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worlds-we-write · 12 days ago

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Sweet on You

Chapter 4: Sweet Enough

pairing: Jackson!Joel Miller x baker!reader

summary: You try to keep it together. He refuses to let you do it alone

WC: 5.2K

tags: Joel Miller x Reader, Jackson Era, Age Gap, Protective Joel, Emotional Smut, Reader Has Trauma, Soft Dom Joel, Filthy Talk, Aftercare, Dirty Talk, Oral (f receiving), Vaginal Sex, Against the Wall, Praise Kink, Confession Scene, Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending

Series Masterlist

You wake up to the sound of wind.

Not loud — just the soft creak of it brushing against the windows, gentle and cold, like it’s trying to get in but can’t. The room is dim, tinted in pale morning gray, and the scent of sugar and cinnamon still lingers faintly in the air from yesterday.

Joel’s arm is draped over your waist.

His body’s curled around yours, chest warm at your back, one leg tangled loosely with yours beneath the blanket. You can feel his breath against your shoulder, slow and even, the rise and fall of his chest syncing quietly with yours.

For a second, you don’t move.

You just exist in that stillness — in the weight of his arm, the heat of his skin, the unfamiliar comfort of not being alone when you open your eyes.

Your fingers flex against the sheet. There’s a dull ache in your chest — not panic this time, not fear — just something heavy and tight, caught between disbelief and relief.

You survived last night.

You told him not to leave.

And he didn’t.

Joel shifts slightly behind you — not enough to pull away, just enough to nuzzle closer. His nose brushes the edge of your hairline, and you feel him press the softest kiss there, half-asleep.

“Mornin’, darlin’,” he mutters, voice low and gravel-rough.

You smile. It’s small. Barely there.

“You always wake up like this?”

He huffs a quiet laugh into your skin. “Only when I’m warm.”

You’re quiet for a beat.

“You stayed.”

He pulls in a slow breath behind you. His arm tightens around your waist, just a little.

“You asked me to.”

That sinks in deeper than it should.

You shift onto your back slowly, and Joel lifts his arm to let you move. When you turn to face him, he’s already watching you — eyes heavy with sleep, hair tousled, face open in a way you rarely see.

There’s something about him like this that feels different.

Not softer.

Just... less guarded.

“How’d you sleep?” you ask, voice scratchy.

Joel shrugs, one corner of his mouth tugging up.

“Better’n usual.”

You nod, then glance down at the edge of the blanket pulled to your collarbone. You’re still in yesterday’s clothes — your sweater wrinkled, your leggings twisted at the knee. His henley is dark at the shoulder where your tears soaked through.

It should feel embarrassing.

It doesn’t.

You glance at his knuckles.

They’re bruised.

Split.

Swollen.

You reach for his hand without thinking, turning it over gently in yours. His skin is rough and warm, the knuckles scraped raw.

“Does it hurt?”

Joel shrugs again. “Not as much as watchin’ him touch you.”

You inhale sharply.

His voice was soft, but the memory behind it is sharp — and you feel it slice across the moment like a cold wind under the door.

Joel seems to sense the shift. He wraps his hand around yours, thumb brushing your palm.

“You don’t gotta talk about it.”

You nod slowly.

Then:

“I think I dreamed about it. Last night.”

“Yeah?”

“Not the fight. Just… the way I felt. The way he made me feel. It’s like it’s still in my skin.”

Joel doesn’t answer right away. Just shifts forward and presses his forehead to yours.

“Then we’ll scrub it out piece by piece.”

Your eyes burn.

He pulls back slightly, watching you for a reaction.

“You hungry?”

You blink. “Not really.”

He leans in and kisses your forehead again — slower this time.

“Still gonna make you somethin’. Can’t have you runnin’ on nothin’ but stubbornness.”

You smile. It breaks the tightness in your chest just a little.

“Okay.”

He untangles from the blanket, sits up on the edge of the bed, and stretches — broad shoulders, bruised hands, soft sigh.

He looks like home.

You stay right where you are, watching him move through your space like it’s his too.

And for the first time in a long time… you let yourself want that.

Joel cooks like it’s normal.

Like he’s done it a hundred times.

He hums low under his breath as he moves around your apartment kitchen — sleeves pushed to his elbows, knuckles bruised and swollen from last night, but still precise as he cracks eggs and slices bread. You sit at the small table tucked into the corner of the room, blanket draped around your shoulders like armor, watching him move like he belongs there.

He sets a plate in front of you. Toasted sourdough with melted butter and scrambled eggs done just how you like them. He doesn’t sit right away — just waits to see if you’ll eat.

You take one bite.

Then another.

Joel watches you with that same quiet, steady intensity. Like he’s not gonna make you talk — but he’s also not gonna pretend like nothing happened.

You clear your throat.

"I thought you had to check in this morning."

Joel nods slowly. "Gonna stop by patrol. Maybe check on Ellie, too. Shouldn’t take long."

You don’t say anything, just look down at your plate.

He softens his voice. "You want me to stay?"

You hesitate.

"I don’t want you to go."

Joel reaches across the table, his fingers brushing over yours.

"Then I’ll be back quick. Before you even miss me."

That earns him a half-smile.

He squeezes your hand once, then stands. Shrugs on his coat, adjusts the holster on his belt. When he leans down to kiss your temple again, you close your eyes and lean into it.

The apartment feels quieter after he’s gone.

You take your time getting ready. Pull your hair back. Change your clothes. Let your fingers hover over the radio once, debating calling him back — just to say stay — but you don’t.

You walk to the bakery alone.

It’s just down the street, a few turns away — close enough to be convenient, far enough that it gives you a few minutes to breathe before the day begins. You unlock the side entrance, flick on the lights, and slip into the back kitchen like it’s a suit of armor.

But it doesn’t feel like yours this morning.

The sunlight is too sharp through the front windows. The scent of cinnamon clings to the walls like something you can’t wash out. You move slowly, mechanically — wiping down counters, checking proofed dough, prepping the register.

You unlock the front door just before 8 a.m.

And by the time the first customer walks in, you’ve almost convinced yourself it’ll be fine.

It isn’t.

The whispers start early.

One woman, eyeing the bruises on your arm, leans to her friend and murmurs just loud enough for you to catch it.

"I thought she had better taste."

The other one shrugs. "Joel Miller’s been circling her for weeks. Guess she gave in."

You pretend not to hear them. Keep slicing bread.

By midmorning, someone bolder walks up to the counter — a regular. A man who’s always smiled at you, always paid on time, always chatted about the weather.

He looks at you differently now.

"You alright?" he asks.

You nod. "Yeah. Just a long night."

He doesn’t smile. Doesn’t nod. Just taps his fingers against the counter.

"Y’know, folks been talkin’. Word is Joel roughed someone up pretty bad. Over you."

You freeze.

He chuckles like it’s funny. Like it’s not your life he’s picking apart.

"Didn’t think you were his type."

You grip the edge of the counter until your knuckles ache.

"I’ll have your total in a moment."

He doesn’t apologize. Just smirks and pulls out his coins like you’re entertainment, not a person.

When he leaves, the bell above the door rings like a warning.

And you think:

Maybe Joel didn’t leave all the danger behind when he walked out this morning.

Maybe he just took the part you could trust.

You keep your head down after that.

Serve the next three customers without looking them in the eye. Pretend the doorbell doesn’t jolt your spine every time it chimes. Pretend your hands aren’t trembling when you slice bread or make change.

They’re looking at you like you asked for it.

Like you deserved to be fought over, pitied, whispered about.

Like you’re some cautionary tale in a too-tight sweater and a fading bruise.

By the time the lull hits midmorning, you slip into the back kitchen and close the curtain behind you. Lean your hands on the prep table and breathe — or try to.

You want to scream.

You want to cry.

You want to grab the next person who says Joel shouldn’t have stepped in and shove their face into the memory of that alley.

But you don’t.

You just press your palms harder into the table and let your breath shake through clenched teeth.

Maybe they’re right.

Maybe he’ll get sick of this.

Maybe he already is.

You close your eyes and whisper it like a confession to the empty room.

“I shouldn’t have let him stay.”

You don’t mean it.

Not even a little.

But you say it anyway.

Because if they keep tearing you down long enough, you start doing it for them.

You’re back behind the counter when Maria walks in.

No warning. No clipboard. No polite knock on the bakery door. Just the creak of the hinges and her boots on tile — confident, steady, impossible to ignore.

You look up and immediately see it in her face.

This isn’t a check-in.

Maria doesn’t smile.

She waits until the bakery is empty, glances once toward the windows, then makes her way to the back where the curtain hangs. She doesn’t pull it aside — just lifts the corner, like she’s asking without asking.

You nod. She steps in.

It’s quiet in the kitchen.

You lean against the table. Cross your arms. Try not to look like you’re bracing for bad news — even though you are.

"He’s not here anymore," Maria says simply.

Your stomach tightens.

"He left the morning after," she adds. "Before we could hold a formal hearing."

You blink. "So… he ran?"

Maria nods. "Seemed to know what was coming."

You pause.

"Was he—" You hesitate, then force it out. "Was he banned?"

Maria’s mouth pulls tight.

"No."

The word lands like ice water down your spine.

She sees it — the way your shoulders tense, the way your eyes flick to the window like you expect to see him standing there.

"We gave him a formal warning," she says carefully. "There wasn’t enough in the council’s eyes to justify permanent removal. They wanted testimony. A report."

"And since I didn’t…" you say quietly.

Maria doesn’t answer.

You swallow hard. "So technically he could come back."

"Not without someone noticing," she says. "We’ve got eyes on the gates. Runners check the perimeter every day."

You don’t feel better.

Not even a little.

Maria steps closer, her voice softening.

"I’m not here to pressure you. I just want you to understand the situation. Right now, if he walked into Jackson — unless you file something official — there’s no record of what happened."

You feel the words settle into your bones like cement.

"So I’d have to relive it. In front of them. Just to prove I wasn’t lying."

Maria doesn’t argue.

She just says, "If that’s what it takes to keep you safe, we’ll be there for you. But no — you shouldn’t have to."

You grip the edge of the table, fingers curling tight around the worn wood.

"I thought it was over."

"I know."

She watches you for another long beat. Then her voice drops to something quieter — not the councilwoman, not the enforcer. Just Maria.

"You’re not weak for surviving. You’re not wrong for being scared. But if he ever shows his face again — I promise you, it won’t be your burden to carry next time."

You nod slowly.

But the fear’s already sunk back in.

She starts to leave. Then turns back.

"If you decide to file… I’ll back you. Fully."

And then she’s gone.

The door shuts behind her with a soft click.

And you’re alone again.

The bakery is quiet when Joel returns.

He doesn’t knock. Just pushes the door open like he belongs there — and he does. You look up from the counter as the bell above the door chimes, and for a moment, everything inside you screams to run into his arms.

But you don’t move.

You’ve cleaned up since this morning. Changed into a fresh sweater. Tied your hair back. The bruises still show, but you tried to cover them with a scarf. You almost look like nothing happened.

Except Joel sees it the moment he steps in.

You’re too still. Too quiet.

You haven’t touched the coffee in front of you. There’s a full cup cooling on the table, your hands wrapped around it like it’s the only thing anchoring you.

Joel’s face shifts.

"Hey," he says softly. "Place looks good."

You nod, eyes not quite meeting his.

"Busy morning?"

"Not really."

He doesn’t believe that for a second.

Joel closes the distance slowly. Sets a paper bag on the table — you smell fresh bread and something savory.

"Brought lunch. Thought you might not’ve eaten."

You look down at your hands.

"I had something earlier."

Another lie.

Joel crouches slightly, bracing his forearm on the edge of the table to meet your eye line. He doesn’t reach for you. Doesn’t push.

But his voice is gentle. Purposeful.

"What happened?"

You open your mouth.

Nothing comes out.

Because if you say it — if you tell him that your abuser wasn’t officially removed, that the council didn’t believe there was enough — it becomes real. Tangible. Like you’re inviting him back in just by speaking his name.

So you just shake your head.

"Nothing happened," you say quietly.

Joel’s eyes darken. Not with anger. With understanding.

"You don’t have to tell me if you’re not ready."

You nod again, and something in your chest pinches. Because he should be mad. He should be angry that you’re shutting him out. But instead he’s just here. Still steady. Still warm.

Still staying.

He straightens up and pulls a chair beside you, dropping into it without asking.

"I’ll sit with you then," he says.

You press your lips together.

"You don’t have to."

"Didn’t ask if I had to."

He pulls out one of the wrapped sandwiches from the bag and offers it to you. You take it. Not because you’re hungry — but because it feels like the only thing you can accept right now.

Joel doesn’t ask again.

He just eats beside you in silence, shoulder brushing yours every so often, like he’s reminding you he’s not going anywhere.

You don’t say it out loud, but part of you wants to cry.

Because no one’s ever stayed this long before.

You eat half the sandwich.

Joel doesn’t comment. Just stays there next to you, chewing slowly, eyes occasionally flicking to the window like he’s tracking every movement outside. Watching for anything that might hurt you. Even now.

It’s suffocating.

Not because he’s doing anything wrong. Because he’s not.

Because he’s sitting there being everything you never thought you’d get to have.

And all you can think is how quickly it could be taken away.

You shift in your seat. The silence stretches.

Joel glances over, quiet for a beat.

"You want me to head out?"

The question lands like a slap.

"No," you say too fast. Too harsh.

He raises his eyebrows slightly, then softens. "Alright."

You let out a shaky breath.

"I just—" Your voice breaks before you finish. "I’m not used to this."

Joel leans back slightly in the chair, giving you room.

"This?"

"You." You pause. "Someone staying."

He doesn’t speak.

"I keep waiting for you to get tired of this. Of me."

Joel’s jaw flexes.

"Not gonna happen."

"You say that now."

"I mean it now. And I’ll mean it tomorrow."

You shake your head and stand abruptly, pacing toward the window.

"I don’t need protecting, Joel. I don’t need you hovering like I’m some scared little thing that’s gonna fall apart again."

He stands too — but slowly. Measured.

"You think I don’t know how strong you are?"

"I think everyone looks at me like I’m glass."

Joel crosses the space between you in two quiet steps.

"You’re not glass."

He’s right behind you now. Not touching. Just there.

"You’re steel."

You blink hard. Your eyes burn. But the anger’s still caught in your throat like a splinter.

He leans in closer.

"You just forget sometimes. So I’ll remind you."

And that’s when the tension snaps.

You turn to face him, arms folded tight across your chest.

"They think you only want me because I’m broken," you say quietly. "That I’m some pathetic thing you took pity on. That you’re—"

You stop.

Joel’s eyes darken.

"That I’m what?"

You look away. Your throat’s tight.

"Slumming it," you whisper. "That you’re using me ‘til you want something better."

Joel goes still.

Then:

"Who said that?"

"It doesn’t matter."

"It does to me."

He steps in closer. Not touching. Just radiating heat now.

"You listen to me, and you listen close."

His voice is low. Controlled. Deadly.

"You’re not weak. You’re not some charity case. And if anyone in this town thinks I’m with you for anything less than wantin’ every fuckin’ piece of you—"

His hand curls gently under your chin, tilting your face up.

"—then maybe I should start makin’ that clear."

You try to look away. Joel doesn’t let you.

"You really think I’d put my hands on someone I didn’t want?"

"Joel—"

"No. I want you to answer me."

Your lips part, but nothing comes out.

He leans in, voice quieter but no less sharp.

"You think I’d spend every goddamn minute of my day wonderin’ how you’re holdin’ up? You think I’d cook for you, sleep in your bed, carry you home from the worst fuckin’ night of your life just to… what? Kill time?"

Tears sting your eyes. You blink them back, throat aching.

"I’ve seen what weak looks like, sweetheart. You are not it."

You open your mouth, try to speak, but your voice cracks.

"They make me feel like I am."

"Then fuck what they think."

He takes your wrist — gently — and presses it flat to his chest.

"You feel that?"

His heart. Steady. Strong.

"It beats harder every time you look at me."

Your breath hitches.

"You wanna know what I think when I see you?"

You nod, barely.

"I think about how you open this place every day when the whole fuckin’ world wants to swallow you. I think about how you never ask for help, even when you’re bleeding. I think about how soft your voice gets when you say my name, and how your hands shake when you’re trying not to cry, and how goddamn lucky I am that you let me see any of it."

His voice breaks — just a little.

"You think I’m here out of pity? Baby, I am wrecked for you."

You finally look at him. Eyes wet. Guard cracked wide open.

"I don’t know how to let you love me," you whisper.

Joel smiles. Not soft. Certain.

"Then I’ll fuckin’ teach you."

You don’t even have time to breathe before he kisses you.

It’s not rough. Not hungry. Not yet.

It’s firm. Anchored. His hand slides up to cradle the side of your face, thumb stroking your cheek like he’s grounding himself just as much as you. His lips part yours slowly, deliberately — no rush, no force, just a promise. One that sinks in deep.

You don’t realize you’re trembling until he pulls back just enough to whisper, “You okay?”

You nod.

Joel’s eyes darken.

“Then I want you to listen to every word I say, and I want you to believe it.”

You nod again — shakier this time.

“Say yes.”

“Yes,” you breathe.

His mouth trails from your lips to your jaw, then lower, kissing the spot just beneath your ear, where your pulse is fluttering hard.

“You’re beautiful when you cry,” he murmurs. “But I’d rather see you fall apart for a better reason.”

You let out a shaky laugh, and he smiles against your skin.

Then his hands slide down your waist — slow, reverent — and he backs you toward the wall like he’s lining up every thought he’s ever had about you. Every dirty dream. Every quiet, aching want.

Your back meets cool brick, and you gasp, but Joel’s already there — one hand splayed across your ribs, the other at your thigh.

“Let me see you,” he whispers.

You don’t hesitate.

You lift your arms as he pulls your sweater up over your head. Then your shirt. He doesn’t even touch your bra at first — just drags his fingers down the sides of your torso, feeling the shape of you, warm and solid and real.

His mouth follows the same path.

Kisses down the valley between your breasts, over your stomach, down to the waistband of your pants.

He looks up once — pupils blown wide, lips already parted.

“You still good?”

“Yes,” you whisper. “Please.”

He hums low in his throat.

“I like when you beg.”

He tugs your pants down slow — watching your face the whole time. Watches the way your breath stutters, your thighs press together. He kneels in front of you, big hands dragging down your legs as he helps you step out of them.

You brace your hands against the wall, trying to breathe through the heat building in your chest.

Then his mouth meets your inner thigh, and you forget how to breathe at all.

Joel doesn’t rush.

He kisses every inch of skin like he’s learning it — from your knees to the soft flesh near your hip. When his mouth finally moves over the fabric of your panties, you gasp.

"Joel—"

He shushes you gently, then licks a long, slow stripe through the center.

You whimper.

"Fuck, baby," he murmurs. "Already soaked for me."

You bite your lip.

His fingers slide the fabric aside, and then he’s on you — tongue deep, slow, relentless. Like he’s got nowhere else to be, like there’s no one else in the world but you.

Your hand flies to his hair.

“J-Joel—”

"That’s it," he murmurs against you. "Let me hear it."

He doesn’t stop. Doesn’t even think about stopping.

His tongue flicks over your clit while two fingers ease inside — slow, gentle, filling. You cry out, head hitting the wall, eyes rolling back as he works you open like he was made for this.

“You feel that?” he growls. “That’s mine now.”

You come hard.

Legs shaking, voice breaking, fingers gripping his hair as you fall apart for him with a soft, wrecked cry. Joel groans into you, tongue still moving as you ride it out, as if he can’t get enough of the way you taste, the way you sound.

And when you finally come down, breathless and trembling, he stands — wipes his mouth with the back of his hand and kisses you like he’s still hungry.

"That’s lesson one, baby," he says against your lips. "Now let’s see what else I can teach you."

He kisses you like he needs to own you.

Like the taste of your orgasm on his tongue wasn’t enough — like he wants to fuck the memory of every awful word ever said to you out of your body. You’re still gasping, legs shaky, brain barely catching up — and Joel’s already backing you into the wall like he’s starving for more.

“You still with me?” he murmurs, voice low and frayed.

You nod, breathless. “Yes. Joel, please…”

“Good,” he growls. “’Cause I’m not done with you.”

His hands are already back on your hips, spinning you gently to face the wall. His body crowding yours. Heavy. Hot. You barely catch your breath before he presses in, lips brushing the shell of your ear.

“Put your hands up. Keep ’em there.”

You do.

Forearms braced against the cool brick, your cheek resting between them. Your chest heaves when he kneels behind you and drags your panties down, slow and deliberate.

Then his palm spreads over your ass.

“Fuck, baby… look at this. Look at what’s mine.”

You whimper as his hand squeezes, then smacks — not hard, just enough to make your thighs twitch.

“Joel…”

“You’re so goddamn pretty like this. Drippin’ for me and beggin’ to be fucked.”

You hear the sound of his belt coming undone. The rasp of the zipper. The quiet groan that rumbles out of his chest when he strokes himself behind you.

“You want my cock?” he asks, voice rough. “Tell me.”

“Please, Joel—”

“Nah, that’s not beggin’. You want it, you tell me exactly what you need.”

You shiver. “I want you to fuck me.”

He groans.

“Yeah?” His hand spreads over your lower back, keeping you still. “Want me to ruin you, baby? Split you open on this cock? Fill you so fuckin’ deep you’ll be drippin’ me for days?”

“Yes—please, yes—”

“Then take it.”

He thrusts in with one slow, thick push — your body stretching around him, already so wet it makes him swear under his breath.

“God damn, you feel good.”

You cry out, the stretch of him too much and not enough all at once.

Joel leans in over your back, hand sliding up to wrap around your throat — not squeezing, just holding.

“You feel that?” he rasps, hips starting to move. “Feel me fuckin’ you like you need it?”

You nod frantically, every thrust punching little noises from your throat.

“That’s it. Take it like the good fuckin’ girl you are.”

You moan.

His voice gets filthier with every word, grinding against your ear as his cock drives into you — deep, relentless, claiming.

“This pussy’s mine now, y’hear me?”

You can’t speak. Can only sob out a broken yes.

He grabs your hair, tugs gently — just enough to pull your head back, your spine arching perfectly.

“They can all talk. Let ‘em,” Joel snarls. “But you know who fuckin’ owns you.”

“You do,” you gasp. “It’s yours, Joel—fuck—”

He snaps his hips forward harder — rough, brutal strokes that send heat spiraling through your gut.

“Yeah, that’s right. Say it again.”

“It’s yours. It’s yours—”

You come with a sob, walls clenching tight around him, body spasming so hard your knees nearly give out. Joel curses loud, hands holding you steady as he fucks you through it.

And then he breaks.

With one last bruising thrust, he buries himself deep and comes with a growl — low, wrecked, feral.

You feel every pulse of it inside you.

He stays there, chest pressed to your back, both of you gasping for air.

Then his mouth is on your shoulder, dragging soft kisses across the skin he just marked.

“Look at you,” he pants. “So fuckin’ perfect like this. Full of me.”

You let out a weak laugh. “I can’t feel my legs.”

Joel kisses your cheek. “Don’t worry, baby. I’ll carry you.”

Your legs barely work.

You’re still pressed against the wall, thighs sticky, body trembling, and Joel’s mouth is brushing slow kisses along your shoulder like he’s not the reason your bones feel like pudding.

“Can’t believe you made me come like that,” you murmur, breathless.

Joel chuckles — smug, low, and way too satisfied.

“Made you? Sweetheart, I was on my knees for that.”

You groan and turn your face into the wall. “Shut up.”

“Don’t remember you complainin’ when I had my tongue in you.” His hand slides over your bare hip. “In fact, pretty sure I remember you sayin’ this pussy was mine.”

“I was overstimulated.”

“You were beggin’.”

You snort and shove at his chest, which only makes him grin harder as he steps back to let you breathe.

“Alright, alright,” he says, hands raised in surrender. “Come on, pants on before you catch cold. Then I’m gettin’ you home.”

You blink. “You’re not staying?”

He tilts his head. “I am stayin’. I just think maybe you oughta be horizontal for it. Somewhere with heat. And a bed.”

You blush and reach for your leggings — still pooled on the bakery floor from earlier. It takes some effort to get them back on; your thighs twitch when you bend, and you hiss under your breath.

Joel notices.

“You good?”

“Fine.”

He doesn’t look convinced. “You’re walkin’ like I rearranged your spine.”

“You did.”

Joel chuckles and steps behind you again. “Well, lucky for you—”

He sweeps you off your feet before you can react, lifting you like it’s nothing.

You squeak. “Joel—!”

“I got you.”

He kisses your forehead and starts walking like it’s the most natural thing in the world — one arm under your knees, the other around your back, your legs covered but trembling against his solid frame.

“You do know I can technically walk.”

“Uh-huh. And I could technically let you.”

You sigh, but you don’t fight him.

Instead, you rest your head against his shoulder and let yourself be carried through the quiet streets of Jackson like something that matters.

Your apartment is warm and still when you get inside.

Joel sets you down gently on the edge of the bed, presses a kiss to your cheek, then disappears for a minute. You hear water running, a cabinet open, the sound of him moving through your space like he belongs there.

He returns with a warm cloth and a softness in his eyes that undoes you more than anything else tonight.

“You’re not gonna let me do anything for myself, are you?” you murmur.

“Nope.”

He cleans you up slow, gentle, careful. Helps you out of your sweater, leaving you in his shirt from earlier — it smells like him. Then he changes, too, and slides into bed behind you, arm wrapped around your waist.

For a moment, it’s just breathing.

Then you speak.

“Maria came by today.”

Joel stiffens behind you — not tense, but alert.

“Yeah?”

“She said he’s gone.”

Joel stays quiet.

“But he wasn’t banned. There wasn’t enough. Because I didn’t file anything.”

Now he goes still.

“They warned him,” you whisper. “That’s it.”

Joel’s voice is low. “You think he’s gonna come back?”

“I don’t know.”

His arm tightens around you like a reflex.

“If he does—he won’t leave again.”

You close your eyes. Swallow hard.

“I didn’t want to tell you.”

“Why not?”

You hesitate.

“I thought you’d leave.”

Joel shifts so you’re facing him, his palm finding your cheek.

“You really think I could walk away from you?”

“I don’t know. Maybe. After everything…”

He shakes his head. “There ain’t a version of this where I leave.”

You try to hold back the tears.

Joel presses a kiss to your forehead, your cheek, the corner of your mouth.

“You’re not broken. You’re not too much. And you’re not alone anymore.”

And this time, you believe him.

AN: Listen. I blacked out somewhere between “say it again” and Joel carrying her home like a fresh loaf of trauma bread. As always, if you wanna be added to the taglist, let me know 😇

Sweet on You Taglist: @suzysface, @vikiii07, @chewie-bars, @nrschuster30, @thecasualnope, @lady-artemis27, @seraphimcollections, @brittmb115 @dean-and-baby343 @biopicsabouthorsesonly @its-in-the-woods @cosm1c-babe @marysucks-blog @pascal-mynightlyobsession @winchestergypsy90

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worlds-we-write · 13 days ago

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The Dead Don’t Sing | Masterlist

paring: Joel Miller x Reader

summary: Long before Ellie, long before Joel remembered what it meant to hope, he found you—a voice on a midnight frequency, drifting out from a half-broken radio tower in the mountains. A former DJ clinging to vinyl and ghosts, you’ve been living alone, playing old songs for no one but the dead. Joel didn’t mean to stay. But the music, and the woman behind it, start to feel like something worth surviving for. Now the world wants what you have. And Joel? Joel’s willing to burn it all down to keep you safe.

tags: Post-Apocalyptic Slow Burn, Radio Station AU, Joel Miller x Reader, kinda dark!joel, Music as a Love Language, Protective Joel Miller, Trauma Bo and nding, Emotional Baggage, Soft Domestic Moments, Found Family Vibes, Enemies to Friends to Lovers (kinda), eventual smut, Age Gap Relationship, Hurt/Comfort, Joel Has Feelings (But Hates It), Reader Has Trust Issues, Mutual Pining, Slow Burn with Payoff, Lonely People Finding Each Other, Joel is So Tired But He Finds Peace With You, The World is Cruel But There’s Music

Chapter 1 (COMING SOON)

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Leave a reply if you’d like to be added to the taglist for future updates! 💌

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worlds-we-write · 13 days ago

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📣 Update!

I went back and revised Chapters 2 & 3 to fix POV slip-ups—but they’re now fully in second person to match the rest of the story.

Again I apologize for the mess up! Thanks to everyone who pointed it out—and for your patience while I cleaned it up! 💛

Shelter in the Storm | Series Masterlist

pairing: Jackson!Joel Miller x fem!reader

Summary: She came to Jackson broken and half-alive, carrying more weight than anyone could see. Joel didn’t mean to get close—but some things don’t give you a choice.

story warnings: This story contains themes of trauma, PTSD, self harm/suicidal ideations (one chapter) and emotional recovery. Future chapters will include depictions of hostage situations, non-consensual sexual assault (referenced, not graphically detailed), and non-consensual pregnancy resulting from that event. Please read with care. Tags and warnings will be updated as the story progresses.

Tags: Joel Miller x Reader, Jackson era, slow burn, hurt/comfort, trauma recovery, emotional baggage, found family, protective Joel Miller, reader is a survivor, reader has PTSD, past hostage situation (implied), PREGNANCY reveal, soft moments in a harsh world, Joel cares in his own way™, gentle intimacy, angst with hopeful undertones, canon-typical violence (referenced), no smut (yet). updated: 04.17.25

Chapter 1: Ashen

Chapter 2: Ash and Bone

Chapter 3: Cinders

Chapter 4: Heat Without Flame

Chapter 5: Quiet Embers

Chapter 6: Smolder

Chapter 7: What Survives the Flame

Chapter 8: The Warmth That Stays

Chapter 9: The Shape of Staying

Chapter 10: Everything Warmer, Everything Closer

Chapter 11: What Doesn't Stay Buried

Chapter 12: Aftershocks

Chapter 13: Still Want You

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

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worlds-we-write · 14 days ago

Text

Shelter in the Storm

Chapter 13: Still Want You

pairing: Jackson!Joel Miller x fem!reader

summary: Some time has passed. You’re stronger. Softer. Still healing. And when you finally let Joel touch you again, it isn’t about forgetting—it’s about remembering who you are when you’re wanted.

WC: 5.2K

tags: joel miller x reader, jackson era, second person pov, emotional intimacy, soft dom joel, fingering, dirty talk, tenderness, squirting, pregnant reader, slow burn, aftercare, reader comfort

Previous Chapter | Series Masterlist

The bruises have faded.

Not completely—but enough. Your ribs don’t ache when you laugh anymore. The burns around your wrists have healed into soft, pink lines. You can move easier. Breathe deeper. Sleep longer.

The dreams still come, sometimes.

But not as loud.

And Joel’s always there when they do.

You’ve been home for a few weeks now. Long enough that the silence doesn’t scare you. Long enough to know where the creaky floorboards are again. Long enough to settle into a rhythm—your rhythm.

You wake slowly in the mornings, sunlight filtering in through the window, the smell of coffee already drifting in from the kitchen. Joel usually rises before you, soft-footed and quiet as he stokes the fire or makes eggs like he’s done it for years.

He always brings you tea before he eats. Never says anything about it—just sets it down on your nightstand, presses a kiss to your forehead, and mumbles, “Mornin’, sweetheart.”

It never stops making your chest ache.

Your belly is round now.

There’s no hiding it anymore, not that you try. The baby moves constantly—stretches, rolls, kicks with stubborn insistence every time Joel speaks near your stomach. He acts unimpressed by it, but you’ve caught him more than once smiling into his palm when he thinks you’re not looking.

You’ve started working again. Slowly. A few hours a day at the stables, brushing Dusty, helping with feed, sweeping out stalls with one hand on your back. People don’t whisper as much now. They just nod when you pass. Some ask how you’re doing. You say “better.” And you mean it.

You’re not whole. Not yet.

But you’re not broken either.

And every day that passes with Joel beside you feels like something rebuilt. A piece you get to keep.

Still—there’s something unspoken between you.

Something warm and full and waiting.

You catch him looking at you differently now—like he’s holding back. Like he’s not sure how much of you you’re ready to give again. And the thing is… he doesn’t ask.

He just gives you space.

Patience.

Safety.

But lately, you’ve started to wonder what would happen if you reached back.

If you closed the space between you.

And tonight…

You think you might be ready.

The air in the stables still smells like hay and dust and cedar shavings.

Familiar. Comforting.

You’re careful on the icy steps. One hand resting low over your belly, the other gripping the railing as you step into the warmth of the barn. The early light streaks through the high windows, catching in the rising clouds of dust kicked up by your boots. For the first time in weeks, it doesn’t make your chest tighten.

It just feels… normal.

Dusty huffs when he sees you.

You smile.

He noses at your palm like he’s been waiting for you—like he knows, somehow, that something in you changed and he’s here to check if it’s still safe to lean close. You run your hand over his muzzle, slow and steady. He presses into it.

You whisper to him without meaning to. Just nonsense. Quiet words. The way you might to the baby. The way Joel sometimes does to you when he thinks you’re not quite awake.

The other stable hands greet you gently, casually—no tiptoeing anymore, no wide eyes like before. You muck out a stall slowly. Sweep the loose hay. Rest when you need to. No one questions it.

Maria finds you near the back, rolling up a saddle blanket. She doesn’t say much—just leans against the post beside you with a thermos in one hand and a clipboard in the other.

“How’s he doing?” she asks.

You glance down at your stomach. “Active.”

Maria smiles. “Good sign.”

You nod. Sip water from the flask clipped to your coat. Try not to stare at the bandage on her finger. The one that wasn’t there before.

She notices.

“There was a scuffle. A few of the raiders got sloppy. Tried to double back through the east woods,” she says. “We caught two.”

Your breath catches.

“They’re locked up outside town now,” she adds. “Not the one who… not him. But close.”

You nod slowly.

Something icy slips down your spine. But it doesn’t stick.

Because he’s not here.

And you’re not alone.

“You’re safe,” Maria says, like she already knows what you’re thinking.

“I know.”

She watches you for a beat. Then nods once. “Joel picking you up again?”

“Like clockwork.”

“Good.”

She leaves you with a little squeeze to your shoulder. No questions. Just presence.

By the time you’re done for the day, your back is aching and your hands are covered in dust—but it feels good. It feels like yours.

You step out into the crisp afternoon air, the sun barely cresting over the trees, and find him already waiting at the gate.

Joel’s leaning against the fencepost. Arms crossed. Rifle slung over his back, brow furrowed in that way that’s half-worry, half-just-his-face.

You smile before he sees you.

“Right on time,” you call out.

He lifts his head. And when he sees you—really sees you, flushed from the work, cheeks pink from the cold, belly round beneath your coat—you watch the tension leave his body all at once.

“You alright?” he asks, crossing toward you.

You nod. “Tired. Sore.”

He grunts. “You look good.”

Your brow lifts. “Was that a compliment, Miller?”

“Might’ve been,” he mutters.

You bump his arm. He doesn’t flinch.

And as you walk home together—his hand grazing yours, his presence steady beside you—you feel it again.

That hum beneath the quiet.

That want you’re no longer afraid to name.

You make it home just before dusk.

The sky is pale and bruised, the air cold enough to sting your cheeks. Joel opens the front door for you like he always does now—quiet, automatic. His hand finds the small of your back as you step inside. It lingers for a moment too long. You don’t mind.

The fire’s already burning.

The house smells like rosemary and something slightly burnt. You squint toward the kitchen and find Ellie standing at the counter, scraping something dark off a skillet with the back of a spoon.

Joel groans softly. “What’d you do?”

“I was experimenting,” she huffs, turning around. “It’s not that bad. I only singed the edges.”

You peer into the pan.

“…edges of what?”

She scowls. “Don’t worry about it. I’ll make soup.”

She pauses, eyes flicking between the two of you as you peel off your coat. You’re flushed from the walk, belly stretching your sweater slightly, hair mussed from the wind. Joel’s closer than usual. His hand is still on your back.

You can feel her stare before she says it.

“So, like… are you two just gonna keep pretending you’re not married?”

Joel snorts. You freeze.

“What?”

“I’m serious,” Ellie says, totally unbothered. “You bicker like an old couple. You eat dinner together every night. You do the forehead kiss thing. That’s peak domestic.”

Joel mutters, “Jesus Christ.”

You blink. “We don’t—”

Ellie raises her eyebrows and gestures vaguely at your whole body. “You’re literally in his clothes.”

You glance down. You are in Joel’s hoodie. Again.

Your face warms. You try to brush it off with a laugh. “We’re not married.”

“Yeah, okay,” Ellie says, turning back to the soup. “Keep telling yourselves that.”

You glance at Joel.

He looks back at you.

And for a second—just a second—there’s something there. Unspoken. Quiet. A flicker of something warmer beneath the surface.

You don’t say anything.

Neither does he.

But later, when you’re washing dishes and he reaches past you to grab a towel, his hand grazes your hip—and doesn’t pull away right away.

And you wonder if maybe you don’t want to pretend anymore.

Ellie left just after dinner.

She waved off your offer to help clean, muttered something about needing to beat someone at cards before curfew, and disappeared into the cold with her hood half-up and a leftover roll in her pocket. Joel watched her go from the doorway, arms crossed, quiet as ever.

Then it was just the two of you again.

The fire crackled.

The dishes were washed.

You made tea while Joel tossed a few more logs on the flames, his flannel sleeves pushed to his elbows, revealing those forearms you tried very hard not to keep staring at.

You sat together on the couch like always.

He sipped from his cup. You curled into the corner, feet tucked under a blanket, your fingers brushing the rim of your mug.

Comfort.

Safety.

Routine.

But there was something else tonight. Something humming low beneath it all. A pulse that hadn’t been there before. Or maybe it had—maybe it had just been waiting.

You caught him watching you.

Not in a way that made you shrink.

In a way that made your breath catch in your throat.

“What?” you asked quietly.

Joel shook his head.

“Nothing.”

But he didn’t look away.

Neither did you.

You set your mug down. Rested your hand lightly over your belly. The baby shifted beneath your skin—a soft, lazy roll.

Joel noticed.

He reached out. Not hesitantly. Not overly cautious. Just… naturally.

Like it was his right to touch you now. Like he’d earned it. Slowly. Quietly.

His hand rested warm and wide against your stomach.

You both watched it rise and fall.

“You okay?” he asked, voice low.

You nodded. “Yeah.”

He kept his hand there a moment longer.

Then pulled it back.

You felt the absence immediately.

You turned toward him, pulling your knees up slightly. The blanket slipped a little lower.

“You’re quiet tonight,” you said.

Joel shrugged. “Just… don’t wanna push.”

You studied his face.

He looked tired. Not from worry this time—but from waiting.

You knew it in your bones. He’d been holding back. Careful. Patient. Letting you lead.

But you didn’t want distance anymore.

Not tonight.

Your hand found his on the cushion.

He stilled.

And when you leaned in, closer than you had in weeks, your voice was barely more than a breath:

“Then let me.”

You don’t rush it.

You just shift a little closer—barely noticeable at first—and let your hand slide from Joel’s to the edge of his thigh. Your fingers graze denim. He goes still under the touch.

Not tense. Not hesitant.

Just still. Like he’s waiting to see if this is real.

You look up at him.

The firelight flickers across his face, painting shadows beneath his eyes, across the stubble lining his jaw. He’s watching you with that same quiet restraint he’s worn for weeks—like every part of him is held back with a white-knuckled grip.

“I’ve been thinking about kissing you,” you admit softly.

His brow creases. “Yeah?”

You nod.

Joel’s throat works around a swallow. “How long?”

“Since before the bruises faded.”

He huffs—just a quiet breath that might’ve been a laugh if it weren’t so full of ache.

“You don’t have to,” he says, like he’s giving you an out. Like he’s giving himself one.

“I know.”

You shift in closer. Your knee brushes his. His hand—resting on his thigh—starts to rise but stops halfway, like he’s not sure where to put it. You make the decision for him. You reach out, take it gently, and guide it to your waist.

His breath stutters the second his palm meets your side.

But he doesn’t pull away.

And when you lean in—slow, slow, deliberate—he meets you halfway.

The first kiss is soft.

Tentative.

Your lips press against his like a question. One you already know the answer to.

Joel exhales against your mouth.

You pull back a breath, just enough to see him.

He’s staring at you like you hung the stars.

You kiss him again.

And this time—there’s nothing tentative about it.

You climb into his lap without asking, knees bracketing his thighs, hands sliding into his hair. He grips your hips, low and steady, but still holds back—like he’s afraid to pull you closer unless you beg for it.

So you do.

You rock your hips into his gently. Kiss him deeper. Sigh into his mouth.

He groans.

It’s low and rough and damn near ruins you.

“Joel,” you whisper, lips brushing his jaw now, your fingers clutching his shoulders.

“You sure about this?” he murmurs, breath warm against your neck.

“Yes,” you say without hesitation. “I want this.”

His hands tighten just slightly, thumbs brushing the swell of your hips.

“I need to take my time,” he says, like it’s a promise.

You nod. “I want you to.”

He kisses you again—this time deeper, slower. His tongue slides against yours with aching precision, and you whimper into it, clinging tighter to his chest. Your body’s already buzzing, already unraveling beneath the heat of him.

Joel kisses like a man who’s thought about this a hundred times and waited for a thousand more. His hands stay firm on your hips, grounding you. His mouth trails from yours to your jaw, then down your throat, and you tilt your head back, offering him everything.

“You’re so fuckin’ soft,” he murmurs, mouth moving lower. “So damn sweet.”

You whimper again when his teeth graze the curve of your neck.

And it’s in that moment—straddling him, panting, every inch of you lit up under his mouth—that you realize you’re not afraid.

You’re starving.

And you trust him enough to fall apart again—this time on purpose.

You don’t whisper it this time.

You look him in the eye, breath shallow, chest rising and falling where you’re straddling his lap, and say it without hesitation.

“I want this.”

Joel’s lips part like he’s going to respond, but nothing comes out. His hands are already on your hips, tight through the fabric of your leggings, and you feel how hard he is beneath you—how much he’s been holding back.

“I want you,” you add, softer now. “Not just the safety. Not just the comfort. I want your hands on me. I want to feel everything.”

That’s what breaks him.

He grabs your jaw, firm but careful, holding your gaze.

“You don’t get to say shit like that,” he growls, voice low and hot against your mouth, “and expect me to behave.”

You shudder. You love that voice. Love the weight in it. The command.

“I don’t want you to behave.”

He groans, kisses you hard—teeth, tongue, heat. It’s not gentle now. Not timid. You gave him permission, and Joel takes it.

“Gonna give you exactly what you want, baby,” he mutters between kisses. “Gonna ruin that pretty little body ‘til you can’t think straight.”

You whimper, hips grinding down against him, your clit catching deliciously against the seam of your leggings. He hisses at the contact.

“Fuck—look at you. So needy. Rubbin’ yourself on me like a desperate little thing.”

Your hands claw at his shirt, nails scraping up the back of his neck.

“Joel, please—”

“Take these off,” he commands, tugging at your waistband. “I want you bare. Now.”

You lift off him enough to shimmy your leggings and underwear down your thighs. Joel helps you rip them off the rest of the way, tossing them somewhere to the side.

You settle back into his lap, completely exposed—and he just looks at you.

“Goddamn,” he rasps, hand sliding down between your thighs. “You’re soaked.”

His fingers drag through your folds—slow, deliberate. You jolt at the contact.

“Sensitive, huh?” he says, voice full of smug warmth. “Bet no one’s ever touched you like this before.”

You shake your head, already dizzy.

Joel grins. “No? That’s alright. I’ll make sure you don’t forget it.”

He pushes two fingers inside you without warning, and your mouth falls open in a silent moan. They curl immediately, rubbing against that spot deep inside you that makes your vision go white around the edges.

“Joel—fuck—oh my God—”

“There you go,” he murmurs, watching your face. “That’s it, sweetheart. Take it. Let me feel you.”

His other hand slides to your clit—two fingers rubbing soft, slow circles that have you jerking in his lap.

“You feel that?” he growls, voice rough. “How wet you are for me? Drippin’ down my fuckin’ hand.”

You nod frantically, fingers fisting his shirt. Your thighs start to shake. He fucks you a little harder, a little deeper, his mouth right at your ear now.

“Bet you could come just like this, couldn’t you? Just from my fingers.”

You whimper, desperate. “Yes—please, I need—”

He grabs a fistful of your hair and makes you look at him.

“Then do it. Show me how pretty you come.”

And when you do—when it hits you, fast and violent, toes curling, body arching—Joel doesn’t stop. His fingers keep moving, rough and skilled and relentless. You try to squirm away, but he wraps his arm around your waist and holds you down.

“You’re not done,” he grits out. “C’mon, baby. Let go for me. I know you can.”

“Joel—fuck—wait, I—!”

Too late.

Your whole body locks up, thighs clamping around his wrist—and then it happens.

A rush of heat and wetness and release like you’ve never felt before.

You squirt.

All over his hand. His jeans. The couch beneath you.

You’re panting. Trembling. Shaking.

And Joel just stares.

“Well, fuck,” he mutters, dragging his soaked fingers from between your legs. “Didn’t know you had that in you.”

You’re still gasping when he leans in, presses a filthy, reverent kiss to your lips.

You didn’t realize you were crying until Joel kissed the corner of your eye.

Not sobbing. Not broken.

Just… overwhelmed.

Breathless and boneless in his lap, your skin flushed, your heart racing, your thighs sticky with slick and sweat and everything else.

You blinked down.

The mess was unmistakable.

You’d soaked his jeans. The couch cushion beneath you was dark, glistening. His fingers were still wet. Your skin was too hot.

“I—” Your voice cracked. “Shit. I didn’t mean—”

Joel stilled.

His arms tightened around your waist instantly, pulling you close, pressing you back to his chest.

“Hey,” he murmured, voice low and warm. “Don’t do that.”

You tried to pull away again. “I—I didn’t know I could—God, that’s so—”

“So what?” he interrupted, lips brushing your temple. “Beautiful?”

You let out a strangled laugh. “Messy.”

“Yeah. You think I give a damn about that?”

You didn’t answer.

Joel leaned in, pressed another kiss to your jaw. Then your cheek. Then your collarbone.

“I loved it,” he said, slower now, like he needed you to hear every syllable. “You were incredible. That was all you. That wasn’t too much. Wasn’t too messy. Wasn’t wrong. It was perfect.”

You swallowed hard, your face still burning.

Joel cupped your face gently in one big, calloused hand, making you look at him.

“You ever been so turned on you couldn’t hold back?” he asked.

You nodded, reluctantly.

“That’s all this was,” he said, rubbing his thumb across your cheekbone. “You gave your body permission to feel good. You trusted me. That’s not something I’m ever gonna forget, sweetheart.”

Your eyes filled again—but for a different reason now.

“Wasn’t too much?” you asked, barely audible.

Joel huffed, leaning in until his forehead pressed to yours.

“You could never be too much.”

You didn’t say anything.

Just curled tighter into his chest and let him hold you.

Eventually, he stood with you in his arms, carried you to the bathroom without a word, and ran a warm cloth between your legs, gentle and thorough and quiet. Not rushed. Not ashamed. Like he’d done it a hundred times and would do it a hundred more.

He pressed soft kisses to the insides of your thighs.

To your hip.

To your belly, where your son kicked once, slow and content.

Then he helped you into a clean shirt—his, of course—and pulled you back into his lap on the couch.

“Better?” he asked.

You nodded.

And for the first time in a long time, you believed you could be messy, and wanted, and soft—all at once.

You woke to the feeling of breath on the back of your neck.

Soft. Warm. Steady.

And a hand resting over your belly—large, rough, familiar. His thumb moved in slow, absent circles against your skin like he didn’t even know he was doing it.

You smiled before you opened your eyes.

The fire had gone out during the night, but the heat still lingered in the blankets. You were tucked between Joel and the couch cushions, your body wrapped in one of his worn t-shirts, the cotton soft against your skin. Your thighs ached in a way that made your chest flutter, and your lips still tingled where he’d kissed you last.

You shifted slightly—enough to press back against him. Joel made a low sound in his chest, something between a sigh and a groan.

“You awake?” you whispered.

“Was tryin’ not to be,” he muttered into your hair. “But you’re wiggly.”

You laughed quietly, still half-asleep. “Sorry.”

“Don’t be,” he murmured. “I like wakin’ up to you.”

You turned in his arms, slowly, so you were facing him.

His hair was messy, sticking up in the back. His eyes were puffy with sleep. There was a faint red scratch on his collarbone—you didn’t remember leaving it, but the sight of it stirred something possessive and soft in your chest.

You reached out and touched his jaw, thumb brushing over his beard.

He just looked at you.

Like he didn’t know how the hell he’d ended up with you in his arms, but wasn’t about to question it.

“You okay?” he asked.

You nodded. “More than.”

Joel’s hand moved to your hip. His thumb slipped under the hem of your shirt and rested against your bare skin. You didn’t pull away.

“Did I hurt you?”

The question came out gruff. Careful.

You shook your head. “No. You… Joel, you were perfect.”

He exhaled slow. Relief written in every line of his face.

A moment passed like that. Still and warm and quiet.

Then—

“I’ve never done that before,” you admitted, voice barely above a whisper. “What happened last night. That’s never happened to me.”

Joel’s brow arched slightly. “Yeah?”

You blushed, even though you didn’t want to. “Yeah.”

“Shit,” he said softly. Then, almost reverently: “I’m honored.”

You gave him a look. “You’re smug about it.”

“Not smug,” he said, pulling you closer. “Just real fuckin’ lucky.”

You tucked your face into his chest to hide your smile. His hand came up to cradle your head, fingers sliding into your hair, holding you there.

The world could’ve stayed like that forever.

Eventually, he shifted beneath you, glancing toward the dim light creeping in through the windows.

“You hungry?”

You hummed. “Only if you’re cooking.”

Joel grunted. “You’re spoiled.”

“You made me that way.”

“Damn right I did.”

You giggled—actually giggled—and Joel grinned like he hadn’t heard that sound from you in far too long.

He kissed your temple once, then again, slower. His lips lingered.

“You need more sleep,” he murmured.

“Maybe.”

“C’mere,” he said, tugging the blanket up around both of you again. “Just a few more minutes.”

You didn’t argue.

You curled into his chest, let your legs tangle with his, and closed your eyes again.

And for the first time since everything, sleep found you easily.

Because here, in this moment—in Joel’s arms, in the quiet aftermath of want and love and softness—you didn’t just feel safe.

You felt wanted.

And that was everything.

You didn’t expect her that early.

Joel had gone outside to split wood, sleeves rolled up, jaw tight in that way he got when he was trying to avoid saying something he didn’t mean. You were still on the couch, wrapped in his flannel and one of the softer blankets, slowly sipping tea and watching the baby roll lazily beneath your hand.

The knock was light. Rhythmic.

You already knew who it was.

You shuffled to the door and cracked it open.

“Hey,” Ellie said, bouncing slightly on her toes. “Didn’t know if you’d be up. Figured I’d check in before patrol.”

You blinked at her, a little groggy. “It’s barely nine.”

“Exactly,” she smirked. “Prime lurking hours.”

You raised a brow but stepped aside to let her in.

Ellie didn’t go far—just stepped inside, arms crossed, eyes scanning the cabin. Her gaze landed on the blanket pile you’d just crawled out of. Then the tea. Then the stove.

And then—Joel’s t-shirt hanging low over your thighs.

Her mouth quirked.

You knew that look.

“What,” you said flatly.

“Nothing.”

“Ellie—”

“I didn’t say anything.”

You stared her down. She stared right back.

Then—deadpan:

“You’re wearing his shirt.”

You shrugged. “I’ve worn his shirt before.”

She arched a brow. “Yeah, but not like that.”

You flushed, just slightly. “You done?”

“Nope,” she said brightly, dropping onto a chair and grabbing one of the apples from your basket. “You look chill. Like, real chill. Glow-y.”

“I do not.”

“You do,” she said, taking a bite. “It’s giving… well-fucked forest wife.”

Your mouth dropped open. “Ellie.”

She snorted, absolutely delighted with herself.

“You’re impossible.”

“You’re blushing,” she sing-songed.

You threw a dish towel at her.

She dodged it with practiced ease, already on her feet again. “Okay, okay, I’m going. Just had to see it with my own eyes.”

She paused at the door, glancing over her shoulder.

“I’m happy for you, y’know,” she said, more genuine now. “Both of you. It’s good. You’re good.”

You softened. “Thanks.”

She grinned. “Tell Joel to put a shirt on before he ruins my last shred of innocence.”

And then she was gone.

You closed the door behind her, cheeks still warm, and turned around—

Right into Joel.

Bare-chested, arms crossed, smirking like the devil himself.

“She’s got good instincts,” he said.

You groaned.

And when he stepped closer, pressed a slow kiss to your cheek and rested a hand on your belly, you realized… you didn’t mind being seen like this.

Not anymore.

The cabin was quiet again.

Joel had gone out back with a radio slung over his shoulder, muttering something about helping Tommy patch a fence. You didn’t ask how long he’d be. You just kissed him at the door—on purpose, like it was the most natural thing in the world—and watched the way his eyes lingered on your face before he left.

Now, it was just you.

The afternoon light spilled soft across the floorboards. The fire crackled low in the hearth. Your tea had gone cold.

And Ellie’s journal sat on the table in front of you, still mostly blank.

You stared at it for a long time.

Then—without really thinking—you picked it up, flipped to the second page, and smoothed your hand over the paper.

Not the first page.

Not the one with the letter you’d written to the man who hurt you.

You hadn’t touched that since the day you wrote it.

This page was clean.

New.

You uncapped the pen and let it hover above the paper.

And then—

Hi, baby.

The words came easily.

You’re not here yet. But you’ve already made my world quieter, softer. Louder, too. Messier. Real.

You paused.

Smiled a little.

You’re going to grow up in a place that’s been broken and rebuilt. You’ll hear stories about who we lost. What we’ve fought through. But I hope you never have to feel the fear we did. I hope the world is gentler for you.

You reached down, rested your hand over your belly.

The baby kicked once, like he was answering.

You were made in pain. But you are not defined by it. You are more than your beginning. You are joy. You are mine. You are ours. And you are already so loved.

Your chest ached.

Tears burned the backs of your eyes, but you let them come.

Joel loves you. Even if he doesn't always say it in those exact words, he does. I see it every time he rests his hand here. Every time he holds me. Every time he waits for me to be ready.

You hesitated. Then wrote:

You saved me, too.

You sat back.

Let the ink dry.

Folded the page once—not to hide it, just to hold it—and tucked it between the covers of the journal.

When Joel came home a few minutes later, stomping snow from his boots, you were still sitting at the table.

He looked at you.

You looked back.

He crossed the room, leaned over, and pressed a kiss to the top of your head.

“Whatcha writin’?”

You reached for his hand and laid it over your belly.

“Something he’ll read someday.”

Joel’s eyes softened.

He said nothing.

But his thumb rubbed slow over your skin, and you knew he didn’t need to speak.

Because everything you needed—everything you were becoming—was right here.

That night, you lay curled against Joel in bed, the fire burning low in the hearth again, casting gold across the walls.

The baby had been quiet most of the evening—occasional little nudges, but nothing like his usual wild flutters. It felt like even he knew you needed the quiet.

Joel was warm behind you, chest against your back, one arm slung low around your belly, the other tucked beneath your pillow. His breath moved slow and steady against your neck, like the rhythm of it alone could keep the world from spinning too fast.

You stared at the ceiling, not quite tired.

Not quite anxious, either.

Just… thinking.

About the letter. About what Ellie said. About the way Joel had kissed you before dinner, and how easy it had felt to kiss him back.

“You awake?” you whispered.

Joel hummed.

“Today was good,” you said.

“Yeah,” he murmured, voice low and thick with sleep. “It was.”

You shifted slightly so your back pressed closer to his chest. His hand slid instinctively along your side, curling protectively around the swell of your belly.

“You think we’ll be okay?”

It wasn’t a dramatic question. Just honest. Wondering. Wondering if the quiet would last. If this—him, you, this baby—could actually be something more than a fragile, borrowed peace.

Joel didn’t answer right away.

Then: “I think we already are.”

You turned your face toward him, and he kissed your cheek without opening his eyes.

You were still afraid.

Of the world. Of what the future might ask of you. Of how your heart could still break in a hundred new ways.

But you weren’t alone anymore.

And maybe—maybe you didn’t need to have every answer yet.

Maybe it was enough to want the answers. To keep reaching.

To stay.

Outside, snow had started to fall again. Soft and slow. Quiet.

And when you finally drifted off to sleep—wrapped in Joel’s arms, your son nestled safely beneath your skin—you didn’t dream of pain.

You dreamed of home.

AN: Okay so… that happened 👀 This chapter has been simmering for a while, and writing that first moment of intimacy between them felt so earned. The tenderness, the tension, the way Joel just takes his time—I’m soft. I’m sweating. I’m spiraling.

💌🔥 If you wanna be tagged for more chapters like this, where things finally start heating up, just say the word 👀💬

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worlds-we-write · 14 days ago

Text

Sweet on You

Chapter 3: Burned at the Edges

pairing: Jackson!joel miller x baker!reader

summary: Things are changing in Jackson — the whispers, the looks, the way safety doesn’t feel quite as solid anymore. But when old fear resurfaces and quiet strength isn’t enough, she learns who’s really standing beside her when it matters most.

WC: 4.3K

tags: Joel Miller x Reader, Jackson Era, Age Gap, Protective Joel, Reader Has Trauma, Hurt/Comfort, Panic Attack, Past Abuse, Angst with Comfort, Joel Fights For Her, Emotional Intimacy, Slow Burn

Series Masterlist

The bakery smells like cinnamon and brown sugar.

Like it always does.

The ovens are warm, the sourdough has just finished its second rise, and the front display is already half-empty from the morning rush. It should feel like any other day — comforting, quiet, routine.

But it doesn’t.

You can feel it the second the bell jingles.

The first customer — someone you’ve served a dozen times before — lingers too long at the counter. Doesn’t make eye contact. Offers a tight, polite smile that doesn’t quite reach her eyes. When you pass her the scone, her fingers brush yours, and she pulls back too quickly.

“Thanks,” she says — too soft, too clipped.

She drops her coins into the jar and hurries out.

You blink, confused. Then shake it off.

Maybe she’s just cold. Maybe she’s in a rush. Maybe she’s—

The next one’s worse.

An older man who usually greets you by name steps inside, gives a casual nod… and doesn’t say a word beyond his order. No banter. No “morning, sweetheart.” Just:

“Loaf of rye.”

You wrap it. Smile. “Fresh batch just came out. Still warm.”

“S’fine.”

He leaves the coins and walks out without another glance.

This time, your chest tightens.

It keeps happening. One after the other. Familiar faces that suddenly feel distant. Too quiet. Too aware. As if something about you is louder now — and they’re pretending not to notice.

Or pretending it’s not their business.

You catch it fully about halfway through the morning, just behind the curtain that separates the kitchen from the front room. You hear it — two women by the register.

“I heard she’s staying with him now.” “Joel Miller?” “Mmhmm.” “Well… I guess everyone needs a warm bed.” Laughter.

You freeze.

The sheet of parchment you were rolling out crinkles under your grip. You don’t move. You don’t breathe.

You know they don’t mean to be cruel. Not exactly.

But they are.

And you feel it deep.

You step back into the kitchen, hands trembling, and press your palms to the cool metal counter. Try to breathe. Try to focus.

You’ve lived through worse than gossip.

You’ve lived through him.

But the weight of their words — casual, sharp-edged, smug — makes something twist in your gut.

Because this isn’t just about you.

It’s about Joel now, too.

And maybe worse than being ignored… is being noticed for the wrong reasons.

You manage to hold it together until the front bell jingles again and the door shuts behind your last customer.

You slide the tray into the warmer with steady hands, smile pinned to your face until the curtain falls behind you and you’re safely out of sight.

And then it hits.

Your chest tightens. Stomach knots. Breath stutters.

You grip the edge of the prep table, fingers digging into the wood. The air feels thick in your lungs. Like you’re breathing through flour. Like everyone out there saw something on you — a stain, a mark, a weakness — and now you can’t scrape it off.

“Everyone needs a warm bed.”

The words echo in your head. Sticky and cruel.

Your ex used to say things like that. Whisper them in your ear after fights. After bruises. After you cried.

Used up. Not worth keeping. Just a hole to keep warm.

You feel your knees wobble.

You sit down hard on the stool by the sink, hands shaking.

You press your palms against your temples and breathe. Try to ground yourself. The bakery is safe. The bakery is yours. Joel’s voice is in your head from last night: You’re not too much. You’re mine.

You whisper it to yourself.

“You’re mine. You’re mine. You’re mine.”

You don’t cry. Not really. Just shake. Just fold a little inward.

And then you hear it — the familiar creak of the door. Boots on tile.

“Hey,” comes Joel’s voice, slow and low. “Didn’t see you out front. You alright?”

You freeze.

Wipe your face with your sleeve.

“Yeah,” you say too fast. Too bright. “Just needed a break. It’s been… busy.”

Joel steps into view.

He sees you perched on that little stool, hands still trembling slightly in your lap. Your smile — practiced and a little too tight. Your apron wrinkled like you’d been clutching it in your fists.

He doesn’t call you out.

Doesn’t say you’re lying.

Joel crouches in front of you, steady as ever. One hand on your knee. The other braced lightly on the edge of the prep table. He doesn’t push. Doesn’t rush.

He just waits.

You want to tell him.

You want to say: They’re talking. They’re looking at me like I’m a dirty secret. Like I’m not good enough for you.

But the words won’t come. They get stuck somewhere behind your teeth — tangled up with years of silence, and the voice in your head that still tells you it’s better not to need anyone at all.

You force a smile.

“I’m fine. Really.”

Joel’s eyes narrow. Not unkind — just sharp. He sees straight through it.

“Did something happen?”

“No. Just a busy morning. That’s all.”

He watches you for another second, then nods slowly. But he doesn’t let go of your knee.

“You been sleepin’?”

You nod.

“Eatin’?”

Another nod. Less convincing.

“You sure you don’t want me to walk you home tonight?”

That one hits harder.

You pause.

“I think I just… need some quiet. That’s all.”

Joel’s jaw flexes — just once. A tiny flicker of something that looks like worry.

But he doesn’t fight you.

Doesn’t tell you what to do.

Just nods again, slow and deliberate.

“You call me,” he says quietly. “If anything feels off. Anything at all.”

“I will.”

You won’t.

You both know it.

Joel stands. Squeezes your knee gently before letting go. Then leans down, presses a soft kiss to the top of your head.

“I’ll see you tomorrow.”

And then he leaves.

You stay on the stool long after the door closes behind him.

The lunch rush is gone.

You’re wiping down the front counter when the bell chimes again — softer this time, not frantic or fast. The way it sounds when someone walks in with purpose.

Maria.

She’s not in a rush. Not armed like she usually is when she’s making her rounds. No clipboard today, no radio chatter echoing from her shoulder. Just a heavy coat, a wool scarf, and a look in her eyes you recognize too well.

She’s here for you.

“Hey,” she says casually. “Got any of those honey oat loaves left?”

You force a smile, reaching behind the counter. “One.”

She nods, walking slowly toward the display, eyes skimming the shelves but not really seeing them.

“It’s quieter in here than usual,” she murmurs.

“It’s been like that all morning,” you say, placing the bread in a paper bag. “Weather, probably.”

She tilts her head slightly. “Mm. Or maybe Jackson’s gossip mill just needed something new to chew on.”

You freeze, just for a second. Then slide the bag across the counter.

“Three credits,” you say.

Maria pulls the coins from her pocket, slow and deliberate. Sets them down one by one.

“You know,” she says, voice still soft, “I’ve seen a lot of things change around here. People. Alliances. Reputations.”

You say nothing.

She picks up the bag. Doesn’t move toward the door.

“You and Joel — it’s not my business. And for the record, I don’t think anyone decent gives a shit.”

You shift on your feet, throat tight.

Maria leans forward slightly, voice dropping.

“But I also know what it looks like when a woman starts shrinking into herself. Starts looking over her shoulder again. Starts pretending she’s okay when she’s walking around like she’s holding her breath.”

You blink fast. Swallow.

“If someone’s making you feel unsafe,” she says carefully, “you need to tell me.”

“I’m fine,” you say quickly. Too quickly.

Maria stares at you a beat longer.

Then:

“Just remember what we built this place for, alright? Jackson’s not perfect. But we don’t protect abusers here.”

That hits.

Hard.

You nod, barely.

She backs off then — gives you space.

“If you want to talk… or you want someone else to say it for you — I’ll be around.”

You manage a small, whispered, “Thanks.”

Maria gives you one last look — unreadable, but not unkind — then leaves with her bread.

You don’t breathe again until the door shuts behind her.

The bakery is dark when you lock up.

You stand by the door for a second, keys in your hand, listening to the wind whistle down Main Street. It’s quiet tonight. Still. The kind of quiet that would’ve comforted you, once.

Now it feels like something waiting.

You glance toward the back room, where the radio sits on the shelf near your flour bins. Joel’s voice lives there. Solid. Steady. Always willing.

You call me. If anything feels off. Anything at all.

Your feet move before you even think about it.

You step inside, flick the little lamp on, and wrap your hand around the radio.

It’s warm from the oven heat still lingering in the room. Familiar.

You press your thumb to the button — just lightly. Not enough to click.

“Joel…”

You don’t say it. Just think it.

You imagine what he’d say. How fast he’d be here. How angry he’d be if he knew you were even considering walking home alone through the back path.

But that’s the thing.

He’d come.

And you’d feel safe.

And then you’d feel weak for needing it.

You stare at the radio for another few seconds, then exhale sharply and set it down — harder than you mean to. The plastic rattles against the shelf.

“I’m fine,” you whisper to the empty room.

Then you turn off the light.

And step out into the dark.

You pull your coat tighter around you as you step out of the bakery and into the dark.

The cold bites at your cheeks, the air sharp and dry. Snow crunches beneath your boots, and the lamps overhead flicker with a low hum, casting long shadows across the quiet path.

This street used to feel safe.

It still is, technically — Jackson’s not like the world outside. There are rules. Guards. Curfews. Everyone plays their part to keep things in order.

But tonight?

Tonight it feels like something’s watching.

You walk faster.

The main street would’ve been the smarter choice — well-lit, even this late, with a few folks still moving around the square. But you told Joel you needed space. You told yourself you’d be fine. So you took the shortcut.

The alley behind the town’s supply sheds is narrow but clean, lined with stacked crates and the back doors of shops you know by heart.

You’ve walked it a hundred times.

But tonight every footstep echoes.

Every creak of wood sounds like a warning.

You tell yourself it’s in your head. That it’s just a long day, gossip getting under your skin, Maria’s words bouncing around in your ribs. You’re tired. That’s all.

Still, you slip your keys between your fingers — just in case.

Halfway down the alley, you pause.

You thought you heard—

A footstep?

Maybe.

You glance behind you.

Nothing.

You start walking again, faster now. The alley curves slightly at the end, toward the fence that runs along the greenhouse.

Almost home.

Almost—

You round the corner.

And stop.

He’s standing there.

Leaning against the brick, arms crossed, one boot kicked back against the wall. Like he’s been waiting. Like this isn’t the first time he’s done this.

Your ex.

The one who never yells. Who doesn’t need to yell. Who smiles while he makes you feel small. Who looks at you now like he never stopped being allowed to.

Your stomach drops.

You don’t run.

You don’t speak.

You just freeze.

You freeze mid-step.

He pushes off the wall like he’s got all the time in the world. Like you came to him.

“Hey, sweetheart,” he says — voice too smooth, too familiar. “Funny runnin’ into you out here.”

You don’t answer.

Your fingers tighten around your keys, hidden in your coat pocket, the edges biting into your palm.

“Thought maybe you were avoidin’ me,” he continues, stepping forward. “That true?”

You take a half-step back.

But there’s nowhere to go. Behind you is darkness and snow. In front of you is a man who already knows how to make you feel trapped with just a tone of voice.

“Heard you been spendin’ time with Joel Miller,” he says, smile curling in a way that turns your stomach. “Didn’t think he liked broken things.”

You flinch — visibly, involuntarily.

He sees it.

He feeds on it.

“You know what people are sayin’?” he continues. “They’re laughin’ at you. Sayin’ he must be real desperate. Sayin’ he probably feels sorry for you.”

He steps closer.

You try to move around him. He blocks you.

“Ain’t nobody ever gonna really want you, y’know that?” he hisses. “Not after me. Not once they know what you let happen.”

The words hit harder than any shove ever could.

Your throat burns.

You want to scream. Tell him to fuck off. Run.

But your body won’t move. Your chest won’t expand. Your voice won't rise above a breath.

“You’re just a place to put it,” he says. “You always were.”

And then he grabs your arm.

Not hard — not like before.

But enough.

Enough to slam you back to that place where your brain goes blank and your ribs squeeze shut around your lungs. Enough to send you spiraling through a memory you never wanted to feel again.

He shoves you gently — just enough to press you back against the wall.

And leans in.

“Bet Miller doesn’t even know what you sound like when you cry.”

Your stomach turns.

You try to twist away, to push, to say something — anything — but all that comes out is a ragged gasp.

That’s when you hear it.

Bootsteps.

Heavy. Rushed.

And Joel’s voice — low, furious:

“Get your fuckin’ hands off her.”

The voice cuts through the dark like a blade.

You feel your ex’s hand twitch where it’s still pressed to the wall beside your head — startled — but he doesn’t move away.

You don’t look up at first. Can’t. Your breath is caught somewhere high in your chest.

But then Joel is there.

Fast. Heavy. Burning.

You see him out of the corner of your eye — broad shoulders, dark coat, fists clenched at his sides. The heat rolling off him is more than anger. It’s wrath.

Your ex turns slowly, lips curling.

“So this is your knight, huh?” he says with a smirk. “Joel fuckin’ Miller. Thought you’d have better taste.”

Joel doesn’t speak.

His eyes flick to you — pressed back against the wall, frozen — then back to him.

“I’m not touching her,” your ex says mockingly. “She came back here on her own. I was just remindin’ her of a few things.”

He takes a step forward.

Joel doesn’t flinch.

“You know she used to cry after?” he says — loudly, cruelly. “Every time. All that fight in her mouth just melted when she realized what she was.”

You suck in a breath so sharp it feels like it slices your throat.

Joel’s entire body changes.

Tightens.

Still doesn’t speak.

“You think you’re the first to hear her moan?” your ex spits. “You think she’s not gonna use you the same way she used me? Play the victim, let you fuck the sad out of her, then move on when someone better comes along?”

Joel steps forward.

Slow. Controlled.

Dead silent.

“What,” your ex sneers, “you think you’re different? She’s still just—”

Joel punches him mid-sentence.

The sound of knuckles on bone echoes like thunder in the alley.

Your ex stumbles back — blood spurting from his nose immediately. He barely catches himself against the brick, hand flying up to his face, blinking in shock.

“The fuck—?”

Joel’s already on him.

Another punch. Harder.

A third lands to the side of his jaw with a sickening crack, knocking him sideways into the stack of crates by the greenhouse wall. Wood splinters. Something shatters.

“You talk to her like that again—” slam “You even look at her—” slam “You’re fuckin’ lucky I don’t kill you.”

Joel’s voice is low and deadly, every word laced with years of held-back fury.

Your ex swings once — wild, sloppy. He clips Joel’s shoulder.

It only pisses him off more.

Joel grabs the front of his coat and shoves him to the ground. Straddles him. Fist raised.

“You wanna feel what she felt?” he snarls. “Huh? You wanna know what it’s like to be helpless?”

He punches him again. And again.

Blood smears across Joel’s knuckles. His breathing is ragged. Controlled, but barely.

“You’re done. You hear me?” he growls. “She’s not scared of you anymore.”

Your ex is coughing, sputtering — hands raised in surrender, face already swelling.

“You’re done.”

Joel lets go.

He stands slowly, chest heaving, fists still clenched.

Your ex stumbles up, eyes wild with fear and humiliation. Blood dripping from his nose, lip split wide. He doesn’t say anything.

He just runs.

Slips in the snow.

Keeps running.

Joel watches him go. Doesn’t move. Doesn’t chase.

Just breathes.

Then — slowly — turns back toward you.

You haven’t moved from the wall.

Still trembling.

Still gasping for breath that won’t come.

And Joel’s face shifts instantly — rage melting into panic.

“Baby—?”

He’s walking toward you now, hands up, slow and careful.

“Sweetheart, look at me. It’s over.”

But you’re not hearing him.

Because in your head — it’s still happening.

Your back slides down the wall.

Your legs give out, and you crumple into the snow without feeling it. Cold sinks into your palms, your knees, your chest — but your body’s too far gone to register it. Everything is numb except your lungs, which feel like they’re caving in.

You can’t breathe.

Your eyes are wide, locked on nothing. Ears ringing. Hands shaking. Mouth open, but no sound comes out.

You're still there.

Still in it.

His words echo in your skull like knives:

“She’s just a place to put it.” “You know what she sounds like when she cries.”

You gasp for air, but it doesn’t come.

Your chest heaves. Your vision blurs. You claw at your coat like it's strangling you.

And then—hands.

Large, steady, familiar.

Joel.

He’s in front of you now, kneeling in the snow, his body close but not touching — not yet.

“Hey. Hey, baby, look at me.”

You can't.

You’re shaking too hard.

“You’re alright,” he says softly. “He’s gone. He can’t touch you anymore.”

His hand reaches for yours. Doesn’t force it — just waits.

You grab it like a lifeline.

And then everything breaks.

You start to sob.

Ugly, gasping, panicked sobs that come from somewhere deep — somewhere old. The kind that make your whole body convulse, like it’s trying to expel every horrible thing he ever said, ever did.

Joel pulls you into his lap.

Sits down fully in the snow and wraps his arms around you. One hand cradles your head. The other rubs your back, slow and firm and steady.

“You’re safe now,” he whispers. “You hear me? You’re safe.”

You can’t answer. You’re crying too hard.

So he keeps talking.

“I got you. Right here. Just breathe with me.”

He presses his lips to your temple, his voice lower now — all warmth.

“In and out, baby. That’s it. There you go. You’re doin’ so good.”

You cling to him like he’s the only thing keeping you from slipping under. Your fists curl into his coat, your cheek pressed to his shoulder, hot tears soaking into the fabric.

“I thought—” you choke out. “I thought I was gonna die.”

Joel’s hold tightens.

“Not while I’m breathin’,” he says, voice rough with emotion. “Not fuckin’ ever.”

You sob harder, and he rocks you gently — back and forth in the snow like you’re something precious.

And maybe you are.

Because Joel holds you like you’re everything.

You don’t know how long you sit there in the snow, buried in Joel’s arms.

Your sobs taper off slowly — like the last of a storm draining out of you. Your hands are still fisted in his coat. Your face is raw from the cold, from the crying. But you’re breathing again.

Shallow. Uneven. But real.

Joel doesn’t let go.

His hand never stops moving — stroking up and down your back in slow, grounding lines. His mouth stays near your temple, his breath warm on your skin.

“That’s it,” he whispers. “You’re okay. I got you.”

You shift slightly, pulling your head back from his shoulder, just far enough to see him.

His face is tight. Wrecked.

There’s blood on his knuckles. His jaw is clenched like he’s still fighting the urge to run back and finish what he started.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper.

Joel freezes.

“Don’t.”

“I—” Your voice breaks. “I should’ve told you. I didn’t want—”

“Don’t you dare apologize,” he says, voice suddenly rough.

His hand slides to your cheek, his thumb brushing away a tear that didn’t get the memo to stop.

“You didn’t do anything wrong. He did. All of it.”

You look down at his chest. “I didn’t think I could tell anyone. I thought—if I just ignored him long enough…”

“He’d stop,” Joel finishes softly. “That he’d disappear.”

You nod. Eyes burning.

“He made me feel like I was crazy. Like I was broken. And then when people started talking about us—” Your throat closes. “It felt like they agreed with him.”

Joel exhales hard through his nose. Like the thought physically hurts him.

“They don’t know you,” he says. “They don’t get to define you.”

His thumb trails under your jaw.

“You’re not broken. You’re not too much. You’re not anything he said.”

You shake your head. “You don’t have to say that just because—”

“I’m sayin’ it because it’s true.”

You finally look at him again. Really look.

His face is open in a way you’ve never seen. Not just angry. Not just protective. Tender.

You blink fast.

“You beat the hell out of him.”

Joel shrugs, voice quieter now. “Didn’t feel like enough.”

You let out a soft, watery laugh. The first one in hours.

“You didn’t have to do that.”

“Yes I did.”

He leans forward, pressing his forehead gently to yours.

“If I ever see him near you again, I swear to God—”

“He won’t,” you whisper. “Not after tonight.”

Joel’s hands are warm on your face, cupping you like you might disappear if he doesn’t hold on.

“I wish you didn’t have to be strong like this,” he murmurs. “I wish you never had to learn how.”

You close your eyes.

Let yourself lean into him.

Let yourself believe — just for a moment — that you don’t have to carry it alone anymore.

He doesn’t ask if you want to go home.

He just helps you stand — one arm around your waist, the other holding your hand like something sacred — and guides you through the snow-covered streets without a single word.

The town is quiet.

Too late for witnesses. Too dark for whispers.

The streetlights cast long, golden streaks across the rooftops. Your boots crunch beside his in perfect rhythm, and you stay close — closer than you need to, because you can still feel that alley clinging to your skin like frost.

Joel doesn’t let go once.

By the time you reach your apartment, your legs ache, your eyes sting, and the weight of the night settles back over your shoulders like wet wool.

You fumble with the key.

Joel gently takes it from you. Unlocks the door. Steps inside first like he’s still scanning for danger. Then gestures for you to follow.

“Sit,” he murmurs. “I’ll get you water.”

You do as he says.

You sink onto the edge of your bed — coat still on, scarf loose around your neck, snow melting from your sleeves. You don’t know what to do with your hands.

He comes back with a glass and kneels in front of you again. Just like earlier. Only now, there’s no panic. Just presence.

He watches you drink. Waits until you set the glass down.

Then his hand reaches for yours again.

“You want me to go?”

The question is so soft you almost miss it.

Your first instinct is to say yes — not because you want him to leave, but because you don’t want to need him to stay.

You hesitate too long.

Joel brushes your knuckles with his thumb.

“I’ll sleep on the floor.”

You shake your head.

“Don’t,” you whisper. “Just... don’t leave.”

That’s all you say.

You don’t say I’m scared to be alone.

You don’t say I’ve never felt safer than I do with you.

You just say don’t leave.

And Joel hears everything you didn’t say.

“I’m not goin’ anywhere,” he says. “Not tonight. Not tomorrow. Not ‘til you tell me to.”

He helps you out of your coat. Tugs your boots off. Hands you a blanket and lets you change while he turns away, giving you space.

When you slip under the covers, Joel moves slow.

Sits beside you. Then behind you. Then lies down fully — careful not to press too close, not unless you reach for him first.

Which you do.

You find his hand beneath the blanket and pull it over your waist. His arm wraps around you like it belongs there.

And that’s how you fall asleep.

Not with sex. Not with heat. Not with anything messy or dramatic.

Just with Joel’s chest at your back.

His breath in your hair.

And his voice, low and quiet in the dark:

“I got you, darlin’. I’m right here.”

And he stays.

AN: Okay so… yeah. That one hurt. Thank you for loving her through it. And if you want to be on the taglist, don’t be shy — drop a comment and I’ll add you faster than Joel can throw a punch 😘

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worlds-we-write · 14 days ago

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Beneath the Ashen Sky

Chapter 4: Lines We Can't Uncross

pairing: Jackson!Joel Miller x fem!reader

summary: You go after Joel when his patrol doesn’t return. What you find changes everything—and neither of you can keep pretending.

WC: 4.5K

tags: slow burn, mutual pining, protective!Joel, capable!reader, Joel Miller x reader, hurt/comfort, near-confession, emotional tension, post-ambush recovery, almost smut, forced proximity, raider fight, public realization

Series Masterlist

The morning started too quiet.

In Jackson, quiet could mean safety. But sometimes—this kind of quiet? The heavy, pressure-in-your-chest kind? That meant something was wrong.

You didn’t sleep much the night before. After Joel walked away again, tension still thick in the air between you, your body had been buzzing with a thousand thoughts and no answers. You told yourself to let it go, to stop letting him get under your skin—but it was useless.

Now, as you stood near the stable fence, arms crossed and jaw tight, the uneasy silence of town gnawed at you.

Joel’s patrol had left early. Too early. He hadn’t said goodbye. Not that he needed to—but still. You’d woken up to find his place empty, his gear gone, and the town buzzing with nervous energy.

By noon, no one had come back.

Not Joel. Not Luke. Not Carter.

And everyone knew something was off.

You could see it in the way Tommy paced near the gates, his mouth set in a grim line. The way Maria spoke in clipped tones to the watchmen. The way people started whispering—half sentences, worried glances, hands hovering near rifles.

You caught the words “ambush,” “scouts,” and “radio’s gone dead.”

Each one hit like a blow to the chest.

No one had to say Joel’s name for you to feel it.

He was out there.

And something was wrong.

Your fingers gripped the strap of your backpack, heart hammering as you listened in on a quiet conversation between two watchmen.

“Should’ve heard back by now.”

“What if it was raiders?”

“They’d never hit this close.”

You knew better.

You’d seen what people were capable of out there. You’d lived through it. Raiders didn’t care about borders, about treaties, about peace. They came for what they wanted—and they didn’t leave survivors.

And if Joel was out there—hurt, outnumbered, alone—

No.

You didn’t let the thought finish.

You turned and marched toward your cabin, ignoring the looks, your chest tight, fingers trembling.

You threw open the trunk near your bed and started grabbing what you needed. Knife. Rifle. Flashlight. Bandages. Rope. Extra ammo.

You were on autopilot, every movement efficient, practiced.

But your hands shook. Not out of fear—out of fury.

Because Joel Miller was out there somewhere, probably doing something reckless and noble and fucking stupid, and you weren’t going to sit here and do nothing.

Not after everything.

Not after the way he looked at you the night before.

Not after the way he kept pulling away like that would stop you from caring.

It was already too late.

You tightened the straps on your pack, slung your rifle over your shoulder, and opened the door—

Only to find Maria waiting.

Maria was leaning against the doorframe when you opened it, arms crossed, jaw tight, like she already knew what you were about to do.

“You’re not going,” she said, voice calm but sharp.

You froze for only a second, then stepped past her onto the porch. “I’m not waiting around while they’re out there.”

“They’re trained. They can handle it.”

“Then why haven’t they come bacak?”

That made her pause.

You felt it – the doubt, even if she didn’t show it. The weight of responsibility in her silence. But you weren’t here to debate. You were already strapped up, already moving.

Maria pushed off the frame, stepping closer. “You’re still recovering.”

“I’m fine.”

“No, you’re not. You can barley lift your arm all the way – what happens if you run into raiders? You think Joel would want you running straight into the shit when you’re not ready?”

You turned, sharply. “You think he’d just sit here if it were me out there?”

Maria didn’t answer.

She didn’t have to.

Because you were right.

Joel would’ve gone. Hell, he would’ve been the first one out the gate. And you? You weren’t about to do any less.

“I’m not asking permission,” you said, softer this time.

Maria let out a breath, brushing a hand over her face. “You know if something happens to you, he won’t survive it.”

Your chest clenched.

“Then I better not let anything happen to me.”

She looked at you for a long moment, her expression unreadable. Then she stepped aside.

“Take the west gate. There’s less snowpack that way. If you’re not back by sunrise, I’m sending someone after you.”

You nodded, your throat too tight to speak.

The wind cut sharp against your face as you crossed through the western gate, the guards giving you only a brief, tense nod. You didn’t stop to explain. Didn’t tell anyone where you were going.

Your botts crunched over hard-packed snow, rifle slung tight across your back, every step fueled by instinct and something more dangerous that survival – hope.

You didn’t let yourself imagine worst-case scenarios.

Didn’t let yourself picture Joel bleeding in the snow, or dead in a ditch, or tied up somewhere.

Instead, you pictured his hands. His scowl. That look he gave you when he was trying not to care too much.

You pictured him alive.

Because he had to be.

You pressed deeper into the trees, wind howling through bare branches, your eyes scanning the trail for anything—tracks, broken twigs, blood in the snow.

You were going to find him.

Or you weren’t coming back at all.

You’d been tracking them for over an hour. Maybe more. Time had started to lose its shape the farther you moved from Jackson and the deeper you pushed into the trees.

The cold nipped at your cheeks, and your thighs burned from the uphill stretches, but you didn’t slow down—not even when the path turned icy underfoot, or when your wound pulled and throbbed beneath your coat.

You could feel something in the air.

Wrongness.

The kind that made your stomach tighten, your fingers grip your rifle harder.

It wasn’t just the silence—it was what was missing. No birdsong. No chatter of squirrels. No distant hum of patrol boots crunching in the snow.

Only wind. And your own ragged breath.

And then— blood.

A thin spatter across a fallen tree, dark and already half-frozen. Not fresh, but not old either. You crouched down, fingers brushing over the edge of the bark. It hadn’t been snowed over.

That meant it was recent.

Your heart kicked harder.

Boot prints scattered in the slush a few feet ahead, deep and erratic—some dragging, some smeared, as if someone had been limping. There were signs of a struggle. A broken strap. A crushed pair of goggles.

You moved faster now, your eyes scanning every inch of the trail ahead. Your breath was loud in your ears.

Then—movement.

A groan.

You spun toward the sound, rifle raised—

And found Carter, slumped behind a rock, blood running from his shoulder, face pale and pinched with pain.

“Jesus—” you gasped, rushing to him, dropping to your knees beside his shaking form.

He flinched when he saw you, then blinked like he wasn’t sure you were real. “You—what the hell—what’re you doin’ out here?”

“Where is he?” you demanded, already pulling your small med kit from your pack. “Where’s Joel?”

Carter gritted his teeth as you tore open a packet of gauze and pressed it to the bullet graze on his arm. “We got hit… four of them. Ambush. Joel—fuck—he stayed back to hold them off. Told us to run.”

Your blood ran cold.

“When?”

“Forty, maybe fifty minutes ago. That way.” He pointed down a slope, deeper into the trees. “There was too much ground to cover. We were sittin’ ducks. He saved our asses.”

Of course he did.

You stared down the hill, fists clenched. Joel Miller and his damn hero complex. Always protecting people. Always putting himself between danger and anyone he cared about—especially you.

Especially now.

“He was limping,” Carter added quietly. “Took one in the leg. Maybe the side too. But he kept going. Just—just go careful, alright?”

You nodded, eyes still locked on the trail. “Stay here. Someone will come for you.”

Carter caught your wrist before you could turn away. “Don’t let him bleed out like a fool in the snow, yeah?”

You gave him a tight smile. “Not a chance.”

And then you were running again—faster now, every step feeling heavier with what you might find.

You didn’t stop to be afraid. Didn’t let yourself think about what you’d do if you found him already gone. Didn’t let yourself imagine his body cold, still, buried in snow.

Because you refused to be too late.

You were going to find Joel. You were going to bring him home. And if anyone got in your way—you’d put a bullet between their eyes.

You heard the gunshot before you saw him.

Sharp. Close.

Too close.

You didn’t hesitate—you ran.

Your boots pounded across the uneven snowpack, heart slamming in your chest as you followed the sound down the slope, dodging brush, branches snapping against your arms. Adrenaline drowned out the burn in your lungs. You barely registered the pain pulsing from your healing wound—because it didn’t matter.

Nothing mattered except finding him.

Then— you saw it.

A blur of movement between the trees. A struggle.

One man staggered forward—raider. Bloodied, limping, but still gripping a blade.

The other—

Joel.

He was on the ground, bracing himself against a fallen log, rifle out of reach. Blood soaked through the thigh of his jeans, dark and spreading. His chest heaved, his face drawn in pain—but his eyes were locked on the man in front of him.

And they were full of fire.

Even wounded, he looked ready to kill.

But he wasn’t going to make it in time.

The raider raised the blade, shouting something you couldn’t hear—

And you didn’t think.

You raised your rifle and pulled the trigger.

Once.

Twice.

The raider jerked, chest snapping back from the impact, and then collapsed in the snow beside Joel, motionless.

Joel looked up at you—chest rising, expression stunned.

You didn’t wait for him to speak.

You dropped to your knees beside him, snow soaking through your pants, eyes scanning his body for other wounds.

“Are you hit anywhere else?”

His voice was hoarse. “What the fuck are you doin’ here?”

You ignored the question. “Bullet went clean through, I think—”

“I asked you—”

“Shut up, Joel.”

He flinched. Not from pain. From the sound of your voice.

You grabbed a bandage from your bag with shaking hands, trying to breathe through the surge of panic threatening to break free from your chest. You wrapped his leg as tight as you could without making him scream, your fingers slick with his blood.

“You’re out here, bleeding in the snow, trying to be a goddamn hero—again—and you’re asking me what the fuck I’m doing?”

Joel stared at you, breathing hard. “You weren’t supposed to follow.”

“No, you were supposed to be back in Jackson by now. Not laying out here half-dead.”

He hissed through his teeth as you tightened the bandage again. “You’re still hurt. You should’ve stayed behind.”

You looked up at him, eyes burning. “And you should’ve let someone else play bait for once.”

Silence fell between you, tense and heavy and charged. The trees stood still around you, the snow falling softly now.

Joel’s jaw worked, like he was chewing down words he didn’t know how to say.

Finally—his voice cracked.

“I thought I was gonna die out here.”

You blinked.

He wasn’t looking at you. Just past you, eyes distant.

“I thought—I thought I’d never see you again. And then I heard that shot, and I knew.” He finally looked at you. “I knew it was you.”

Your chest twisted.

And before you could stop yourself, you reached up, cupped the side of his face with your gloved hand.

Joel didn’t pull away.

Didn’t flinch.

He leaned into it.

His eyes fluttered shut.

Just for a second.

And when they opened again, his voice was lower. Rougher.

"You shouldn’t’ve come."

"But I did."

Silence again. This one deeper. Heavier.

Then Joel’s hand lifted—slow, unsure—fingers brushing along your wrist, your forearm. A touch that wasn’t meant for survival, wasn’t meant to hurt or guide or save.

It was just… meant.

And for one terrifying, soul-deep second—you thought he was going to kiss you.

His face was close, eyes locked on yours, and something unspoken passed between you.

Something real.

Something fragile.

But then—

His body shifted. Pain flared in his leg. He groaned and sank back against the log, eyes squeezing shut.

The moment broke.

Snapped clean in half.

You dropped your hand and moved back to his side, swallowing down everything that wanted to rise to the surface.

“Come on,” you murmured. “We need to get you somewhere warm before that leg gives out completely.”

Joel didn’t fight you this time.

Didn’t argue.

He just nodded once, his voice ragged:

“Lead the way.”

You found the cabin just before dark. A collapsed ranger station, half-frozen but still standing—barely. The inside was dry, abandoned, and cold enough to bite your bones, but it was shelter. And right now, that was enough.

Joel was limping worse now, leaning harder on you with every step. His thigh was soaked with blood again, but he didn’t say a word about it. He just grunted when you half-carried him over the threshold, his weight a heavy, burning anchor against your side.

“Sit down,” you said, not giving him the chance to argue. “Now.”

Joel let you lower him to the floor near the brick hearth, back resting against the cold stone.

You moved fast—starting a fire with shaking hands, your chest still tight from adrenaline. When the first flickers of flame caught, it felt like your lungs could finally expand.

When you turned back around, Joel was leaned back with his eyes half-lidded, jaw clenched, his breath uneven.

“We need to look at that leg.”

He nodded once, jaw ticking, clearly exhausted. You peeled back the bandage slowly, careful not to make it worse. Blood welled beneath the gauze, and you winced.

“This is gonna hurt.”

Joel didn’t flinch. “Ain’t the first time.”

You worked silently, cleaning the wound again, re-wrapping it with what little you had left. His skin was flushed, fevered, and he was watching you the whole time—quietly, steadily, with that sharp, unreadable look in his eyes.

When you finally leaned back, your knees were still pressed between his. Your hands rested on your thighs, chest rising and falling, your fingers sticky with his blood.

"You scared the shit out of me,” you said softly.

Joel’s eyes flicked down. “Didn’t mean to.”

“Well, you did.”

He shifted slightly, hissing as pain spiked down his leg. “You shouldn’t have come after me.”

Your jaw clenched. “You’d have come after me.”

He didn’t argue. Didn’t need to.

You reached for his jacket and gently pulled it off his shoulders, then his flannel, now cold and soaked through. He let you.

“You didn’t think you’d make it out, did you?” you asked, voice barely above a whisper.

Joel looked at the fire instead of you. “No. I didn’t.”

The silence between you deepened. The fire crackled.

You reached out before you could stop yourself, fingers brushing a streak of dried blood from his cheek. He leaned into it—just barely—but enough for your breath to catch.

His voice, low and rough: “I thought I’d never see you again.”

You swallowed hard, your hand falling to rest against his chest, over his racing heart.

“I’m here,” you whispered.

Joel looked up at you then—eyes tired and intense and full of something he hadn’t said out loud yet. Something he probably didn’t know how to.

And then he reached for you.

Not like a soldier. Not like a protector.

But like a man who’d nearly lost everything.

His hand cradled the side of your face, his thumb brushing your jaw. You leaned into the warmth, heart hammering.

When he kissed you, it wasn’t rough.

It was slow. Careful.

A question.

And when you kissed him back, it was the answer.

You sank into him gently, lips parting, mouths moving in sync, breath catching between you. His hand slid around the back of your neck, yours curled against his chest.

You didn’t press further. Didn’t grind or grope or push.

Just kissed.

Like you needed it. Like he needed it more. Like this moment was borrowed, and both of you knew it might be your last.

When you finally pulled back, your forehead rested against his.

You both breathed, quiet and steady.

“I’m not gonna lose you,” you murmured.

Joel’s hand tightened around yours. “You better not.”

You didn’t sleep that night. Neither did he.

You just stayed close—breathing each other in, holding on. Not for sex.

For peace. For comfort. For truth.

And for once, neither of you pulled away.

The fire had burned down to glowing embers, casting soft orange light over the cabin’s crumbling walls. You’d stayed close all night—pressed against Joel’s side, his arm draped loosely over your back, your hand resting just above his chest.

It wasn’t sleep. Not really. Just stillness. A fragile sort of peace.

But by early morning, that peace started to crack.

Joel stirred before you did, his low grunt of pain pulling you from a haze of half-rest. He shifted slightly and immediately hissed, his fingers curling into the old blanket beneath him.

You sat up fast. “You okay?”

His jaw clenched. “Leg’s gettin’ worse.”

You already knew that. The wound was red, swollen. And without antibiotics, the fever was only going to rise. You needed to get him back—soon.

You helped him sit upright, grabbing your pack and laying out what little food you had left. A few strips of dried meat, an energy bar, a flask of water. Joel took them without comment, chewing slowly as you watched him with a tight chest.

“You need to stay warm,” you murmured, adjusting the blanket around his shoulders.

Joel didn’t look at you. “You shouldn’t have come after me.”

The words were quiet.

Measured.

But they still cut like a knife.

You stared at him. “You said that already.”

He finally met your eyes. “You could’ve died.”

“And you would’ve.”

His lips pressed together. You saw the tension in his neck, the twitch in his jaw. That fury that looked like concern, that concern that sounded too much like love.

“This ain’t about what I would’ve done.”

You scoffed. “It always is with you.”

Joel’s voice deepened, low and rough. “I’ve already lost too much. I ain’t—” He stopped himself. Shook his head. Looked away.

You reached for him before he could retreat fully. Your hand found his, warm and calloused and trembling slightly under yours.

“Say it,” you whispered. “For once, Joel. Say what you’re actually feeling instead of just walking away from it.”

He didn’t say anything for a long time.

The fire popped once, sharp in the silence.

Then—

“I thought I’d die out there thinkin’ about how I never said any of it. About how I pushed you away. Treated you like a burden. Like it was just easier to pretend I didn’t care.”

You stared at him, the words landing with the weight of months’ worth of silence.

“I do care,” he added. “More than I should. More than I know what the fuck to do with.”

His hand curled around yours.

And suddenly, you weren’t holding back anymore.

You leaned in, kissed him again—not like last night. Not gentle. Not careful. This time, it was teeth and heat and raw desperation.

Joel responded instantly, his good hand sliding up your back, pulling you closer, mouth parting under yours. But he groaned as his thigh shifted and pain lanced through his body.

You pulled back fast, breathing hard. “Shit—sorry.”

Joel pressed his forehead to yours. “Don’t be. Just… not here. Not now.”

“I’m not going anywhere,” you whispered.

His hand cupped the back of your neck, thumb stroking gently. “When we get back—when I’m not bleedin’—you and me… we’re gonna talk. And then you’re gonna let me have you, proper.”

You swallowed. Hard.

Heat flushed through you, but it was anchored in something deeper now—trust, survival, the knowledge that whatever this was… it was real.

“Yeah,” you said softly. “We are.”

Outside, the wind had slowed. The morning light filtered through the broken roof in pale streaks of gray and gold. It was time to move.

You helped Joel to his feet, his arm around your shoulder, your body holding him up.

And as you stepped outside into the frostbitten world, hearts racing but steady, you knew that something had shifted permanently.

Whatever was coming next—you wouldn’t be facing it alone.

You’d barely gotten fifty feet from the cabin when Joel stopped short, his hand gripping your arm, body stiffening at your side.

“Wait.”

You froze instantly, muscles going tight beneath your coat. Your breath puffed out in pale clouds. “What is it?”

He didn’t answer, just turned his head toward the trees, listening. His eyes narrowed.

That’s when you heard it too.

A crunch.

A low branch snapping.

Then… voices.

Male. Plural. Too close.

Shit.

You dragged Joel back behind a snow-covered rock, easing him down despite his low grunt of pain.

He looked up at you, jaw clenched. “You need to run.”

“No.” You were already pulling your rifle off your back. “You’re not dying in the woods today, Joel.”

“You ain’t in any shape to fight.”

“And you are?” You shot him a hard look. “You’ve got one leg and a bullet wound. Sit still and let me handle it.”

He blinked like he didn’t quite believe what you just said.

Then—very quietly, almost reluctantly—he nodded.

You crouched behind the rock, steadying your breath, eyes scanning the trees. The voices were louder now. Casual. Like they thought they’d be alone out here.

Three of them. Raiders, definitely. One was dragging a sack of supplies. Another carried a rifle slung lazily over his shoulder.

They didn’t see you.

Not yet.

You waited—timed your heartbeat to your trigger finger.

Then— you stepped out.

“Drop your shit. Hands where I can see them.”

The men froze, heads snapping toward you. One reached for his weapon— Bad choice.

You fired.

The first shot hit his shoulder, spinning him to the ground with a scream.

The second guy ducked behind a tree, shouting something you didn’t catch—then fired back. You dove behind the boulder, bullets splintering bark over your head.

“Fuck,” Joel muttered from behind you. “You always this reckless?”

You grinned—tight and focused. “Only when you’re watching.”

One of the raiders broke off, flanking left. You heard the crunch of his boots in the snow and pivoted, catching him as he moved around the side.

One clean shot—and he dropped.

Breath heaving, you turned to check on Joel. His back was against the rock, pistol raised with a shaking hand, blood soaking the thigh of his jeans again.

You reached out, hand against his chest. “Still with me?”

He nodded, breath shallow. “Ain’t goin’ down that easy.”

The last raider—probably realizing his friends weren’t answering—ran.

You could’ve chased him. But Joel was still bleeding, and you weren’t leaving him again.

You moved back to Joel quickly, helping him up. He was pale and tense but alert, arm around your shoulders again.

“You okay?” you asked, more breathless than you wanted to sound.

Joel didn’t answer right away.

He just looked at you. Long. Deep. Quiet.

Like he was seeing you for the first time.

“You saved me.”

You huffed. “Guess we’re even.”

He shook his head once, voice rough. “Not even close.”

You didn’t respond—not with words. Just tightened your arm around him and helped him keep moving.

The gates came into view at first light— Just a dark outline against the pale blue dawn, wrapped in the kind of stillness that only comes after a long, brutal night.

You were half-carrying Joel by that point, your arm locked around his waist, his heavier frame leaning into yours. Every few steps, he winced, and you paused. But he never once told you to stop.

He was running on stubbornness now. And you? You were running on something else entirely.

Fear. Relief. Adrenaline. And underneath it all, a quiet ache for what almost happened between you both back in that cabin—and what still hadn’t been said.

The gates opened before you reached them. Two guards spotted you and waved frantically to Tommy, who came running out without hesitation, rifle strapped to his back and concern all over his face.

“Jesus, Joel—” Tommy skidded to a stop in the snow, his gaze darting between you both. “What the hell happened?”

“Ambush,” you said quickly, voice hoarse. “We lost two. Carter’s wounded but alive. Joel needs antibiotics—now.”

Tommy looked at his brother, saw the blood down his leg, the clenched jaw, the sweat on his brow—and didn’t ask another question. He just turned and motioned for the med team. “Let’s go, come on.”

Joel didn’t move until you did.

He kept his arm around you even as help arrived. Didn’t say anything when one of the nurses offered to take your place.

You tried to step back—to give him room—but his hand shot out, catching your wrist. Holding. Grounding.

You looked at him. And for the first time in front of other people—he didn’t look away.

“I’m not lettin’ her go just yet,” Joel said, voice low but certain. “She’s the reason I made it back.”

The medic blinked. Tommy raised a brow. Maria—who had just arrived on the scene—tilted her head, her arms crossed.

But no one said anything.

Because everyone saw it. The way Joel leaned into you. The way you hovered over him. The way your fingers stayed laced with his for just a moment too long.

This wasn’t nothing. Not anymore.

You walked with Joel to the clinic, your palm firm against his back, guiding him gently through the doors. The whole way, he kept glancing sideways at you—like he wasn’t quite sure how to look directly at you after everything you’d done.

After everything you both felt.

Inside, they worked fast. Cleaned the wound, injected antibiotics, got him stable. You stayed in the room with him until they kicked you out.

And just before you left, he caught your hand again.

Didn’t say anything— Just looked at you. Like he wasn’t ready to let go.

And you understood.

Because neither were you.

AN: Thanks for reading! 🖤 This one got intense—action, emotion, and just enough heat. Can’t wait to show you what’s next 👀🔥 Stay tuned! let me know if you want to be added to the taglist so you don’t miss the drama (or the smut). 💌

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worlds-we-write · 14 days ago

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Y'all get ready!! Couple chapter updates coming today <3

#joel miller fanfiction #joel miller #joel miller x reader #joel miller tlou #joel miller x you #joel miller hbo #joel miller x f!reader

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worlds-we-write · 15 days ago

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Request Guidelines

Hey y’all! I wanted to lay down some quick ground rules for sending in requests, just so everything runs smoothly and we’re all on the same page. I’ve been getting a better feel for how I like to write and interact with you guys, so here’s what to keep in mind before dropping something in my inbox:

Be kind, always. A polite ask goes a long way!

Send your request through my Ask box, please. It helps me stay organized and makes sure your idea doesn’t get lost.

Comments are not considered formal requests. I’ll still tag you if I end up continuing a post you commented on, but actual requests need to be sent via Ask.

I don’t go in order. I write what sparks the most inspiration at the time, not by who asked first. That way, I can get imagines out quicker and with more heart.

Requests close after 10 are in. Once I’ve received 10, I’ll pause accepting new ones until I’ve written and posted all of them. If you send one while they’re closed, I’ll wait to respond until requests reopen.

Details help me help you! Even just a basic plot or a few keywords can kickstart my brain and help me make your idea come to life.

If I write your request, you’ll get a public reply the same day I see it. If I don’t feel comfortable writing something, I’ll either reply privately, say so publicly, or quietly delete it from my inbox.

I write both fluff and angst. So feel free to swing either way emotionally!

I write NSFW content for ALL characters, regardless of gender, and only if the request is within my comfort zone. You’re welcome to send them in—I'm still testing the waters with this!

Sensitive topics will come with trigger warnings. I care about your safety and mental well-being.

Character deaths are okay— just nothing too graphic or detailed. If something feels off, I’ll tone it down or skip it.

No requests involving reader as a different species (e.g., wolf, fox, etc.).

Absolutely no requests that promote racism, sexism, ableism, homophobia, transphobia, or any form of hate. Not negotiable.

No pedophilia. Ever.

I’m open to crossovers, AUs, song-inspired imagines, headcanons, and aesthetics.

If your request is too similar to something I’ve already written, I’ll just point you to that instead of rewriting.

I’m a busy human! I’m juggling school and life, and writing takes time. Please be patient with me—I promise I haven’t forgotten you.

Feel free to reblog my work, but please don’t repost it anywhere else. Respect the space I’ve created here, and we’ll get along just fine!

Fandoms I currently write for:

The Last of Us

Star Wars

Pedro Pascal (ie all of the characters he plays)

I am open to other fandoms as well! Feel free to request whatever you're looking for!

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worlds-we-write · 15 days ago

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Ahhhh I cannot begin to describe how thankful I am for all the love and support y’all have been giving me 🥰

Writing has really become my happy place in a dark time and I’m so grateful for all of you 😭🫶🏼

#worlds we write #joel miller fanfiction #joel miller

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worlds-we-write · 16 days ago

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Sweet on You

Chapter 2 | Kneaded You

pairing: Jackson!joel miller x baker!reader

Summary: You wake up in Joel’s arms and spend the morning pretending it’s just another day — until it isn’t. The town is watching. Your past won’t stay quiet. And Joel? He’s done pretending he’s not all in.

WC: 6K

Rating: Explicit 18+ MDNI❗️

tags: Joel Miller x Reader, Jackson Era, Age Gap, Slow Burn, Soft Smut, Emotional Sex, Filthy Dirty Talk, Gentle Aftercare, Pillow Talk, Reader Has Trauma, Protective Joel, Possessive Joel, Mutual Pining, Cinnamon Roll Angst, Hurt/Comfort

Series Masterlist | My Masterlist

You wake up warm.

It takes a moment to register where you are. The bakery ceiling is still above you, golden light filtering through the frosted front windows. The fire in the corner oven has burned down to glowing coals, and the room smells like cinnamon and melted wax.

And Joel.

He’s wrapped around you like he belongs there.

One arm is slung across your waist, his hand splayed over your belly, the heat of his palm soaking straight through your skin. His chest is pressed to your back, solid and slow-breathing, and you can feel the soft drag of his beard against your shoulder every time he exhales.

You shift a little under the blanket, and his hold tightens — not enough to trap you, just… remind you. That he’s still here. That this isn’t a dream.

He lets out a low, sleepy groan and buries his face in the crook of your neck.

“Mornin’,” he mumbles, voice thick with sleep, Southern drawl turned to gravel.

You smile before you even open your eyes. “You always wake up this warm?”

He grunts. “You always talk this much first thing?”

You snort softly and roll over in his arms, facing him now. He’s still half-asleep, his eyes barely open, hair tousled from the pillow, beard a little messy. The lines around his eyes are softer here, in the early light. Less weight. Less history. Just… Joel.

And he’s beautiful.

It hits you all at once — the intimacy of it. The closeness. The fact that you spent the night tangled up with Joel Miller, and now he’s looking at you like he doesn’t regret a damn second.

You feel your face heat.

Joel watches you carefully. “You okay?”

You nod. “Just… didn’t expect to wake up like this.”

He smirks a little, sleep still clinging to his expression. “Could get used to it.”

Your heart lurches.

You glance toward the window, trying to hide the way that single sentence makes your chest tighten. Outside, the snow has slowed, the sky turning that pale, post-storm blue that makes everything look quiet and untouched.

You try to keep your voice light. “Think the bread’s ready to bake.”

Joel kisses your shoulder once, then groans and flops onto his back. “Jesus. You’re already thinkin’ about work?”

“You’re in my bakery,” you tease.

He lifts an eyebrow without opening his eyes. “That mean you’re gonna feed me?”

You toss the blanket off with a laugh and stand, stretching. “Only if you behave.”

He grumbles something about “no promises” and watches you move toward the kitchen with that lazy, heavy-lidded look that makes your stomach flip.

You try to keep your hands busy. Pulling on your apron. Checking the dough. Avoiding the way his eyes trail down your legs when he thinks you’re not looking.

It’s domestic. Easy. Almost too easy.

And it scares the hell out of you.

Because you know the warmth won’t last forever. The snow will melt. The door will open. And someone will see.

But for now?

Joel is barefoot in your bakery, sitting at your prep table, watching you like you’re the softest thing he’s ever wanted to keep.

And you let him.

By the time the coffee is poured and the morning chill has eased, the bakery starts to feel alive again. Familiar. The hearth glows, the scent of warm yeast fills the room, and the dough you proofed yesterday is begging to be shaped.

You glance at Joel as you set your mug aside, rubbing your hands together. “I should get started on the bread.”

Joel, still perched on the prep table with bare feet and bed hair, raises a brow. “Want help?”

You blink. “You bake?”

“No,” he says flatly, then takes a slow sip of his coffee. “But I follow instructions. Real good, if you ask nice.”

You give him a look, half amused, half wary. “You planning to help me or distract me?”

He smirks, sliding off the table with a stretch that makes his henley ride up just enough to flash a strip of warm, tanned skin.

“Why not both?”

Your brain stutters for half a second — then you throw an apron at his chest.

“Wash your hands.”

He grins.

You both settle into a rhythm that surprises you. You show him how to flour the table, how to shape the loaves gently — “don’t punch it, Joel, this dough has feelings” — and he grunts like he’s trying not to smile the whole time. His hands are clumsy at first, but strong, and you catch yourself staring more than once as he rolls and folds with furrowed brows and that same intensity he brings to everything else.

“You’re good at this,” you murmur.

He shrugs. “Worked construction. Muscle memory.”

You bump his hip with yours. “Well now you’re building buns instead of walls.”

He lets out a low laugh, and your stomach flips.

Flour ends up on your cheek at some point — his doing. You retaliate by smudging it across his jaw. It turns playful fast, and for a minute you forget everything else. There’s just heat from the oven, flour in the air, and Joel’s hands brushing too close too often.

He grabs your wrist when you try to sneak more flour toward his shirt.

“Careful, darlin’,” he says, voice low and amused. “Keep testin’ me and next time I’ll have you bent over this table before the bread even rises.”

Your eyes widen.

He grins. Unapologetic.

And just like that, the room feels smaller. Hotter. Your breath stutters in your throat as his hand lingers a second longer than necessary.

But then he steps back, reaching for the towel to wipe his hands, like nothing just happened.

The teasing simmers under the surface the whole time as you both load the loaves into the oven. When he stands behind you to peek in over your shoulder, his chest brushes your back, and you don’t move away.

The silence that follows is thick but not uncomfortable.

It’s dangerous.

It’s comfortable.

And you don’t know which scares you more.

You stand by the bakery door, fully dressed, coat zipped, scarf wrapped, and stomach twisted in ways that have nothing to do with the cold. Outside, the storm has softened to flurries, the sky pale and bright over snow-packed paths. Jackson is waking up — shovels scraping, boots stomping, radios crackling.

You glance back over your shoulder.

Joel’s shrugging on his coat, still wearing the same jeans from last night, his henley sleeves pushed to his forearms, hair still damp from where you’d run your fingers through it that morning. He looks… content. Relaxed. Like a man who slept well and got fed twice — once with cinnamon rolls, once with your thighs.

You, on the other hand, feel like your chest might cave in.

“We could wait a little longer,” you murmur. “Let the paths clear. Avoid the morning rush.”

Joel looks up at you, squinting. “You mean avoid people.”

You say nothing.

He walks to the door, stands beside you. The warmth of him seeps through your coat before he even touches you.

“They’re gonna talk, Joel.”

He shrugs. “Let ‘em.”

You stare at the door handle, your throat tight.

“It’s not you they’ll talk about,” you whisper.

Joel turns to face you fully. “They say shit about you, they’re sayin’ it about me too. You think I give a fuck?”

You blink, lips parting — but he’s already reaching past you to open the door.

The cold hits you first.

Then the sound.

Shovels scraping pavement. Kids shouting in the distance. Two women chatting by the community center steps, one of them sipping from a thermos. They both turn when the bell above your door jingles.

And they stare.

Joel doesn’t notice — or pretends not to. He offers you his hand like it’s nothing, like it’s normal, like it’s something he’s done a hundred times.

You hesitate. Just for a second.

Then you take it.

You walk together, side by side, hand in hand, through the snow-packed path toward your apartment. And you feel everything.

Every eye on you. Every whispered laugh behind a glove-covered mouth. Every step that says, we saw them come out together. we know.

You keep your head down.

Joel doesn’t.

He nods at people who pass. Gives Tommy a chin lift from across the road. Doesn’t let go of your hand even once.

It should feel safe. And it does.

But you still feel the twist in your gut when you hear the whisper behind you — soft, but not soft enough:

“Heard she’s trouble. Can’t believe Joel’s messing with her.”

You freeze.

Joel stops too, glancing over. “What?”

You shake your head. “Nothing.”

But your face burns.

Joel studies you for a second. Then—without a word—he moves closer, slides his arm around your waist, and pulls you in tight as you walk.

“Let ‘em watch,” he mutters under his breath, jaw clenched. “They don’t know a fuckin’ thing.”

You want to believe that. You do.

But the knot in your stomach doesn’t ease.

Not yet.

Your apartment is small, quiet, and colder than you remember.

You step inside first, shoulders tense, unwrapping your scarf with fingers that still feel clumsy from the walk. Joel follows silently, boots crunching softly on the entryway mat, gaze flicking around the space like he’s reading something in the walls.

You watch him take it all in — the stack of folded laundry that never got put away, the cracked windowpane above the tiny table, the sagging couch cushion where you’ve slept more nights than not. It’s clean. It’s safe.

But it’s not homey.

Not like the bakery. Not like last night.

Joel shrugs off his coat, hangs it on the hook beside the door without being asked. He moves quietly, careful not to fill too much space. But even in silence, he’s present. Big and solid and warm in a way this apartment hasn’t been in months.

You fidget with your sleeves, feeling suddenly self-conscious.

“It’s… not much,” you say, voice low.

Joel looks at you. “It’s yours. That’s enough.”

You open your mouth — to say thank you, to make a joke, something — but he’s already moving, drawn toward the table by the window like gravity pulled him there.

The drawer beside it sticks — it always does — but he gives it one quick, practiced tug, and it pops open. He peers inside, pulls out a loose hinge and a screwdriver that’s been rattling around for weeks.

You watch, confused. “What are you—”

“Fixing this.” He holds up the drawer like it’s obvious. “Drives you crazy, doesn’t it?”

You blink. “How did you know it was broken?”

“Saw you skip over it when you opened the drawer.”

Joel shrugs, crouching down. “You did that thing people do when somethin’s broken — touch it like maybe it fixed itself, then move on fast like it pissed you off.”

He doesn’t say it in a judgmental way. Just observant. Quietly caring.

You lean against the doorway and watch him work, chest feeling tight for reasons you can’t name.

He gets it fixed in under five minutes. Slides the drawer in with a clean click.

“That’s better,” he mutters, wiping his hands on his jeans.

You smile softly. “You didn’t have to do that.”

“Didn’t mind.”

And that’s the thing with Joel. He doesn’t hover. Doesn’t ask if you need help, doesn’t wait for permission. He sees what’s wrong and handles it — like it’s second nature. Like showing up and doing something is the only way he knows how to say I care.

You realize, suddenly, that he hasn’t sat down.

So you point toward the couch. “You can, uh… make yourself comfortable.”

Joel raises a brow. “That an invitation?”

You feel your cheeks warm. “To sit. On the couch. Calm down, Miller.”

He smirks. But he sits.

And once he’s settled, he spreads out just slightly — arm across the back of the couch, one leg stretched forward. He doesn’t say it, but his whole body is open. Relaxed. Like he belongs there.

Like he wants to belong there.

You move toward the kitchen to boil water — out of habit, out of the need to do something with your hands. And when you glance back at him through the doorway, you find him watching you again.

Not like a man who’s bored. Not like a man waiting for something. But like someone memorizing a view he doesn’t want to lose.

And maybe, just maybe… like someone already picturing what this place would look like with his boots by the door.

Joel leaves just after noon.

Not because you ask him to, but because he knows you need space. He brushes your knuckles with his lips on the way out — nothing over the top, nothing for the street to see. Just a quiet promise.

“Radio me later,” he murmurs.

You nod, still standing in the doorway as he disappears down the snow-crusted path, his broad shoulders cutting through the cold like it doesn’t touch him.

The door clicks shut behind you, and the silence wraps around your apartment again — not harsh, but emptier than it was twenty minutes ago. You sit on the edge of your couch, staring at the half-empty mug Joel left on your table, steam still curling in lazy spirals.

You want to feel safe. You want to believe it. That this time, it’s different. That last night — this morning — changed things.

But your gut says otherwise.

And not five minutes later, your gut is proven right.

There’s a sound outside — the faint thump of heavy boots and the muffled chatter of patrol radios. You rise slowly and move toward the window, careful not to let your shadow fall too close.

And there he is.

Your ex.

Standing by the north gate checkpoint, bundled in his winter gear, laughing at something another scout says. He’s leaning against the post like he owns the place, like he hasn’t laid hands on you, like he still doesn’t see anything wrong.

And then, somehow, he sees you.

His eyes find your window like they’re drawn to it — like he knew you’d be watching.

You freeze.

He doesn’t smile.

Doesn’t wave.

Just watches.

There’s nothing dramatic about it. No yelling. No threats. But the silence hits harder. The lack of expression. Like he’s daring you to think he’s forgotten. Like last night was just a pause.

Your chest tightens.

Your fingers tremble where they grip the curtain.

You let it drop quickly and step back, pulse hammering in your ears.

He’s just standing there.

Doing nothing.

And it still feels like you’ve been slapped.

You sit on the edge of the bed, breathing shallow. You tell yourself he can’t do anything here. Not in Jackson. Not with Maria and the council and all these watchful eyes.

But he’s good at hiding it.

At seeming useful. Stable. Charming in that performative way that makes people say He’s not so bad, right?

And you? You’re the one who flinches.

You’re the one who looks scared in daylight.

And fear? Fear doesn’t sell well in Jackson.

Not unless it has proof.

You don’t call Joel right away.

You tell yourself you’re just calming down, letting the tight coil in your chest ease on its own. But you’ve been sitting at the table for twenty minutes now, staring at the same mug of lukewarm tea, jumping every time boots crunch outside your door.

You know it’s him.

He saw you.

And he’s waiting for you to feel it.

When you finally reach for the radio, your fingers hesitate on the button. But the sound of a shovel scraping across the road jolts you, and your breath shakes out in one long exhale.

“Joel?” Your voice is barely above a whisper.

The answer crackles back almost immediately.

“Yeah. What’s wrong?”

You freeze.

You never said anything was wrong.

But he knows.

“Can you come back?” you ask softly.

Silence.

Then: “On my way.”

Ten minutes later, he’s at your door.

You open it before he knocks. His jaw is already tight.

He doesn’t say anything — just walks in like he knows where to go, like he doesn’t need an invitation. You close the door behind him, heart pounding.

He turns to face you.

“What happened?”

You hesitate.

Joel watches you for two full seconds, then exhales hard and scrubs a hand down his face.

“Was it him?” he asks. No softness. Just truth.

You nod.

Joel’s entire body shifts.

He moves slowly at first, like he’s trying to not pace. Like the tension in his shoulders is something he’s wrestling down with both hands.

“What did he do?” he grits out.

“Nothing,” you say quickly. “He didn’t touch me. He was just—watching.”

“From where?”

“The gate. Patrol duty.”

Joel lets out a humorless laugh. “Of course he’s still got access to a rifle.”

You flinch slightly.

He sees it. His jaw ticks.

Joel walks to the kitchen and leans on the counter like he needs to steady himself. Like if he doesn’t anchor his hands, they’ll end up doing something he can’t take back.

“You should tell Maria.”

“I know.”

“Now.”

You shake your head. “I can’t. Not yet.”

Joel stares at you, eyes dark. “Why?”

“Because if I say it out loud, it’ll become real. And I’m not ready for that. Not yet. I just… I needed you to know.”

Joel breathes hard through his nose. You can see the battle playing out behind his eyes — his need to fix it, to protect you, to make it stop.

And the part of him that knows he has to let you speak for yourself.

“I ain’t gonna sit here and do nothin’,” he says finally.

“I’m not asking you to do nothing.”

“Then what are you askin’?”

You meet his eyes, your voice soft. “I’m asking you to stay.”

Joel’s breath catches. The tension in his face shifts — not gone, but changed.

He nods once.

And then steps forward — one hand curling around your waist, the other sliding up to cup the back of your neck.

“I’ll stay,” he murmurs. “But if he touches you again, if he even looks at you wrong—I’m not goin’ to Maria. I’m goin’ to him. And I won’t be fuckin’ nice about it.”

Your throat tightens.

You lean into his chest, eyes shut, breathing him in. He holds you there, like his body is the only thing between you and the world.

And maybe it is.

Joel’s arms are steady around you. Warm. Wide. Big enough to feel like a shield.

You bury your face in his chest, just for a second. Just long enough to let your breathing slow, to let your muscles soften.

And then you whisper it — so quiet he almost misses it.

“I thought if I just kept my head down, he’d leave me alone.”

Joel’s hands don’t move. He just waits.

“That if I stayed quiet, stayed small, he’d get bored. Move on.”

Your voice cracks.

“But he didn’t. He just got better at hiding it.”

Joel’s fingers slide to the back of your neck, gentle and steady.

“I kept thinking maybe it wasn’t bad enough to tell anyone. That I’d sound crazy. That people wouldn’t believe me. And by the time I realized how deep I was in it… I didn’t know how to leave without looking like the one who caused it.”

You feel him inhale slowly. Deeply. Like it’s taking everything in him not to interrupt.

So you keep going.

“He’s good at pretending. You’ve seen it. Everyone thinks he’s stable. Helpful. One of the good ones. So I kept baking. Smiling. Working. Telling myself it wasn’t that bad.”

You finally look up at Joel, throat tight. “Isn’t that awful?”

He doesn’t speak right away. Just brushes your hair back from your forehead.

And when he does answer, his voice is hoarse.

“No. That’s survival.”

Your breath stutters.

Joel cups your cheek. His thumb brushes just under your eye, like he’s memorizing you in this moment — not afraid, not pretending, just here.

“You don’t gotta explain it. Not to me.”

You nod, but something else is still bubbling under your skin.

“I thought maybe last night would… fix something. That if I let someone good touch me, it would erase him.”

Joel’s expression hardens — not at you. At the idea.

“You think that’s why I was with you?” he says, voice low. “To fix you?”

“I don’t know,” you whisper. “Maybe I hoped.”

He leans in, forehead resting against yours.

“I wasn’t fixin’ you,” he says. “I was touchin’ you because I wanted to. Because I want you.”

“Even with the mess?”

“Especially with the mess.”

You let out a shaky laugh.

Joel kisses your temple.

“You’re not too much,” he murmurs. “He just made you feel small so you’d forget how fuckin’ powerful you are.”

You don’t mean to cry. But it comes anyway — slow, hot tears slipping down your cheeks before you can stop them.

Joel doesn’t pull away.

He holds you tighter.

Doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t speak. Just stays.

And for the first time in a long, long time… you let someone hold the weight with you.

The bell over the bakery door jingles just after the last loaf comes out of the oven.

You expect a neighbor. Maybe one of the regulars. You don’t expect Maria.

She steps in with her usual quiet confidence — coat still dusted with snow, clipboard tucked under her arm, hair pulled back into a tight bun. She’s the kind of woman who always looks like she’s headed to fix something — and she probably is.

You wipe your hands on your apron and offer her a small smile. “Hey.”

“Hey yourself.” Her tone is casual, but her eyes sweep the bakery with a purpose. She nods toward the counter. “Smells good in here. Joel been around again?”

Your stomach tightens, just a little. “He… stopped by this morning.”

Maria hums like she already knew that.

She moves toward the front window, glancing outside like she’s not here for anything in particular. “Busy morning?”

You shrug. “About the same. Bread’s selling fast. Guess people crave comfort when it’s cold.”

Maria looks at you then — really looks at you. Noticing the way your hands fidget with the corner of the dish towel, the way your shoulders are drawn a little tighter than usual.

She doesn’t call it out. Just sets her clipboard down on the counter and leans against it.

“Mind if I ask you something?”

You hesitate. “Sure.”

Her voice stays calm. Even.

“You doing okay?”

You blink. “Yeah. I’m fine.”

“Uh-huh.” Her expression doesn’t change. “You know that’s what everyone says right before they stop being okay?”

You try to laugh, but it comes out thin. “I’m really fine.”

Maria nods slowly, like she’s letting you say that — even if she doesn’t believe it.

“I’m not here to pry,” she says gently. “But I notice things. And I listen when people talk. I also know Joel’s not exactly the type to get cozy unless there’s a reason.”

You look down at the counter.

She leans in slightly, her tone lowering.

“If there’s something going on — something you don’t feel safe talking about — I’m not just on the council, you know. I’m also a woman who’s been through her share of shit.”

You feel your throat tighten.

Maria doesn’t press. She just watches you with that quiet steadiness that makes you feel… seen.

“Joel’s a good man,” she says softly. “But good men can only do so much if they don’t know what they’re up against.”

You grip the edge of the counter.

Maria takes a breath. “If you ever want to talk — really talk — come find me. Doesn’t matter when. Doesn’t matter where.”

You nod, unable to speak.

She picks up her clipboard again, like the moment didn’t just shake something loose inside you.

“Oh,” she adds at the door, glancing back with a knowing look, “and if you’re baking cinnamon rolls again tomorrow… Joel’s not the only one in town who wants one.”

You let out a quiet laugh, just enough for your chest to loosen.

“Got it.”

Maria gives you a wink — then disappears into the snow.

The bakery is empty again.

The rush has passed, the bell above the door gone quiet, and the sun has started to dip low behind the snow-covered rooftops. You stand at the prep table, sleeves rolled to your elbows, hands deep in cinnamon-swirled dough.

It’s muscle memory by now — press, fold, tuck, roll. The rhythm of it soothes something inside you. Makes the ache behind your ribs a little quieter.

But today, it feels different.

You keep hearing Maria’s voice.

“I’m also a woman who’s been through her share of shit.”

You didn’t ask what she meant. You didn’t have to.

You think about the way she looked at you — not like she pitied you, but like she recognized you. Like she knew the weight you’ve been carrying because she’s carried it too.

The dough sticks to your fingers. You press harder than you need to.

You think about Joel.

About how easy it was to let him in, even though nothing about your life has ever made room for soft things. About how he didn’t flinch when you broke down, didn’t pull away when you confessed the worst parts of yourself.

He just held you.

Not like something fragile.

But like something worth holding.

You press the cinnamon roll into the tray and realize your eyes are burning.

You blink fast. Wipe your hands on your apron.

You’re not crying. Not really. Just tired.

But for the first time in a long time, you don’t feel alone in it.

You glance at the radio on the shelf. His voice lives there now. Comfort wrapped in static.

And for the first time all day… you think you might actually want to hear it.

The bakery is closed. The lights are low.

Your apartment is still and dim, glowing softly with lamplight. You sit curled under a blanket on the couch, knees pulled to your chest, the radio in your lap.

You’ve been holding it for ten minutes, thumb hovering over the button.

The cinnamon rolls are proofing in the kitchen — the last batch of the day — and your whole home smells like brown sugar and butter. But it’s not the dough that’s keeping you warm tonight.

It’s him.

It’s the memory of Joel’s arms. His voice. His hands. The way he looked at you when he said you weren’t too much. That low, steady promise wrapped in his Southern drawl: I want you. Especially with the mess.

You take a breath.

Then press the button.

“Joel? You awake?”

A pause. The static clicks. Then—

“Was waitin’ on you.”

His voice is quieter than usual. Rougher. But warm in a way that coats your chest.

You smile a little. “You were?”

“Thought maybe you needed some time. Figured you’d reach out when you were ready.”

You bite your lip. Your fingers tighten around the radio.

“I wasn’t sure if you’d still want to hear from me.”

Another pause.

“You serious?”

You close your eyes. “Just… everything felt different today. Out there. After this morning.”

“Yeah. It did.”

Silence stretches again, but not uncomfortably.

You let it settle between you like a blanket. Thick and soft and real.

“Joel?” “Mm?”

“Do you wanna come over?”

You don’t know if your voice sounds small or brave. Maybe both.

Joel doesn’t answer right away. You imagine him sitting in his living room, thumb rubbing across the speaker, brow furrowed like it always does when he’s thinking too hard.

“You sure?” he asks. “You want me there?”

You nod, then realize he can’t see you.

“Yeah. I think I do.”

A quiet breath. Then—

“Be there in ten.”

The line goes dead.

You set the radio down slowly and exhale — not shaky this time. Just relieved.

Ten minutes.

You don’t rush.

You brush your fingers through your hair, wipe your eyes with the sleeve of your sweater, and check the rolls in the kitchen like it’s a normal night.

But nothing about this feels normal.

And when the knock finally comes — soft, deliberate — your hands still for just a second.

Then you move.

And when you open the door, Joel is there.

Coat zipped, eyes soft, hands in his pockets.

He doesn’t speak right away. Just looks at you like he’s been waiting for this all day.

You step aside.

He walks in.

And something inside you finally unclenches.

Joel doesn’t ask questions when he steps inside your apartment.

He just shrugs off his coat, hangs it on the hook like he’s done it a hundred times before, and turns back to you — eyes flicking over your face like he’s checking for damage. You’re not sure what he finds there, but his expression softens, and his shoulders fall just enough to show he was holding tension too.

Neither of you speak. You don’t need to.

You just walk to him, barefoot and slow, and wrap your arms around his waist.

He pulls you in like it’s instinct — arms around your back, hands spreading wide like he’s trying to cover every inch of you. His nose presses to your hair. He breathes you in.

“You sure?” he murmurs against your temple.

“Yeah,” you whisper. “I want you to stay.”

He leans back just enough to look at you.

“No rush. I can just hold you.”

You smile — soft, a little sad. “I want more than that.”

Joel’s eyes search yours. You see the way he hesitates — not because he doesn’t want it, but because he’s afraid to take. Afraid to push too far.

You take his hand. Guide him toward the bed.

The room is quiet.

Soft lamplight spills across the walls, catching on the loose strands of your hair and the edge of Joel’s stubble. You sit on the mattress first, knees bent, waiting.

He doesn’t undress quickly.

He moves slow. Reverent.

He pulls his henley over his head, folds it, sets it aside. Your eyes trail down his chest — all broad muscle, soft belly, scars that map out a life he never talks about. You reach for him as he steps closer, and he lets you.

You help each other undress — not rushed, not awkward. Just quiet. Hands tugging fabric gently over hips, brushing exposed skin. The only sound is your breathing, and the soft rustle of clothes hitting the floor.

When you’re bare in front of him, you hesitate. Instinct. Shame.

But Joel sees it.

He lifts your chin.

“Don’t do that,” he says softly. “Don’t hide from me.”

You nod.

Joel lays you back like you’re something fragile. But the way he looks at you? Like you’re his. Like he’s already gone too long without having you like this.

You’re bare under him, and still you shiver — not from the cold, but from the way he runs his hand down your side like he’s memorizing it.

“Look at you,” he murmurs, voice low and full of heat. “Spread out for me like this. You want it bad, don’t you?”

You nod, breathless.

“Say it.”

Your cheeks flush, but you whisper it anyway.

“I want it. I want you.”

He groans. “Yeah you do. Been wantin’ me since the second I walked through that fuckin’ door. Don’t think I didn’t see it.”

You bite your lip.

He lines himself up with your soaked entrance and slides in slow — painfully slow — until he’s buried deep, hips flush with yours. You cry out, back arching.

“Fuck, baby,” Joel grits out. “So fuckin’ tight. Feels like heaven.”

You’re gasping already, hands scrambling for something to hold. You end up with his arms, his back, your nails digging into muscle.

“You take me so well,” he says, dragging his hips back, then thrusting in again — deeper this time, making you whine. “So fuckin’ good for me. Like your pussy was made for me.”

You moan, legs falling open wider, desperate to feel all of him.

“That’s it,” he rasps. “Let me in. Let me fuck you like you deserve.”

His rhythm is slow but heavy, dragging every inch of him along your walls, grinding deep at the end of every thrust. Every time he moves, it punches a sound out of you — soft, helpless, needy.

“This what you needed?” he growls. “A man who sees you? Who knows how to touch you right?”

You nod frantically, your voice barely working.

“Y-Yes—Joel—fuck—”

He leans down, lips brushing your jaw.

“You’re gonna cum for me, aren’t you?” he whispers. “Gonna soak my cock just like you soaked my fuckin’ face last night.”

You whimper.

“That pretty pussy’s flutterin’ already. She wants it.”

Your whole body shakes.

“You’re mine now, baby,” Joel growls, his voice getting rougher. “No one else gets to see you like this. No one else gets to hear you beg.”

“Joel—oh my god—”

He grins against your neck, sweat sliding down his temples.

“Not God, sweetheart,” he pants. “Just the man makin’ you cum.”

And you do — hard.

Your walls clench around him, legs locking tight, fingers digging into his shoulders as your orgasm rips through you with a sob. Joel groans, deep and low, hips stuttering as you squeeze him tight.

“Fuck, that’s it—fuckin’ milk me, baby—just like that—”

He fucks you through it, then thrusts deep one last time and spills inside you with a choked moan, his body shaking above yours.

He doesn’t pull out right away.

Doesn’t move much at all.

Just stays close, chest heaving, forehead pressed to yours.

And when he speaks again, it’s lower. Rougher. But softer, too.

“Ain’t ever lettin’ you go now,” he breathes. “You fuckin’ wreck me, sweetheart.”

You’re still gasping, your body trembling beneath him.

But you manage to whisper it back:

“Good.”

You’re both a mess.

Sweat-slick, limbs tangled, breath still shallow. Joel’s weight is still half on you, his face buried in your neck, one large hand curled around your thigh like he’s not ready to let go yet.

You feel his smile before you hear it.

“You okay, baby?”

You hum a little, still catching your breath. “Destroyed. Thoroughly. Thank you.”

He lets out a low chuckle — the kind that rumbles against your chest. Then he kisses your collarbone. Once. Twice. A third time, just because he can.

“You always talk that pretty when you’re ruined?”

You swat at his arm, half-hearted. “You always talk that dirty when you’re not inside me?”

He lifts his head, eyes dancing with mischief and heat and something softer underneath.

“Nah,” he says. “Only for you.”

You look away quickly, heart skipping — because fuck, that’s too much.

But Joel doesn’t let you shy away. He leans down and kisses your cheek, then your nose, then finally your mouth — slow and sweet and real.

“Didn’t know I’d like hearin’ you beg so much,” he murmurs, lips brushing yours.

“Didn’t know I would beg.”

He grins. “That mouth says a lot of things, sweetheart. But it’s honest when I’ve got it moanin’.”

You groan, hiding your face in the pillow. “You’re so full of yourself.”

He laughs quietly and pulls you closer, spooning behind you, one arm draped over your waist.

“Nah,” he whispers into your hair. “Just full of you.”

You try to act annoyed — roll your eyes, mutter something about corny cowboys — but you’re smiling so hard your cheeks hurt.

And then it’s quiet again.

Not awkward. Not tense.

Just warm.

He draws small circles on your hip. Your foot tangles with his. You press your back into his chest like it’s second nature.

“You ever let anyone stay the night before?” Joel asks after a minute.

You shake your head slowly. “Not like this.”

He kisses the back of your neck.

“Good,” he says softly. “Don’t wanna share.”

You laugh again — quiet, sleepy. “Possessive much?”

Joel doesn’t answer.

He just holds you tighter.

You fall asleep tucked into Joel’s chest, his heartbeat steady against your back, his breath warm in your hair.

No nightmares come. No echoing footsteps or doors slamming behind your ribs. Just the weight of his arm around your waist and the slow, grounding rhythm of a man who doesn’t run.

And for the first time in a long, long time—you don’t feel like you have to, either.

AN: two words: soft filth. thank you for sticking around as joel continues to alternate between “slowest emotional burn of your life” and “talks you through an orgasm like it’s his religion.” stay tuned, and let me know if you want to be added to the taglist so you don’t miss the drama (or the smut). 💌

taglist for Sweet on You 🫶🏼: @suzysface @vikiii07 @chewie-bars @nrschuster30 @thecasualnope @lady-artemis27 @seraphimcollections @brittmb115 @leafs4life

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