full time girlfailure

2:04 am – jackson, wyoming

joel miller was a light sleeper these days. the world didn’t give him the luxury of deep sleep, not after everything he'd seen, done, and lost. so, when a floorboard creaked down the hall, his eyes snapped open instantly.

he laid still, listening.

another creak. quieter this time. then—something muffled. like a whisper. like a giggle.

his jaw clenched. slowly, joel sat up in bed, his hand instinctively reaching for the revolver resting on the nightstand. but this wasn’t the sound of danger. it was softer. familiar. young.

coming from your room.

joel’s daughter.

his biological daughter.

you’d come to jackson nearly two years ago, a girl hardened by the world but still carrying that spark in your eyes—so much like sarah’s it hurt sometimes. it had taken time, but the two of you had carved out something real. quiet dinners. shared patrols. sunday mornings fixing fences together.

he was protective of you. maybe too protective. but he didn’t care.

and now, at two in the goddamn morning, someone was in your room.

he stood slowly, silent as death, padded barefoot across the hardwood. your door was closed. but the light from your lantern was flickering under the crack. and then—another sound.

a breath.

not yours.

joel’s nostrils flared.

he knocked once, hard.

you yelped. “shit—uh, just a second!”

joel opened the door anyway.

and there he was.

jesse.

half-kneeling on your floor, frozen like a deer in headlights. his hair was a mess, lips red, a guilty look painted all over his face. his boots were tucked beneath your bed. your shirt was crooked. the window was open.

joel blinked. once. twice.

you were already rushing forward, hands up. “dad—wait—this isn’t what it looks like—”

jesse coughed. “okay, it’s exactly what it looks like.”

joel glared. “you better be real proud of that answer, son.”

you froze, heart slamming in your chest so loud you were sure your dad could hear it. jesse was still crouched on the floor like he hadn’t figured out how legs worked. the room smelled faintly like the two of you—sweat, heat, something a little sweeter and messier—and the open window gave away everything joel needed to know.

his eyes flicked over the scene with slow, terrifying precision.

the window. jesse’s boots. your wrinkled shirt. the slightly tousled bedsheets. jesse’s flushed face.

and then, his eyes landed back on you.

“want to explain,” joel said, low and gravelly, “what the hell is goin’ on here?”

you opened your mouth, but nothing came out. you couldn’t lie to joel. you had tried once when you were fourteen, and he didn’t talk to you for a week. not out of anger—but disappointment. that was always worse.

you exchanged a look with jesse, who winced like he’d rather face a clicker naked in the woods than meet joel’s gaze again.

you swallowed hard. “i invited him over.”

joel blinked. slowly. “through the window?”

“i didn’t want to wake you up.”

he stared at you for another long moment, then turned to jesse.

“and what, exactly, was the plan here, jesse?” joel asked. “you were just gonna sneak in, spend the night, and sneak back out like some kind of goddamn teenager?”

jesse raised both hands like he was being held at gunpoint. “sir, i—i swear i wasn’t trying anything bad. we just wanted to spend time together, that’s all. talk. hang out.”

joel’s eyes narrowed. “hang out? at two in the mornin’? you got a curfew i don’t know about?”

“no, sir. but—uh—i mean, we’ve been seeing each other for a while now, so…”

you let out a little breath like he’d yanked off the bandage for you.

joel stiffened.

“you’ve been what?”

you took a step forward. “we’ve been… dating.”

joel’s jaw worked. he didn’t yell. he didn’t cuss. he didn’t storm out. but the quiet—that bone-deep silence that came only when joel miller was trying very hard not to explode—that was somehow worse.

“i see,” he muttered. “and how long’s this been goin’ on?”

you hesitated. “four months.”

that did it.

“four months? you’ve been sneakin’ around for four months under my nose?” he turned to jesse. “and you—you thought it was a good idea to crawl through my daughter’s goddamn window in the middle of the night?”

jesse stood up slowly, hands still raised in peace. “i didn’t want to disrespect you, sir. i—i was gonna tell you. we both were. i just… we didn’t know how.”

joel stared at him for a long moment. then turned back to you.

“bed. now.”

“dad—”

he pointed. “now.”

you opened your mouth, then sighed and dropped into your bed with a groan. jesse gave you an apologetic look, then turned to joel.

“i’ll leave. i’m sorry.”

“you bet your ass you are,” joel said, stepping aside to let jesse pass. “next time you wanna see her after dark, you knock on the goddamn front door. you understand me?”

“yes, sir.”

joel followed him all the way to the front door, where jesse slipped out into the cold without another word. joel locked it behind him, then turned back toward your room.

you were sitting up now, arms crossed over your chest, jaw set.

“can we talk about this?” you asked quietly.

joel came back in, slower this time. he sat down on the edge of your bed, ran a hand through his graying hair, and sighed like the weight of the world had settled back on his shoulders.

“you’re my kid,” he said, finally. “i already lost one daughter. you think i’m gonna just sit back and watch someone crawl through your window like this is high school?”

“i know you’re just trying to protect me,” you whispered. “but i’m not a little kid anymore.”

“you’ll always be my little girl.”

you looked away, throat thick.

“i care about him,” you said. “he makes me feel safe. and seen. and he’s… he’s good to me, dad.”

joel’s expression softened just a hair. “he better be.”

you offered a small smile. “he is.”

joel stood. “no more sneakin’ around. you wanna see him, fine. but he comes through the front door. with respect.”

“yes, sir.”

he reached out, brushing a hand over your hair. “get some sleep.”

7:41 am – jackson town hall, front porch

jesse was already awake.

scratch that—he hadn’t slept.

after joel miller stared him down like a man deciding whether or not to bury a body, jesse hadn’t dared close his eyes. instead, he’d sat on the edge of his bed in his shared house, heart hammering, hands still trembling slightly.

now, he was standing outside town hall with two mugs of coffee—one for him, one for maria.

she eyed him over the rim of her own mug as she stepped outside. “you look like hell.”

“i feel worse,” he admitted, handing her the cup anyway.

maria raised an eyebrow. “let me guess—this has something to do with joel storming past my house at two in the morning like a man on a mission?”

jesse winced.

“yup.”

maria took a long sip. “so. what did you do?”

he rubbed the back of his neck. “it’s more about what we did.”

maria’s brows lifted slightly.

“i was… uh… sneaking into her room,” jesse confessed. “and joel caught me.”

there was a beat of silence. then maria burst out laughing.

“you tried to sneak into joel miller’s daughter’s bedroom? are you out of your goddamn mind?”

“in hindsight?” jesse muttered. “yes.”

she leaned against the porch post, shaking her head. “you’re lucky he didn’t put a bullet through your thigh.”

“i thought about jumping out the window.”

“you should’ve.”

jesse groaned, rubbing his face. “he looked at me like i’d burned down his whole world.”

“because you’re not just dating any girl,” maria said gently. “you’re dating his girl. his biological daughter. he doesn’t have a lot of people left, jesse. you know that.”

“i know,” he said softly. “that’s why i feel like shit.”

“you should.” maria patted his shoulder, then offered a hint of a smile. “but i’ve seen the way you look at her. and i’ve seen the way she looks when you’re around.”

he glanced up, hopeful. “yeah?”

“you’re not going anywhere. joel will see that eventually. just don’t sneak in through any more damn windows.”

“message received,” jesse muttered.

10:00 am – your house

you emerged from your room like you were stepping into a war zone. joel was already up, sitting at the kitchen table with a mug of coffee and a hammer in hand, fixing something small and wooden—probably one of ellie’s broken carvings.

he didn’t look up when you entered. just nodded toward the counter.

“there’s food.”

you grabbed a piece of toast and buttered it in silence. the room felt heavy. like you were both pretending last night hadn’t happened.

but you were tired of pretending.

“i meant what i said,” you said, voice barely above a whisper.

joel’s hands slowed. he looked up.

“i care about him. i’m not just… messing around. jesse’s not like that.”

he met your eyes. “you think i don’t see that?”

you blinked. “so… you’re not mad?”

“oh, i’m still mad,” he said, setting the hammer down with a clunk. “mad that he disrespected the house. mad that you kept this from me. but i’m not mad that it’s him.”

you stared.

joel leaned back in his chair, sighing. “i may not act like it, but i pay attention. jesse’s a good kid. one of the only ones who stood by you when things got hard. when you came back from that rough patrol with ellie… he was the first one at your bedside. i remember.”

your throat tightened.

joel continued, quieter now. “he’s got a good heart. loyal. quick on his feet. just—next time? tell me. don’t make me find out by walkin’ in on you two.”

“i wanted to,” you whispered. “we just… weren’t sure how.”

joel’s voice softened. “you don’t have to hide from me. i’m your dad. i might be a grumpy son of a bitch, but i’m always in your corner. you hear me?”

you nodded, eyes burning. “i hear you.”

he stood, ruffled your hair gently, and muttered, “now go tell that poor boy he’s not banned from the house.”

you laughed, relief bursting like light through a window. “really?”

“don’t make me regret it.”

1:12 pm – jackson garden area

jesse was halfway through stacking crates of produce when he heard your voice behind him.

“hey, trouble.”

he turned, eyes wide—and then softened with the smallest, most bashful grin.

“you’re here. that’s a good sign.”

you walked up and wrapped your arms around his waist without a word, just buried your face in his chest. jesse pulled you in instantly, arms tightening like he thought you might disappear.

“i thought he was gonna kill me,” he mumbled into your hair.

“he almost did.”

“i deserve it.”

you looked up. “he said you’re not banned.”

jesse blinked. “seriously?”

you nodded. “he’s mad. but not about us. he knows you’re good to me.”

jesse softened. “i love you, you know.”

you swallowed. “i know.”

you pulled him in closer, hands gripping the fabric of his shirt.

“i love you too.”

6:28 pm – your house, jackson

jesse stood outside your front door, holding a small paper bag in one hand and nervously tapping the fingers of the other against his thigh.

he looked like he was about to walk into an ambush.

because, in a way, he was.

inside was joel miller. the same joel miller who’d caught him sneaking through a second-story window like a hormone-drenched raccoon just twenty hours ago.

the same man who could clean a rifle blindfolded, break a man’s nose in two seconds, and give silent disappointment like a death sentence.

the door creaked open, and you peeked out.

“hey,” you whispered with a crooked smile. “you’re early.”

“i wanted to prove i know how to use the front door,” jesse said, holding up the paper bag like a peace offering. “i brought wine. well… it’s not really wine. it’s that fermented berry stuff maria makes.”

you giggled and stepped aside. “come in. he’s—uh—on the couch.”

jesse’s posture tensed immediately. “great.”

“relax,” you said softly, squeezing his hand as he stepped inside. “he’s trying.”

joel didn’t get up when jesse entered. he was sitting on the couch, carving something into a piece of wood, glasses perched low on his nose. the fire crackled softly in the hearth.

he glanced up. then back down at the carving.

“jesse.”

“mr. miller.”

the air went tight. for about three seconds.

then joel sighed and gestured to the table. “food’s gettin’ cold. sit.”

jesse blinked. “wait, really?”

joel looked up again. “you want me to change my mind?”

“no, sir.”

he scurried over.

you sat between the two men like a human buffer zone.

dinner was stew—hearty, warm, and made with actual fresh potatoes tommy had bartered for. you’d helped cook, which you hoped might earn you some daughter-points if things went sideways.

the first few minutes were silent. forks scraped. fire popped. jesse looked like he was calculating every move like it might trigger a landmine.

then joel finally spoke.

“so,” he said, not looking up. “you two… serious?”

you nearly choked on your bite. jesse froze with his spoon halfway to his mouth.

“i mean,” jesse said carefully, “i’d like to think so. i care about her. a lot.”

joel slowly raised his eyes.

jesse sat up straighter. “i’m not playing games. i don’t want anyone else. just her.”

you glanced at joel, who studied jesse for a long, hard moment.

then he hummed. “good answer.”

jesse blinked. “really?”

joel chewed, then nodded. “you got guts, i’ll give you that.”

jesse visibly relaxed. “thanks.”

“i still don’t like the window thing.”

“understood.”

joel took another bite. “you ever sneak into this house again, i will break your legs.”

“yes, sir.”

you sighed. “dad…”

joel smirked faintly. “kidding.”

“are you?”

“mostly.”

7:18 pm – after dinner

you were washing dishes at the sink, joel drying. jesse offered to help, but joel grunted something about “earning your keep next time” and waved him to the couch.

he stood awkwardly for a second before walking to the fireplace, staring at the wooden carving joel had left on the mantle.

it was a horse. roughly shaped, but detailed. the mane curled just right.

jesse picked it up.

“this is beautiful.”

joel looked up. “not finished.”

“i didn’t know you carved.”

joel shrugged. “only when i got somethin’ on my mind.”

jesse turned the horse over in his hands, then looked at you.

“you still have that little owl he made you?”

“of course i do,” you said, smiling. “it’s on my nightstand.”

joel’s ears turned slightly red. “didn’t think you kept it.”

“i keep everything you make me,” you said softly.

he didn’t say anything to that. but the tiniest flicker of something passed over his face—something softer. pleased. almost bashful.

8:00 pm – the couch

you and jesse were curled up together under a blanket. joel sat in his chair with a half-empty glass of that berry “wine,” legs crossed, his eyes flicking between you and the fire.

jesse had his arm around you, and you were nestled against his chest, legs folded beneath you. the fire was warm. the room smelled like cinnamon and old wood. and, miraculously, joel hadn’t kicked jesse out yet.

joel finally spoke again.

“you ever hurt her,” he said calmly, “i don’t care how long you’ve been in this town—i will send you packin’.”

jesse nodded solemnly. “i’d let you.”

you poked him in the ribs. “that’s not the right answer.”

“it’s the safe answer.”

joel cracked a grin. “smart boy.”

you looked up at him, a slow smile forming. “you like him.”

“don’t push it,” joel muttered.

jesse tried to hide his laugh in your shoulder.

8:37 pm – porch

jesse stood on the porch, your hands in his, moonlight brushing the tops of the trees behind him.

“i still can’t believe i survived dinner with joel miller.”

“i think he likes you,” you whispered.

“he threatened to break my legs twice.”

“yeah,” you said with a grin. “but that’s basically his way of saying ‘welcome to the family.’”

jesse leaned in, his voice softer now. “then i’ll take it.”

you kissed him slowly, sweetly, right there on the porch your dad built with his own hands.

inside, joel watched from the window—eyes narrowed, but not angry. not anymore.

there was a little peace in his expression. a little quiet pride.

Jesse recoiled a bit at the mention of Dina and you immediately regretted bringing her up.

“Sorry. I’m just curious, I've never…”

You forced yourself to stop talking, opting to pick at your shoes instead.

“You’re a virgin?”

He didn’t ask like he was judging, he asked like he was genuinely surprised. Your heart sped up a bit. Had he revealed something to you just now? Or was it just in your head?

“Yeah.”

Jesse stayed quiet for a moment, thinking about something as he stared off into space. He was struggling to decide what was or not appropriate to say. You’d started this conversation but he didn’t want to make you uncomfortable by accident. He didn’t know how “innocent” you were. 

“Normally people only see it when it's already hard.”

You bit into your cheek, nodding in understanding. No one had ever told you that but it did make sense with the little knowledge you had.

Jesse watched you think for a second. His eyes scanned your body. You seemed calm but that could be because of the weed. You turned to look at him, your eyes catching the way his eyes raked over your body. Ok so you definitely weren't imagining things. There was something there. But just how far would Jesse let you go?

You intended to find out. 

“If i made it hard would you show me?”

You where already starting to make him hard with all your fucking questions. His brain took every word that slipped from your mouth and turned it into a dirty little fantasy. Harmless but very effective. He hesitated for a bit but then the horniness got to him and he simply nodded at you.

“Yeah ok.”

You lifted off your spot on the floor, moving towards him. He shifted on the couch, moving so that he was sitting instead of laying down. You stopped when you got in front of him, hands unconsciously tugging at your jacket. Jesse waited, his eyes moving over your body until they reached your face. You looked at him with wide eyes. It was then that he realised you were waiting for him to tell you what to do. 

“Have you ever made out with someone?”

“Like kissing them? Yeah I've kissed people Jesse, I'm not that inexperienced.”

Jesse sighed. He hadn’t meant for it to sound like he didn’t think you could manage to have someone want to kiss you, but by the way you’d crossed your arms in front of your chest he could tell he’d touched a nerve.

He rose from his spot, closing the distance between the two of you. You took a step back at the action, not because you didn’t want him close but because you didn’t know what to expect from him. Jesse noticed the uncertainty in your eyes.

“Hey it’s ok. It’s just me.”

You nodded, allowing him to move closer. His hand found your cheek, his thumb running over the skin as he spoke.

“There's a difference between kissing and making out. That’s why I asked.”

Before you could answer he leaned down. His lips found yours, placing a small kiss to them before backing away. 

“That’s a kiss.”

His hand moved to rest on your waist, pulling you flush against his body. His lips crashed into yours, hands trying to tug you impossibly closer. Your heart was beating so fast it was the only thing you could focus on. This was so different from the gentle kiss he’d just given you. This was hungry. Carnal. 

Your body reached for him in desperation, arms moving to wrap around his neck as he deepened the kiss. His hands squeezed your hips before shifting to your ass. You gasped at the movement and Jesse took it as his opportunity to shove his tongue in your mouth. 

When he finally pulled away you were gasping for air. Your chest heaved with every breath, lips swollen as you stared up at him like he’d just shown you the secrets of the universe. He couldn’t help but smile at your expression.

“So, I take it you’ve never made out with anyone.”

“No I've never done…that.”

A laugh slipped from your mouth before you could help it. Jesse joined in, his hands never leaving your body. When you both got your laughing fit in controle you leaned into him, placing a kiss to his lips.  Your mouth chased his as he moved away, a small whine leaving you. Jesse’s dick twitched at the sound. It didn’t help that you were practically pouting at him. 

“It’s easier if you're sitting down.”

“Okay.”

You watched him move back to the couch. He took a seat, manspreading as he stared up at you. You took a step forward, hesitating for a moment before placing one knee on the couch. Jesse nodded his head at you, approving your movements, so you continued. You settled on his lap, hands resting on his shoulders. Jesse's hands rested on your hips as he waited to see what you would do. Your eyes moved from his mouth to his neck, tongue moving out to wet your lips.

“Can I try something?”

“Of course.”

“And you’ll tell me if it's bad?”

“If you want me to.”

“I do.”

“Then yeah, I will.”

Satisfied, you leaned down. Your lips found his neck with caution, placing small pecks to the skin. Jesse shifted beneath you, head moving to the side to give you more access. You took that as a sign to keep going.

Your kisses became more confident and Jesse responded to every single one. When you finally found his sweet spot he let out a groan, hips bucking up into you. The action caused you to stop licking at his neck. Jesse's eyes snapped open when he felt you pull away from him.

“What is it?”

“You’re hard.”

He had completely forgotten about how all this had started. But you were right, he was hard.

“Does that mean I did it right?”

Jesse smiled at you before he could help it. He tugged you into a kiss and you accepted it. You ground down into him, searching for relief without even knowing why you were doing it. Jesse pulled away, his forehead resting on yours.

“So…can I see now?”

He had promised and Jesse was a man of his word. 

“Yeah. Do you want me to take it out or do you wanna do it yourself?”

“You can do it.”

“Okay. Move back a bit.”

You did as he asked, shifting slightly on his lap so that he could reach his pants with more ease. Your eyes followed every movement. He moved slowly, drawing the moment out longer than necessary. You could tell he was doing it on purpose. Just as you were going to scold him his dick sprang free.

Your lips parted in confusion, head tilting to the side as you took in the sight before you. It wasn’t pretty. It looked kind of weird actually. But you felt a desire to sit on it.

How strange. 

Jesse watched you take it in. He could see the wheels turning in your mind. He hadn't expected you to scream out in joy or anything but the silent observation was killing him.

“Can I touch it?”

“Sure.”

Your hand moved to grab his dick. Jesse hissed at your skin met his, causing you to look up at him.

“Did that hurt?”

“Not exactly, it's just sensitive”

You gave him a tentative stroke. Jesse's head fell back onto the couch with a small pant so you repeated the action. 

“Is it true that people put it in their mouth?”

“Yeah its-shit- that's a blowjob.”

“Is it good?”

“Very.”

“Better than this?”

Your hand hasn't stopped moving as you spoke and Jesse was finding it harder and harder to keep his voice leveled.

“Much.”

“Do you want me to? Put it in my mouth I mean.”

Oh, he so very much wanted that. But not right now. Right now he wanted to show you he could make you feel good too. So despite his brain yelling at him to say yes he moved to grab onto your hand. You gazed up at him as his hand warped around yours, stilling your movements.

“Maybe another time. Can I show you something instead?”

“Okay.”

Jesse's hand moved to your pants, looking up at you in a silent question. You understood his request. Once you’d nodded your okay, Jesse unbuttoned your pants and pulled your zipper down. You were already panting from the anticipation. When his fingers found your folds a moan ripped itself from your throat. You’ve touched yourself before but it felt so different when it was someone else doing it. Jesse's fingers were thicker than yours so the feeling of fullness was more predominant. 

“Jesse it's…oh wow.”

“Fuck you’re wet.”

He added another digit and you gasped.

“Just wait till you feel my dick.”

You clenched at his words and Jesse couldn’t help but smile.

“You want that huh? Want me to fuck you?”

You were nodding with all your might, fingers gripping onto his shoulder as he continued to finger you. 

“Can I sit on it?”

“Next time. It’s better to be laying down for the first time.”

“Okay.”

“I need you to cum first though ok?”

You nodded, allowing your head to rest on his shoulder. Your hips rocked against his fingers, searching for your release. When his thumb found your clit you were gone.

You fisted at his shirt, mouth opening to release a moan of his name as you gushed onto his fingers. Your body sagged into his completely as you reached your high. Jesse placed a kiss on your shoulder as he removed his fingers from inside you. 

“You want a taste?”

As curious as you were, your body was too tired to focus on anything other than the sudden euphoria that has washed through it. So you shook your head. Jesse moved his fingers away from your face, shoving them into his mouth before licking them clean. You watched the action, clenching around nothing.

You looked down at Jesse's crouch, finding him still rock hard, possibly even more than he ahd been when you’d been touching him. Jesse caught onto your stare, hands moving to wrap around your chin. He lifted your head so that you were looking into his eyes.

“Do you really want it to be me, or were you just saying it because my fingers felt good?”

“Not just because of that. I like you Jesse and I trust you. I want it to be you. If that's alright with you I mean.”

“It's more than alright with me.”

He gave you a loving kiss, shifting around so that he could tug you out of his lap and lay you down on the couch. You spread your legs for him, allowing him to slot between them. 

“It’ll hurt a bit at the start but it gets better. And if you want me to slow down or stop you tell me ok?”

“I will.”

“Good. You ready?”

“Hu huh.”

Jesse was right at first it stung, even with how slowly he was entering you the discomfort was present. Your brows furrowed and Jesse noticed. He moved to caress your thighs, trying to pull your attention away from the pain. It worked well. Before you knew it the pain had turned into pleasure. 

Jesse started rocking into you slowly. With every move you gasped, hands clawing onto his back. That only spurred him on. His movements became more erratic, his whines louder. He was trying to be a gentleman but you kept clenching around him like a vice.

His head fell onto your shoulder, hips moving faster and faster with each of your moans. You could feel the pressure in your stomach. The more he moved the closer it got to snapping. And then with one well placed thrust Jesse had you biting into his shoulder as you came.

It took everything in Jesse to not cum inside as your body threatened to swallow him whole but he managed. Afterwards the two of you lay in eachothers arms snuggling to keep the cold at bay. 

“Do you think we’ll be here long?”

Jesse glanced out the window. The storm was still raging outside.

“At least a couple hours.”

“Does that mean we can go again?”

Jesse let out a laugh. He’d created a monster. 

“Yeah we can go again.”

“Can I sit on it this time?”

“Sure. Just give me a couple minutes.”

“Alright.”

Your phone is still facedown on the nightstand, the little “do not disturb” moon winking like it’s in on the joke. The bedroom smells like your lotion and the warm, sweet bite of leftover soy sauce from the carton you never put away. You were right there—the kind of edge where your calves tremble and your breathing goes thin and mean—when the knock came.

“Hold on,” you snap, breathless, a little wild. You yank the first T-shirt you can find over your head and tug on cotton shorts that don’t bother hiding the damp patch you’ve been working into them.

You fling open the door with a bite. “What.”

Tommy stands there with a hand braced overhead like he’s been leaning on your doorframe for a hundred years. Dark henley, sun-brown skin, hair curled a little from the heat. That crooked smile that never learned manners.

“Well, hey to you too, sunshine.” His gaze sweeps your flushed face, your bare legs. “I offend ya in your dreams again or is this a daytime thing?”

You roll your eyes so hard it hurts. “Come in before a neighbor sees you staring.”

“Me? I’m not the one answerin’ the door lookin’ like a fire alarm,” he says, stepping past you. He smells like motor oil and cedar. He beelines for the fridge like it’s his place, finds the leftover Chinese, and pops the lid with a plastic fork he digs out of your junk drawer. “Missed lunch,” he mumbles, already eating cold sesame chicken like it’s the cure to everything.

You kick the door shut, arms folded, jaw clenched so tight your teeth ache. You stomp after him just to have something to do with your legs that isn’t clenching them together.

“What’s up with you?” he asks, around a mouthful. He eyes your pink cheeks, the sheen at your temple. His mouth quirks. “You got a… guest, sweetheart?”

“No, Tommy. I don’t.”

“Mm.” He chews, thoughtful. His gaze lingers on your mouth, then drops—one beat too low. “You… busy when I knocked?”

You stare at him like your face can kill. It can’t. He only grins wider.

“Gotta ask, ‘cause you’re standin’ there like I cut the wire on somethin’ important.”

You throw a hand up. “Can you not.”

He leans hip to counter, tapping the fork on the carton lid. “Oh, I can. Question is—were you?”

You glare. Silence stretches. His eyes light, slow and wicked.

“Oh, you were.” He laughs, low. “Well hell. Me and my bad timing.”

“Tommy,” you warn.

“I’ll be real quick,” he promises, tipping the carton to shovel in another bite like he’s trying to get out of your hair fast. Except then his eyes catch the way your thighs press together. The way you sway where you stand. His brow lifts. “Unless you want me to keep you from it. Keepin’ you from sin might be good for my karma.”

“Your karma’s a lost cause.”

“True.” He sets the carton down. “Where’s the emergency? Bedroom? Couch? Shower?” He looks at you, head tipping. “You doin’ the shower thing? People make a lotta promises about that one—it’s overrated.”

You sputter. “I’m not discussing my—my process with you.”

“Well, you ain’t gotta,” he says easily, pushing off the counter and wandering a few steps closer. “But since you look about ready to climb the wall, I could at least heat your leftovers for ya and get gone.”

“I was fine,” you insist, and even you hear the lie. “I was—God, forget it.”

He watches you for one long breath, then hums. “Call one of your little boyfriends, then.”

You blink. “What?”

“Those boys you go dancin’ with and then pretend aren’t starin’ at your ass the whole night.” He gestures vaguely. “They can come over, pick up where you left off.”

You scoff, sharp and humorless. “Yeah. No.”

“Mm?” He studies you like you’re a math problem. “Shy all of a sudden?”

“They never—” You bite it off, but the dam’s already cracked. Frustration leaks through, hot and humiliating. “They don’t… it doesn’t happen with them, okay?”

He frowns. “Doesn’t what happen?”

You give him a look like he’s being willfully dense. “It.”

The slow shock that breaks over his face would be funny if you weren’t vibrating with need. He sets the fork down, completely forgetting the food. “Hold up. You’re tellin’ me… not a one of those little bastards has ever made you cum?”

Heat crashes into your cheeks. “Tommy,” you hiss.

“No, I’m tryna understand.” His hands go out. “Not one?”

You throw your hands. “No! Okay? Happy? Can you go now?”

He stares at you like it’s a personal affront. “That’s—now, that’s a sin I can’t stand for.” He shakes his head, jaw tight with something that looks suspiciously like anger. “What are they doin’ down there, a guided tour of nothin’?”

“Jesus.”

“Nah, I’d be sayin’ Jesus too if I—” He cuts himself off, eyes narrowing. “Alright. I’ll let you take care of yourself. Clearly you were doin’ a better job than the roster.”

He turns toward the door, wiping his hands on a paper towel. You don’t think. Your hand closes around his wrist.

“I can’t either,” you blurt, soft, furious with it. “Half the time I can’t. I get—close—and then… I don’t know, I lose it.”

He goes still. Slowly, he looks down at your fingers around his pulse, then up to your eyes. Something changes in his face, the playful shine sinking to something intent and hot.

“Ain’t no way,” he says quietly.

You swallow.

He takes a slow breath, then nods to the couch. “Show me what you were doin’.”

Your stomach drops to the floor. “Excuse me?”

“I ain’t touchin’,” he says, hands up, mouth curving. “Scout’s honor.”

“You were never a scout.”

“I was a hell of a lotta things,” he drawls. “Teacher’s one of ‘em. C’mon. Lemme help.”

You should tell him to leave. You should die of embarrassment. Instead, you back toward the couch like you’re being coaxed by a wolf. You climb up, sit, then slide down until your shoulders catch the cushions and your hips perch at the edge. Your heart’s beating in your throat.

Tommy drags a dining chair over and flips it, straddling it backward like every bad decision you’ve ever made. He props his chin on his folded arms over the chair back, eyes dark and steady on you. “Attagirl.”

You stare at him.

“Shorts,” he says. “We both know they’re useless right now.”

And because it’s Tommy. Because you’ve known him forever. Because he makes everything so easy and familiar and simple. You listen. Your fingers hook in the waistband before your brain protests. You peel them down and kick them off. The T-shirt sinks to your waist when you spread your knees. Cool air kisses you and your breath hitches.

Tommy’s eyes drop, slow. His swallow is audible. The tips of his ears go pink. “Christ alive.” His voice roughens. “Pretty as I figured.”

“Don’t—” Your voice shakes. “Don’t say things.”

“Oh, I got a lot to say, but you’re the one runnin’ the show.” He nods at your hand. “How were you doin’ it?”

You wet your lips, then slide a palm down your belly. Your fingers find yourself like they always do—press, rub, a little too fast because you’re greedy, because he’s looking and it’s turned your bones to gauze.

“Okay,” he murmurs. “Slow it down. You’re chasin’. You ain’t gotta chase it.”

You glare; your hips twitch anyway. “If I slow down it goes away.”

“Not if you keep the rhythm.” He taps his knuckles—one, two, three—an unhurried beat. “Match me. Little circles. Don’t hunt—invite.”

You try. Your breath catches and catches again. He watches the way your stomach flutters.

“Good girl,” he says, almost absent. “Now left a touch. Yeah.” He leans in like he’s squinting at a map. “There it is. That twitch right there. Stay there.”

You whimper.

“Feels like pressure buildin’ behind your navel?” he asks softly. “Little ache?”

You nod too fast. “Yes—fuck—Tommy—”

“Language,” he says, smiling, and you want to murder him until your thighs shake and the smile slides right off his face. His jaw hardens. “Keep your wrist loose, baby. You’re white-knucklin’ it. Relax.”

“I’m trying—”

“Breathe.” He breathes slow, exaggerated, and you match him because you’ll do anything anyone asks if it means you get there. “Better. Now, you can add a finger inside if you want. Just one. Shallow. Curl toward your belly button, not down. Like you’re beckonin’. Two knuckles, not three.”

You do it. The angle is… different. A bright little hook that makes your hips jerk off the cushion. Your voice breaks. “Oh—oh my God—”

“There she is.” His eyes burn. “You feel that? That’s yours. Don’t run from it.”

You want to, because your body always does—clenches, darts away, skitters to the edges. You force yourself to push into it this time, heels braced on the edge of the couch, breath shattering. You’re aware of him in the periphery—big hands wrapped around the chair back so tight his knuckles blanch, chest barely rising because he’s holding his breath like he’s the one about to fall apart.

“Tommy—” It comes out a whine. “I’m—”

“Keep the pace,” he says, voice gone sandpaper. “Don’t get greedy. Let it—yeah, just like that, baby—”

You break with a ragged gasp, spilling over your own fingers, thighs trembling. It feels like heat and weight and a relief so sharp you could cry with it. You ride it through because he doesn’t let you lose it, murmuring, “uh-uh, stay with it, that’s it, that’s my girl,” until your hand finally slows.

You blink up at the ceiling. There are little bursts of light at the edges of your vision. You swallow and lick your lips and realize your fingers are still between your legs, and Tommy Miller is still sitting three feet away watching you like a war is over.

He scrubs a hand over his face. When he drops it, his mouth is a line. “I’m about to be extremely stupid.”

Your laugh is a small, wrecked thing. “Join the club.”

“C’mere,” he says gently, and when you don’t move quick enough he stands, sets the chair aside, and kneels between your knees. He doesn’t touch. He braces his hands on either side of your hips and looks at you the way people look at altars. “Can I?”

All the air leaves you. “Yes.”

He leans in slow, giving you a chance to change your mind, and presses his mouth to your inner thigh first. A kiss. Another. Then his thumb slides to the place you’ve just made tender and he looks up to see the way your lashes flutter.

“Pretty,” he says, so soft you barely hear it. “You’re so pretty.”

“Tommy—”

“I know.” He breathes out. “I’m gonna show you. How this is supposed to feel.”

He doesn’t dive in. He tastes you with small, reverent swipes, learning the shape of what you like. His tongue is unhurried; his hands sure. When you start to pant, he hums like he’s pleased with himself and says, “There you go,” into you, the vibration making you jerk.

“More,” you whisper, and he gives you more like he’s been waiting his whole life to be told what to do. He drags two fingers through your slick and eases one inside while his mouth works you in patient, devastating circles. When he adds the second his knuckles nudge that bright spot again and your back arches.

“Right there,” you gasp.

“Right there,” he echoes, voice breaking against you. “Hold me if you want.”

You fist your hand in his hair and he groans like the sound is pulled out of him, moving his mouth just so. He doesn’t speed up when you start to chase—he keeps you on that same relentless edge until your thighs tremble around his ears.

“Let it happen,” he says into you. “Don’t think. Just take it.”

You fall apart so hard your heels drum against the couch frame. He doesn’t stop until you push at his shoulder, half-laughing, half-pleading. “Okay. Okay, okay—God, Tommy—”

He kisses the inside of your knee, then your hipbone, then the soft skin just under your T-shirt. He looks up, pupils blown, mouth wet and wrecked.

“Still with me?”

“Barely.”

“Good.” He stands, and you feel very small and very safe all at once with him towering over you. He thumbs a smear of you off his chin and licks it absently, eyes never leaving your face. “Lesson ain’t over.”

“You—” Your voice is a croak. “You think I’m gonna survive an advanced course?”

He laughs, chest-deep. “You’ll manage.”

He reaches for his belt, then stops. “Condom?”

You blink, hazy, then fumble end table drawer on the side of the sofa open and toss him a foil. He catches it one-handed without looking away and the little flare of competence should not be hot but it is; you feel your stomach drop like an elevator.

He steps out of his boots, pushes his jeans and briefs down, and for a second your brain pulls a hard blue screen. He’s thick, heavy in his palm, the blunt head flushed. He rolls the condom down with practiced ease, then leans over you, one hand braced on the cushion beside your head, the other cupping your jaw. Your eyes say keep going.

He drags the head of his cock through the slick he made of you, slow enough to make you whine, then presses. Your mouth falls open. The stretch is sharp, sweet. He pauses halfway, forearm shaking, eyes squeezed shut.

“You’re so warm,” he says, like a confession. “Jesus, baby.”

“More,” you say, and he huffs a laugh that sounds strangled.

“I’m goin’, sweetheart. I’m goin’.”

He pushes the rest of the way in and it knocks a noise out of you you’ve never heard yourself make. He’s deep, deeper than anyone’s ever felt, and you grab his shoulders without meaning to. He groans, low, into the hinge of your jaw.

“Look at me,” he says, and when you do his face goes soft and hungry all at once. “How’s that?”

“Like—” You struggle. “Like finally.”

He curses under his breath, like that hit him somewhere tender, and draws back. The first thrust is careful, gauging you, but the second rolls hard enough to make the couch creak. You gasp; he watches your mouth like he’s starving.

“Good?” he asks.

“Yes.”

He finds a pace you can’t name—not fast, but deep and steady, like he’s trying to carve his name somewhere no one will ever erase. One big hand brackets your thigh and folds your knee up, opening you wider. The angle tilts and your breath breaks.

“There,” you say, already wrecked. “Tommy—there.”

“Yeah?” His grin is quick and sinful. He snaps his hips just right and your nails bite his shoulder. “There, baby?”

“Don’t stop.”

“Not plannin’ to.” His voice goes rough, the edges fraying. “You feel me? Huh? Doin’ alright?”

You can only nod. He fucks you like he’s been dying to—like you’re both getting away with something and also like there’s nowhere safer than this. The rhythm pulls you higher; that curl of heat builds again and your eyes sting with it.

“Relax into it,” he says, almost coaxing. “Don’t run. Let me—yeah, just like that.” He grits his teeth, control fraying when you squeeze around him. “Goddamn, sweetheart, you’re squeezin’ the life outta me.”

“Don’t—” Your voice shivers. “Please, baby, please don’t stop.”

He laughs, breathless. “Bossy.” He cups the back of your head and kisses you, finally, nothing polite about it—his mouth hot and sure, claiming. You taste yourself on his tongue and moan into him, and he swears, deep, like you just took his knees out. “You sound so sweet when you call me baby,” he mutters against your lips. “That what i am now? Baby? Ruined me for bein’ your friend. You know that?”

“Been ruined,” you pant. “Keep—oh God, keep going—”

He reaches down between you, finds your clit with two slick fingers, and rubs the same exact rhythm he taught you earlier, like he’s memorized it. Your whole body lights up. You clutch the back of his neck and his thrusts turn messy, desperate.

“There she is,” he grits out. “C’mon. Show me. I want it.”

“Tommy—”

“Look at me,” he says, voice gone ragged. “I want your eyes on me when you cum.”

You do it because you always do what he tells you when he uses that voice, and the second your gaze locks with his the wave hits. You shatter around him with a broken cry, clamping down so hard he gasps your name like a prayer. He keeps moving, keeps rubbing you through it like he can’t stand the thought of you not getting every drop.

“Fuck,” he chokes. “God, baby—fuck.”

He folds over you as he drives deep and goes still, groaning into your neck as he comes, the heat of it pulsing even through the thin latex. The weight of him is everything—sweat-damp and solid and Tommy.

For a long minute, there’s only breath. His, yours. The tick of your wall clock. The way his thumb rubs your jaw like he forgot how to stop touching you.

“Tell me that was good,” he says finally, words muffled in your throat like he’s afraid to hear otherwise.

“Tommy.” You smile against his hair. “Good is rude. That was—” You breathe out, dizzy. “—that was missionary-position fireworks. That was baptism. That was illegal in some counties.”

He laughs, a burst that shakes his chest against yours. He tilts up and kisses your mouth again, softer. “Had to know. Had to show you.”

“You made your point,” you say, drowsy and warm. “Multiple times.”

“Damn right I did.”

He eases out of you with care, ties off the condom, and disappears to your bathroom for all of thirty seconds. He comes back with a warm washcloth like he’s done this in your space a hundred times, even though he hasn’t, and cleans you slow, almost reverent. You watch him with something like awe tugging at the edges of you.

“You okay?” he asks, finally meeting your eyes.

“Yeah.” You nudge him with your foot. “Hungry.”

He grins. “I can fix that too.” He helps you sit up and tugs your T-shirt back into place like you’re something precious he’s keeping warm. Then he pads to the kitchen in his socks and you admire the view as shamefully as you deserve to.

He reheats the sesame chicken and brings the carton and a fork back like it’s a prize. You take a bite and groan indecently.

“Careful,” he says, eyes dancing. “I’m tryin’ to be a gentleman for once.”

“First time for everything,” you tease, and he puts a hand over his heart like you shot him.

“Uncalled for,” he says, then sobers, mouth curving as he studies your face. He drags his knuckles under your chin, gentle. “Gotta say… I don’t like thinkin’ about those boys not… takin’ care of you.”

You tilt your head. “Jealous?”

“Pissed,” he admits, unabashed. “And yeah, maybe a bit possessive, which ain’t my right.” He shrugs one shoulder, eyes going a little shy in a way that doesn’t happen to Tommy very often. “You deserve to feel good. Every damn time.”

You stare at him. The room feels suddenly tender, the air thinner.

“You made me feel—” You break off, fighting a lump in your throat you didn’t invite to this party. “Like I could just let it happen.”

“Because you can.” He taps the tip of your nose with his fingertip like he’s the only person allowed to do something that sweet to you. “Because it’s yours. I just… helped you find it.”

You set the food aside and slide your hands up his chest. “Teacher,” you murmur, and he groans like the word does something to him. “You said lesson wasn’t over.”

His grin returns, slow and sure. “It ain’t.”

You crawl into his lap like it’s the easiest thing in the world and settle on his thighs, knees bracketing his hips. His hands come to your waist automatically, thumbs tracing the dip there.

“Second module,” you whisper, leaning in so your mouth skims his ear. “You show me how many times you can make me forget my name before I bite you.”

He laughs, husky. “Baby, I’m gonna have you forgettin’ your address.”

“Big talk,” you say, but the shiver that runs through you gives you away.

He stands with you clinging koala-style, mouth on yours. “Bedroom,” he says, already walking. “And for the record?”

“What.”

“You call any of those little boys again,” he murmurs, all grin and teeth, “they’re gonna have to submit a request in writin’ and I’ll get back to ‘em in seven to ten business days.”

You snort against his mouth. “Possessive.”

“Teacher’s prerogative,” he says, and then he’s laying you down, the afternoon light painting his shoulders gold, and you’re opening for him like it’s always been this easy.

𓍯𓂃𓏧♡

Later—after he’s wrung you out twice more by sticking to his own rules (“keep the rhythm,” “don’t run,” “breathe, baby, I got you”) and you’ve repaid the favor with your mouth until he cussed and laughed and said he was gonna have to build you a trophy shelf—he sprawls on his back with one arm flung over his face, the other hand idly combing through your hair where you’re draped across his chest.

“You know this changes stuff,” you say into his sternum, voice small in the big quiet.

“Yeah,” he says. “Kinda figured that when I had your knee by my ear.”

You bite his skin to punish his grin. He flinches, delighted, and drags that hand from your hair to your jaw, tipping your face up so he can see you.

“We can take it slow,” he says. “We can call it a very hands-on study group and see where it goes. Or we can—” He exhales, smile softening. “—we can just keep makin’ sure you feel good for a while and not call it anything yet.”

You think about his mouth on you, his hands steady, the way he said my girl when you came like he didn’t mean to.

“Study group,” you say, trying for lightness and failing because your voice wobbles. “You bring the notes. I’ll bring… snacks.”

“Already did,” he says, nodding at the abandoned carton on the coffee table.

You kiss his chest, grinning. “I meant me.”

He groans like you actually did kill him. “I swear to God, you’re gonna be the death of me.”

“Worth it?”

He looks down, all play gone from his face for a heartbeat. “Yeah, baby,” he says softly. “Worth it.”

He pulls you up and kisses you slow, the kind that rewrites history. And just like that, he’s shown you, patiently and then not, exactly how good it can be—how good he is at figuring out your body—until you’re breathless and bright and ruined for anyone who doesn’t know your rhythm like a favorite song. And just like that, that’s how friendships are ruined.

You’d been posted up at the bar with Tommy since 8PM sharp, same as every Friday night since y’all were 16 with fake IDs. He wore his usual flannel and tight jeans, curls a little unruly, beard scruffy in that Tommy Miller just rolled outta bed and still looks fine as fuck kind of way. You didn’t tell him he looked good tonight—because you never did. That was the rule. Best friends didn’t say shit like that.

Instead, you nudged his boot under the table when you saw his glass getting low and flagged the bartender.

“Goddamn,” he muttered, smirking at you. “What would I do without my manager?”

“Die,” you replied sweetly, sipping your tequila soda. “Or forget how to flirt with waitresses. Which is basically the same thing for you.”

He chuckled. That soft little grin that crinkled his eyes—only ever for you.

But he didn’t know you were already scanning the room. Not for him.

You were feelin’ flirty tonight. You looked good, and you knew it—legs out, glossed lips, hair down and messy in that ‘oops I’m sexy without trying’ way that drove men crazy. You didn’t mean to ignore Tommy. You just… liked the attention. You always did.

It started with Wes Tatum from high school. He came up, offered to buy you a drink. You let him. Talked close. Laugh-laughed. Touched his forearm. He wasn’t your type—too blonde, too boring—but his eyes lingered on your legs and you liked the way Tommy’s expression soured the second he saw it.

Then came Jordan. Then Tate. Then Brett. You didn’t flirt with Tommy. You never had. That was the unspoken agreement. You didn’t go there. You couldn’t.

Because Tommy Miller was dangerous in ways the others weren’t—he knew you. He knew everything about you. Knew your tells, your heartbreaks, your bullshit. He was comfort, muscle memory, and familiarity… wrapped in 6 feet of tanned arms and broad shoulders and a mouth that made girls in town forget their morals.

He wasn’t safe. But he was home. And you never touched home.

But God, he was watching you like he wanted to bite something. Seething, silently. Nursing the same beer for the last hour, thumb rolling along the glass like he needed to keep it moving or it’d shatter.

When you spun around on your stool to talk to yet another guy—some bearded dude passing through town, rough around the edges and definitely not from here—Tommy stood up.

Didn’t say a word. Just stood. Silent. Solid. And your stomach flipped. It made you nervous for no reason other than he looked hot.

“Tommy,” you blushed, “don’t look at me like that.”

He said nothing. But his jaw? Set. His eyes? Dead on yours. Like he was burning a hole right through your skin. Like he was saying I fucking dare you to flirt with this guy too.

“I gotta pee,” you mumbled to no one in particular, grabbing your purse.

He moved before you could. Didn’t even ask. Just grabbed your wrist like a man on a fucking mission and leads you through the crowd, opens the hallway door marked RESTROOMS, and pushes it open for you. You stumble inside. Then click. He locks the door behind you. Your brow furrows, slow.

“What’re you doing?”

Tommy leans back against the door, crossing his arms. “Go ahead,” he says gruffly, “I’ll cover my eyes.”

Your lip twitches, liquid courage bubbling. “Oh, shut up, Miller. I know you’re jealous.”

He turns. Slow. Deliberate. Eyes black. Jaw tight. He doesn’t smile. Doesn’t smirk. Just walks toward you, step by slow step. Fucking drunk bravery seeping through his pores.

“Yeah,” he murmurs. “Yeah, baby, maybe I am.”

You open your mouth—but his lips are already on yours, crushing, rough, claiming.

You gasp against him. His hands are everywhere—one at the nape of your neck, the other sliding around the curve of your ass, hauling you up with ease as your legs lock around his waist. You’re pushed against the bathroom wall so hard the paper towel dispenser rattles.

“Tommy—” you moan, breathless, stunned, burning.

“Been fuckin’ in love with you since I was seventeen,” he groans, his mouth dragging along your throat. “And you fuckin’—flirt with every loser in town except me?” His teeth scrape your collarbone. “You got any idea what that does to me?”

You whimper as he rucks your dress up, bunching it at your hips. You feel him, hard as a rock, grinding against your soaked panties.

“I thought—” you pant. “I thought we were just—”

“No,” he snaps. “You thought wrong.”

His mouth is back on you, messy, possessive, as he yanks your panties aside. One thick finger plunges into you and you nearly scream.

“Oh fuck—fuck, Tommy—”

“That’s it,” he grits, watching you fall apart with a look of sheer possession. “Tight fuckin’ pussy. Never let me have it, never even gave me a fuckin’ chance—but now?” He adds a second finger. “Now you’re drippin’ all over my fuckin’ hand. You been wanting me too, baby?”

“Yes,” you sob. “Fuck—yes, yes—”

He spins you, bends you forward over the sink. You brace yourself on the cold porcelain, eyes meeting his in the cracked mirror as he shoves your panties down, unzips his jeans.

You gasp when you feel his cock against your entrance—thick, angry, already leaking. “You never said anything.”

He laughs. Cold. Hurt.

“Didn’t think I had a shot.” He teases your entrance. “Everyone thinks you’re too good for me, right? Even you.”

Your mouth opens. Yes. But I don’t care. Not right now. But no sound comes out. He drives into you with a growl. You cry out as your head knocks against the mirror, legs trembling instantly.

“Fuck—, you feel like a fuckin’ dream,” he pants, gripping your hips so tight you know you’ll bruise. “You been keepin’ this from me?” he pants. “This perfect fuckin’ pussy? All these years?”

You moan like a fucking animal.

He fucks you hard, sharp, filthy slaps echoing off the tile. The mirror fogs with your breath. You’re gripping the sink for dear life, mouth falling open when he yanks your head back by your hair to whisper

“Been jerkin’ off to the thought of this for years. So fucking perfect, so tight, so— mine.”

You shake your head, whimpering.

“Better than I ever imagined,” he groans. “So fuckin’ tight around me, squeezin’ me like you missed me.”

You’re sobbing, babbling nonsense.

He pulls you upright, lifts you like you weigh nothing, spins and drops you on the sink. Mouth back on yours, fucking into you hard, the wet sounds obscene, the pace unforgiving.

You wrap your arms around his shoulders, sobbing into his mouth, thighs trembling around his waist. He presses his forehead to yours, panting, desperate. He sets a rhythm. Brutal. Deep. Perfect.

Your moans bounce off the tile. The sound of skin against skin fills the room. He fucks you into the sink. Into the mirror. Into oblivion. Every thrust is years of I wanted you but didn’t dare say it. You cry out, legs trembling, as he fucks up into you, his mouth on yours, panting against your lips. Your orgasm hits like a fucking freight train. You clamp around him, shaking, gasping his name.

Tommy follows fast, spilling deep inside you with a growl, forehead pressed to yours as he pants, hips jerking through the aftershocks.

“…Goddamn,” he whispers. “I waited so fuckin’ long to feel you. This—you. You’re—fuck—perfect.”

You’re still clinging to him. Legs limp. Heart racing. He stays inside you. Doesn’t move. Just kisses your cheek, your temple, your mouth—soft now. Like he’s scared he broke something.

You breathe into his neck. “What the hell just happened?”

He nuzzles into your hair. “Best friend shit,” he mutters.

You laugh, shaky. “Is that what that was?”

He pulls back, tilts your chin so you have to look at him.

“No, baby,” he says low. “That was me showin’ you what everyone’s been too scared to say for years.”

“And what’s that?”

His thumb strokes your lip.

You were already two sips into your drink when the guy slid into the seat next to you. Some oil-rig type, young and built, with a too-tight tee and a grin that probably worked on half the women in this town. But not you.

Not when you were waiting for Tommy Miller.

“You here alone, sweetheart?” the guy asked, teeth flashing as he leaned just a little too close. His elbow bumped your arm. His eyes dipped, unapologetically.

You didn’t even look at him when you replied.

“No.”

He chuckled, unfazed. “What, your girl’s in the bathroom or somethin’?”

You blinked. “My man is on his way.”

Still, the dude didn’t back off. “Lucky man,” he said, letting his fingers brush the side of your thigh under the bar. “But I don’t see him. And a pretty thing like you shouldn’t be left waitin’.”

You jerked slightly away from his touch, your jaw tightening.

“Seriously. Not interested.”

The bartender—grizzled, big, with a white towel slung over his shoulder—gave the guy a look. (And okay, he had a soft spot for Tommy. That was his buddy. Always listened to what he had to say about his day. Tommy always gave him great tips too.)

“She said leave her be, man.”

The guy laughed like it was all harmless. “C’mon, just a lil flirtin’—won’t hurt nobody.”

The bartender, Dave, didn’t even blink. “Might hurt you, if you keep it up.”

You shook your head, exasperated. “Seriously, my man’s not gonna like this.”

And just like that—

A breeze through the door. Boots on wood.

Tommy Miller walked into the bar, broad shoulders backlit by the golden evening sun, that damn brown leather jacket unzipped just enough to show the curve of his chest. His eyes found you first. Soft. Warm. A flicker of a smile. And then they landed on the man beside you. That smile vanished.

The guy followed your line of sight and smirked.

“Oh. That your fella?”

You gave a tired sigh. “I’m tellin’ you… you really don’t wanna start…”

He clapped his hands once and stood up, as if Tommy were some old buddy. “Nah, it’s alright, it’s alright,” he said, and walked right over to Tommy. Brazen.

You exhaled sharp through your nose. “Oh, here we go.”

Tommy raised his brows a bit, the corners of his mouth twitching with something unreadable. He walked to the bar slow and steady, eyes tracking the man but never quite looking at him full-on. He settled in next to him like he wasn’t even a threat. Like he was barely worth noticing.

Dave slid Tommy a whiskey, no words needed. But there was a faint smirk on the Dave’s lips.

The guy grinned, propped an elbow up. “Hey man,” he said casually, nodding toward you. “She yours?”

Tommy took a sip first. Let the silence stretch. Then tilted his head and finally looked him in the eye.

“I think…” the guy continued, chuckling, “she is real damn fine. And I reckon you let the girl have a dance with me—just one dance, man. Wouldn’t hurt nobody.”

Your stomach dropped. “Oh my god,” you muttered, loud enough for the Dave to hold back a laugh. You looked at Tommy, “I tried to tell him, baby.”

Tommy shifted his weight, finished his drink in one smooth gulp, and set the glass down with a quiet clink. He turned toward the man, chin down, eyes sharp.

“That so?” he asked, voice low and lined with gravel.

The guy nodded, clearly not getting it. “Yeah! See, I knew you wouldn’t mind—”

CRACK.

One clean, brutal punch—straight to the guy’s jaw. He hit the floor like a sack of bricks. Chairs screeched. Someone gasped.

Tommy stood over him, breathing steady. He looked down at the man writhing on the ground and said, crystal clear—

“I mind very much.”

You blinked. Lips parted. Your drink forgotten.

Tommy rolled his shoulders back like nothing happened, turned to you with those hooded eyes and muttered, “You alright, baby?”

“Touched her leg,” Dave chimed in, because he loves the drama.

Tommy’s jaw clenched again. “He did what?”

“Just barely—” you added, but Tommy already stepped forward again, only for Dave to put a hand on his shoulder.

“He’ll walk it off. Or crawl.”

Tommy sighed, turning back to you. He held out a hand. “Let’s go, sugar.”

You didn’t hesitate. Took his hand. Let him lead you out, ignoring the murmurs behind you, Dave already dialing someone up to deal with the mess.

Outside, the air was crisp. You paused on the sidewalk, looking up at Tommy.

“Was that necessary?” you asked, a teasing glint in your eye.

He looked down at you, eyes blazing under the streetlight.

“No,” he said simply. “But I wanted to.”

You smirked. “Kinda hot.”

He leaned in, close enough to smell the heat of him—whiskey, pine, a little sweat. His fingers brushed your waist, possessive. “You wanna dance, baby, you dance with me. Ain’t no man on this earth touches you ‘less it’s me. You understand?”

You shivered. “Yes, sir.”

His eyes darkened. “What was that? Sorry, didn’t hear you.”

“I said,” you stepped closer, lips brushing his jaw. “Yes. Sir.”

The highway dwindles to a two-lane after midnight, long and black and slick with stars. Tommy’s arm rests heavy along the top of the bench seat, his other hand loose on the wheel. The cab smells like cedar and clean sweat, the way he always does after a long day. His wedding band ticks against the steering wheel every time he flexes his fingers, a tiny metronome for the way his gaze keeps cutting over to your bare legs.

“You keep wigglin’ like that and I’m pullin’ over,” he says, a gravelly promise more than a warning.

“I’m not wiggling.” You are. You’ve been rocking your knee since you left the party, the hem of your dress inching higher with every mile marker.

He huffs, a soft laugh through his nose. “I know when my wife is primed.” His thumb drags along the inside of your knee at a red light that has no business being out here. “You’re hummin’.”

“Am not.”

“Darlin’.” He tips his chin; his voice goes deeper. “You ain’t foolin’ a soul.”

The light clicks green. He doesn’t hit the gas. Instead, he slides his palm up your thigh and stops just shy of where you’re hot and aching. You gasp, and he watches you like a man stepping over a threshold he built himself. Then the truck rolls forward and the stars go with you, and he drives one-handed while the other teases at the damp cotton between your legs.

“Tommy,” you whisper, helplessly arching into his touch.

“That’s it.” His knuckles nudge, slow and deliberate, barely there. “Been thinkin’ about you all night. Dress like this— you do it to me on purpose.”

“Maybe,” you manage.

He chuckles again, throatier. “God, I married temptation.”

A faded county sign flashes by. He flips the blinker for nobody and drifts onto a gravel spur lined by mesquite. The truck rocks to a stop; cicadas churn in the dark. Tommy kills the engine and the cab is suddenly small and intimate, your breaths almost louder than the night. Then he looks at you properly, not a glance and not a tease—like a man who’s counted his blessings and can name them all. “C’mere.”

You crawl across the seat. He drags you the rest of the way, warm hands greedy—one spread across your low back, the other cupping the back of your neck as he kisses you open. It starts slow, a grateful press, then he licks into your mouth and groans when you chase him, and your wedding rings click together when your hands find his jaw.

“Missed you,” you murmur against his lips.

“Been right here.” His smile is crooked and hot. “But I know what you mean.”

His hands map you—your ribs, your waist, the curve of your ass under the thin dress—and your head tips back when he mouths your throat. He pushes your skirt up, slides your panties aside, and the first brush of his fingers is everything: the shameless way he says your name, the matter-of-fact reverence of a husband who knows exactly how you fall apart.

“Wet,” he notes, smug. “Knew it.”

“Then stop teasing.”

“Say please.”

“Tommy.”

“Sweetheart.” He lifts his head, eyes gone soft and dangerous. “Say. Please.”

“Please.”

He rewards you immediately—two fingers slipping through your slick and circling your clit with a patience that makes you want to sob. He plays you with unhurried focus, the pads of his fingers working lazy circles, changing pressure when your breath stutters, easing off when your hips chase. He knows your tells—your little whimper when you’re close; the way your right knee wobbles, how you try to bite the sound back like you owe anybody silence out here.

“God, that’s my pretty girl.” He kisses the corner of your mouth. “Open for me.”

You’re already open. He presses two fingers inside you and the sound you make makes his eyes flutter shut. His wedding band glints as he curls his hand, stroking that spot until your spine lifts off the seat. His thumb keeps time at your clit. The truck ticks as its heat bleeds to the cool night. Windows fog.

“Tommy—”

“I got you,” he whispers, forehead pressing to yours. “Let it happen.”

You fall, clutching at his shirt, muffling a cry against his jaw. He strokes you through it, patient, reverent, the way he always is—that mixture of softness and absolute possession that makes your bones feel like warm wax. When you tremble and breathe again, he slides his fingers out and lifts them to his mouth without breaking eye contact. He sucks them clean like a promise.

“Jesus,” you breathe.

He smiles around his knuckles. “Climb on.”

Heat flashes through you. You scramble over the console into the back, dress bunched at your waist. He follows in a tangle of denim and heat, big body crowding the small space with intention. He hauls you into his lap and kisses you until you’re dizzy. You feel him hard and heavy against your thigh, straining against the zipper, feral beneath the veneer of the gentleman he shows the world.

“Condom?” you ask, breathless but already knowing the answer you want.

Tommy’s gaze flares; he shakes his head once, slow. “Not tonight.” His hand slides to your belly, firm and possessive. “Been thinkin’ ’bout you all week—thinkin’ about keepin’ you full. Want you carryin’ me, my love.” He searches your face, voice dropping softer, earnest. “You tell me if you don’t want that, I’ll put one on right now.”

The choice sits warm and bright between you. You nod. “I want it.”

His exhale is guttural—relief, gratitude, hunger. “Good girl.” He cups your face with both hands and kisses you like you just swore vows again, like you gave him your whole life in five words.

Zipper. Denim. The slick, heavy weight of him hot against your palm. He’s thick enough that your fingers don’t meet, he twitches when you stroke him, and the curse he mutters sounds like a thank-you. He fists himself lazily while he drags your panties aside again and guides you down, the blunt crown nudging where you’re still sensitive from his fingers.

“Easy,” he murmurs, holding you just above. “Slow now. You take me so sweet.”

You sink. The stretch is exquisite, slow enough to feel every inch. His head falls back against the seat with a thud, jaw tight, tendons standing out in his neck. “Fuck, baby, there you go.”

You slide lower until your thighs meet his, until your breath shudders at the fullness. He holds you there, big hands spread on your hips, just feeling it with you, both of you shaking a little with the way you fit.

“Look at that,” he says, voice gone reverent and filthy at once. “Look how pretty you split for me.”

You rock. He groans, the sound low and wrecked. The truck creaks. Your palms press to the fogged back window for leverage, and his hands urge you higher, slower, meaner. He makes you build it just like he likes it—no frantic scramble, no hurry—just a steady, deep grind that keeps him buried and keeps you teetering.

“Tommy, please—”

“Uh-uh.” He slides one hand to your ass, the other up your spine to the base of your neck, cradling. “Let me feel you. Let me make it take.”

You let him. He sets the rhythm, meeting your hips with lazy, seated thrusts that punch breath from you. He stays deep, grinding up, pelvis catching your clit in a slow drag. Every time you circle, your breath shivers; every time he circles, his mouth falls open, like he can’t believe how good his life turned out.

“Mine,” he mutters, like a prayer. “My wife. My girl. Gonna pump you full, baby. Keep you full.”

“Yes,” you gasp, fingers curling in his hair. “Yes, Tommy.”

He looks up at you like you hung the moon. Then his mouth turns wicked and he shifts his angle, feet braced on the floor. The next thrust is deeper, and you moan, knees sliding wider. He does it again, and again, and the sound the truck makes is indecent—soft leather complaint under the steady rhythm of your bodies.

“Tell me,” he says, breath coming harder. “What do you want?”

“You,” you pant. “Want you to—”

“Say it. Use that pretty mouth.”

“Fill me.”

He growls, a low delighted sound, and his hand comes around to flatten over your belly again. “That’s my girl.” He presses there, feeling himself through your skin, eyes gone dark and hungry. “I can feel it. Christ, I can feel it.”

You’re close again, already strung tight from his fingers. He senses it—of course he does—and his thumb finds your clit, rubbing slow, tight circles that make your vision spark. You ride him harder, chasing heat, he meets you, jaw clenched, hair damp at his temples, gaze flicking between your face and where you’re joined.

“Tommy—”

“Let go.” His voice frays on the edges, urgency creeping in. “C’mon, honey. Give it to me.”

The world narrows, his thumb, his thickness, the cling of his shirt where your fingers fist; the way he murmurs yes, that’s it, that’s my wife, good girl, that’s it as your body seizes around him. You break, sharp and blinding, clinging to him, gasping his name into his mouth while he kisses you through it, while he keeps moving, steady, relentless, drawing it out until you tremble.

You barely come down before he flips you, sudden and easy—your back to the cool window, your dress bunched high, one of your legs hooked over his forearm. The truck rocks once. He’s still inside you, deeper somehow in this angle, and the shock of the new stretch pulls a ragged sound from you.

“That’s it,” he grits, bracing. “I know. I know. I got you.”

He pulls back and drives in. Your head thumps the glass. The stars blur behind condensation. His face is right there, fierce and tender, sweat beading at his temple, teeth bared on a groan he tries to swallow because he wants to watch your face when he gives you everything.

“You’re so good to me,” he says, like it matters more than anything. “You hear me? So damn good to me.”

You kiss him, messy, grateful, and he breaks—really breaks—hips snapping harder, a rhythm that steals your breath and replaces it with his name. He’s cursing now, praising now, voice wrecked: “take me, yeah, take me so deep. fuck— gonna put it so high in you—”

“Yes,” you cry. “Please, please—”

“Beg me,” he rasps, eyes hot and wet with it. “Beg me for it.”

“Tommy, please, want it. Want your cum—want you to—” The word catches and you shake with it. “Breed me.”

His groan sounds like a man finally allowed home. He slams in deep and stays, buried to the hilt, grinding there with a shiver that starts in his thighs and rolls up his spine. His mouth falls open against your cheek. “Oh, fuck, baby, take it, take all of it—”

You feel him spill, hot and thick, pulsing, the weight of him racked with it. He holds so tight you think you might bruise, and you want to; you want reminders later, tomorrow, next week—thumbprints he left while he emptied himself into his wife on the back road where no one can hear you say yes again and again.

He keeps grinding through it, small circles, making sure it seats where he wants it. Making sure it “takes,” the way he says, the way he loves. He won’t pull out; you know he won’t. He stays deep until the tremor leaves him, until you stop fluttering around him, until the fog on the window is a solid sheet and your breath comes back as laughter that tastes like relief.

“Moved the earth,” he says softly, like he’s surprised by his own life.

You pet his hair, thumb sweeping his temple. “Yeah?”

“Think we cracked a star or two.”

He kisses you again, unhurried and sweet, then eases your leg down and shifts, keeping himself inside as he drags you into his lap, chest to chest. He wraps you up, one arm banded around your waist, the other under your thighs, possessive as a promise. You feel him still thick and seated, feel the warm spill around him when you clench. He hisses through his teeth and smiles against your mouth.

“Don’t you go spillin’ that,” he murmurs, and tips your hips down. “That stays.”

You smirk. “Bossy.”

“Married,” he corrects, smug and fond. “And motivated.”

You pull back enough to look at him, tracing the line of his jaw, the scruff that always comes in too fast. He looks soft and wrecked and impossibly sweet. “You okay?”

He nods, thumb brushing the hinge of your hip. “More than.” A beat. “You still good with us tryin’?”

“Yeah,” you say, and it’s easy. You cup his cheek. “I like trying with you.”

His smile goes shy, like it does sometimes when you say something that lands deep. “Good,” he says, voice thick. “’Cause I ain’t stoppin’.”

He shifts you and you feel him swell again, already hardening while he’s still inside. You give him a look that’s half impressed, half greedy. He bites his lower lip like he’s trying not to preen.

“Thought you were done,” you tease.

“Darlin’.” He slides his hands down your back and rocks up slow, you gasp, involuntary. “I meant what I said at that light— I know when my wife is primed. And I know when she’s not finished.”

“Tommy—”

“Shh.” He kisses your jaw, your ear, the little place he knows makes you squirm. “Let me take care of you.”

He rolls his hips, lazy but deep, and you feel the warm mix of him inside you shift with each grind. It’s obscene and perfect. He’s not hustling you now, he’s savoring, a slow drug that makes your toes curl. He murmurs into your skin—filthy little promises in a tender voice, the two halves of him braided tight. “Gonna keep you full… gonna watch you get all round… gonna kiss you every night ‘til it takes…”

“You like that?” you breathe.

“Like it?” He laughs softly, disbelieving. “I lay awake thinkin’ about it. About you sleepy and soft with my baby inside you. About your mouth sweet in the morning. About needin’ to touch you all the time—” He breaks off with a hiss as you clench, and his smile turns wicked. “Yeah, just like that.”

You ride him slow, both of you slick and messy, the small wet sounds shameless in the quiet truck. His thumb finds your clit again, gentle this time, and the pleasure draws tight and low and sweet, like a coil winding itself because it loves to be undone by his hands. He watches your face, intent, and keeps pace right where you’re most sensitive. You’re panting, pushing closer to the edge, and he’s right there with you—less composed than before, trying to hold off because he wants you to go first.

“Tommy,” you sigh, grabbing for his wrist. “Don’t stop—”

“I won’t,” he says, breath hitching. “Give it to me, baby.”

You do. You unravel in a wave, hips stuttering, a broken cry muffled against his shoulder. He shudders at the way you clamp down around him and follows—one deep thrust, a groan burned into your neck, his body tightening as he spills again. He stays pressed, shaking a little, whispering your name into your skin like a prayer he’s not done praying.

For a long minute you just breathe. Your palms lie flat over his chest and you feel his heart slow under your hand. Outside, a coyote yips. Something small skitters through brush. The world keeps turning like nothing happened when everything did.

He kisses your hair and leans back, finally easing out. The loss is immediate and you whine; he catches what threatens to spill on reflex and laughs, affectionate and satisfied. “What’d I tell you?”

“Bossy,” you repeat, but you reposition obediently when he nudges your hips, letting gravity help him “keep it in.” He tucks your panties back in place with a gentleness that makes your throat sting.

He sits you astride his thighs, your dress still rucked up, and smooths his hands over your belly, slow. The expression on his face shifts—filth to awe, heat to something like reverence.

“You’ll be so pretty,” he says softly, thumbs brushing absent circles. “Already are. But… God, sweetheart.”

“Tommy,” you say, because you need to say his name when he looks like that.

He glances up, eyes warm and steady. “Yeah?”

“I love you.” It comes out raw—sated and overwhelmed and true.

He swallows like it hits him somewhere vital. “Love you.” He leans in. “Love our life.” Another kiss. “Love tryin’ to make it bigger.”

You laugh, a cracked, happy sound. He grins and kisses you again, then reaches without looking to crank the window down an inch. Cool air slips in, thinning the fog. He finds a pack of napkins in the door, wipes his hand, then tucks you closer, chin on your shoulder, one arm around your waist, the other still covering your lower belly like he’s shielding something already there.

Eventually he eases you off his lap and you both fumble back into some arrangement that passes for dressed. When he slides into the driver’s seat again he keeps one hand on your thigh, thumb stroking idly; you watch the wedding band flash and feel heat pool low again, ridiculous and real.

He starts the engine. The headlights paint the mesquite bones pale. He looks over like he’s about to say something flirty, stupid—then his mouth softens instead. “You okay?”

“Perfect.” You touch his wrist, the strong tendons, the grease-scar he never minds you kissing. “Take me home, baby.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

You pull back onto the lonely road, the truck humming. He squeezes your thigh once, possessive and tender, then slides his hand just a little higher and stays there, like a promise he keeps without words. Out the windshield the sky is full of ordinary stars, and the cab is full of the two of you—breath, sweat, laughter—every mile a small prayer said the way he likes it: deep, and all the way in.

— —

♫ I wonder where you are I wanted to you to show me The way around those city walls The way on through

---- Twenty one Pilots - City walls

Boston QZ, 8 years after the outbreak

The rain never stopped. It either misted the city in a fine drizzle or came down in sheets that turned the streets into rivers. Tonight, it was somewhere in between. Just enough to make the cracked pavement glisten under the lamps of the south checkpoint. For years now, Boston’s weather had followed the same tired and sad rhythm as everything else after the Cordyceps outbreak.

Tommy Miller had been stopped again. It wasn’t the first time, and he doubted it would be the last.

“You just can’t help yourself, can you?”

Your voice was sharp, carrying the weight of authority. He turned, his hands still raised where the FEDRA patrol had told him to keep them. You stepped into the lamp’s yellow circle. Helmet tucked under your arm, navy uniform gleaming wet. And a bandana- always a bandana. It hid half your face, shadowing your expression.

Tommy smirked, Texas twang curling around his words.  “C’mon, darlin’. A man can’t take a stroll no more without gettin’ barked at?”

“I’m not your darlin” You fold your arms. “Curfew’s been in effect for two hours. You’re not just strolling. You’re breaking the law. Again.”

“The law’s got a hell of a lotta rules,” he drawled. “Hard to keep track of ‘em all.”

One of the soldiers beside you shifted uneasily, muttering, “You know the orders, Butcher.”

You raise a hand. “No, it’s fine. I’ll handle Miller.” Your eyes locked on his, unblinking, unreadable. Then, you look at the soldier behind you. “Go on, Victor. Get back to your post.”

Victor mumbles but does what you ask.

When the others were gone, silence pressed between you, broken only by the patter of rain on metal.

Tommy tilted his head, studying the bandana that covered half your face. A crooked grin tugged at his mouth. “Eyes Without a Face.”

You frowned, trying not to give him the satisfaction. You should ignore it. Let his jokes fall flat, refuse to meet him there. That’s how you’ve handled him every time. But lately, it’s been getting harder to keep that line in place. “You’re showing your age, Miller.”

He chuckled. “If you got the song reference, so does you. What can I say? Fits you too well.”

“hum…Let me see if I remember: Eyes without a face. Got… no human grace?” You pressed the barrel of the gun against his chest in warning. “You trying to mock me or what?”

He lifted his hands a little higher, grin widening. “Absolutely not,” he said. “Wouldn’t dream of it. Just sayin’… hard to ignore a face like yours, even when you keep half of it hidden.”

You go still for a fraction of a second.

Cut him off. Cut him off.

But you can’t.

“You know that’s not what the song is about, right?” you say instead, buying yourself time, your voice steadier than you feel. “It’s not that literal.”

His grin widened, unbothered. “Apologies officer, I wasn’t aware you were a lyrics specialist.” His eyes linger on yours a second longer than necessary. “Still doesn’t stop me from singin’ it in my head every time you show up.”

You roll your eyes. Stupid.

“Come on Miller, enough of the bullshit. Go home before I change my mind”.

But he doesn’t move. Neither do you. Something in the air stretches thin between you both. His gaze stays on you. Your chest tightens.

Your gaze flicked over him, measuring, cautious. Aside from all nonsense he would often speak, he was all sharp edges and Texan charm. Hair almost at shoulders length, his jaw always perfectly smooth, like he had some secret supply of razor blades nobody else in the QZ could get. Handsome in a way you refused to name. And that drawl, low, unbothered, made it harder than it should be to keep your thoughts where they belonged.

“You always let me off easy, darlin’.” He says, finally. “Why’s that?”

You could say it’s gratitude. That it goes back to a night three years ago and the way he stepped in between you and a monster - drunk, bleeding, and still protecting you. But that’s not something you’re ready to bring into the light.

You pulled yourself together fast, voice flat, then softer, just a thread of something that wasn’t supposed to be there:

 “Maybe I’m waiting to see if you’ll get smart and stop testing me.”

Tommy chuckled, shaking his head. “Don’t think smart’s ever been my strong suit.” He tilted his head. “But I reckon you already know that.”

Your gazes hold each other fiercely. Something passed between you two. A spark, dangerous as open fire in a dry house. You break it first, a breath of a laugh almost slipping out before you catch it, tugging your bandana higher like that would undo the laugh.

“There it is,” he says, softer now, almost pleased. “A smile. Been tryin’ my best to pull one from you for months.”

“You don’t know that,” you shoot back quickly, folding your arms again to ground yourself. “Bandana covers it. Could just be me grinding my teeth at you.”

He huffs a quiet laugh, stepping just a fraction closer, eyes never leaving yours. “Nah,” he murmurs. “I can see it. Right there.” His gaze dips briefly, then comes back to your eyes. “You smile with your eyes. Makes you look… softer.”

Your breath catches, just for a second.

“Prettier, too,” he adds, like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

“Careful, Miller,” you say, but there’s no real bite left in it.

“Just makin’ observations, officer,” he says, easy again, but there’s something hypnotic in the way he holds your gaze. “Figured you’d appreciate the honesty.”

“Your honesty’s getting you real close to a problem,” you reply, trying to pull the edge back into your voice.

“Yeah?” He grins. “Reckon I can handle a problem or two… specially if it gets me that smile again.”

You shake your head, but another laugh slips out anyway before you can stop it.

He laughs back as he notices you fighting under your mask. “You are losing it, sweetheart.”

“Go home, Miller.” You quickly compose yourself.

And maybe he should have. But instead, he leaned closer, lowering his voice.  “Tell me somethin’, darlin’. What’s your name?”

You huff. “All you need to know is my last name in the uniform, darlin’.” you mock his accent, in a more serious tone that you planned.

“Nah. Too formal. But I can’t keep callin’ ya ‘Officer neither.’” His grin was crooked, teasing, but his eyes searched for yours. “Feels too cold.”

“Call me by my nickname, that will be ok.”

“Butcher? No, that’s one for your friends from FEDRA.” Tommy replies.

For a moment, you hesitated. He thought you might walk away. Then you whispered your name, so quiet he almost missed it under the rain.

His grin softened into something real. “Pretty name. Doesn’t fit all that armor.”

Your eyes darken; you don’t know why you did it. “Go. Now. Before I regret not putting you in the dirt.”

He laughed under his breath, but when he finally turned and walked back into the rain, his chest felt too tight.

And you stood alone under the checkpoint light, hands trembling, cursing yourself for letting the conversation slip further than it ever should have and for saying your first name at all.

He doesn’t remember. Not the clinic. Not the blood. Not the way you held onto each other like you were the only thing keeping yourselves upright that night. Nothing.

You swallow hard, forcing the feeling down where it belongs. It’s better like this.

This wasn’t the first encounter with Tommy. And certainly, would not be the last. Just like with his brother Joel and his partner Tess, you’d cross paths plenty of times. Either doing business with them, or catching them doing things they weren’t supposed to, in places they should not have been. They were all faces you knew, names that lived on FEDRA reports and watch lists.

But this was the first time the interaction slid off the rails, the first time it edged into something sharp and dangerous.

Neither of you realized it then, but a thin line had been crossed. And from this moment on, there would be no going back.

---

Another morning of work. But today marks your thirdyear as a FEDRA soldier, and apparently that’s the only thing your brain will wander around today. Three years since FEDRA moved you from nurse to soldier.

You button the uniform, holster the sidearm, and, before you leave your house and the door clicks shut behind you, you pull the bandana up over your mouth and your scar. It’s muscle memory now. The mask, the breath warming your cheeks, the way your eyes become the only part of you people meet. It started as a shield. It became a uniform inside the uniform. Somewhere along the way, it became you.

As you leave your house, FEDRA agents in the street great you enthusiastic Good Mornings.

“Morning Butcher. Great day to do what you do best” the guards proceed on laughing, not as a mocking, but as a confirmation of what they like on you – your reputation.

You don’t actually like the nickname Butcher in people’s mouths. You don’t like remembering the origin of the story that carved the scar on your face and turned you into FEDRA proud poster: The brutal murder of Firefly’s lead.

You hadn’t asked for it. You didn’t want it. But after that event, after the cut that carved a new map across your face and your soul, they called you necessary. Useful. Fear made into policy.

Admiration from the brass. Hatred from the streets.

You tell yourself the same thing you tell the rookies you keep alive: Control what you can. Make your square of ground better. If FEDRA is the necessary evil, then you can be the necessary good inside of it, the small hinge that changes how the door swings. Not shifting completely how FEDRA should behave. But with an intricated and dangerous rotation between being evil and being good.

The day should be easy. Ration queue, patrol, curfew. You tell yourself that twice. You’ve learned to make yourself believe in reasonable lies. Believe you liked what you do. Believe you don’t mind murdering people to keep the order on QZ.

And you were pretty good at convincing yourself.

You’re still saying that in your mind when you reach the ration line.

The queue is a frayed rope. Three delays in ten days will do that. Voices spike, then flatten. You project your presence the way you were trained: chin level, rifle low, eyes calm. When you do bark, the sound ricochets and people settle. It’s easier than yesterday’s assignment: Firefly sweeps. War has a rhythm now.

Despite all the terrorism acts and terrible beliefs around FEDRA, you believed in the institution. It was the unavoidable cost of orchestrating what was left of the world. But you know that things could - and should - be done differently. And that's the purpose you grab desperately on to bear with the amount of chaos of surviving in this environment: The hope that, slowly, day by day, step by step... you can influence new behaviors and progress in the corporation to the point of making some difference.

At least that's what you try to convince yourself every day. That the world benefits better of you as a soldier instead of as a nurse. Besides, it's not like you gave up the profession of your life to be a soldier, anyway. What you did enjoy was your former profession before outbreak: Being a firefighter. It was your childhood dream that came true. Not nurse, not soldier. You felt rewarded and happy as a member of Boston Firefighter Department back then.

Outbreak came and they made you nurse. Then, soldier.

FEDRA preferred you to Firefly chasing work. Your reputation walks ahead of you: FEDRA’s sharpest blade. It keeps you fed, keeps you housed, keeps you watched. It also keeps you alive; headquarters knows the Fireflies would love your head on a wall, so they plan your routes like you’re a chess piece.

You play around with tightening the rope and then letting it go. Being the good cop and the bad cop. Pretending that the calculation doesn’t exhaust you. Shifting between being as cruel as it’s required to be a FEDRA officer under your colleagues eyes, and acting as a comprehensive human being with a heart whenever you get the chance.

---

It's past midday when you are monitoring the ration portions queue and flare of voices hooks you from the alley to your left, making you wake up from your thoughts. Male, familiar, too close to a brawl. You tilt your head at your partner, Victor. He makes a face that means go; I won’t ask and leans heavier on his post.

Another privilege FEDRA gave you in exchange for your brutal firefly's lead murder is that you get to choose who you pair with. And, of course, you always chose Victor. An efficient soldier, a good friend – maybe something more, but mainly, loyal to you.

Victor learned not to move until something is on fire, because when he does he uses too much water - that’s what you drilled into him, again and again, during the quiet moments when nothing was burning yet. You do not mind being the one who moves. It’s a good deal because it leaves the decisions in your own hands. Besides, he doesn’t see - or at least pretends he is not seeing - your juggling between being hard and soft.

You slide into the alley on quiet feet and find the two faces everyone in Boston could draw with their eyes closed.

The Millers.

Your pulse does something unprofessional. One of them always intimidated you. Rough edges, tough, unpredictable. And the other… well, the other unsettles you in a different way: making your heartbeat stumble for no good reason at all.

“Freeze,” you say. You raise the rifle; they stop. They were arguing so hard they didn’t hear you coming until now.

You let yourself smirk under the bandana. “Texas boys. Aren’t you a little old for big-brother, little-brother fight?”

Tommy’s grin is a blade and a bandage both. “You tell me, officer. Ain’t you got Fireflies to chase instead of interruptin’ a healthy family interaction?”

“I always forget how funny you are, Lil’ Miller,” you say, and it comes exactly as mocking as you meant.

Silence presses in. You see it, then - the rawness behind Tommy’s eyes, the swell of his cheekbone, the blood at the corner of his mouth. Not banter. That fight has teeth, and Tommy was not winning it.

“What happened?” you ask, the barrel easing down, the nurse inside you kicking once against her bonds.

They both look for an answer they can stand in. Neither finds it.

You sigh, lifting your free hand in a wrap it up circle. “Look, I honestly don’t care what this is. Take it home. Spare me the paperwork. I can’t keep covering for both of you forever.”

Truth: you’re more lenient with the Millers than policy would allow. Smugglers make the city breathe. Everyone in uniform knows it, even if they don’t say it.

Truth underneath the truth: you owe Tommy a debt he doesn’t remember. And since that day, Tommy Miller has held a place in your heart that keeps surfacing, no matter how carefully you try to bury it.

They move to go away, Joel is the first to turn, already walking away without looking back. Tommy lingers a moment longer, shoulders still, like he’s not quite sure where to place himself in the aftermath. There’s something almost sheepish in the way he glances at you - caught in something that suddenly feels more ridiculous than it did a second ago. Then he exhales, shifts his weight, and finally moves after his brother.

“Hey, Joel,” you call. He pivots, wary.

“If you do kick his ass off later, can I have that nice guitar of his?” You realize a second too late that you’re stalling, filling the space just to keep them there a moment longer. It’s the only excuse you can come up with to hold Tommy there for just one more second.

Joel doesn’t blink. “Sorry, Butcher. Claimin’ that guitar’s actually why I’m handlin’ him.” There’s a dry edge to it, just enough to mock both of you without committing to it.

Tommy pauses and looks back at you.

“How you even know I got a guitar?”

Heat climbs your throat; thank God for cloth. You tap two fingers from your eyes to him - watching you - and tilt your head: move.

He steps close and his hand brushes your forearm, then light and brief against your hand. Nothing that could be called improper, nothing that would draw attention, but deliberate enough to leave no doubt it wasn’t an accident.

“Thanks for the patience, sweetheart,” he murmurs, just for you. He gives you a quick blink and starts walking.

You curse yourself for liking the way it feels. Idiot. You glance around to make sure no one caught the soft edges of a FEDRA agent flirting with trouble.

---

Curfew crawls closer. You and Victor sweep the last sectors. It’s been quiet weeks lately. No sirens, no Firefly shadows. So, you both split to finish faster.

You catch the voices before you see them. A low hiss of argument, the shape of a plea. When you step into the mouth of the alley, he’s there again. Tommy, shoulders set like he’s holding a wall up with his back, and a kid - sixteen at most, trying to look older with a jaw he hasn’t grown into.

“Miller,” you say, lowering the rifle when the sight of him steals the breath it shouldn’t. “What the hell?”

He smiles like sin and salvation. “Evenin’, Billy here’s makin’ a wish list for the next batch of merchandise. We’re already done.”

“It’s curfew,” you snap. “Go home. Now. The new order is…”

“…execution without further questions,” he finishes, easy as a hymn. “But you won’t. We’re done anyway, darlin.”

The word darling in that drawl sends a cold ribbon up your spin. Terror and tenderness learning how to share a chair.

“I already told you not to call me ‘darlin’” you say, repeating his accent. The rifle lifts just enough to nudge his chest, a cold reminder of the line he’s crossing. “Keep testing me and you’ll find out if I won’t execute the orders, Miller” you add evenly, then flick your gaze to the kid. “Your building’s right there, William. I want to watch you go through the door, or I’ll personally kick your ass all the way there.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Billy squeaks, and bolts.

You and Tommy stand in the echo he leaves behind. He doesn’t move.

“What are you still doing here?” you ask. “I said move.”

He smiles wider, stays planted. Your knees dislike this. You cannot tell if they’re weak from anger on his audacity or something worse.

“What’s so funny, Miller?” Your voice drops. “You like the idea of getting executed for a curfew jackassery? After all the things we hear about the Miller brothers, seems you deserve a better death than this.”

He tips his head, that lazy, infuriating half-bow. “Reckon if I go, I’d prefer it not be borin’.”

You step close enough to smell something like tobacco, warm cotton and cedar. Close enough to realize, against all reason, that he smells good. Close enough that the bandana suddenly feels like a wall you want to tear down.

“Go home,” you say, very quiet. “Officer Ramirez is right around the corner, and I can’t make more excuses... Please.”

The please betrays you. His eyes catch it. For a second something naked moves over his face. An old memory trying to surface, a hand he once offered a stranger in a clinic lit by bad bulbs.

He nods, just once. “Yes, ma’am.”

He moves past you, then slows, stopping at your side as if he’d forgotten something. His sleeve brushes your arm, light enough to feel accidental, close enough not to be. He looks at you again, quiet and unreadable, like he’s trying to read you and take you in at the same time.

“Why do I always have the feeling we know each other before all of this?”

There it is.

The recognition you always feared, and, at the same time, the one you’ve been waiting for.

You swallow it down. “I’ve been in Boston my whole life,” you say instead, steady enough. “You would’ve seen my face a million times. Back when you were less dumb and didn’t dare cross paths with FEDRA.”

“Nah, ain’t that,” he murmurs. His eyes narrow slightly as he studies you again, slower this time. Then he exhales, the moment slipping.

“I’ll have your stuff next week,” he adds, tone shifting, but not completely. “Haymarket. Wednesday. Seven.”

You nod once. “I’ll be there.”

Then he blinks and steps away, already turning, already gone.

You don’t look back until he’s a darker shadow folded into the dark. Your chest feels unsteady in a way you haven’t allowed yourself to feel in years, each small exchange adding weight to something you’ve kept carefully locked down. You tell yourself it’s nothing, that it’s always been professional, but lately the edges have been shifting, turning routine into something that leaves a stupid, unwelcome flutter low in your stomach.

Victor crackles your radio. “All quiet?”

You thumb the transmission. Your voice is the picture of policy. “All quiet.”

You end your shift, boots ticking on wet stone, bandana damp against your mouth, teeth pressed together to keep from smiling and screaming at once. You tell yourself the same thing you told yourself at dawn: Control what you can.

You lift your chin. You keep walking.

Victor returns a few minutes later beside you, as you both start the walk back to end your shift. The rain’s turned to mist; the lamps bleed halos on the wet street. He seems more reflexive today.

“How long we been partners, Butcher?” he asks.

“Three years. Why?”

He shakes his head. “I don’t know. Sometimes I feel like I don’t know you at all.”

You glance sideways, cautious. “Meaning?”

Victor goes off: “Meaning you’re unpredictable. Cold one minute, kind the next. Sometimes you’re soft, sometimes you’re cruel. Sometimes both. With fireflies, smugglers, civilians. No pattern. If I didn’t trust you, I’d think you were up to something. And if you were up to something… well, I’d have to either report you or live with it. And I’d rather not have to choose.”

You stop.

Why is he bringing this now? Maybe he saw you and Tommy?

His words are heavy because they’re true. He has been playing blind for long to avoid confrontation with you. Victor’s the closest thing you have to a friend, and actually, to a boyfriend. Two years ago you both tried. A gentle hand on your shoulder after a long shift, an invitation to share a bottle of contraband whiskey that evolved to deep conversations, and eventually shared nights when the loneliness pressed too close and his lips could find yours. You insisted even though it didn’t feel right. There was no reason for you pushing him away. Victor was the type of man most women would want. A bit younger than you, handsome, tanned skin, with dark hair always neat. Classic charming Colombian roots. His build was lean and athletic, the kind that spoke of discipline. His careful touch, his patience, his quiet strength made him a man easy to trust, easy to fall for.

Just not for you.

You’d seen the disappointment, the sting, but you couldn’t let him cross that line. The scar on your face, that you carefully hide behind the bandana, is a map of what happens when men decide you’re theirs to take, and you’ve sworn never to be cornered again. Victor took the rejection quietly, even respectfully, but it built an invisible wall between you. Since then, he’s kept his distance, trying to let the friendship survive where the romance died. You like him better that way. Safe, reliable, the partner who doesn’t ask for more than you can give. And you’ve kept him on the outside of your walls. He’s been willing to play blind because you carry weight in FEDRA, but he’s tired of squinting at shadows.

“I know I’m hard to read,” you admit. “And I know you put a lot of trust in me. I appreciate your friendship and patience.”

He tries to avoid sighing on hearing “friendship” again. He watches you like he’s deciding whether to start another discussion or not.

Victor continues “You know I trust and care about you. But sometimes I have this gut feeling, you know?... As you expected me to be a guard dog that follows you and waits for your commands. As if you are the protagonist and not my partner. Fuck, I don't even think I will recognize you in the streets anymore if you are not using your uniform and bandana. I can barely remember your face. You give us no space to interact inside or outside work. I understand you don’t want me as a lover anymore, and believe me, I’m passed that. But when we are patrolling, we should be aligned. You have your own ways and criteria to treat people, and you don't share with me.”

You sigh. There's nothing else to say except to agree with him. You stop and look at him.

“I’m sorry I made you feel this way, Victor. I know how explosive you are, and how much you need to put your instincts aside to allow me to deal with the situations my way.” You direct yourself to a close bench to make space for a more serious conversation, tugging the bandana down. The night air hits your scar. You laugh, brittle. “Hope my face isn’t too much older than you remember.”

Victor stares. “No, you are still beautiful. I forgot how much.”

Passed that. Yeah. As if you believe.

A long silence proceeds from both sides.

“Feels like I’m looking at you for the first time.” he says.

“Yeah,” you say softly. “it’s not just a mask. It’s… hiding. From everything. From myself. You weren’t wrong, I make you a guard dog. It’s easier than letting you see, or to open myself about things.”

He’s a quiet long moment, then he sighs. “I just want to know who I’m standing next to.”

You open your mouth, but he lifts a hand. “A few days ago, after you broke up the Millers’ fight.” He pauses for a second while his eyes meet yours “Yes, I saw you with Millers brothers.” He pauses again. “And I tailed them after they left. Sorry, I had to know.”

Your guts go cold.

“They met Tess. Couldn’t hear much. Orders, smuggling business. But one thing I caught clear as a bell.” His eyes deviate from yours now. “Tess told them not to trust you. Said anyone who plays both sides are only loyal to themselves. I was hoping you could explain this.”

You snap whatever comes to your mind first. “Tess is just jealous because I stopped doing business with her and chose Tommy Miller instead to smuggle for me.” You try to crack a joke to soften the conversation.

You see he won’t let it go with a better explanation. You let out a slow breath, rubbing your gloved thumb over the grip of your rifle. “I don’t play both sides, Victor. Don’t twist it like that. I just...” you hesitate, then push through, “I try to practice being human sometimes. If I don’t, if I’m all steel and cruelty every hour of every day, then one morning I’ll wake up and realize I’ve turned into exactly what people already think I am. And I can’t live like that.” Your eyes catch his, steady. “Besides… being unpredictable has its benefits. People don’t know which version of me they’ll get, so they stay cautious. Respectful. Maybe even a little bit more afraid. That’s not weakness or betrayal, Victor. It’s survival.”

Victor’s hand comes down, rough and warm, carefully covering yours. “Okay,” he says quietly, thumb rubbing a slow circle against your hand. “Thanks for opening up with me.”

You look at his hand on top of yours, warm, and for a single, shameful second you let it in - The easy comfort of being held, of not having to be a fortress.

---

Tommy is doing his usual business and found an excuse to pass the south checkpoint again: a backpack full of batteries and a lie about “droppin’ food to a friend.” The lamps buzzed overhead; rain worried the razor wire like restless fingers.

You step from the shadows before the other soldiers could stop him.  “Un-fucking-believable. Hands where I can see them, Miller.”

He lifted them. “Afternoon to you too,” he looks around to check if nobody hears him and proceeds to say your name. He tastes your name like a sweet secret.

Your eyes cut to the pack. “You’re not carrying food.”

“Could be.” He replies to you back. Eyes fixed on yours, those sweet, kind eyes.

“Is it?”

He let the drawl go lazy. “Could be a lotta things.”

“Then what is it, Miller?

“Let’s flip a coin. Heads, I tell you. Tails, you go out with me on a date”

You ripped the backpack from his hands with a violent yank, then shoved him hard on the shoulder so he stumbled back. Your voice dropped to a low, dangerous whisper. “What about heads, I shoot you. Tail, I shoot you twice.”

You open the backpack. Food, alcohol and batteries. You walk him toward a quiet corner under the eave of a prefab shack. Your voice drops while you hand his backpack back. “You are going to get yourself killed if you keep being spotted. Playing hero now, bringing food to starved people?”

“Aw, darlin’, I ain’t no hero. I’m a businessman with bad clients.”

“Stop calling me darlin,” you say, but your tone had softened, like you’d forgotten how to make it sharp.

He leaned in, rain ticking on the metal above them. “Give me one good reason.”

“Because I said so.”

“That ain’t a reason,” he murmured.

You stare at him for too long. Then you thrust the pack back into his chest. “Go. Straight home. I don’t want to see you at least for two weeks.”

Tommy grinned. “You’ll miss me by Thursday.”

You roll your eyes. “Don’t fucking push it.”

He moved past you, then paused. “Hey, darlin?”

You don’t even turn. “What?”

“You ever get tired of playin’ the bad guy?”

Silence. What the hell? You’ve heard this before. Often that’s how Firefly preach starts… but that can’t be possible. He is a smuggler. Even if he was a Firefly, he would never have the audacity.

You give him the benefit of doubt. Very quietly you reply: “No. I don’t. Why asking?”

He laughs at the disappointment of your answer. “Everyone in this city’s scared to death of you.” His grin softens. “I’m the only one who sees what’s behind that bandana... it’s just a sweet girl stuck playin’ FEDRA, but longing to do some good to this city.”

The words hit like a blow you didn’t see coming. Sweet girl. You don’t let yourself be called that. You don’t let yourself be that. And you definitely can’t afford to lose respect that you build at a high cost.

You snap the rifle up, aiming center mass. “Watch your next words, Miller. You’re skating on thin ice, and your luck is bound to run out if you keep mistaking my kindness into weakness.”

“Jesus, sorry. Chill.” He steps back, hands up. “Was meant to be a compliment.” His voice dips, playful. “Guess I’m outta practice.”

You study his face, the lines of it, the way his mouth fights not to smile. His sweet eyes. You hate that you want to laugh.

“Are you hitting me again, Tommy Miller?”

“Hell,” he chuckles, “if I am, it ain’t my best shot.”

You lower the rifle with a sigh. “For a second, I thought you were about to ask if I wanted to ‘look for the light.’ I couldn’t tell if you were disrespecting authority or trying to convert me into a Firefly cult.”

His laugh is sharp and quick. “Darlin’, I know what you do to Fireflies. I ain’t near drunk enough to invite you to that.”

Silence stretches, taut. Then you start, “Tommy. You’re not a firef-”

He cuts in with a laugh that’s too easy. “Jesus, you’re simple to get in the head, sweetheart. Relax. I’m just a smuggler, that’s all. Def not looking for any God damn light.”

Before you can react, he reaches for your free hand. His thumb brushes your palm, slow, deliberate. Normally you’d break an arm for less. But with him… you don’t feel invaded. You feel seen. He’s been pushing his luck for months but tonight feels different. Daring, dangerous, tender.

“I’ll pay you back someday,” he says, lifting your hand and pressing his lips to your knuckles. “For all the help you give me”. Then he lets go, as if he knows holding on longer would cost you both too much.

When you turn back to your post, Victor is watching. Your gut twists. Fuck. How am I going to explain this again? That’s going to be hell of a long way back home.

But after a beat, Victor looks away, deciding to ignore it. For now.

As Tommy walks away, he can’t avoid processing the feelings you cause when you are around. Your eyes…familiar, stubborn, alive, cut straight through him, leaving questions he can’t answer. You seem like someone he wants to protect, even though you don’t need to be protected. Behind that bandana is a face he aches to see, a face he swears he knows but can’t reach, and the wanting of it burns hotter than it should. Every time you let him close, it feels like warmth in a world gone cold, and he realizes he’s willing to keep breaking curfew, keep defying FEDRA, keep tempting death just for the excuse to meet you again.