt it in the way his hand slid up your back, fingers splayed wide like he wanted to cover every part of you he could reach. Felt it in the press of his cheek against yours—how he didn’t just let you lean in, but leaned back. His arms came around you fully then, one locking at your waist, the other up between your shoulder blades, holding you like something precious, like you were breakable and he’d already seen too many broken things to ever risk it again.

“It’s alright,” he murmured, voice softer now, no urgency—just truth. “I’ve got you.”

And somehow, you believed him.

Your face stayed pressed to his. You focused on his breath, slow and steady, warm against your ear. You felt his chest rise beneath your palms and did your best to match it.

Inhale.

Exhale.

Inhale.

Exhale.

You followed his rhythm like it was the only path out of your own storm. The echo of your mother’s voice—the sting of what you said, what you dreamed—still lingered in the back of your throat. But it’s claws had loosen now. Just enough for you to take a deeper breath.

The noise in your head dulled to a low hum. The pounding in your chest began to fade. The guilt… it was still there. But it didn’t choke you anymore. It just sat in your bones like something weathered. Familiar.

You stayed like that for a long time.

Pressed against him. Holding and held. No words. Just shared breath, shared silence.

Your cheek slipped to rest against his collarbone, and every time his chest rose and fell, you felt it ripple through you like an anchor. Aspen gave a soft sigh from behind you and finally settled, convinced—for now—that you were safe.

Eventually, your fingers loosened where they’d knotted in his shirt. Your body stopped trembling. You let your weight shift, pulling back just enough to look at him.

And he let you.

You moved slowly, like testing gravity, like breaking the seal on something fragile. You leaned back into a seated position, knees still folded against his, and your eyes found his in the dim wash of moonlight filtering in from the kitchen.

You didn’t speak.

You just stared.

Not because you didn’t know what to say, but because you didn’t need to.

He looked tired. Messy curls falling across his forehead, jaw set like he hadn’t stopped clenching it since you called. But he also looked… steady. Like he was holding something back, but not for himself—for you. Like he was waiting to make sure you were really still breathing before he let the storm catch up to him, too.

And you didn’t know what possessed you—but your hand reached up, slow and weightless, brushing a curl from his forehead.

He didn’t move.

Didn’t flinch.

He just looked at you, and you looked right back, like the world had narrowed to this one small space between you.

For a second, everything else dropped away. The walls. The night. Even the ache in your chest.

You smiled—just barely. A crooked, breathless thing.

“I must look like a fucking mess,” you said, your voice hoarse from crying, from panic, from memory.

It wasn’t self-deprecating. Not really. Just honest. You knew your face was probably blotchy, your eyes puffy, your shirt clinging to naked, sweat-damp skin. You felt raw. Unspooled. Hollowed out.

But Joel didn’t flinch. He didn’t look away. If anything, his gaze deepened—like he was memorizing you exactly as you were.

“I’ve seen worse,” he said softly, the corner of his mouth twitching. Upwards at your humor, downwards at your avoidance of what just happened? You didn’t know. But it was better than the usual steely look in his eyes.

You huffed a shaky laugh, your chest catching on the inhale. “Yeah, well… next time I call, maybe tell me to take a nap instead of having a full breakdown.”

“Wouldn’t work.” He leaned back just slightly, still close. “You only call when it’s past the nap stage.”

You looked down, fingers picking at the hem of your sleeve. “Sorry I… I ruined your night.”

“Don’t say that.”

The words came too quick. Firm. Like muscle memory.

You looked up again.

His jaw tightened, eyes unreadable now. “You didn’t ruin anythin’. You needed someone. I’m—” He hesitated for the smallest breath. “I’m glad you called.”

That landed somewhere low in your stomach. Warm. Surprising.

Your throat bobbed, a breathless laugh that was tired and you didn’t mean. “I don’t usually—”

“I know.”

You didn’t finish. You didn’t have to.

Another silence stretched between you—but it wasn’t heavy. It was soft around the edges. Fragile. Full of all the things neither of you had the nerve to say out loud.

And then you noticed—your hand was still resting on his thigh. His palm still anchored between your shoulder blades, warm and steady like it had every right to be there.

You shifted slightly. Not pulling away. Not drawing closer either. Just enough to acknowledge it. Enough to remind yourself this wasn’t a dream, or a memory, or some fevered, comfort-starved illusion.

But you didn’t want to let go.

Not of this.

Not of him.

You swallowed thickly and kept your gaze low, fingers twitching against the fabric of his jeans.

Joel didn’t move. Not an inch.

His thumb brushed, just once, against the curve of your spine.

Still, he said nothing. Just waited—quiet and solid and maddeningly still—like he knew if he moved first, the spell might break.

You finally glanced up, lips parted like they might ask him to stay right there, like that, forever.

But instead, your voice cracked in a whisper, “Is it wrong for me to ask for water?”

You swallowed hard, fighting the absurd urge to scream at him to just hold you again—to not move, to not leave your side for even a second.

Joel huffed a breath—short, low. You couldn’t tell if it was relief, disappointment, or both.

“‘Course not,” he muttered, pushing himself up. The moment the warmth of him left your side, the chill crawled in.

You watched him go. He didn’t glance back, but his shoulders were tight, like he felt your eyes on him.

You waited until the sound of Joel’s boots faded slightly before dragging yourself upright. Limbs trembling. Heart still thudding in your ears. You crawled toward the couch like it owed you something—safety, silence, softness.

Aspen followed without hesitation, her nails clicking against the hardwood, then a soft thump as she hopped up beside you. She curled close, her giant frame pressed protectively to your side.

You collapsed into her, burying your face in the thick of her fur. Like it could soak up the shame, the fear, the static still buzzing through your chest.

“Good girl,” you whispered shakily. “Good girl, good girl…”

She gave a soft whine and nestled closer, her weight grounding you in a way nothing else could.

You exhaled, long and broken. Like letting go of something that had lodged in your ribs.

In the kitchen, you heard cabinets opening. The quiet sound of glass against the counter. Water running. Joel moved like he belonged there. Like this was routine. Like this was home.

He came back, holding a glass in one hand, his mouth tight and jaw set.

Without a word, he passed it to you.

You took it with trembling fingers, the coolness biting at your skin. You nodded, a silent thank you.

Joel didn’t say anything. He just sat down beside you, close but careful, and leaned back against the couch. His head dropped against the cushion, eyes fixed on the ceiling like he was counting cracks in the plaster or memories behind his eyes.

You sipped the water slowly. Quiet. Curled up with your knees to your chest, shoulder brushing Aspen’s fur, Joel’s hand just inches from your own on the cushion.

The silence wasn’t awkward. It was heavy, but bearable. Familiar.

Finally, you spoke—barely more than a whisper.

“It was another one of the nightmares.”

Joel turned to you immediately. His eyes sharpened, hardened—like steel tempered by worry. “Was it… New York?”

You shook your head too fast, almost frantic. “No. No.”

His voice lowered. “Then it was about your mom?”

You hesitated—but the answer was already in your eyes.

He sat forward slightly, gaze trained on you. “Was it about…” He didn’t finish the sentence.

He didn’t have to.

You didn’t say anything. You couldn’t. You just nodded, small and slow, like it physically hurt to admit.

The shame came fast, like a wave that hit your throat and crashed behind your eyes. You didn’t look at him. You couldn’t. Not without remembering the first time—years ago, when you told him through choking sobs that you’d told your mom to die. That she’d listened. That you hadn’t known how to live with yourself.

How he was the only person other than yourself that held that shameful secret.

And now here you were again, years later, different home, different hour, but the same arms holding you through the collapse.

You blinked hard and took another sip of water, trying to wash the memory down, but it stuck like oil on your tongue. Like taste that didn’t want to be swallowed.

Beside you, Aspen shifted again—warm and unmoving, a loyal guard with tired eyes. Joel was still, quiet. But you could feel his gaze. Like he was waiting. Like he could hear the thoughts scraping through your skull even though you hadn’t said a word.

You drained the last of the water and placed the glass on the table beside you with a soft clink.

The silence that followed wasn’t empty. It was heavy. Suffocating.

Your fingers curled into the hem of your shorts. Your knee bounced once, then again.

God. This is so fucking stupid.

You stared at your hands—at the faint shake in your knuckles, the lines on your palms.

You’re thirty-four. A grown-ass woman. And you can’t even make it through the night without falling apart?

Pathetic.

Sad, really.

People had it worse. Terrible, even. And they managed. They pulled themselves out of bed every morning, cooked meals for kids, worked double shifts, smiled through it all.

So why couldn’t you?

What made you so fucking fragile that the weight of a memory could drag you back into the past like quicksand?

Tears burned behind your eyes—unshed, unwanted, uninvited.

You turned your head toward Aspen so Joel wouldn’t see. Buried your cheek in her fur. Your breath caught on the threads of her coat.

But then, before you could stop yourself, your voice broke the silence.

“I’m sorry.”

Joel’s head turned toward you immediately. You didn’t need to look to feel it.

“For what?” he asked softly. “You didn’t do anythin’ wrong.”

You let out a bitter, breathy laugh—too dry to be real amusement.

“You came here,” you said, voice barely above a whisper. “You came here to my rescue again. In the middle of the night. You didn’t even ask why. You just showed up.”

Joel didn’t say anything for a moment.

Then, simply, “I would’ve come no matter what.”

And that—God, that broke you.

Not in anger. Not in fear. But in something deeper. In that locked-up place where the shame lived. The part of you that whispered you don’t deserve this.

“I know,” you said, too fast. Your voice cracked. “I know. That’s the fucking problem.”

Joel shifted beside you, listening.

You kept going, words falling out like they had a will of their own. No breaks. No filter.

“That’s the problem, Joel. You would’ve come. You always come. Like you don’t think twice. Like I’m some kind of—” you waved a hand helplessly, still not meeting his eyes, “Some kind of responsibility you never asked for but always carry anyway.”

He opened his mouth, but you kept going, breathless and unraveling.

“You’re not twenty-two anymore. You’re not that guy your parents forced to make sure I was breathing right. You have a life. You have people who need you. Sarah needs you. Your daughter deserves your time, not me sobbing on the damn floor like I’m a kid again.”

Joel’s jaw tightened, but he said nothing.

You shook your head, your voice climbing, raw at the edges.

“You should be with her. You should be present with her. Not wasting your night playing fucking therapist to a woman who can’t get her shit together.”

Joel’s voice came quiet, steady. “Sarah’s fine. She’s sleepin’. I made sure she’s alright before I left.”

“I know she’s fine,” you snapped. “But that’s not the point. It’s not about whether she’s fine. It’s that you should still be there.”

You raked a hand through your hair, your breath hitching again. “She’s your baby, Joel. Not me. I’m not your responsibility.”

He exhaled slowly. Still watching. Still letting you spill.

“I’m not your anything,” you whispered.

The silence that followed felt like standing on the edge of a cliff.

You finally glanced at him. Just for a second. But that was enough to see the flicker of pain in his eyes. And somehow, that made it worse. That made it crueler.

You looked away.

“I’m a fucking burden,” you said. The words came like poison. Like something you'd been holding in your mouth for too long. “A thirty-four-year-old, panicking mess who falls apart in the middle of the goddamn night and drags you out of bed when you should be with someone who actually matters.”

Joel flinched—barely. But it was enough.

“I shouldn’t even be in Austin,” you mumbled, more to yourself than him. “Maybe everyone was right, I’m washed up, ruined. Maybe I really—”

You didn’t finish.

Because in the blink of a second, Joel moved.

His hands were on your shoulders, firm and there, and he shook you—just once, but hard enough that your breath caught in your chest.

“Don’t.”

His voice was low, hoarse—but sharp like a whip crack.

Your eyes went wide. Your mouth fell open.

Joel leaned in, face close, jaw clenched. “Don’t you ever say that shit. Not to me. Not to anyone. I don’t care how bad it feels. I don’t care what’s goin’ on in that head of yours. Don’t you ever talk like that again.”

You blinked hard, your throat closing around the sob rising too fast.

“You hear me?” His voice wavered, and that almost broke you. “You don’t get to say that like it’s true. You don’t get to act like you don’t matter.”

Your lip trembled.

Joel’s hands loosened just slightly, not pulling away. “You called me, didn’t you?” he said. “You called me. You didn’t wanna be alone, and that tells me more than all the rest of this ramblin’ combined.”

You swallowed. Hard. But the tears came anyway.

He let go just enough to bring one hand up to your cheek. Not wiping the tears, just resting there—solid and steady.

“I don’t give a damn if you’re thirty-four or eighty,” he said, softer now. “If you need me, I come. That’s the end of it.”

You nodded, barely. A movement so small it might’ve been missed if he hadn’t been holding you.

But he was. And he didn’t let go.

Joel pulled you in again—no hesitation, no question—just arms around you like armor. Like gravity. Strong, certain, there.

And this time, you let yourself cry.

Not like before—not like the jagged panic that had clawed its way out of your throat and left you shivering on the floor. Not like the night on the porch when you screamed at him until your voice cracked. Not like all those nights where your face stayed buried in a pillow, teeth clenched tight to keep the sobs silent.

No. This was something else.

This was years and guilt and grief and shame unspooling all at once. It poured out slow and steady, unrelenting. Quiet, but not small.

Your fingers curled into his shirt, desperate for something to hold. And when that didn’t feel like enough, you pressed your hands to his shoulders, then his arms—grasping, grounding, like you were afraid he might vanish if you didn’t hold tight enough.

And still—Joel didn’t flinch. Didn’t shift.

His hand stayed on the back of your head, cradling you so gently it hurt. Like you were breakable. Like you mattered.

Aspen gave a soft whine behind you, sensing the shift but knowing—somehow—that this wasn’t her moment. She stayed where she was, warm and quiet.

You leaned into Joel. Into him. You shifted closer, your legs folding against his like you were climbing into him—like you wanted to disappear inside the safety of him and never come back out.

You nearly straddled him without meaning to. Your knee brushed his thigh. His breath hitched. And then—

His other hand, his calloused, steady hand, slid to your thigh.

It didn’t grope. Didn’t hesitate. Just held.

Firm and sure, like he was keeping you close now. Like letting you drift even an inch away would be wrong. Like if you left that space between you again, you’d start to ramble again.

You pressed your forehead to his shoulder, hot tears soaking into the soft cotton of his flannel.

“I hate this,” you whispered, voice trembling. “I hate how weak I feel.”

Joel didn’t answer. Not with words. He just tightened his grip, his palm curling more fully around your thigh. Anchoring you.

His chin rested lightly against your temple. His thumb stroked along your back in slow, rhythmic lines, quiet and steady. Reassurance in motion.

You shifted again, chest rising and falling in uneven breaths, your whole body molded against his now—your arms wrapped around his neck like you couldn’t stand to let go. Like letting go would mean falling apart all over again.

His heartbeat was steady beneath your cheek. You listened to it like it was the only sound that mattered. Counted the thump-thump-thump of it. Matched your own ragged rhythm to his.

You stayed like that for what could’ve been minutes. Hours. Time had no business being measured here—where the air was heavy and warm, where your limbs were wrapped around him like a lifeline, where your breath finally started to settle in your lungs like it belonged there.

Eventually, your fingers loosened from his shirt.

You leaned back just slightly, just enough to breathe something that wasn’t the air between his collarbones.

Joel didn’t let go.

You pulled away an inch more, just to see his face. And even in the dim room, even without the full light of the moon, you could still see all the lines that time had etched into him.

Faint crinkles at the corners of his eyes.

The scar near his hairline.

The dip in his brow that never quite smoothed out, not even when he was calm like now.

You had grown up with this face. Watched it harden, watched it soften, watched it grow older. Get wiser. Get angry, then sad.

You’d seen him laugh through a cracked rib, seen him talk down drunks twice his size, seen him protect those who meant so much to him and be so gentle it made your chest hurt.

And right now—he was looking at you like that.

Like you were the most fragile thing in the world.

Your throat bobbed, and fought the urge to pull him into you. You fought back, and whispered, “Sarah’s alone…”

Joel blinked, his gaze holding yours.

“She’s probably asleep,” he said softly. “You want me to go home?”

You hesitated. 

“You should,” you murmured. “She might wake up. You should go.”

But Joel didn’t move.

Neither did you.

He just studied you. Face unreadable but not unkind. And then, in that same calm voice, he asked, “You gonna be okay at home… by yourself?”

And the silence stretched just a second too long.

Joel’s thumb started to move again, tracing a slow, steady circle against your back—soothing and anchoring all at once.

He shifted a little, still holding your back close, like letting you go wasn’t even a question.

“Come with me,” he said. Low. Steady. Unshakable.

You blinked. “Where?”

“My place,” he answered simply. “You’ll sleep there. I’ll stay up if I gotta. But I’m not leavin’ you to sit with those thoughts of yours.”

Your heart jumped in your chest.

That was the thing about Joel. He didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t beg. But when he meant something, you felt it like a current running under your skin.

You started to shift again, ready to argue, to pull back, to say the hundred reasons why that was a bad idea. He had Sarah. He needed sleep. He shouldn’t have to babysit you. He didn’t owe you this. Any of this.

You braced your palms on his chest to push away—

But his grip tightened.

One arm circled firmer around your back.

The hand on your thigh squeezed.

Not painful. 

Just final.

He held you there—not out of dominance, but insistence. Care disguised in strength.

“Don’t bullshit me,” he said quietly. “You don’t gotta be brave right now. Just be honest.”

You didn’t answer right away.

You couldn’t.

Your eyes locked with his. That dark, steady gaze you’d come to know like a second heartbeat.

And inside, you could feel your resolve cracking all over again. That tiny voice in your head—the one that always told you to tough it out, to be strong, to be grateful—was starting to sputter and fade under the weight of Joel’s steady presence.

Your fingers curled slightly into the fabric of his shirt.

He didn’t blink.

And then, finally, something traitorous and small in your heart whispered the truth:

No. I wouldn’t be okay alone.

You didn’t say it. Not aloud.

But he saw it.

Something in your face gave you away—something in the stillness, the quiet grief in your eyes, the way your lips parted but couldn’t form the lie.

And that was all he needed.

“Alright,” he murmured. “Okay.”

Joel leaned forward, just enough to press his forehead against yours. The contact was brief, just the lightest touch—but it grounded you in a way nothing else could. Like a wire snapped taut, holding you to something solid.

“I’ll take care of you,” he murmured. “That’s what I do.”

His voice was calm. Like it wasn’t even a question. Like your chaos, your unraveling, didn’t scare him off.

You didn’t argue again.

Couldn’t.

Because some part of you—deep and small and long-hidden—had finally been seen. And it wasn’t met with judgment. Just him. Solid. Steady. Joel.

He leaned back just a fraction, hand still on your thigh, and gave you one more look. A quiet nod passed between you, and then he stood.

“Sit tight,” he said softly. “Don’t move.”

You did as told, too wrung out to pretend otherwise.

Joel moved around your house like he’d done it a hundred times. No hesitation. No uncertainty. You watched him, silent and spellbound, from your place on the couch. He wasn’t rushing, but every movement was efficient, purposeful. Like he’d made a checklist in his head and was running down it in order.

He grabbed your phone the floor, along with his. Then he stooped to snag your slippers from beside the door, checking first to make sure you weren’t barefoot. You were. He sighed under his breath—barely there—and brought them over.

Kneeling in front of you, Joel gently tapped your shin. “Foot.”

You blinked. Slowly lifted one.

He slid the slipper on, then the other. His hands were warm, calloused, and surprisingly careful. Like he was afraid you’d shatter under his touch.

“Thanks,” you whispered, voice hoarse from crying.

Joel didn’t answer. He just looked up at you for a second longer than necessary—eyes scanning your face like he was memorizing it—and then stood.

Next was Aspen. She’d been watching this whole time from her place at your side, tail thumping just once when Joel turned her way.

“C’mon, sweetheart,” he said, rubbing her head. “We’re goin’ for a ride.”

She immediately perked up and followed him to the door, as if she already knew the routine. You stood up, your legs felt like jelly. But somehow, you managed to follow him.

He cracked the door open, gave one last glance at your living room—like he was checking for anything left behind—and then looked at you.

“You ready?”

You nodded.

Still, he didn’t rush you.

He waited for you to walk, slow and stiff, like your bones had rusted from all the crying. He waited while you hesitated at the door, while you looked back at your house like it was something you might not see again for a long time. He waited while Aspen brushed against your leg, and while you tried not to cry again just from the fact that this man, this man, had remembered your phone and your shoes and your damn dog.

Outside, the air was colder than you expected. It bit at your cheeks and made your lungs pull tight again, but Joel was already at your side. His warmth was radiating, and especially so when he passed your phone to you and his palm was over yours. 

He was close when you stuffed it in your short’s pocket. Not hovering, but present. Like gravity.

Joel opened the passenger door of his truck and waited until you climbed in like he always did. He didn’t touch you, didn’t guide you—but his eyes never left your face.

Once you were seated, Aspen jumped up into the backseat like she owned the damn truck. Joel grunted approvingly under his breath, then climbed into the driver’s side.

The truck started with a familiar rumble.

And just like that—you were leaving.

The house. The panic. The crushing weight of four walls that no longer felt safe.

You watched Joel’s hands on the wheel, the way his knuckles flexed as he turned onto the road. The lights outside blurred past your window, the dark buildings of Austin soft and shapeless as you drove through them.

None of this felt real.

Not the truck. Not Aspen’s gentle snoring in the backseat. Not Joel’s presence beside you, calm and steady, like he belonged there. Like this wasn’t something extraordinary. Like this wasn’t him scooping up the broken pieces of your night and carrying them without complaint.

You glanced at him again.

His jaw was tight, eyes fixed on the road. He looked like he’d been carved from stone. Like nothing could break him. But his hand on the gearshift was relaxed—fingers tapping now and then. Like he was keeping rhythm. Keeping time. Keeping you anchored.

The radio was off. The only sound was the road beneath the tires and Aspen’s soft, rhythmic breathing from the back seat.

And still, you said nothing.

Not because you didn’t want to. But because you didn’t need to.

You sat there, still curled inward, hands folded in your lap, head resting on the window glass. Joel didn’t push. He just drove with that steady kind of silence he was so good at. Not heavy. Not awkward. Just... patient. Present.

When the truck finally pulled into his driveway, your fingers twitched in your lap, your pulse ticking a little faster.

Joel killed the engine, the headlights cutting off, leaving the truck swallowed in darkness for a beat before the porch light flicked on. He got out first, shutting his door with a quiet thud.

You didn’t wait for him to come around and open your door. You opened it yourself, needing to do something. Something you could control.

Your feet hit the concrete, the slippers doing nothing to block the chill, and the cold sobered you a little.

“Aspen,” you called softly, and she perked up from the back seat, tail thumping. With a groggy little huff, she climbed out after you, her paws clicking against the ground as she moved to your side, still loyal, still concerned.

Joel nodded once, wordless, and led the way to the front door.

You, Joel, and Aspen.

Once inside, Joel flicked on the hallway light, casting the living room in a warm, amber glow. It was cozy, worn in. Not overly clean, not messy either—just lived in. Safe.

He toed off his boots by the door and glanced over his shoulder at you. “Go on. Get in my bed. You need to rest.”

You blinked at him. “I’ve never been in here before,” you murmured, like you were realizing it in real time.

Joel paused. “Oh. Right. Yeah.” He motioned down the hall. “Last door on the left.”

You nodded and gave Aspen one last pat before stepping down the hallway.

Behind you, Joel crouched beside Aspen, rubbing behind her ears. “You wanna see Sarah, girl? Huh?” His voice dropped into a softer register, a teasing one he used for dogs and daughters. You didn’t stay to listen. You were too worn out.

The hallway was short, but it felt like a journey.

You passed framed photos, jackets slung on hooks, a small bookcase with dog-eared paperbacks and an old American map tucked between their pages. You saw signs of Sarah everywhere—a school photo, her scribbly handwriting on a sticky note that said Don’t forget lunch money, oldie, a worn pair of sneakers left by the baseboard.

Joel had built a life here.

And now you were stepping into the most private part of it.

His bedroom door creaked softly as you pushed it open. The light from the hall stretched across the hardwood floor like a path. You stepped inside cautiously, like if you made too much noise the moment would collapse under its own weight.

His room smelled like cedar and laundry detergent and something distinctively him. That earthy, grounded scent that always clung to his flannel shirts.

The room was exactly what you expected—and nothing like it at all.

Plain dark comforter on the bed. A dresser with mismatched drawer handles. A little dish by the nightstand filled with guitar picks, spare change, and a dog tag that looked older than Sarah.

And then, against the far wall—his guitars.

You walked toward them like they might disappear if you looked away. Three of them. One acoustic, one beat-up electric, and another with a worn leather strap you remembered from years ago, back in Arlington.

Your lips twitched. Just a little.

Of course he brought them here.

You let out a breath and turned toward the bed.

It was too intimate. Too much. You were going to sleep in Joel Miller’s bed.

Ridiculous. Absolutely ridiculous.

But you were too tired to fight it.

So you lay down. On top of the covers, not under them. Curled on your side with your back to the door. Your slippers stayed on the rug, and you pulled your knees to your chest.

The pillow beneath your head was warm. His. You breathed in, trying not to let the nerves make your chest ache.

You were too close to him. Way too close. Every part of you felt like it was still vibrating from the night, and now you were lying in his bed like it was nothing.

You closed your eyes.

Tried to will your thoughts to stop spinning.

But it was hard when everything about the room screamed him—the rhythm of his life still beating in the walls, in the floor, in the faint sound of his voice from the hallway.

Then, the door creaked open again.

Soft footsteps followed—calm, measured, no hesitation. There was no announcement. Just the slow shut of the door behind him and the quiet click of the lock sliding into place, like he was sealing out the rest of the world for the night. Or maybe just for you.

So, guys, the dreaded Tumblr ran out of blocks happened again. An actual important part happens towards the end of this chapter... so if you want to read that (and you should if you care), head over to a03 and get to reading! Just control F with the last paragraph here on a03 and you'll find your spot (or if your on your phone, have fun doom scrolling)

[icewindandboringhorror]

Little bright colored outfit with a fun vest ~

(shoes from ebay like 10 years ago. everything else is thrifted)

[secretly-a-trekkie]

lol i think it is kinda funny how often we take our favorite overworked little guy (gender neutral ) and just go oh yeah he (gender neutral) hasn't slept in a month and his blood is now coffee and redbull but said guy (gender neutral) is just functioning mostly normally but with no filter

[svtskneecaps]

i'm mourning the loss of purgatory's Government Assigned Team Dynamics (because i'm a sucker for shaking up dynamics and the forced interactions of people who may not otherwise have spoken) so please indulge me with your dream egg parenting group i'll start, bagi tina and rivers [i'm right]

[cuteniarose]

I'm bored and can't sleep because of cramps so I decided to mess around with an incorrect quotes generator using the latest OCs @katkastrofa and I created that I unfortunately cannot talk about in detail here because I'd get nerfed in an instant:

[gnomewithalaptop]

This final project is worth 40% of our final grade and the other half of my team just told me they haven't even STARTED working on one of the core functionalities. What the fuck.

[anon-apple]

Hot Soup and Soft Bread 5

Synopsis and Table of Contents <- Chapter 4 Read on WordPress here

Chapter 5: Chocomonts V

Zhong Qiuyan called Zhou Cunqu and said, “Try coming down by yourself. I’ll be waiting for you downstairs.”

Cunqu held his phone in one hand and his umbrella in another and stood still outside the door. Qiuyan continued, “I won’t hang up the call. Just remember, I’ll be waiting for you downstairs.”

Cunqu looked down at the stairs in front of him that stretched onto what seemed like the depths of a cave. The faint scent of rain lingered in the air. The sound of Qiuyan’s breaths sounded from the other end of the call. Cunqu slowly walked down the stairs.

Qiuyan asked him: “Do you see the ‘Amiability makes you rich’ yet?”

Cunqu said: “I see it.”

Qiuyan asked again: “And have you passed by the shoe rack outside Teacher Zhuang’s place?”

Cunqu didn’t reply immediately. Qiuyan waited a bit, and then Cunqu said: “I see it.”

Just like that, he slowly descended to the first floor. Qiuyan, holding the phone, gave him a big thumbs up. Cunqu felt a bit exhausted. Qiuyan supported him and said, “You did well. Our little friend[1] Zhou Cunqu did so well.” 

Building No.3’s flickering entrance light suddenly dimmed. Cunqu, body stripped of energy, leaned his head against Qiuyan’s shoulder. The latter didn’t dare to move. He moved Cunqu slightly closer to himself and held his waist.

Qiuyan suddenly really wanted to know something. Zhou Cunqu said he liked men. Then has he been with men before? What were their kisses like? What about even more intimate contact? He couldn’t picture it.

Qiuyan let his imagination run wild for quite some time as he hugged Cunqu. Then he suddenly mumbled, “When I lived in the countryside, I quite liked this one girl who grew up with me. Now her kid is old enough to ride my bus.”

Cunqu, confused, made an “en” sound to show he was listening. Qiuyan let go of him and awkwardly rubbed his hair, saying, “It’s nothing.”

Cunqu said: “You, you’re not very capable then.”

Qiuyan was caught off guard for a moment. He then rebuffed: “What do you mean I’m not capable? Plenty of girls liked me. Qiu Xuemei, my mom, said that I rank as one of the most handsome men in the village.”

Cunqu replied: “Aunt Qiu must be very kind.”

Recently, Qiuyan discovered that ever since Cunqu could speak to him more and more fluently, the latter started to exhibit similarities to his grandma Liu Xiaoying. Regardless of whether it’s the open mocking or the backhanded sarcasm.

Cunqu had walked a bit ahead by himself. Qiuyan chased after him and grabbed his hand. He spread out his fingers and started playing with them as he asked: “Ge, what were you trying to say just now.”

Cunqu didn’t pay him any regard.

--

A couple of days later, it was only Liu Xiaoying and Zhou Cunqu having dinner together. Xiaoying said that Qiuyan called earlier saying he was off today and was meeting up with some friends. She held her red and white senior-friendly phone and replied: “You realy are treating my place like your own, huh? Even going as far as reporting you’re not going to make it for dinner.” 

Qiuyan whined in a spoiled tone, “Liu Xiaoying. Starting from today you are my Second Grandma!”

Xiaoying scolded: “What first grandma, second grandma, you brat!”

In conclusion, that night there were 4 dishes on the dining table but only Xiaoying and Cunqu were present for dinner. Xiaoying said: “That youngster went out to see his friends.”

Cunqu nodded and picked up some celtuce with his chopsticks.

Qiuyan’s two childhood friends, a hairdresser apprentice named Da Yu[2] and a car mechanic A’Shan[3] wanted to hold a belated birthday celebration for him. The three of them grew up together in the same village; None of them did well in school and just fooled around all day. A’Shan never liked talking ever since he was little. He remembered when he was in the first grade of kindergarten[4], his mom had left him at the entrance of the kindergarten by the village supermarket. He held a pillow in his arms and squatted unmoving in the front of the building, refusing to budge even when a teacher came out to grab him.

A few of the other kids thought they were playing tug of war, and rushed in excitedly to participate. The teacher, a bit angered, asked in the regional dialect: “Just what are you doing here?”

Large droplets of tears fell with a splatter from A’Shan’s eyes. He cried, “I want to stay here and be a tree.”

Zhong Qiuyan and Da Yu, who were in the second grade of kindergarten then, ran over with excitement and squatted next to him. They asked him eagerly: “How? How? We want to be a tree as well!”

And so the three of them dumbly squatted there for half the day, resembling three mushrooms sprouting from some moss. This continued until Qiuyan asked A’Shan: “Can we turn back to humans for a bit?”

A’Shan nodded. The other two stood up, relieved.

The kindergarten teacher declared that year -- the three of them didn't have much prospects. If they did, she wouldn’t be surnamed Zhong.[5] The funny thing is, apparently this teacher found her birth parents later on and actually changed her last name from Zhong to theirs. But as prophesied, the three of them didn’t grow up to make anything of themselves. 

--

A’Shan cracked open a few cans of beer and clinked his can against Qiuyan’s and Da Yu’s. Although Da Yu’s name meant “Big fish”, he physically resembled a small shrimp. He asked Qiuyan: “Your eyebags are gonna droop onto the ground. You haven’t been around recently either. Do you actually drive buses or did you secretly go off to steer a rocket?”

The open-air food stall[6] didn’t have that many customers at dusk. The female boss placed two large platters of barbecued meat skewers on their table. Qiuyan drank half a can of beer and replied, “You won’t know.”

Da Yu let out a “ha” in response. Qiuyan suddenly asked them: “Hey, would you guys be able to stay in your room for two years? And never go outside?”

A’Shan replied: “Isn’t that like spending 2 years in prison?”

Qiuyan chewed on the empty skewer stick, muttering: “Right… Just what kind of thing, would hurt someone so much that they shut themselves up for two years…” 

Da Yu probed again: “Zhong Qiuyan, just what have you been up to recently?”

Qiuyan replied the same way. “You wouldn’t understand.” But to be honest, he didn’t understand either.

That day after midnight, Zhou Cunqu slowly walked past “Amiability makes you rich,” slowly walked past Teacher Zhuang’s place, and saw a broken Go board fallen outside of the “double yolk egg” grandpas’ door. When he reached the first floor, he didn’t see Qiuyan. Cunqu immediately felt uneasy. He clutched the long handle of his umbrella and stood stiff in front of the entrance at a loss of what to do. The past couple of days whenever he made it to the first floor, he would always see Qiuyan leaning against the security door. And when Qiuyan saw Cunqu, he’d wave him over and feed him a piece of Chocomont. Yesterday Qiuyan stuffed a fish-shaped cracker[7] instead into his mouth, then he asked: “Aren’t you surprised?” Cunqu was speechless but also amused.

Cunqu took out his phone and dialed his “Smart Assistant.” Qiuyan answered and said, “Come out.”

So for the first time, Cunqu pushed open the security door by himself and walked out onto the entry path of Building No.3. He walked alone down the narrow path, damp from a recent downpour of rain. The world was silent enough that he could hear the sound of his heartbeat. He was thirty-one years old, yet he was terrified of taking a short walk downstairs by himself.

When he finally reached the main entrance of the residential community, he saw Qiuyan standing just outside, holding half a cigarette in one hand. He reached out with his other hand to pull him over. He pulled him outside of Qin Qin Homeland. Cunqu stood still for a moment to process what happened, then he said to Qiuyan: “Give me a cigarette.”

The two of them stood smoking on the side of Breadfruit Tree Street[8]. Cunqu squinted his eyes, inhaled the cigarette smoke, and exhaled towards the ground. “The last time I was on this street,” he said, “it was raining heavily. That was two years ago.” He turned his head and smiled at Qiuyan: “Thank you.”

Qiuyan smiled in response. He drank with Da Yu and A’Shan until nearly midnight, then hailed a cab and hurried directly here. Cunqu said that his entire body smelled of alcohol. Qiuyan purposely clung onto him, saying: “Now you can smell too.” 

Cunqu pushed him: “Really?”

Suddenly, Qiuyan reached out and hugged Cunqu. He tended to slur his speech after he drank a lot. One sentence slurring into the next, he quietly said: “Liu Xiaoying said that you used to be a super impressive person. Me and my friends, we’re just a bunch of barely-getting-by not-too-impressive ordinary people. So I won’t know if being a super impressive person is a super tiring thing. But I think it probably is, right? Are you tired?” 

Cunqu leaned against Qiuyan’s embrace and gazed listlessly across the street at the newspaper stand closed for the night. Before he realized it, tears had uncontrollably trickled down his face and fallen onto the yellow-green bricks of the sidewalk.  -> Chapter 6 Footnotes [1] He uses 小朋友 here, which literally translates to “little friend,” usually used to refer to kids. His entire tone here is that of commending a little kid for doing something well lol. But not in a condescending way, it’s more like a half-joke half-endearment. (If you guys read Fake Slackers, He Chao calls Xie Yu this all the time haha) [2] Likely a nickname, Da Yu literally translates to Big Fish (大鱼) [3] Same for A’Shan, which is the character for mountain（山) and an “A” （阿）in front of it. The “A” itself holds no meaning and is a common prefix before monosyllabic names to make them easier to say or just to indicate familiarity [4] Kindergarten in China is divided into 2 or 3 grades. 小 (small), 中 (medium), 大 (big) 班 (class). US Kindergarten maps to the highest grade 大班 , where kids between ages 5-6 attend. While for the two lesser grades they’re more comparable to preschool, with kids starting as early as 3 years old. [5] This is a pretty common saying to indicate you’re absolutely confident in what you’re declaring, as confident as you are in knowing your own last name. Sidenote, the character for the teacher's last name "Zhong" here is the same as the one for Zhong Qiuyan, but it’s a pretty common last name, and it’s probably even more common given that they're in the same countryside village. [6] An open-air food/drinking location that’s usually bustling later at night. The type of food is usually (unhealthy but delicious) street food like skewers, or just anything that goes well with drinks.  [7]  He actually refers to the specific brand of the crackers here -- 好多鱼. But I can’t figure out if there’s an English name for this brand. It literally translates to “A lot of fish.” [8] I didn’t know this but breadfruit trees were an actual type of tree! They produce, you guessed it, “breadfruit” which when cooked “is described as potato-like, or similar to freshly baked bread”. And the street right outside of Qin Qin Homeland is named after this tree. 

[andthebubbles]

ho hum. i'm insane!!!

[lionblaze03-2]

idc that I’m allergic I love dog so much I need dog in my life. Look at this face. Like come on

And this one??? Forget about it

[geekyanglophile]

Dude heard that lobsters are “biologically immortal” because they have a little bit of telomerase going for them and thought that meant death is unnatural lol. You realize many animals have shorter lifespans than humans? In fact, for many species the norm is to live only as long as it takes to reproduce.

And really the argument about whether telomerase would ever be an effective “anti-death” solution is completely irrelevant to the original post (and even if we could be immortal… imagine how quickly we would completely overrun the planet… I mean we already are). The anti-aging argument isn’t really about whether ppl are dying or not… we are literally all dying… every last one of us. Anti-aging products are about beauty standards (which is why they are primarily marketed towards women). These products aren’t actually about stopping aging (you’ll notice none of them contain telomerase). Their only purpose is to cover up, reverse, or minimize the physical signs of aging. And by all means, if those features make you sad or uncomfortable, then use whatever products work for you. But people (and women specifically) should not be expected to use these products to cater to beauty standards. Using these products will not improve your lifespan or overall health (other than sunscreen but I don’t consider that an “anti-aging” product).

scrunching my face real hard rn

[soupis4ever]

updated oc "family tree" because the last one sucked majorly and did not specify what the hell any of those creatures were. also now we have god lore. and a very long tag rant apparently

[aceyanaheim]

Me after pulling an all nighter and writing 2 grants in 2 days: aw fuck yeah still got it

Me immediately after: -falls asleep until 2pm-

[spacebell]

ok my anxiety has decreased since early morning

[contemplatingoutlander]

“'We want the bureaucrats to be traumatically affected,' Russell Vought [co-author of Project 2025], who has been tapped by Mr. Trump to lead the Office of Management and Budget, has said. 'When they wake up in the morning, we want them to not want to go to work because they are increasingly viewed as the villains.'”

If we want federal civil servants not to just abandon their jobs under the pressure of a hostile Trump administration, they will need support from the public. In this essay by Stacey Young, a lawyer in the DOJ civil rights division, explains the help that is needed. This is a gift 🎁 link, so there is no paywall. Below are some excerpts.

Federal employees like me have been hearing a lot in recent weeks about how important it is for us to stay in our jobs, despite President-elect Donald Trump’s open animosity toward much of the federal work force. We’ve been told by friends, relatives and good-government advocates that a well-functioning government — and the survival of our democracy — depends on it. We know. We understand what will happen if Mr. Trump fills the civil service with unqualified, inexperienced people selected for their political loyalty. But to stay in our jobs, we will need more than exhortation; we will need legal, psychological and other practical support. One reason many federal employees are thinking of leaving government — often after decades of serving our country, under Republican and Democratic presidents — is that we’re afraid. The incoming leaders of the government have told us in aggressive terms that they want us either gone or miserable.  [...]

What sorts of practical support would help? For one thing, lawyers and mental health providers could offer pro bono or significantly discounted services to federal employees.... Data-removal companies that specialize in taking down personal information online could offer free or discounted plans to federal employees who are being harassed or at risk of harassment. Friends and family members of federal employees with young children or other caregiving responsibilities could offer to pitch in. (Without their help, employees who are stripped of their ability to do some remote work or forced to adhere to overly rigid work schedules may have no choice but to leave their jobs.) Concerned citizens could urge their elected representatives to promote legislation that protects civil servants and oppose draconian bills that would harm them. Those with money to spare could donate to organizations that work to protect public servants. And if you value the civil service, don’t just tell us; tell your friends, neighbors, co-workers and family members too — especially whenever the pernicious “deep state” narrative rears its ugly head.

[dollishmehrayan]

# “I NEED YOUR LOVING, LIKE THE SUNSHINE, EVERYONE’S GOT TO LEARN SOMETIME.” ── .✦ ( batboys when they have a crush on you ⋆౨ৎ˚⟡˖ )

dollish note ౨ৎ: yes this is based off that one korgis song and if you know it, your elite marry me immediately anywayss I need like more cute events to do omgg and guys I’m going to look for a new divider edition but the bunny will always stay don’t worryyy tags: (batboys x reader)

© dollishmehrayan — ( all rights reserved to me. These works cannot be reposted, translated, or modified. Thank you for understanding dollies! )

DICK GRAYSON ── .✦

He’s so obvious. Everyone knows. Even villains probably know, even you probably know but we always play hard to get. (that’s js me sorry)

Overly casual compliments: “Wow, you look… good. Like, really good. Is that new? No? I just never noticed how great you always look??”

Purposely hangs around you way more than necessary. “Oh wow, fancy seeing you here again... at this coffee shop... at this exact time... for the fifth time this week…”, “uh.. sure okay dick.”

Gets physically flustered. You smile at him and he bumps into a wall.

Brings you little gifts like coffee, snacks, or something you mentioned once two months ago that he totally remembered.

Accidentally lets it slip to Barbara. You find out two days later because she’s evil (and supportive). GIRL BOSSSSS

RASON RODD (IF YKYK) ── .✦

Denies it to everyone. Even himself. “Me? Crushing? Pfft. Please. I'm just being nice. I’m always this nice. Shut up.”

Acts all chill and tough but turns into a sarcastic teddy bear when you're around.

Tries not to care but notices everything about you like when you’re tired, upset, or need space.

Gets really protective, then downplays it. “Yeah I threatened that guy because he was being annoying. Not because he was flirting with you. Nope.” ( our little nonchalant guy )

Will read/watch your favorite stuff in secret so he can talk about it with you, then pretends he hated it. “No, I didn’t like it. But the plot twist in episode 7 was wild. Just sayin’.”

Probably punches a wall the first time someone calls him out. Literally everyone in the family: “Just ask them out already.”

TIM DRAKE ── .✦

Has a million tabs open on “how to tell if someone likes you back.”

Obsesses over every text you send. Sends a reply. Deletes it. Writes a better one. Deletes that too. Eventually sends “lol yeah same” and regrets it instantly.

Runs into you and forgets how to function for 3 seconds. “Hey—hi—hey. Sorry. I mean. Hello.”

Will research your interests so he can impress you or casually bring them up. “Oh, you’re into ___? I read a couple papers about that, super cool stuff.”

Accidentally calls you “cute” in passing, then vanishes for two days to a point you wonder if he might appear on the missing website thing.

You find out he has a playlist called “maybe someday” and the first song is something painfully romantic.

DAMIAN WAYNE ── .✦

Pretends he doesn’t like you. Like, aggressively. But it’s so obvious.

Gives you weirdly thoughtful gifts and says things like, “I noticed you were using inferior supplies.”

Blushes if you compliment him. Denies he’s blushing. “Tt. The temperature is simply warm.”

Subtly changes his schedule to be around you more. He’ll be in the library when you’re there, in the gym at the same time it’s definitely not a coincidence (even though he insists it is).

Draws you. Like, sketches. Constantly. Says it’s “for anatomy practice.”

Acts annoyed when you talk to someone else, then pouts in a corner like a feral cat.

BRUCE WAYNE ── .✦

He doesn’t even realize it at first. It hits him out of nowhere, like genuinely out of thin air.

Brooding increases by 200%. He stares off into space, thinking about you, and Alfred has to snap him out of it.

Becomes awkwardly formal. “Would you… perhaps… like to join me for dinner? I understand if that’s… inconvenient.” ( like despite being a former player and all and smoothhh as hell when he genuinely likes someone he can’t be smooth, your like his Andrea beaumont but if they worked out )

Totally asks Alfred for advice. Alfred gives him the same advice he gave him at 16.

When you smile at him, he short-circuits a little. You get a rare, soft Bat-smile in return.

Once he’s sure of his feelings, he’s all in but oh boy, it takes a while.