#yikes!!!!!!!!!!!!! | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

daryltwdixon · 1 month ago

Note

Hi angel!

I’m here for a request, but not a typical one. I want to request that you finish something you’ve been working on but maybe are nervous that people won’t want it. Something YOU have always wanted to write.

Okay that’s it love you bye 🖤

𝐒𝐩𝐚𝐜𝐞 𝐂𝐨𝐰𝐛𝐨𝐲

Summary: You tried to love Joel Miller the way he was. But eventually, the silence, the walls, the way he kept you at arm’s length… it broke something in you. So you let him go. || angst! fluff! smut! we got it all! MDNI 18+, Jackson!Joel, break up, joel is bad at feelings, makeup sex (eventually), pinv, love makin', lots of kissing cause I wanna kiss him, fingering, f!receiving oral, and yeah its a little corny idc, tiny mention of an age gap|| Inspired by Kacey Musgrave's song Space Cowboy a/n: taylorrrrrrr my angel girl I could cry ilysm. I’ve always had this thought that Joel Miller, at least at first, would be emotionally unavailable and like...not willing to really date. In p1, he’s constantly shutting Ellie down when she brings up Tess or Sam and Henry, Tommy when he offers him that photo of Sarah. Sure, by the end he’s more open, because Ellie made him feel something again. But I think being romantically involved would be hard for him at first. I've always wanted to explore that, and this been collecting dust in my wips since I wasn't sure how everyone would feel. so all this to say....here you go :')

For once, Joel Miller stayed the night.

Not by accident, not because he was drunk off his ass and you made him crash on your couch. No, you’d seen that version of him more times than you could count. But last night, after fucking you hard enough to leave dents in your drywall from sheer force of the headboard, he’d collapsed beside you, pulled you against his chest, and… stayed.

Almost like he meant to.

So god forbid you woke up the next morning with your cheek against his bare chest, your thigh slung over his hip, still foggy brained in the haze of sleep, and asked if he wanted to go grab breakfast at the dining hall.

You might as well have asked What are we?

Or worse: Will you be my boyfriend forever and ever, Joel?

Now he was out in your living room, shoving his boots on by the front door as sun poured in dusty light across the floorboards. You leaned against the archway in his flannel, bare legs out, nothing but the socks on your feet and silence in the air.

You watched him with narrowed eyes. To say you didn’t know what this was would be like saying the sky wasn’t blue. And you weren’t a liar.

Because you saw it, saw the same pieces being shunted between you. He was building it up again. Brick by brick. That impenetrable wall was back high and tight.

“I don’t get it,” you said finally.

He didn’t answer, only grunted.

Of course.

“You come here a few nights a week, we hookup and then…what? I don’t exist once your pants are back on? The one night you actually stay with me and I ask you to eat breakfast, I’ve suddenly crossed a line?”

“That’s enough,” Joel muttered, jaw clenched tight.

The way he said made your stomach twist something ugly.

“Yeah,” you said, letting out a long breath as your voice flattened into something stale, “You’re right. That’s enough.”

You stepped in front of where he was sitting, his chin tilting up to meet your eyes for once. His brows furrowed, but he didn’t back down. He just looked at you like he didn’t understand why you were standing in the way of his exit.

“What do you want, Joel?”

He shook his head and leaned down to finish tying his boots. “Don’t want nothin’ from you.”

That stung more than it should have. “Trust me,” you said scoffing. “I got that message a long time ago.”

He stood, slow but abrupt, towering over you as if it was easier to loom than feel anything at all. “What is it you want from me, girl?”

“I want you to admit there’s something here!” you finally snapped, your blood beginning to boil, “I want you to act like all these nights mean something! Like I’m not just a warm body you crawl to when you’re lonely.”

His mouth opened, but nothing came out.

“I want you to talk to me. I want something real. But you don’t even try.”

“I am tryin’,” he said, eyes squeezing shut once before looking at you under heavy brows.

“No, you’re not,” you said, and your voice cracked, not quite out of sadness, but rage. “You’re just—” your hand cut the air, motioning to all of him. “You’re existing, Joel. Going through the motions like you’re waiting for it all to be ripped away. You’re so damn scared of letting anything good happen that you’re choking the life out of it before it can even start.”

His jaw twitched, shoulders stiffening. That look in his eye—rage, grief, guilt—you weren’t sure which it was, but it burned cold and hard beneath the surface.

“You don’t know what it’s like,” he said quietly, but there was venom behind the words. “You don’t know what I’ve done.”

“Then tell me.” You stepped closer, letting your voice drop to something soft and gentle as you lifted your hands to his chest. You looked up into his eyes, now dark as storm clouds above a forest as you whispered, “Let me in.”

He didn’t answer, only stood there, breathing slow through his nose, his body rigid like he was waiting to be hit.

You shook your head, your hands falling back down to your sides in fists, “You always talk about space,” you murmured. “Needing time.”

You turned on your heel and stomped toward the door, yanking it open with a loud creak. Cold autumn air rushed in, hitting your bare skin and stinging your eyes.

“Well,” you said, voice low and bitter. “Your prayers have been answered.”

You swung your arm out toward the open doorway.

“You can have your space, cowboy.”

Joel paused for a long moment. Because maybe for once he realized you meant it. Like maybe he’d expected you to cave, to give him the same grace you always did. But you were tired.

Tired of not knowing what this was. Tired of not knowing what you were to him. Tired of the way he’d shut down and pull away when you could feel the good in him, the gold buried under all that iron.

You knew he was a good man. He just wouldn’t show it to you.

Slowly, he started toward the door. Time dragged as he approached you, whether that was because every step looked like it cost him something or you were cataloging every movement he made to store in your memory.

He reached the threshold and stopped, the morning light catching the edge of his face, soft and golden. He looked back at you, but you didn’t lift your eyes.

Then softly, just a whisper, he said your name. As if he knew it was the last time.

Finally, you looked up at him, biting your lip to keep back the tears.

“I’ll see you around, Joel,” you said. “I know my place. And maybe it’s just not with you.”

You couldn’t quite make yourself regret being with Joel.

Not even for a second.

You told yourself a hundred times in the days that followed that what happened between you and him had been real. Maybe not enough, maybe not lasting, but real. And sometimes that was all you got.

Roads were made to go down. Some just didn’t have a way back.

And if you’d been smarter, you would’ve remembered what the movies always tried to teach: the good guys don’t run away.

But the broken ones sure as hell do.

And Joel Miller had always been a runner. Even if he showed signs of want, of connection only through the nights with your name on his lips like prayer and he took your body like it was his salvation.

But when a horse wants to run, there’s no sense closing the gate.

In the weeks after you’d broken things off, you saw him everywhere. Yes, in the little things like the butcher’s stall that had a sign he’d made and the wooden figurines in your neighbor’s windowsill, but more than that, you actually saw him.

From across the market gathering whatever it was he needed one week, or the back of his head on horseback heading out with a patrol group, or his flannel at the edge of the community garden, nodding to someone like he was fine. Like nothing ever happened. He never looked your way, not once. But you looked at him.

And the days you didn’t see him were somehow worse.

You'd catch yourself worrying. Wondering if something went wrong on patrol, or…if he was holed up with another woman in a house that wasn’t yours, if he’d finally decided to try with someone easier.

Someone who didn’t ask him to talk. Someone who didn’t wear his t-shirts and expect breakfast the next morning.

Two months passed like that— slow and strange, like you were trudging through water. You kept to yourself, did your work, smiled at friends when they asked if you were okay. You told them you were tired, that you were busy. That you were fine.

But there was something about Joel that clung to you like smoke.

It didn’t matter how many days you went without seeing him. He was still everywhere. Whether it was in the smell of pine when it rained, the creak of your porch steps when you’d hoped it was him, or the ache of your thighs the first time you tried to be with someone else and couldn’t go through with it.

Because try you had. Over and over, you’d tried.

And on one stormy night, three sharp knocks slammed against your front door like warning shots.

You were curled up on the couch beside someone who was… fine. He was nice, respectful, said “please” and “thank you” and laughed at your lame jokes with his hand resting on your knee. You were trying, honest, to feel something. To find that spark again, to forget about the one you’d known all too well.

But you couldn’t force yourself to, could you? So when the knocks slammed into the wood of your front door, you were almost grateful, because the man on your couch had just been leaning in for what you were pretty sure was a kiss.

Eric? Aaron? Whatever his name was blinked, glancing toward the door. “You expecting someone?”

You shook your head slowly. “No.”

Another knock. More like a demand now.

“Let me just see who it is,” you said quietly as you crossed the room, your bare feet silent on the hardwood, and opened the door.

Joel nearly fell through it.

Rain clung to him, dripping from the hem of his jacket, pooling beneath his boots. Mud streaked up the sides of his jeans. His hair was soaked to his scalp, his eyes red-rimmed and glassy. There was something feral about them.

He didn’t even say a word as he stepped forward, grabbed your face with both hands, and kissed you.

It was messy and sudden and rough, tasting hot with whiskey, his stubble scraping your skin as he tilted your chin up, as if he had the right. As if you were still his. You froze for a heartbeat, maybe two. Because you had missed him. Missed him in ways you hadn’t even let yourself feel yet. But this…this wasn’t how it was supposed to happen. And the second that sick, hot twist of anger rose up in your gut, you shoved him.

“Joel—what the fuck—get off,” you snapped, trying to twist out of his cold, wet grip.

But he kept coming. Hands sliding to your hips, dragging you into him again, his mouth crashing against yours, slurring against your lips, “Missed you. I miss’d ya so fuckin’ bad, baby, I—”

You pushed harder this time, shoving at his chest until he stumbled back a step. He swayed, visibly disoriented, breath catching as he reached for the doorframe to steady himself. His eyes blinked slowly like the room was spinning. When he looked back at you, he looked confused. Like he didn’t understand why you were pushing him away.

Behind you, you heard the floor creak.

“Uh, what the hell is going on?”

Joel’s head jerked up at the voice.

The man stood from the couch, slow and cautious. His brows pulled tight, clearly trying to make sense of what he just walked into. Joel stared for a long moment. Then his whole body stiffened.

“What the fuck is this?” he asked, his voice lower now, that mean, Southern bite curling around the words.

You stepped into his eyeline immediately. “Joel—don’t.”

But he moved around you like you weren’t even there, sodden boots heavy on the floor as he stalked forward.

“Get the fuck out,” he said to the man.

The guy blinked, baffled. “Excuse me?”

“I said get the fuck outta her house.”

“She invited me—”

Joel began to move, an angry glower pinching his brows as he moved to get in his face, but you stepped between him, hands on his chest.

“Jesus, Joel,” you said, shoving him back again, “What the hell is wrong with you?”

Joel’s breathing was ragged, chest rising and falling fast. He turned toward you, eyes wild and heartbroken and far too open, “Can I talk to you?” his eyes glowered briefly at the man behind you, “Alone?”

“Man, you need to leave,” your guest said, annoyed.

You held up a hand. “It’s fine. I’m sorry. Just… please go.”

He looked at you for a long second, then scoffed, shooting one last glare toward Joel as he stepped out the door.

The second it closed behind him, the silence in the room was deafening.

Joel stood there in the middle of your living room like something unholy. Soaked to the bone and chest heaving. His eyes were red and full of everything he refused to say for the last two months.

The silence stretched, long and heavy.

“Baby, I–” he began, but you shook your head.

“I don’t want to hear it, Joel.” you squeezed your eyes shut, bringing your hands up to rub your temples, “Whatever it is you want to say, I need to hear it when you’re sober.”

You should’ve screamed, should’ve been angry. Hell, you should’ve thrown him back out into the rain and locked the door behind him.

But you didn’t. Instead, you stepped forward, carefully, slowly, wondering if he was just going to bolt again.

“Let’s just…get this off,” you murmured. Your fingers found the collar of his jacket, trembling a little from the adrenaline coursing through you as you tugged it down his shoulders. The fabric clung to his arms, soaked and heavy, but he didn’t fight you. And you didn’t realize til after you’d gotten it off of him that his eyes never left your face. Not once.

You hung his jacket up by your door, the fabric freezing and soggy. Then your hands moved to his flannel. The buttons were half-undone already. You didn’t ask, you just kept going.

And still, he didn’t stop you.

You pushed the fabric apart, palms brushing down the front of his chest, and God—he was so cold. But he was still him, even if the cold had gotten to him, had sunken into his skin.

You sank to your knees.

Not for him, and not like that. You just crouched down in front of him and tugged at the laces of his boots. The knot was sloppy and rushed like he had rushed in a fury to put them on. You undid it anyway, peeling each boot off one at a time, your fingers clumsy from the cold and the tension.

Neither of you spoke.

Not until you stood again, eyes meeting his. Something passed between you in that moment, raw and wordless. Maybe a kind of truce. Not forgiveness, just a single thread of mercy, offered in silence just for tonight.

Joel swayed again, catching himself with a heavy hand against the wall. His voice came out low and ragged, like it hurt to speak.

“I… I fucked up, okay?”

You could’ve screamed at him. Could’ve thrown every angry word you’d swallowed these past few months in his face. But instead, you just reached for the hem of his shirt.

“Lift your arms.”

He blinked, confused, but obeyed, sluggish and slow.

You pulled the soaked fabric up and over his head, dropping it to the floor with a wet slap.

“I’m tryin’ t’talk to ya,” he slurred, more firmly this time. “Yer not… listenin’.”

You poked him hard in the chest, “Because I don’t,” you poked again, “want,” a third poke, “to hear it, Joel.”

You poked him one last, hard time, his face turning into a grimace as his fingers wrapped around your wrist, but you kept going.

“So here’s what’s gonna happen. You’re gonna take a shower, and I’m gonna make sure you don’t bust your head open on the tub. Then you’re drinking some damn water and sleeping it off on the couch.”

He opened his mouth, but you cut him off with a sharp look.

“If you still wanna talk after that? When you’re sober and not dripping all over my floor? Then maybe I’ll listen.”

He stared at you for a long moment, rainwater still clinging to his skin, chest rising and falling. Then he nodded. Just once, his face falling, his eyes wide.

“Alright,” he said quietly. “Okay.”

You draped the blanket over him, tucking it gently around his shoulders. He was half-asleep already, sunk deep into the couch cushions, still damp around the edges but warm now, finally. Clean shirt and a pair of sweatpants he left behind many nights ago, water by his side, the softest throw you owned wrapped snug to his chest.

Joel blinked up at you slowly, lids heavy and uneven. His hair was still a little wet, curling at his temples. That same whiskey glow lingered in his eyes, glassy and soft.

“Yer so pretty,” he mumbled, words slurred as he watched you tuck him in, “Really miss’d ya.”

“Okay, Joel,” you said halfheartedly, not believing a word of it.

He blinked again, slower this time. “Even when I was t’dumb to say it… I always wanted t’come back ‘ere. To you.”

You froze.

Your throat tightened, but you forced a smile anyway. Brushed a dark hair from his forehead with careful fingers.

“Okay, cowboy,” you said gently. “Drink your water and rest. We’ll talk in the morning.”

He hummed, the sound low and content. “M’kay.”

And as you turned to leave, his hand found the edge of the blanket again, clutching it close.

You were up before him the next morning, the sky still a pale and silvery grey through the kitchen window when you set the kettle on.

You’d saved the last of the good coffee grounds for this, maybe because some part of you hoped he’d come back. Maybe because opening the jar, running your fingers through the coarse grinds, breathing in the bitter scent… it helped when you missed him.

The rich smell filled the room as it brewed, creeping into the corners of the house like a memory. You heard the low groan from the couch before you saw him. The rustling of blankets and the sound of his hand rubbing against his beard.

You poured a mug and walked over slowly.

He was hunched over, elbows on his knees, head in his hands. Bleary and still half-fogged. When he finally lifted his face, eyes squinting against the light, you held the mug out to him.

He blinked at it. Then at you.

“Thanks,” he said, voice rough with sleep and whatever was still left from the whiskey. He took it gingerly, careful to avoid your fingers.

You sat down in the corner of the couch, legs tucked under you, keeping a decent distance with your hands wrapped around your tea to ground you.

Joel took a sip from his mug, closing his eyes and exhaled a sigh, long and slow.

“Needed that,” he murmured, setting the mug on the table.

You nodded, watching him out of the corner of your eye. His beard was scruffier than usual, curling at the edges. Eyes rimmed in red, lashes still clumped from sleep. His face was carved in exhaustion, but even now, something about him still softened when he looked at you.

“I’m, uh…” he started, then shook his head and ran a hand through his hair. “I’m real sorry about last night. Feel awful.”

You gave a crooked smile. “Yeah, I figured the hangover’d be brutal.”

He shot you a look. “Not like that, smartass.”

Your smile deepened in spite of yourself. The silence between you hummed a little, something warm and bitter like old whiskey. You broke the gaze first, sighed, and stared down into your tea.

“So,” you said.

“So…” he echoed, rubbing at the corner of his jaw. His fingers rasped against the unshaven stubble. “I, uh… I ain’t so good at this.”

You nodded. That much, at least, didn’t need explaining.

“But I meant what I said,” he added quietly. “I’ve… ya know. Missed you.”

You lifted your mug again, stalling with a sip. You didn’t answer right away, and you didn’t plan to. The old version of you might’ve melted on the spot with so few words. Not this time. You needed more. Real words. The truth of it.

Joel watched you, waiting. Then waited some more.

The longer the silence stretched, the more agitated he looked. His mouth twitched, like he was finally coming to terms with the fact he was gonna have to work for your forgiveness.

He leaned back finally, one arm slung along the back of the couch, his eyes still fixed on you.

“Not gonna give me anythin’, huh?”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” you said, setting your mug down with a quiet clink on the coffee table, “I thought you came here with somethin’ to say.”

“I was drunk.”

“Drunk words, sober thoughts,” you said simply. “So let’s hear ’em.”

Joel let out a low groan, dragging his hand over his face again. “Okay,” he muttered into his palm before reaching for the coffee again.

He took another sip, holding the mug like it might shield him from what came next.

“I dunno all the shit I’m supposed to say,” he muttered finally. “It’s not…easy for me.”

You stayed quiet, letting him talk, even if the words came slow and uneven.

“I’m used to... keepin’ things in. Just dealin’ with whatever shit came my way. I never…never really had this before, someone who wanted to know what was goin’ on in here.” He glanced your way, tappin’ his temple.

“So when I started comin’ around here… and it felt good… felt, I dunno, safe… I think I got scared I’d fuck it up. Or that maybe I already had.”

You blinked slowly, processing the mess of it. His voice, low and gravelly, kept catching like it was tripping over things he didn’t know how to say. Like there were words he wanted to find but had never really practiced out loud.

“Joel,” you sighed, fingers fidgeting around your knees, “I just want to know…what it is you want. Because it seems like we want different things.”

His eyes found yours across the couch, setting his coffee down as he shook his head, and sat forward, leaning closer to you, “No, no. That ain’t it. I want this, I just…” he trailed off, rubbing his face into his hands. You almost felt bad, how hard this was for him.

Then, his eyes looked up, and he sat back. “Can you come here?”

You weren’t sure if you were ready for this part. Because part of you knew how fast you’d give in if you touched him. Knew how easy it would be to fall back into his arms and forget everything you’d been hurting over. But your chest ached for it. And the way he was looking at you, so raw and cracked open, it made you move against your better judgement.

Slowly, you crawled over. He shifted to make room and when you tucked yourself beneath his chin, his arm came around you like he’d been waiting. Both hands found your arm, rubbing gently like he could feel the chill under your skin.

It was odd, almost. Most of the times he’d pulled you in like this were when you were both naked, the post coitus hormones running high, limbs tangled up and skin flushed.

“Missed this,” he murmured, his voice warm against your hair.

You swallowed. You missed it too, missed him, even when he made it impossible.

He shifted just enough to tilt your chin up, fingers brushing along your jaw. His eyes searched yours, darker now but softer. You saw something there you hadn’t seen in the light before. Not when he wasn’t trying to hide it.

Then his gaze dropped to your mouth, and he leaned in.

The kiss was soft and careful, the kind that said he was still learning how not to ruin things.

You kissed him back, breathing him in, your hand fisting in his shirt gently.

But then you caught yourself and pulled away, your hand untangling from the fabric to rub your eyes, “Joel–”

“What do you need me to say?” he asked quietly. There was no bite, no sharpness in his tone. “What is it you want to hear?”

“I can’t just…tell you. I want to know what you want, not just…feeding me what I want to hear.”

His fingers stayed at your jaw, steady. He looked at you like he was searching for the right words, like he wanted to get them right this time.

“I want this,” he said. “I want you.”

His voice cracked slightly. He held your gaze, his hand still gentle on your face.

“I’m sorry I was an asshole before. I didn’t get it.”

You watched him closely as his brow pulled in. This time it wasn’t stubbornness, but something closer to pain.

“Let me try again.”

He must’ve taken your silence as hesitation, because he kept going, voice picking up like he was trying to get ahead of the panic building in his chest.

“I know how it looks, I know I’ve been—Jesus, I’ve been a fuckin’ wreck about this, and I didn’t know how to deal with it. With you. With what I feel when I’m around you. It’s not just… It’s not just wantin’ you in my bed, it’s everything.”

You didn’t move, didn’t blink. You just sat there listening, because holy shit, you’d never heard this man talk so damn much. Never heard him unravel like this, like he couldn’t stop even if he wanted to. And it was pouring out of him now, fast and messy, as if trying to outrun the fear of messing it all up again.

“I wake up thinkin’ about you. I walk around Jackson wonderin’ what you’re doin’, what you’re thinkin’ about. I’d hear someone say your name and feel like an idiot ‘cause it’d make me smile. And then I’d remember I fucked it all up. That you were done with me. That you should be.”

His gaze dropped along with his hand from your face.

“But then I’d remember...what the hell do I think I’m doin’, bein’ with someone like you? You’ve got this whole life to live. You’ve still got time. Options. People your own age who can give you things I can’t.”

He looked at you again, and this time his eyes were pained and earnest.

“What happens in a few years when I hit sixty, and you still got your life ahead of you? What happens when I’m gone and you’re—”

You cut him off with a kiss.

You surged forward and grabbed fistfuls of his shirt, pulling him into you, kissing him hard again, and again, like you could stop his words with your mouth. Like maybe if you kissed him enough, it would undo the ache in his voice.

“I was tryin’ to talk to you, you know,” he murmured against your lips, breath warm, a hint of a smile breaking through.

You nodded, laughing through the tears you didn’t remember letting fall. Your face was wet, your throat tight.

He pulled back just a little, his hand back to cradling your cheek. His eyes searched yours.

“I didn’t mean to—”

“It’s okay,” you smiled, “It’s just…I’m happy is all.”

And then he grinned back, and he was kissing you again and it was like something broke open in him. A dam cracked, all that restraint, all that aching hesitation he’d carried for months poured out in the way his hands slid into your hair, the way his mouth deepened against yours.

You barely had time to gasp before he was pressing into you, kissing you harder now, like he needed to make up for every second he’d spent staying away.

And he pushed you gently down onto the couch cushions, his palm cradling the back of your head as he guided you flat and braced himself above you. His body laid flush against yours, that familiar warmth of him enveloping you.

You felt the heat of him, the weight of him, every line of him sinking into you like he’d finally allowed himself to kiss you in the daylight.

You moaned softly against his lips, your thighs parting instinctively beneath him as he settled in the cradle of your hips. He dragged his mouth down your jaw, across your cheek, leaving heat in his wake, murmuring something low against your skin that you couldn’t quite catch—something desperate and grateful.

You arched into him, your hands sliding up his chest, and he caught one of them, threading his fingers between yours. He pulled back just enough to kiss your fingertips, slow and reverent, then your knuckles, one by one, all while holding your gaze.

"You’re so beautiful," he whispered, almost to himself, kissing the inside of your wrist this time, right over the spot where your pulse jumped.

Your skin burned under his gaze. You cupped his face with your free hand, thumb brushing his bottom lip slowly as your thighs lifted higher around his waist. You ground up against him, dragging friction against the hard outline of him beneath his sweatpants.

His eyes fluttered shut, breath catching. He exhaled like it had been held in his lungs for weeks.

“If you keep doin’ that,” he rasped, “I’m not gonna be able to take the time I wanna take with you.”

You smiled, warm and crooked. “Don’t want you to take your time,” you whispered, pulling him back down to your mouth.

His lips met yours again, deeper now, more urgent. One hand threaded through your hair, the other roaming your side as your tongue met his, soft and slick and hungry. He groaned into your mouth, kissing you deeper and deeper.

“Jesus,” he muttered against your skin, trailing kisses to your throat, “you feel so fuckin’ good beneath me, baby.”

“Missed you so much, Joel,” you breathed, eyes shutting as his teeth scraped your neck, the sting of it blooming hot under his tongue.

He was already fumbling with your shirt, pushing it up until you were bare to him, braless, chest rising and falling. His mouth latched onto your nipple without hesitation, all heat and need and reverence. You moaned, back arching, one hand gripping his hair.

“Missed you,” he echoed, voice rough, “Missed this.”

You looked down at him, gasping. He was so pretty like this—lashes low, mouth full, lips slick. Always so careful, making sure you felt good, that you were ready. That you wanted him.

He looked up at you, eyes dark with something that could only be described as devotion. “Wanna show you how much I missed it,” he said, kissing you hard on the lips before trailing back down your body. His tongue flicked out, slow, teasing, licking every inch he could get his mouth on until he reached the waistband of your pants.

Clothes disappeared fast, a blur of limbs and fabric. He hiked your legs up over his shoulders, settling between them like he belonged there. Because he did, after all.

“And don’t even get me started on her,” he said, voice playful now, pressing a kiss just above where you needed him most. “Missed her too.”

“Joeeel…” you mewled, already dizzy with how close he was.

He kissed the left side of your center, then the right, slow and careful. “Thought about her every night,” he murmured, mouth hot and close, “dreamed about how she tastes.”

And then he kissed your clit, and you jolted.

He moaned softly, like this was what he’d been starving for. His tongue flattened, dragging slow, wet strokes from your weeping entrance up to your clit, then back down again. When he pressed the tip inside you just a little, your hips rolled instinctively, your moan coming out sharp and breathless.

He let you move and grind against his mouth, his tongue, let you tangle your fingers in his hair and chase that growing pressure in your belly.

The sleep was gone now. Whatever haze he’d been in had burned off completely.

Joel moaned softly against your skin, tongue dragging another long stroke through your folds, savoring the taste of you like he’d been craving it since the second he left your bed two months ago. He kept going until your thighs trembled against his shoulders, your fingers twisting in his hair, breath stuttering out of your lungs in broken little gasps.

Then his mouth slowed. He pulled back just slightly, his lips brushing against your swollen center as he spoke, the tickle of his beard making you twitch.

“Goddamn,” he murmured, almost reverent. “She’s even sweeter than I remember.”

And then you felt his hand sliding up your leg, rough and broad, fingertips stroking the crease where your thigh met your heat. He watched you as he moved, mouth parted, eyes dark and focused, completely dialed in on the way your body writhed beneath him.

He pushed one finger in, nice and slow, and it felt like heaven and hell at once. That thick, slow pressure opening you, curling into that soft spot inside you with practiced ease. Like memory.

Your back arched off the couch. You whimpered, head rolling back. He’d always had the thickest fingers, one was all you needed to feel that tight stretch of him.

“Shit,” he groaned, watching your face as he moved it. “You feel that? How tight she still is for me?”

You could barely answer. You only moaned louder when he added a second finger, working you open, his knuckles brushing where your body fluttered around him. His fingers were so big and broad, callused, perfectly angled. They filled you so good it made your thighs shake.

He set a deep, unhurried rhythm that had the sounds of your wetness filling the room, obscene and beautiful as he brought his mouth back to your clit. He could feel the pulsing of your velvet walls around him as he continued pushing his fingers into you.

“There she is,” he said, pausing the flicking of his tongue, “Look at you, takin’ it so good, like always, baby,”

His lips pursed around your clit and sucked hard, making your breath stutter and stomach tense. Within seconds, you were arching and clamping down on his fingers, your nails digging into his scalp as he moaned against you.

Suddenly your whole body was locking up, thighs clamping around his head as you cried out, your release washing over you in a shudder that left you boneless and gasping. Joel kept moving through it, easing you down, letting you ride every last wave while he whispered against your skin.

“There you go. That’s my girl. Just like that.”

When your breath finally evened out, your eyes fluttered open and he was already moving up your body, slow and sure, kissing your skin as he went.

He pressed a kiss to your stomach, your ribs. Then up curve of your breast, all the way to your collarbone. Your throat.

And finally, your mouth.

Kissing you deep and full, he let you taste yourself on his lips. It was like honey and tang and the lingering taste of coffee on his tongue. He kissed you like he had all the time in the world, like there was no place else he'd rather be than between your thighs, tasting your breath and holding your face like it was something fragile, something his. His mouth moved slowly over yours, tongues sliding together, hands still trembling faintly with how badly he wanted you.

“Fuck,” he muttered against your lips, voice frayed. “I missed you. Missed you so goddamn much.”

Your fingers trailed down his chest, down to his waistband, dragging the pair of sweatpants down over his hips, not caring how clumsy it was. You needed him. You needed him now. He helped, kicking them off without hardly breaking the kiss. Your hand wrapped around him, hard and flushed and aching against your thigh.

“Jesus—” he groaned, his hips jolting forward into your palm, his forehead pressing into yours as his breath came hot and shaky, “Been a minute, take it easy,”

Your own body was on fire, soaked, aching for him. His voice, his hands, the weight of him over you was too much and yet not enough.

“Joel,” you whispered, “please.”

“Tell me you want it,” he said, and it didn’t sound like teasing. It sounded like pleading. His voice broke like it physically hurt him to ask. “Tell me you still want me.”

You nearly sobbed with need, “I want you. I’ve always wanted you.”

He reached between you to line himself up, the thick head of him dragging through your folds. You were so wet it made both of you groan, the slick sound obscene in the quiet room. He rocked his hips forward, just the tip pressing against your entrance.

“You’re so wet for me,” he whispered, his voice thick, breathless. “So warm.”

You writhed under him, thighs spreading wider, needing more. You could barely think.

“Joel– Jesus– please, just fuck me already.”

He smiled at that and sank into you in one long, devastating thrust, burying himself deep. You cried out, hands clutching at the nape of his neck as your body stretched to take him. Thick, hot, perfect. He filled you like he never left. Like he’d been made to fit.

“Shit,” he breathed, eyes squeezing shut as he bottomed out. “You feel like fuckin’ heaven. Always have.”

He stayed there for a second, shaking with the effort to hold back, “I’m not gonna last,” he admitted, voice strained, “Christ, been a while, huh?”

“You didn’t–?” you blinked up at him, catching your breath.

He shook his head, jaw clenched, a shiver running through him as he twitched inside you. “No. Couldn’t. Didn’t want to.”

He paused, looked down at you, eyes searching. “Did you?”

You cupped his face in your hands like he was delicate beneath your touch.

“No,” you said softly. “No one’s like you, Joel.”

Something shifted behind his eyes, something aching and raw and beautiful. His mouth fell to yours, kissing you deep, as your hips lifted to meet his.

And then he started to move.

He was slow at first, deep and dragging, every stroke deliberate, like he was trying to memorize how you felt all over again. You moaned into his mouth, your nails digging into his hair, your breath catching with every roll of his hips.

He dropped his head into the crook of your neck, his breath hot on your skin.

And then you heard it—gasping, raw, like it ripped itself from his chest.

“I love you,” he groaned. “Fuck—I fucking love you.”

Everything felt like it slowed down.

Your bodies didn’t stop moving, not yet, but something inside your chest pulled tight. Like your heart was trying to brace for impact. Like you hadn’t realized how badly you needed to hear it until it was right there, spilling out of his mouth in that low, broken voice, rough with disbelief and months of silence.

Something woke up under your skin, hot and bleary eyed, the kind of heat that lives dormant, that fills your throat and makes your pulse race. It had nothing to do with sex and everything to do with how this man was looking at you.

He was still inside you, still moving with that same steady rhythm, but his eyes were locked on yours now. Wide and dark and raw. His mouth hung open slightly like he was waiting for you to say something, anything, to tell him whether he’d just changed everything or ruined it.

Your hands came up slowly, almost in disbelief, and you touched his face, one palm to his cheek, the other curling into the back of his neck like you needed to feel he was real. Your voice caught in your throat before you could even speak, but somehow it pushed out.

“You love me?” you whispered, and the sound of your own voice didn’t even sound like yours.

“Yes,” he breathed.

Something cracked open inside you, something deep and hidden and too tired to be cautious anymore. You kissed him, harder than you meant to, your mouth catching his in a collision that felt like everything snapping. He groaned against you and kissed you back like it was instinct, like he’d been waiting for your permission to give in completely.

You pulled back just enough to breathe, your lips brushing his, your body still pulsing around him, still stretched wide and full, still needing more. “Say it again,” you whispered, not because you doubted him, but because you needed to hear it again. Needed to feel him give it to you without fear.

His hand slid to your jaw, holding you there, and his voice came softer now, steadier. “I love you.”

The words landed different this time. Less like an accident, more like a promise.

Your chest ached. You felt it rise up and out of you, that thing you’d been holding back for so long. “I love you too,” you said, and you didn’t have to think about it, didn’t need to second guess. It had always been there.

His head dipped and he kissed you again, deeper this time, not frantic like before but slow and thorough, like he wanted to feel every part of your mouth. His thrusts never stopped. They grew more purposeful now, more measured, like he wasn’t afraid anymore of where this was going, only desperate to take you with him.

He shifted slightly, reaching down to pull your leg higher around his waist, and the new angle made your whole body tense. He sank even deeper, drawing a low sound from your throat you hadn’t meant to make. You felt the build starting again, that tightening low in your stomach, that ache rising in time with every thrust, your body greedy for it, your hands clawing at him like you needed to hold on to something solid while everything else inside you fell apart.

You buried your face against his shoulder, your mouth open, your breath catching, your body clenching tight around him. He groaned your name into your skin, over and over, like it was the only word left in the world.

And then you came. Hard. Full-body, all-consuming, a wave that knocked the breath from your lungs and made your vision white around the edges. Your whole body trembled, and he held you through it, never breaking rhythm, never letting go.

He followed a second later, with a sound that sounded something close to a sob. He thrust deep and stayed there, grinding into you as he spilled inside, his whole body shuddering with the release.

You felt him lift his head to press his forehead to yours, felt the weight of his breath, the warmth of his skin, the thudding of his heart trying to slow against your chest.

Neither of you spoke for a long moment. There was nothing to say. Just the feel of him still inside you, the heat of him wrapped around you, the echo of those three words still settling into the space between your bodies.

You closed your eyes and let it all soak in.

Because this time, you believed him.

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