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Joel Miller

Guard Dogs - Joel Miller x f!reader x Tommy Miller by @sprigsofhazel (series - ongoing)

Summary: your mom falls in love, elopes and suddenly you're uprooted from your shitty apartment and moved into a house with her new husband and his two sons, joel & tommy. your mom thinks you're the brady bunch, but you wholeheartedly disagree, until things between you and your step-brothers slowly start to shift into forbidden territory.

Season of the wolf - a Joel Miller x reader series by @mcthsman (series - ongoing)

Summary: The giant wolf that has been killing people around town shares a very striking feature with the quiet man that keeps breaking into your home— They both have the saddest, warmest brown eyes you've ever seen.

You take Peepaw Joel's virginity - Joel Miller x f!reader by @littledes1re

Summary: What if…we reverse the roles for a second and imagine it's you who takes Peepaw Joel's virginity?

Sight of Love - Joel Miller x f!reader by @sawymredfox

Summary: Joel learns something during a weekend getaway

Sweet Escape - Joel Miller x f!reader by @reedispunk

Summary: One week; that's all you need to survive without succumbing to the suffocating temptation of the wellness retreat's most unlikely client, Joel Miller.

Never Enough - Joel Miller x f!reader by @milla-frenchy

Summary: you don’t want Joel to go on patrol, so you make him an offer he can’t refuse

Bratty - Joel Miller x f!reader by @littledes1re

The best man - Joel Miller x f!reader by @baronessvonglitter

Summary:Decades after your hot summer fling, you run into Joel Miller at his brother's wedding.

You should feel lucky part XI - stalker!Joel Miller x f!reader by @ess-evo

Summary: You may have given up on life, but not on Joel.

Love shack - stepdad!Joel Miller x fem!reader by @aurorawritestoescape

Summary: You confess to your stepdad about having a crush and he gets angry and horny about it.

Honey Baby - Joel Miller x reader by @mcthsman

Summary: Dating your boss had never been in the cards for you until Joel Miller; ever the gentleman, he decides to court and take things slow, not wanting to turn your relationship into even more of an hr nightmare than it already is. You don't want to wait— You want him, right now, no more waiting. Your TikTok feed gives you the perfect idea of how to get his resolve to crumble.

Show me who you are part 2 - Joel Miller x f!reader by @hauntedinkk

Summary: since forming a committed relationship with Joel, you’ve retired scene partner porn and got a steady, more ordinary job in an office. You still post the occasional selfie on only fans or perform certain acts on yourself in livestreams. But this time, you ask Joel to join in on your live to spice things up.

Green ain't your color, Miller - Joel Miller x f!reader by @hauntedbymiller

Summary: Joels jealousy makes him act like a child.

Mine - Joel Miller x f!reader by @reedispunk

Summary: Joel loses all his self control when you accidentally wear his flannel instead of your boyfriend Tommy’s.

Lust (Taste in men part 2) - Se7en collection - Joel Miller x Javier Peña x fem reader by @milla-frenchy

Summary: you’ve spent a perfect night with your best friend Javi and your ex-boyfriend Joel, and the next day holds the promise of what’s to come

The Measure of Man - Joel Miller x OFC by @metaphoricgibberish

Summary: There are people of virtue who believe themselves to be monsters. There are monsters who believe themselves to be human. Most of us, though, exist in the impalpable space between monster and human.

______________

Joel is saved by a woman he believes to be an angel, who believes herself to be a monster.

Frankie Morales

The Small Things of a Whole - a Frankie Morales x Ben Miller mini-series by @sawymredfox

Summary: Intimacy glows in many ways: a knowing glance, a gentle caress, a hug, a playful smile, an inside joke, whispers of understanding and support, vulnerability, and offers of care with no demands of being repaid, among others. It grows if nurtured, blooming, making a whole.

Dave York x f!reader x Frankie Morales blurb by @gutter-noise

Obsessed - Frankie Morales x f!reader , Joel Miller x f!reader by @aurorawritestoescape

Summary: still in love and completely obsessed with his ex girlfriend, Frankie sneaks into your house at night where you live with your new man, Joel Miller.

Frankie - the best friend - Frankie Morales x OFC Daisy part 1 of Guy-Crazy series by @baronessvonglitter

Summary: After a disastrous breakup, Daisy's best friend Frankie offers her the jumpstart she needs to get over her ex.

Din Djarin

D. - Din Djarin x f!reader by @aurorawritestoescape

Summary: Din pays a visit to his beautiful little pet — you.

Haircut - a Wildest Dreams Drabble - Din Djarin x OFC by @604to647

Summary: You wake up next to your riduur.

Javier Peña

Medium Well - Post S3 Javier Peña x fem!reader by @604to647

Summary: You and Javi go grocery shopping in Laredo.

The buttoned dress - Javier Peña x Judy Moncada by @milla-frenchy Summary: after coming back from Judy Moncada’s house, Javi can’t stop thinking about fucking her.

Javi Gutierrez

Javi G- the rebound - Javi Gutierrez x OFC Daisy - part 2 of Guy-Crazy series by @baronessvonglitter

Summary:We go back several years to find Daisy healing her very first broken heart.

Pope Cody

Pope Cody sleep headcanons - by @mcthsman

Day 1

It was the excessive noise that drew your attention back to the door during the downward dog. Maybe you were looking at the man upside down with your head between your legs, but boy was he something to look at. 

You’d spotted him first at the airport; he was the tall, handsome gentleman who’d helped you lift your extremely heavy case off the baggage carousel with a kind, warm smile. 

“Jesus, how long ya staying for?” He asked, laughing at how the suitcase was almost as big as you. You don’t remember exactly how you responded; you just remember the embarrassment you felt when you offered up a few nonsensical words as your face turned an unhelpful shade of red.

Still, you couldn’t help it; his eyes were staring into yours like he could see right into your brain and know just how fucking hot you thought he was. But it would be okay; you doubted a man like him would be going to a wellness retreat like this, so you tried to forget about the whole awkward encounter. 

“What the fuck?” The man mutters as he takes in the sight of the entire room of people stretched over in front of him.

“Sir, may I remind you that this is the silent yoga class, no talking,” the instructor scolds him. 

“Shit. Sorry, I’ll just go-“

“What’s your name?” 

The man stands there like a deer in the headlights, not saying a word. 

“Your name?” The instructor repeats impatiently. 

“Oh, you said not talk.”

The instructor rolls his eyes. “Well?”

“Uhh Joel. Joel miller.”

“Well, Joel Miller, you’re here now, and seeing as though you’ve already disrupted us, you may as well take that spot over there at the back.” 

Brilliant, he’s heading for the empty spot right next to you. 

As you move into the next pose, you keep your head down, praying he doesn’t look over and see it’s you from the airport. When his boots clonk loudly along the floor, the instructor sighs heavily, letting the entire room know of his frustration. “Shoes!”

He bends down just beside you to remove the offending item, grunting as he does. “Jesus Christ, what’s this guy’s problem? Sarah ain’t gonna hear the last of this.” 

Out the corner of your eye, you look over to watch him, just as his eyes flick up to meet yours. Fuck. He gives you that same smile he gave you at the airport; he remembers you. You stand there, stretched out before him, and he makes no effort to hide the way his eyes take in your form. 

When you move into the next pose, he finally stops staring at you and attempts to replicate the same position. For a while, he really does try, and the quiet, semi-erotic groans he releases each time he stretches his body into shapes it’s probably never been into before, stir something deep within you. But when the instructor guides the room into the camel pose and a painful-sounding crack of bones comes from the man next to you, he calls it. 

“Fuck this.” He sighs, dropping down with a thud to sit with his back against the window just next to his mat. “This guy is tryna kill me.” 

You glance his way, trying not to laugh at his amusing comment and he smiles back at you. 

For the rest of the time, he sits there, thighs parted, his soft pants as he recovers clouding your thoughts as he watches your every move. If it were any other man, you’d probably be creeped out, repulsed at the idea of a full-grown adult you don’t know ogling your body like this, but there’s something about the way he doesn’t seem to give a shit that kinda turns you on. 

That afternoon, you're sipping a strange-tasting, strictly non-alcoholic juice at the outdoor bar, thinking about him. In truth, you haven’t stopped thinking about him for a second.

A voice comes from behind you. It’s him. “May I sit?”

“Sure.”

In the early evening light, his face is even more gorgeous: deep hazel eyes that shine in the sun, soft, fluffy brown curls that call to be touched, and a jawline so sharp you wish you could reach up to trace it. He’s probably twice your age and seems like he’s frustrated with the world, but still there’s something about him that intrigues you.

“Finally, something I can get behind in this place.” He nods the bartender over to him, who places a colorful drink not too dissimilar from yours in front of him. He scowls. 

“It’s fruit smoothies only, I’m afraid.” You say, amused.  

“Ya serious?” 

“Sadly yes.” 

“Jesus Christ.” He lifts the glass and takes a sip, his tongue darting out to lick his top lip clean, making your tummy flip. He winces in disgust at the sweet taste, and it makes you laugh. “Find that funny, huh?” 

“A little.” 

He reaches down into his backpack, taking out a small flask. Without hesitation, he pours a clear liquid into his smoothie before looking at you, offering you some too.

“Brad wouldn’t be too happy about this.” You joke, watching him pour the alcohol into your drink.

“Who the hell’s Brad?”

“The instructor, from this morning.”

“Shit, ya think I give a damn about what that guy thinks? what is he? Like 19?”

“25.”

He frowns at you.

“Sorry,” you sigh. “My friend made me read everything in the brochure before we came here. She said it would help get the most out of the experience if we knew what we were getting ourselves into.”

He scoffs. “who’s your friend?” 

You look back over your shoulder to the loud group in the corner. “The pretty one over there who looks like she’s having the time of her life.” 

“Ah.” He doesn’t seem to care, turning his attention right back to you, holding out his hand. “Well, I’m Joel. Joel Miller.” 

“Nice to meet you again, Joel.” You take his large hand in yours, introducing yourself too. 

“So ya like it here?”

“Hell no. Just being a supportive friend. Kate split with her boyfriend a month back and decided this was what she needed to help her get over him.”

He chuckles. “Right.”

“So how come you’re here? Don’t take this the wrong way, but you don’t seem to be enjoying yourself.” 

He takes another sip before looking at you again. “I don’t know about that; things just got a little more interesting after bumping into you once again.”

You blush, trying not to let the reaction between your thighs show on your face. 

“My daughter said this would be good for me. She said it would be a good way to destress from work. But after that class this mornin’, I’m not sure that’s possible. Anyway, she shoulda been ‘ere too, but she found herself a better deal-her boyfriend is taking her island hopping instead.”

“That’s too bad.”

“Hmm.” His eyes drop down to your cleavage. Shameless. “And they have that goddamn ‘no refunds’ policy. Might not wanna be here, but I ain’t gonna just let them take my fuckin’ money.” 

“Right, exactly,” You nod sarcastically. “You paid for that fruit smoothie.” 

“Sure fuckin’ did. So, your friend is newly single, and what about you? Boyfriend back home?” Wow, he doesn’t mess around. 

“Nope, no boyfriend.”

“Oh. Well, that’s good to know.” He nods, looking smug. 

“And you? Is there a Mrs. Miller?" 

He scoffs. “Nah, definitely not.” 

A hand lands heavily on your shoulder, making you flinch. 

“Heyyy, we’re going to the meditation class, you coming?” 

Joel looks away and you think he’s annoyed at the interruption. 

“Uhh, sure.” 

Reluctantly, you stand, and as you move past his chair, his hand brushes against your knee, sending a shiver through your entire body. You tell yourself for the rest of the day that he didn’t mean to do that; it had to be a mistake, right? 

Day 2 

You spot him in the corner of the room, his face scrunched up as he prods at the food on his plate. Not that you were looking for him (so you tell yourself), but you knew you’d probably find him here in the empty canteen in the middle of the day.

“Not a fan?” You ask, standing by his table. When he looks up and sees you, his hard face instantly softens. 

“More of a steak kinda guy. Can’t seem to find an ounce of meat in this goddamn place.” 

“You won’t, this entire place is meat-free.”

He sighs, rolling his eyes. “Course it is.” He stabs his fork into the slab of tofu on his plate before taking a large bite. He points to the seat opposite him. “Sit.” 

You bounce your leg underneath the table, a nervous energy buzzing through you that you try to hide. “So did you take a class this morning?”

“Nah, I slept in; haven’t done that in years.” He says proudly with a mouth full of food. 

“Oh.” 

“That damn yoga yesterday was one class too many for me. S’pose I can tell my daughter that I tried, but I’m not built for all this fuckin’ wellness stuff.” He nods towards you. “But, if I can get through this week by keeping my head down and avoiding eye contact with anyone but you, I’ll be happy.”

Fuck, is he hitting on you? “So I take it you won’t be coming to the sound bath tonight?”

“Sound bath? Hell’s one of those?” He brings his thumb to his lips, licking the sauce off, and you do well to suppress a moan. 

“Something about lying on the floor as the sun sets over the ocean, listening to some therapeutic sounds. Kate said it’s like an out-of-body experience. Type of stuff to cleanse the soul, apparently.” 

He sneers. “Doubt that… you’re going?” 

You shrug. “Why not? You should come along.” 

He leans back from his plate. There’s not a single part of him that would ever want to go to this, but it’s a chance to spend time with you, so he gives in. “Alright. But you promise me I only have to lie there? I don’t have to mold my body into a goddamn pretzel and pretend it feels good?”

“Promise.” 

“Guess I’ll see you later then.” 

“Oh shit,” Kate whispers, nudging your arm.

“What’s wrong?”

“It’s that guy again.”

“What guy?” You look behind to see Joel walking up towards the group, head down like he hates the world for putting him in this place right now.

“Did you see him in the yoga class yesterday? The guy had no idea what was going on. I mean, look at him; he doesn’t even look like he wants to be here.”

“Uhh, I didn’t really notice.” You lie. 

“You didn’t? Girl, he couldn’t keep his eyes off you. kind of a creep if you ask me.”

“Don’t be mean, Kate.” 

She scoffs. “Saw you speaking to him at the bar too. What was he like? Is he here by himself?”

“I don’t know. He didn’t really say much.”

“Right…” her eyes narrow like she doesn’t believe you. “Well good luck, he’s heading right for that spot next to you.”

You glance up, meeting his gaze. 

“This spot taken?” He asks.

“No.” You shuffle, making more room for him. “Please, sit.”

“Can’t fuckin’ believe I’m doing’ this,” He whispers. 

“Trust me.”

As the sun begins to set, casting pinks and oranges across the ocean in the near distance, the older lady running the session begins drawing calming and therapeutic sounds from the crystal bowls around her. 

Straight away you feel him fidget beside you, and he nudges the back of your hand. “The fuck?” 

You try not to laugh at his horrified expression, biting the inside of your cheek in an effort to remain composed. “Just go with it.”

Once the class is fully underway you become desperate to open your eyes to look at him again. The soft, warm breeze carries the smell of his musky cologne over to you, and despite the sounds of the instruments nearby, you can hear his gentle breaths as he finally lets his body relax, trying to give the class a chance. 

Eventually, your curiosity gets the better of you and you turn to look at him. With his eyes still closed, you take the opportunity to really examine him now. The strong line of his jaw, his soft, slightly sun-kissed skin, and those lips you can’t help but imagine what they would be like to kiss. You let your eyes travel down his body, noticing the rise and fall of his belly, down to his calloused hand that rests so close to yours. This class was supposed to calm you, to take your mind off all distracting thoughts, but the more you stare at his beauty, the more your head starts to race.

When it’s over, you turn to Kate but she’s focused on the man beside you. “Oh my god,”

“What?”

You were so lost in your thoughts that you hadn’t even noticed he'd fallen asleep. It’s sweet; he seems so comfortable and peaceful. Poking his arm gently, you feel bad for interrupting his slumber. 

“Joel.” Nothing. “Hey, Joel,” you poke him again. 

His eyes open, and for a second you can tell he has no idea where he is; then he laughs, rubbing his palm over his face with a groan. 

“Shit, don’t tell anybody, but I enjoyed that.”

“Hmmm, I could tell,” you giggle awkwardly. There’s a glimmer of sweat running down his neck, leading underneath his collar, and all you can think about is how bad you want to lean in and taste it. He notices you staring.

 “Got a little hot laying there, gonna head over to the pool. You wanna join?”

No, don’t do it. “Oh, it’s getting late, I shouldn’t. My friend is-” You look around to find Kate, who’s already walking away with some guy, without even a glance back in your direction. 

“Seems like your friend is preoccupied.” 

“Yeah…”

Following him down the sandy trail lined with palm trees towards the quieter side of the resort, you make it to the pool, noticing the closed sign by the entrance. You watch him walk around the edge of the water, standing over on the other side to you. “Wanna get in?”

Of course you want to; the sun might have dipped below the horizon, but it’s still so warm, and the cool water seems inviting. But your shyness gets the better of you, so you take a seat on the edge of the pool, dangling your feet over into the water. “I think I’ll just watch.”

He shrugs before he proceeds to lift his shirt up and over his head revealing his broad chest. He dives into the pool, swimming under the water towards your side. When he surfaces, he stops just in front of you, pushing a hand through his wet curls.

You look away, avoiding his intense eye contact as you push your thighs together, trying to discreetly calm the heat stirring down below. At this angle, all it would take would be for you to adjust your legs slightly, and he'd have a full view of your drenched panties underneath your skirt, and with the way he’s looking at you right now, he knows that too. 

“You know the pool is closed, right?” You say, trying to place your mind on anything else. 

“And?” 

“What if someone sees us?”

“Then we run,” He laughs. “Relax, it’s late. Ain't no one around.” 

He swims a little closer towards you, not taking his eyes off you. You dare him, dare him to touch you before a voice comes from the darkness, and a worker's eyes land on Joel in the water. “Hey! You can’t be in here!” 

“Shit. We gotta go!”

He pulls himself out of the pool, water dripping everywhere as he runs over to grab his pile of discarded clothes. “That way!” he runs after you.  

As you run, the low light makes it hard to see where you’re going, and eventually you're faced with a dead end. Joel takes your hand without thinking, pulling you in another direction along the perimeter of a tall fence. “Where the hell are we going?”

You can still hear the worker coming after you, but your laughter at how ridiculous this is starts to become uncontrollable, making it hard to keep up with him. “Joel, hold up, I need a second, please.” You stop, resting your hand on your hips, panting quickly as your lungs begin to hurt. 

He looks around for another way out of the trees, but it’s hopeless. “Yeah, we gotta jump it.”

“The fence?” Your eyes go wide at the realization. 

He grins. “Yes, darlin’, the fence. Here.” He bends down, holding his hands out to give you a hand up. “I’ll help ya.”

“I can’t climb over there, Joel!”

“You wanna get caught? They’ll charge us a fee if they catch us.” He knows they wouldn’t, it’s not a big deal, but he’s just enjoying this moment and the panic on your face a little too much. “Come on.”

Panicked, you place your foot into his hand, but your grip slips on the wood, falling back down into him. Instinctively his hands come to grip your hips tightly, ensuring you don’t hurt yourself. “Whoa, careful there, sweetheart. Ya good?” 

You nod, and he lifts you again, this time with his hands still on your waist and you have to focus hard on the task at hand and not the feel of his hands gripping you right there.

When you reach the steps of the cabin, the thrill of what just happened starts to wear off, and you look up at him curiously. They’d actually charge us?”

“Uhhh,” he looks away, smiling. “I kinda made that part up.”

“Wow, you’re an ass.”

“But it was worth it to see the look on ya face.” 

You smile because tonight was the most fun you’ve had in a long time.

“Anyway,” you look down at your feet. “I should go inside.” 

He looks disappointed. “Alright, good night.” 

“Good night, Joel.”

Day 3

Today was the day you’d been looking forward to. In the brochure you’d read about a hike to one of the many stunning waterfalls on the island. You’d told yourself that if you really had to come to this retreat with Kate, you had to make it worthwhile and do a little exploring. 

In typical Kate style, she’d bailed at the last minute, leaving you to go along to the hike solo. You weren’t too bothered, but everyone else who signed up for the trip had a partner, so you knew you’d either have to step out of your comfort zone or go it alone with your thoughts for the entire hike. 

Almost like the universe sensed you needed rescuing, at the last minute Joel appeared, and just like you, he was all by himself. You could laugh at how typical this was becoming, like some stupid cliche romcom waiting to happen. 

“Hey.” You smile awkwardly as he comes to stand beside you.

“You don’t strike me as much of a hiker.”

“How do you mean?”

“Well, it’s not exactly yoga, is it? Trekking into a humid, dense forest for a few hours with all the bugs.”

“The brochure said it was an easy stroll.” You smirk, playing dumb. 

“Hmmm, that's because they gotta sell these things to us crazy folk.”

“And you? Didn’t fancy the reiki instead?”

“Huh?” he frowns. “I don’t even know what that is, but a few hours away from all this seemed like a good idea.” 

The guide starts speaking at the front of the group; you can’t make out a word, but then he signals for everyone to follow. 

“So, where’s your friend today?”

“Cooking class, with some guy.” 

“Ahh, that’s a shame.” He couldn’t look more disinterested if he tried. 

You walk for a while following behind Joel up into the hills of the island, and for some time it’s just like the brochure said: easy. But soon the intensity picks up, and you're climbing through dense greenery, trying like hell not to slip down wet, slippery rocks. 

“Hey, you should go ahead of me; I’ll watch your back if you slip, but take it steady alright, darling.”

“Ahh, I get it.”

“Get what?”

“You just need an excuse to stare at my ass the whole way.”

“So what if I do?"

“And here I thought you were just being a gentleman.”

“How d'ya expect me to be a gentleman when you show up wearing those tiny fuckin’ shorts? You wear ‘em just to fuck with me, or what?” 

You almost choke at his words. “You didn’t even cross my mind.”

He narrows his eyes playfully. “Oh, I’m sure I did." 

When you reach the waterfall after a few hours, it’s magical. The water cascades down from a tremendous height into a cave below, reflecting ripples of turquoise and green onto the rocks all around you. You're exhausted and probably look like a sweaty mess, but boy was the hike worth it. 

“Now this is what I’m talking about.” Joel’s smile stretches from ear to ear as he stands, hands resting on his hips, observing the view before him. 

Over on the other side of the cave, some of the other members of the group waste no time, jumping down from the cliffs into the water below, instantly making you want to join them. He looks at you, the same thought in his mind. “What d’ya say?” 

“Hell yeah!”

“Atta girl.”

Forgetting about anything else, you both strip down to your underwear, occasionally sneaking glances at the other as you do. Then he takes your hand in his, and he guides you down onto the ledge.

“On the count of three…”

You jump with him, your bodies flying through the air before plunging straight into the cool, crystal-clear water below. It’s exhilarating, the water the perfect temperature to refresh after the sweaty hike.

“Oh my god!” You yell excitedly, turning in the water to find him. When you meet his stare, he starts chuckling softly. “What?”

“Nothin’. Ya just got a pretty smile.”

You blush, looking up at the sky above. “I think Kate really missed out; this is beautiful.” 

“Yeah, really is somethin’.” You feel his eyes linger on you as you tip your head back, letting your body turn weightless as you float in the water. 

On the hike back, you make Joel take the lead this time so you can stare at his ass instead. You're lost in the sound of his dreamy voice as he talks and talks about how he’d easily be able to survive if he lived out here in the forest when you misstep, your boot twisting down into a crevice and you cry out in pain. 

“What is it?!” He turns fast, eyes big with worry as he rushes back to you. Before you can even attempt to move, he’s on his knees in front of you, reaching down between the rocks to gently pull your boot free. 

You wince, trying like hell not to let the tears fall in front of him.

“Fuuuuccckk! I’m such an idiot. How does it look, do you think it’s bad?”

“It’s not broken. But you don’t wanna put any pressure on that for the rest of the day.” 

“I don’t really have a choice, we gotta get back.”

He looks round for the guide and the rest of the group, who are nowhere to be seen by now. “Great. Knew that guide was a useless piece of shit.”

You start to panic, the pain pulsing through your leg. “Joel,”

“Gonna have to put in a complaint about him, what kind of-”

“Joel! please, just forget about him, he’s gone.”

He grunts, hands resting on his hips in frustration at the thought of them just leaving you behind.

“It really fuckin’ hurts.” Your eyes fill with water and you struggle to fight the tears any longer.

“I know. Just breathe alright, take some deep breaths for me.”

A few moments pass and once you calm down, you try to stand but instantly fall back down onto the rock the second you put any weight onto it, crying out from the excruciating pain that shoots straight through your body. 

“Woah, easy girl!” He reaches forward, wanting to make sure you don’t injure yourself further. “Alright, that’s it. We don’t have any other option, you’re gonna have to climb on my back. I’ll carry ya.”

“What? Are you crazy? You can’t do that.”

“It’s not far now, and I can’t just leave you here, can I?”

You’re not sure now what’s worse, the pain in your foot or the sheer embarrassment. Maybe this really is a cliche movie after all, you’ve known this man for three damn days. You look up at him, face red and puffy. “I’m sorry. I should have been more careful.”

“Don’t start with that, it’s happened. Now come on, up you get.”

He turns, helping you climb up onto his back. He jumps a little, securing you firm and tight in his grip before setting off. He makes you feel so secure like this, your body wrapped around his huge frame and the smell of his shampoo consuming your senses, and you start to forget about the searing pain for a while. 

Naturally, he takes you back to his cabin; it makes sense, it’s closer than yours. He’s so gentle with the way he drops you down into the chair on the balcony, but as he straightens up, he groans at the ache of his back. 

“I’m so sorry, now you’re hurting too.”

“Don’t worry ‘bout it darlin’, just ain’t that young any more.” He looks down at you with a kind smile. He’s sweaty, a few of his brown curls sticking to his forehead, and you can tell he’s tired. “I’ll be right back.”

When he returns from inside, he’s equipped with ice and bandages and that small flask he’d smuggled in. 

“You raid the medical room or something?”

He laughs, “Nah, I just like to be prepared for anything. Sarah always gives me shit for it, but I knew it’d come useful one day.” He holds the bottle out to you. “Here, it’ll help with the pain.”

He sits in the opposite chair, lifting your foot onto his lap. 

“Joel, you don’t have to do that, I can-”

“Shhh.”

“But you’ve done enough-”

“Quiet.”

You watch him remove your boot and gently remove the sock, revealing your swollen bruised ankle. Your breathing increases, the panic coursing through you again as he asses the damage. 

You're so embarrassed. “Please, Joel, I can do it.”

“I won’t tell ya again. Relax.” He holds the ice pack carefully against the swelling. 

“I ruined the day, didn’t I?”

“You didn’t ruin anything. Shit happens. But in fact I really enjoyed today.” 

You look down at your bruised ankle, and he grins. “You know what I mean, before you slipped and almost broke your leg.”

“Right.”

“Hungry?”

“A little.”

He reaches over, digging into his backpack, and pulls out a squished bag of chips. 

“Best I got, I’m afraid, but trust me, these are pretty good, better than any shit they’re serving in that canteen.”

You talk late into the night, finishing the entire bag of chips and his small flask of alcohol. And even though you’re struggling to keep your eyes open, you don’t want today to end. 

“It’s late. You should get some rest. Take my bed; I’ll sleep out here.” 

“No, that's fine, you’ve done enough. Let me call Kate-“

“No arguments. Don’t bother her, she’s probably busy anyway.”

You sit forward, trying to stand, but it’s useless. He comes straight towards you, his protective instinct kicking in once again. Sliding his strong arms underneath your frame, he lifts you up and carries you inside to his bed. The mattress feels like a damn cloud compared to yours. He perches beside you on the edge of the mattress, looking down at you. 

You're tired and the alcohol is making your head fuzzy, but it’s only driving your desire for him further, so you get a little brave. “My clothes are dirty, don’t wanna ruin your bed…”

He looks down at your shorts, stained with dirt from the fall. His lips part, the thoughts of how he should handle this racing through his head. Reaching down, you unbutton them, his eyes following.

“Would you mind? I could use a little help…” 

He nods, unable to say a word. He turns, bending down to help you remove the offending garment. Then he traces his finger up your leg painfully slow until it reaches the hem of your shirt. 

“This too?” he whispers. You nod. 

He allows himself a moment to admire what’s before him, you bared to him, clad in nothing but your underwear, and you notice the tent bulging in his trousers. It’s soft and intimate. “You’re beautiful.” He whispers.

But then reality hits, and he swallows, closing his eyes as he runs a hand over his face. Fuck…” he sighs, turning away

“Joel.”

“No, we can’t, we’re drunk and tired. Get some sleep.” He strides over to the door, closing it behind him. 

Day 4 

The warm sun shining through the cabin window wakes you from a deep sleep. Through the door opposite, you hear the sound of water running in the bathroom; he’s in the shower.

You panic a little when you spot your ruined clothes strewn over the chair beside the bed, and you remember last night. 

You sit and attempt to stand. The swelling has eased on your ankle, and it feels better than it did last night, so you wrap the sheet around you and limp over towards the window, trying to use the stunning view of the ocean to take your mind off the embarrassment you feel. 

The bathroom door opens, and when you turn, you see the towel wrapped low around his waist, and you can’t seem to divert your eyes anywhere other than to the trail of hairs that leads from his belly button down underneath the towel. 

He looks up, hair wet, water droplets dripping down his chest, and he lets his eyes take in the sight. 

“Sorry, didn’t mean to wake ya.” He smiles. 

“You didn’t.”

He nods to your leg. “How is it?”

“Better, thanks.”

“Good.”

There’s a strange atmosphere arising in the room that wasn’t there last night. He moves over to the pile of clothes on the dresser. With his back to you, he dresses quickly and walks over towards the door next to you, checking the time. 

“Uhhh, I gotta go,” he scratches the back of his neck hesitatingly. “Take your time, water’s still hot; take one of my shirts too if you need it.”

Then he disappears out the door. With him gone, you feel strange in his cabin alone, so you shower quickly, dress in one of his T-shirts that smells just like him, and limp all the way back to your own room on the other side of the resort, praying nobody notices you. 

For the rest of the day he’s nowhere to be seen, and a part of you wonders if he’s left. He hates this damn place; he was only here to get his money's worth after all.

“What the hell happened to you?” Kate asks, noticing the limp as you walk beside her down to dinner that night. 

“Slipped on the hike yesterday. I’m fine.”

“I knew you shouldn’t have gone alone, I’m sorry.”

You don’t bother to tell her that Joel was with you; you love her, but she’d only have something condescending to say about him.

You don’t eat much at dinner, not having much of an appetite, and, to be honest, your mind is just stuck on the image of him in that towel this morning. It’s pathetic really, but you can’t help it. 

“Are you listening? What’s going on?” Kate asks, drawing you out of your daze.

“Huh?”

“You’ve been acting strange tonight, you still in pain?”

Then you finally see him. He's sitting in the distance, only the soft brown curls of the back of his head visible, but you can tell it’s him.  

“What are you looking at?” Kate turns, scanning the room, confused about what’s distracting you. 

“Oh, nothing. What were you saying?”

She rolls her eyes and continues talking about her ex, the one she’s here supposedly trying to get over, but you can hardly pay attention when he’s right there. Eventually, he stands from his table and turns until his eyes land on yours. For a second, he lets his eyes linger, but you look away as the heat begins to creep up your neck, and you fear Kate will notice.

Clearing your throat, you take a final sip of your drink and excuse yourself from the table, telling your friend that you don’t feel well. Maybe it’s the retreat, maybe it’s the idea of being on vacation away from the reality of back home, but how can a guy you’ve known for an embarrassingly small amount of time be having such an impact on your mind and body? 

The short walk back from the canteen to your room feels too far. As you fumble with your room key, the image of his face, his bare wet chest, and the sound of his deep voice won’t stop playing through your thoughts. When you finally manage to unlock your room door, you stumble inside, locking the door behind you and falling straight onto your bed to reach down and ease the intense pressure between your thighs. 

Day 5 

“Saw ya looking for me last night.” He says, nudging your arm with his as you sit side by side at the painting class, waiting for others to arrive. It surprised you that he was going to any more classes, but you suspect he’d only decide to attend a few minutes ago when you bumped into him after dinner and told him where you were headed.

“Looking for you?”

“Yeah. Don’t deny it.” 

You hesitate, then shrug. “Thought maybe you’d left.” 

“That’s nice.”

“What is?”

“That you were thinking about me.”

“Don’t flatter yourself.”

He grins. “Just teasin’ ya. But ya were, right?”

You smile, rolling your eyes. “Can I ask you something?”

“Sure.”

“Why did you run off the other night?” 

“Run?” 

“Yeah, after you undressed me. And then you were strange in the morning. Did I upset you?” 

He chuckles, shaking his head. “Nah, not at all, darlin’.” 

“Then what?”

“I just didn’t know if I could control myself. You were standing there, wrapped in my bedsheet and I just didn’t trust myself not to have my way with ya.”

You swallow; you didn’t expect him to give such an honest response. 

“What if I wanted you to?”

“You don’t want that.”

“Don’t tell me what I want. Think I’d let you undress me if I didn’t want you to?”

His lips part as he hesitates; he doesn’t know what to say.

Suddenly the class instructor arrives, along with another eccentric looking couple, and you hear Joel chuckle beside you. “Jesus Christ, I’m outta ‘ere.”

He starts to rise from his seat but you grab his bicep, pulling him back down. “Oh no you don’t mister, you’re here now, you’re not leaving alone with those two.”

The couple sit down beside you both, the woman practically on Joel’s knee which irritates you. The instructors eyes scan over the four of you. 

“Uhhh alright, I think we can work with this.” He says. “I was expecting more people, but seeing as we only have two couples in the class tonight, how about we mix it up.”

“Oh, we’re not…” you and Joel say together, but the man cuts you both off. 

“Tonight, I want you to paint your partner. I want you to really examine them, take in all their features and their quirks that you find so attractive, and get it down on the canvas.”

Joel turns, looking to you with annoying grin, he’s finding this all too amusing. “Glad you chose this class, huh?”

“Shut up.”

“So how long have you two been together?” The woman asks, gesturing between you and Joel as you all get to work on your pieces.

“Uhh…”

“6 years.” Joel cuts you off, and you kick his leg underneath the table. Is he crazy?

“Ohh wow that’s beautiful, isn’t it, babe?” She looks over to her husband, who’s taking this painting way too seriously. 

“And you have kids too?” She asks. 

“Hmm. Two, a girl and a boy.” he nods. “A dog too, the perfect family unit, y’know.”

The poor lady drinks in every word as Joel continues to sell her this made-up life. You think about correcting him because the woman is genuinely sweet and you’re starting to feel a little bad, but Joel’s clearly enjoying himself, so you go with it.

“And the age gap? That’s never been an issue for you guys?” The husband adds, finally looking up from his piece.

You smirks at Joel, trying not to laugh.

“Ya saying I’m old?” Joel frowns, unimpressed by the remark, his cocky demeanour now replaced with that old grumpy one.

“No,” he stutters as Joel glares at him. “Not at all.”

“Good, cause she ain’t ever had a problem with it, have you darlin’?” He looks at you, eyes suggestive.

You look back down at your painting as your cheeks turn a rosy shade of red.

When you're done, you show each other the finished results. Safe to say, your painting is the worst thing you’ve ever seen, and you feel bad because when Joel reveals his, you're slightly taken aback by his effort. “Holy shit, Joel. Didn’t have you down as an artist!”

The woman beside you gasps. “Ohhh that’s so cute, you guys, you’re still learning new things about each other even after all this time.”

Joel rolls his eye, by this point he’s had enough of this woman and you can tell, he doesn’t even bother to tease her anymore. 

“You wanna keep it?” He asks pointing to his impression of you as you walk wide by side back towards the cabins.

“Really? Yeah I’d love to. Thank you, Joel.”

Then you look at the tragic piece you created, it’d just be offensive to ask if he wanted to keep yours.

“Can I have mine?” He asks.

You’re shocked he’d even consider it.

“No way, it’s awful, It’d just be rude to let you have it.”

“I mean shit, I don’t even know what that’s supposed to be, I don’t even look human,” he laughs. “but I enjoyed it, it was fun doing this with you, and it’d be nice to take home a souvenir of my time at this godawful place.” He winks.

“Okay, if that’s what you want. And I enjoyed it too, thank you for keeping me company.”

“Anytime.”

He walks you all the way back to your room, and once your both safely under the cover of the porch, he grabs your hips and guides you backwards into the shadows. You gasp as your back hits the wall and his hips grind into you, letting you feel exactly what you do to him. He leans forward, his lips so close but not quite touching yours. “I really want to kiss you.” his voice lower than you’ve ever heard it.

His words paired with the way his eyes have turned black with desire is making you crazy. There’s just something about him, his unapologetic cockiness that makes you want him more than anything, even after such a short amount of time.

“Then kiss me.”

“Nuh-uh,”

“Why?” You protest, and his finger comes to rest on your lips.

“Like the idea of teasing ya first. Making you so fuckin’ desperate for me that I have you beggin’.”

“Joel,” you sigh.

“I want you to do something for me.”

“Anything.” You hate how desperate that sounded to you, but right now you don’t care because you know he loves it by the way his eyes turn even darker. 

“Take off your panties.” 

“Wh…what?”

“Take ‘em off, hand ‘em to me.”

“Here?” You look around; it’s dark, the wall behind you protects you from the view of anyone who could pass by, and still your heart begins to beat out of your chest at the idea. 

“Right ‘ere.”

You lift the fabric of your dress slowly up your legs until you can hook your finger into your panties. Slowly, you push them down your legs before handing the damp fabric to him. “Good girl.”

He scrunches the fabric in his palm before bringing it to his nose, inhaling deeply without taking his eyes off yours. Then he steps back from you, tucking your underwear into his pocket, and he begins to walk away.

“Where are you going?” 

He looks back, a mischievous glint in his eye. “Got a little personal business to take care of.” 

Day 6 

“Shit.” You mutter under your breath. You didn’t even intend to meet him in the spa late that night, but of course, there he was, climbing into the hot tub you’d come here specifically for. You’d come here late after dinner in the hope of avoiding anybody else and to clear your head, but that wasn’t going to happen now. 

You turn back to walk towards the door when he sees you and calls your name. When you turn, you see that glimmer in his eyes as he rests his head back against the tub.

“Ya trying to avoid me?”

“No,” you grin, walking towards him. 

“Sure? I can go if you want me to.”

You shake your head, biting your lip to try to suppress the underlying giddiness starting to buzz through you. “No, I don’t want you to do that.”

Against your better judgment, you join him, slipping down into the hot water, appreciating the way it soothes your limbs. 

You talk for a while, seemingly getting closer. You want him so bad it hurts. Like he can tell how desperate you are, you feel the tips of his fingers brush against your leg, slowly moving up the outside past your knee and over the top of your thigh, making you sigh.

“This okay?” He whispers, his lips moving close to your skin,   

“Mmmmh.” 

The back of his knuckles trace up your body, tickling against your neck. “Open up.”

You part your lips, and he inserts a finger into your mouth, your lips closing around it. 

“Good girl.”

You moan around his digit, eager for more. 

“You’re making me fuckin’ crazy, darlin’.” 

You move your hand over to his lap, stroking up his thigh until you reach the bugle in his shorts, making him grunt as you start to stroke him over the material. 

He withdraws his finger from your mouth and buries his head into your neck, peppering soft wet kisses along your skin, and you start to feel like you can’t breathe. It’s an intense combination; the hot water, his lips on your skin, and the heat building between your thighs become too much. You pull away abruptly and very ungracefully, leaving the tub in search of the showers, desperately looking for a way to cool down. 

As the cooler water from the shower rains over you, you take a few deep breaths, trying to calm your mind. If you were in the safety of your room, you’d slip a hand down between your legs to soothe the overwhelming sensation down there, but you can’t, not here; you don’t dare. 

Then you hear it: the sound of the door closing behind you. You know it’s him, you hope it’s him.  

“You shouldn’t be in here.” You say in a weak protest. 

“Tell me to go and I will.” 

You don’t say a word, instead watching him slowly walk towards you, the bulge still evident. He’s in dangerous territory right now, you don’t know how much restraint you have remaining. You turn back, facing the wall, closing your eyes as he comes up close behind you, his breath hot against your skin.

The rise and fall of your chest increases, when you feel his fingertips trail up your spine, around your ribs before moving over your stomach and up to squeeze your breasts. A low grunt comes from deep within him when he brushes a thumb over your hard nipple, making your mouth fall open in pleasure. His lips come to the back of your neck, placing soft kisses on your skin. Then his hand moves down into the band of your bikini, fingers slipping down between your drenched folds, teasing. You sigh, pressing back against his raging erection. 

“You like that?” he murmurs against your skin. You bite your lip, nodding desperately. 

“Yeahh I can fuckin’ tell, you’re drippin’, baby.”

Your walls begin to clench around his fingers, your orgasm building. 

“Don’t cum.” 

“Joel.” You sigh in protest. 

“Don’t.” 

He continues his ministrations, pushing you closer towards the edge until you're so close. You reach up, gripping his hair as your hips move messily against him, grinding yourself into his hand. All too suddenly, he withdraws from your wetness as you gasp hard at the loss. 

“Joel.” You turn, your chest heaving as you reach out for his hand. He’s already stepping away from your body. “What? Where are you going?” He walks out without even another look at you, leaving you there, frustrated and so goddamn needy for him. 

Day 7 

You woke up pissed; pissed that he did that to you, pissed that he gets to be so smug about last night. What an asshole. 

Now, after a final day of semi relaxing classes with Kate, you lean back against the sheltered wall of your balcony, taking a drag of the cigarette you’d manage to smuggle into the resort. Kate would kill you if she knew, not only because it’s against the rules, but also because you’d promise her you’d stopped the nasty habit, and you had. But you needed a hit, just a little something to take the edge off. 

The crack of a branch alerts you to his arrival, walking down the secluded, pebbled trail toward your cabin. 

“Ya ain’t s’posed to be doing that.” He says, referring to the cigarette between your lips. 

Exhaling the smoke, you grin at him like a teenager who just got caught. “You ain’t supposed to be out of your room; they promote bed by 9, remember.” 

“Thought you would have guessed by now, I don’t follow rules.” 

He comes up the few steps until he’s on your level. Reaching up, he takes the cigarette from your hand and brings it to his lips. Great, now that was really fucking hot. 

“Why are you here?”

“Wanted to see you.” He smiles, but there’s a sadness behind those eyes. “You know we leave after tomorrow, right?”

“I know.” You look down to the ground. 

The fact hurts. You don’t want this week to end, the escape and the time spent with him has felt so good, a small bit of excitement in your very mundane life. And you’ve enjoyed the thrill of sneaking around, crushing on a guy that’s probably too old for you, especially when you’ve only known him a matter of days. But still, the chemistry, the need, and the temptation has been unlike anything you’ve experienced before. 

“Come with me.” He states, pushing himself off the balcony.

“Where to”

“You’ll see.”

He walks you down the winding trail towards the beach. It’s crazy when you think about it, you’ve been here almost a week yet haven’t even stepped foot on the sand, only seeing it from a distance during the classes that would supposedly give you the medicine that sand between your toes could bring in seconds. 

He stops in his tracks, holding out his arms at the sight. “They say this is a fuckin’ wellness retreat and then ask us to be locked up by 9pm, but they’re missing the real goodness right here. I mean, look at that view, and it’s fuckin’ free too.” 

You look at each other, the same thought running through both your heads. Fuck it. Feeling like you're running out of time, the invitation is too hard to refuse. Stripping down to your underwear, you run side by side fast towards the ocean, diving straight into the waves. 

This is what you needed. It’s exhilarating. You swim out a little further from the crash of the waves on the shore until the ocean feels calmer and he comes up so close behind you. His lips brush against your ear, his hand, low on your stomach, pulls your ass back into his front. 

Neither of you utters a word, instead just float peacefully in each other's embrace, enjoying the moment.

“No one ever has to know.” He says softly into your ear. “We leave tomorrow, we never have to see each other ever again. Just be our little secret.” 

When you pull away from him, you swim back to the beach. But you don’t leave, you just stretch out on the towel, letting the sun dry the water droplets on your body as you watch him still in the water, thinking about what he just said.

Finally, he rests his wet body down beside yours and props his head up in his hand as he watches you. When you meet his gaze, you know you’re done for. 

“What do ya want.” He asks quietly.

“Joel.”

“Tell me what ya want and I’ll give it to ya.”

“I want… I want you to kiss me.”

He leans in, the back of his hand brushing against your jaw before capturing your lips. He takes it slow to begin with, but you're both frustrated, and soon he pushes his tongue inside your mouth, searching desperately. 

He adjusts, lifting one of his legs over your body, trapping you beneath him as he hovers above you. 

“What else? I wanna hear you say it.” 

“I want you, Joel.” 

“Where?”

“You know where.”

He kisses your lips once more before moving down your body. His fingers graze your hip, pulling at the string of your bikini to make it loose. As you lift your hips from the towel, he peels the damp fabric down your legs before settling at your middle. 

“Spread your legs.” 

You don’t, and instead you give him a coy expression.

“I won’t ask again.”

His lips part when he finally sees you bared to him, your cunt glistening wet with your need for him. “Jesus, look at ya.”

You thank the universe that there’s not another soul on this beach; you’d be mortified if anyone were to emerge from the trees that line the sand and see Joel Miller with his head between your thighs. Still, the thrill that it could happen makes you even hornier, whimpering as his breath tickles against your skin. 

He starts at your knee, kissing down your thigh, before licking a wet trail to the place you desire him most. 

“Wait,” you cup his face with your hands.

“What’s wrong?” His dark eyes soften a little, worried you don’t want to do this. 

“Nothing, it’s just… it’s been a little while.”

“Been a while for me too,” he smiles. “Just relax, alright, I’ve got ya sweetheart.”

He spits onto your cunt, his finger coming up to swirl the thick gob of spit all over your exposed pussy, playing with your folds to make it even more slick. “God, you don’t realize how pretty you are like this.”  

Then his tongue is on you, slowly licking along your seam, his palm holding your hips down as you wriggle underneath him. 

“Ohhhh shit.” You pant as he teases you. He moves his tongue up to flick over your clit, and the sound that comes from between your lips when he does makes his cock twitch. 

“Taste so fuckin’ good.” He murmurs against you, his beard rough against your skin. 

Lifting your head slightly, you look down to see the contortion of his shoulder blades as he buries his face in your pussy. Behind him, the gentle lap of the waves on the shore paired with the view of the sun finally disappearing behind the horizon makes this moment feel like pure heaven. 

He snakes a hand up your body and up to your jaw until his index finger slips into your mouth. You close your lips around his thick digit, sucking hard making his dick pulse as your body withers against him. 

When you feel your climax building, your thighs close around his head, desperately pulling him closer into your heat as his wet tongue laps at your clit over and over again.

“Dont stop.” you breathe.

It doesn’t take much longer for him to draw an intense orgasm from you, and when he looks up, his beard wet with your juices, he grins like he just hit the fucking jackpot. 

He crawls back up your body, pushing his tongue into your mouth in a sloppy kiss, allowing you to taste yourself on his tongue.

But then he stops.

“What is it?” 

He sighs, irritated. “Someone’s coming.” 

“Oh my god, can they see us?” 

“Nah. But we should go somewhere more private.” He nods down the beach towards the unmistakable blonde curls you would recognize anywhere.

“Oh my god, Kate! We have to go now!”

He helps you up, wrapping the towel around your waist, and quickly leads you away with his hand low on your back, leading you to his cabin. 

Backing you up against the wall with a thud, his palm cups the back of your head to cushion the force, the towel pooling at your feet. You sense he’s impatient by the way he grinds his hips into you, letting you feel his hard cock aching to be released from the confines of his shorts. 

You reach down, stroking him over the fabric, making him groan into your neck as he kisses the soft skin there. 

“On your knees now.” He barks.

You do as he says, swiftly pulling down his shorts, allowing his hard cock to spring free. Jesus, he’s big. 

“Take it.” He murmurs impatiently. 

He pushes his hips forward and you swirl your tongue around the tip to taste the precum that’s leaking. He groans, his pants increasing as you take him into your mouth. As you look up at him with his erection between your lips, he gathers a fistful of your hair, edging himself deeper into your mouth, testing your limits. 

When he inches a little too far, you gag around him and you push at his thighs, letting him know you need a second. 

But when you pull him back and give him a nod, he doesn’t hold back, his arms braced against the wall above you as he bottoms out and fucks your mouth hard. The sweet sounds of you gagging around him while thick strings of spit drip down your chin only spur him on. “Fuck, baby, yeahhh that’s so hot.”

He watches you, the rapid rise and fall of your tits as you struggle to breathe, and the way your eyes water at the stretch. When it gets too much and he knows he’s so close, he pulls out and you gasp for air. 

“good?”

You nod, standing back on two wobbly feet. “Need you to fuck me, Joel.”

His jaw is rigid, and there’s a dark, devilish look in his eye that tells you he’s going to do exactly that. 

Moving away from your body, he takes a condom from the nightstand, and you watch him roll it over his thick hard cock. He grips your thighs hard as he lifts you up against the wall with a grunt, and you instantly wrap your legs around his waist. 

In a single swipe, he tears your bikini top off your chest, discarding it on the floor, and starts squeezing your left tit. His head dips down, allowing his tongue to suck at your nipple hard, making it all wet with his spit. “Please, Joel, I can’t wait any longer.” 

He takes his throbbing erection in hand, lining himself up with your cunt before thrusting up inside your tight walls with a deep, guttural growl. 

“Ahhh fuccck,” he sighs. “You’re so tight,” his nose nudges yours. “You feel like heaven, baby.” 

He gives you a moment to adjust to the deep intrusion. When he can’t hold himself back anymore, he draws almost all the way out before thrusting right back into you, pushing the air from your lungs. He buries his head into your neck, biting at the delicate skin there as he pounds into you over and over. 

“You feel so good,” you whimper,

“Yeah? You like me filling your pussy up, huh?”

You cup his jaw to pull his head so it rests against yours. “More, I need more, Joel.”

His nails dig into your ass as he grips you tighter, pulling you off the wall and over to the bed. Despite his eagerness, he makes sure to place you down gently, not wanting to hurt you. His body hovers above yours, waiting, teasing as he watches you squirm underneath him.

“Joel, please,"

“Please what?”

“Joel.”

“You know I wanna hear it.”

“Make me cum, Joel.”

A noise comes from the back of his throat as he pushes back inside your cunt, watching the way it makes your back arch and your mouth drop open. His eyes roll to the back of his head at the sight. 

He fills you so good, better than you’ve ever had, and maybe it’s sad, but breaks your heart a little that you’ll never see him again after tonight. You bite down hard on your lip, trying hard to stifle moans as his hips speed up. 

“Don’t go quiet on me now, darlin’, let me hear what I’m doing to ya.” 

He hooks his arm underneath your thigh, pushing your leg up towards your chest making the angle so much more intense, almost too intense. 

“Oh goddd, don’t stop.” You turn your head, laying wet kisses on his arm that’s braced next to your head. 

The sound of his body slapping against yours mixed with your wet juices mixing makes it hard for him to hold out much longer. “I’m so close, gonna need you to cum for me.” His free hand slips down between your sweaty bodies, his thumb applying pressure to your sensitive clit. 

Finally, you give him what he wants, crying out as your walls clench around his cock, your nails scratching sharp red marks down the expanse of his back.

“Ahhh yeahhh, just like that, you're squeezing me so fuckin’ good." He doesn’t take his eyes off you, watching the way your body jolts violently underneath him as he fucks you through it.

As you come down from your high, you notice the vein in his temple is bulging now and a layer of sweat is shining on his forehead as his thrusts start to turn messy. You cup his jaw, making him look into your eyes. “Don’t take your eyes off mine.”

He groans loud. “fuuuuck, I’m gonna cum, baby.”

He pulls out of your cunt and pulls the condom off. He strokes his cock hard until he breaks, releasing a long, primal grunt as he spurts hot, sticky ropes of his seed onto your tits. 

When he’s spent, you run a finger across your nipple, collecting some of his cum and bringing it to your tongue to taste. 

“Ohh yeahhh, now that image is gonna be painted in my mind for a long time.” He pants, listening to the soft hums as you suck at the saltiness of his seed.

An exerted gasp comes from him as he flops onto his back, pushing himself up against the headboard. He reaches over, opening the drawer of the nightstand to take out a pack of cigarettes. He takes one, running it along his lips before lighting it. 

Standing up from the bed, you know he’s watching the sway of your hips as you pad over towards the bathroom to clean up. 

“Jesus Christ, ain’t fucked like that in some time,” he laughs. “Guess I just needed to find ya, huh?”

Did he really just say that? You stare at your flushed complexion in the mirror, biting your lip hard as you overthink his meaning. 

When you come back, the scene makes your insides flutter. The sheets are strewn over the end of the bed, the used condom is discarded on the floor, and the place smells like pure sex. His big naked form is bared to you, his heavy cock limp between his legs, one hand resting low on his tummy, the cigarette hanging from his mouth.

He looks at your entirely naked body at the end of the bed, a dirty grin forming.

“What?”

“You’re perfect.” 

“Shut the fuck up.” You blush, coming over to your side of the bed. He holds his hand out, inviting you back to him to snuggle up into his side. 

“I mean it. Ain’t met anyone like you before.”

You don’t know how to respond so you sit in a comfortable silence for a few moments as you both recover. “I wish we didn’t have to leave in the morning,” 

“Hmmm, me too.” The tips of his fingers stroke slowly up and down your back, making goosebumps form on your skin.

“Thought you hated this place?”

“I did, still do; it’s insufferable and just a way to make money from sad and lonely people."

“Hey,” you poke his ribs. “I’m not sad and lonely, Joel.”

He chuckles. “Alright, but still, I think a certain someone made my time here worthwhile.”

“When you leave this place in the morning, you’ll forget all about this; you won’t even remember my name.”

“Uhhh, I don’t know about that.”

His response makes you giddy, because you know you’ll remember him too. This wasn’t just some casual one-night stand; it felt different from anything previously, it felt…real, special even. 

The thought that this all has to come to an end by morning makes you realize you need to make the most of the time left. So you start kissing his chest, moving down painstakingly slow, taking your sweet time to tease him. “Mmmh, yeahhh that feels nice.” His tummy flutters as your lips brush over his abdomen. Stroking your hand lightly up his thigh, his dick starts to stir again. 

“Want me again already?”

You flick your eyes up to his, your cheeks turning red at his suggestion. 

“Gonna have to give me a second, sweetheart, then I’ll get right to it.” 

You wake sometime in the early hours. You don’t know how long you have been asleep, but you were still tucked nicely into Joel’s side. Lifting your head, you see he’s still awake. 

“Hey.” He whispers 

You reach up, scratching your fingers softly through his beard. “You okay?”

“Never better. Just can't sleep.”

“Something on your mind?” 

“Nah.” 

You sigh. “I should head back.”

“Don’t. Just stay here like this with me a while longer… please.”

“Okay.” You smile. You adjust, turning over to face away from him, and he wraps his strong arm around your front, pulling you back into his body as he kisses the back of your shoulder softly. It's not long then until you hear his breathing change, and you know he’s finally fallen asleep. 

At the airport you sit staring into thin air, unable to stop thinking about last night and the fact you’re never going to see him again. When you woke up this morning still naked in his sheets, the ache of him still very much present between your legs, he wasn’t there. Of course you were disappointed; you’d hoped to say goodbye. If only you knew when you dressed and left his cabin that he was on his way back, mere minutes away with breakfast he’d stolen from the canteen especially for you. 

A note drops into your lap from above you, breaking you out of your thoughts. Looking over your shoulder, your heart skips when you see his tall retreating form disappearing into a crowd of tourists. You glance over at Kate; she’s engrossed in her phone, most likely choosing her photos for an Instagram post. 

Looking down at it, you unfold the paper. There’s his number and a message:

I’m not ready to say goodbye, call me.

Tommy’s waiting by the stables, leaning against the fence with that half-shit-eating grin that says he’s been planning something. He straightens when he sees you, waves a hand up, and shouts a “Welcome home!”

The sun is just beginning to set as you walk home through Jackson. People wave and nod, calling out congratulations as you go down the street. A woman from the mess hall shouts something about what a beautiful couple you make, and Joel nods, his hand on the small of your back. You reach back and squeeze his hand. Being seen with you, knowing others know about the love you share, will always be something he’s grateful for.

He still expects, sometimes, that this all can’t be real, that this is all a mirage of happiness and love, and he had truly paid the price. But you are real and at his side.

Joel’s lips twitch in a slight smile when he sees his house for the first time in a week, and he takes in all the signs of his life rebuilt: the Mr. & Mrs. Miller banner still hung across the garage, Sarah’s garden blooming bright and violet, and the surprise he spots before you do. 

There’s a second rocking chair on the porch. It sits beside his, a bit slimmer and taller than his, but the same dark, worn wood with the same gentle, comfortable curve to the arms—a perfect match in apocalypse terms.

“Oh my god!” you gasp, stopping in your tracks.

“Surprise,” Tommy says.

You beam all delighted and gorgeous at Joel. He grins in return before you bound quickly up to the porch, dropping into the rocking chair, hands running along the smooth wooden arms, and when you look up at Joel, your smile is so wide it’s almost like you were always meant to wind up right here in this chair on this porch.

Tommy claps Joel on the shoulder. “Maria’s idea. Figured she needed an actual chair out here.”

Joel nods, once in answer, and Tommy nods back. They’ve never needed more than that.

You close your eyes, tip your face up towards the setting sun of the last day of your honeymoon. It’s like you’re already imagining all of the quiet evenings you’ll spend out here. Maybe you’ll knit. Maybe you’ll read. Or maybe you’ll just sit and rock the night away, listening to the wind and community that you heal every day. Joel will be right there with you, his hand in yours, as the comfortable silence brings you peace. This might just be Joel’s favorite gift ever.

“Thank you,” Joel says, and Tommy’s smile says he understands everything those two words contain.

Tommy leaves you two with a last “welcome home,” and Joel settles next to you in his own chair, the wood creaking in unison with yours.

He thinks of those first times you joined him on the porch, you wheeling him out into the cool night air. The scent of pine and your sweet vanilla smell filling his lungs, a second chance he could breathe in. Even then, he thinks, he had loved you.

Eventually, you turn to him. “I want to see Jefferson,” you say.

When Joel steps inside his home, he takes the cluttered coziness in. The jackets on the hooks, wedding gifts still sitting atop the dining room table, a knitted mouse on Jefferson’s cat tree, the wooden animals he’s carved on the mantle, and the sage drying in the kitchen window. His house. Your house.

You don’t even get to call out for Jefferson, a meow bursts down the hall, the black and white streak comes tearing around the corner from the kitchen. He circles your ankle with an accusing meow, and you scoop him up. The cat rattles in your arms, purring so loud that Joel can hear it all the way from the doorway.

You bury your face in his soft fur. “Missed you too, buddy.”

Joel crosses the room and rubs a thumb along Jefferson’s chin. The cat leans in, green eyes half-closed in bliss.

You look up at him, Jefferson held in your arms, and your face bright with happiness and love. “We’re home.”

Joel nods. “We’re home.”

After all the losses, the narrow misses, the nights spent alone wondering if he’d ever feel anything but hollow again. And now this, a second rocking chair on the porch. A cat purring in your arms. Your eyes on his. Everything he’s ever wanted.

It’s good to be home.

—-

The clinic door is heavier than you remember. Your first day back. Your first day as clinic head. The title feels too big, too important, but you reassure yourself that Dr. V and the rest of Jackson believe in you. 

Patient after patient makes the morning go so quickly that you barely have a chance to feel overwhelmed. You check pulses, you listen to lungs, you make notes in your journal. Every person sends you congratulations, whether it’s for your new title or your new husband. By eleven, the rhythm is coming back. Your hands still know what to do even when it seems like your brain is still honeymooning.

When you take your lunch break, Joel’s already in your office, tote bag in hand, adjusting the small Jefferson carving he made, setting it just right under the lamp on the desk.

You walk into his arms, humming happily at the warmth of your husband. “My doctor. I’m so proud of you,” he whispers, low adoring voice meant just for you. “Really am, baby.”

You laugh a shaky sound. “I’m a little nervous,” you admit.

He pulls back just enough to look you in the eye. “Don’t be,” he says. “You’re amazing.”

You believe him, because he says it like it’s a fact everyone knows, like the sky is blue and water is wet, and you are amazing.

Joel pulls out two sandwiches, and you have your own private lunch date in your office. He tells you about all the construction updates from when you two were gone, and you tell him how the clinic fared without you.

When your short lunch time is over, he hugs you tight and kisses you so softly you almost forget that you have a whole afternoon left to get through. “See you at home,” he whispers against your lips before he leaves.

The day speeds through after that. More patients, more congratulations, more notes scribbled. And when the clock ticks to five, and you slip off the white coat, you’ve survived your first day as clinic head.

You walk home, messenger bag slung over your shoulder, and a wide smile on your lips that you don’t even try to hide. Because here is the thing, the thing that still feels impossible: you are leaving your clinic, and you are going home to your husband in your house. It’s something that used to be so ordinary, but now, it’s a miracle.

Your house is quiet when you open the door. No music, no guitar, no sound of Joel in the kitchen. Just the soft tick of the clock on the mantel.

“Joel?” you call, hanging your bag on the hook by the door.

“Up here!” he shouts from upstairs.

You follow his voice and find him standing in the doorway of what used to be your bedroom. He steps aside without a word and reveals that your old bed is gone and the room has completely changed. The desk has been moved to the middle of the room, with a chair pulled up to it. There’s a bookshelf in the corner, already filled with your few medical books and journals, their spines aligned by size that only Joel would have taken the time to organize. Under the window, there’s a small table holding a few of your potted herbs with a few empty pots for more.

“Wow,” you breathe and then repeat when you fully step into the room. Your own office.

Small tears begin to shed from your eyes when you turn and launch yourself at Joel. You hug him, pressing your face into his chest, and his arms band around you, squeezing you tight.

“Like it?” he asks.

You pull back, and the grin. “So much.”

“Wanted you to have a place to work,” he says. “Know you’re gonna be busier.”

“Thank you,” you choke.

He kisses your forehead. “You’re welcome, baby.”

You stand in your new office with your husband’s arms around you. This is what it means to be known. To be seen. To have someone look at everything in your life and build you your own space to help contain it.

You’ll spend hours at this desk. You’ll search your journals, write your notes, research, worry about patients, figure out treatments, and deal with the thousand small failures that come with trying to heal people in a world like this.

But for now, you’ll just stand here, held by your husband, in the quiet golden light of the evening and let yourself be grateful for this moment, this room, this man, and everything he’s given you.

—-

Joel can hear the pen working against the paper when he stands outside your office, with a cup of tea in his hand. You’ve been in there since dinner, three hours at least.

He knocks softly at the doorjamb, two taps of his knuckles, and you look up. The tiny smile you gift him leaves him briefly unable to remember what he came here for. You’re so beautiful.

Three books are lying open on the desk, pages marked with scraps of paper and your journal is a sprawl of handwriting. You’ve been busy.

“Figured you’d like a cup,” he says, setting the mug beside your elbow.

“Thanks, baby,” you say.

He hears the frayed edge in your voice and asks, “How’s it going?”

He moves behind your chair and places his hands on your shoulders, and as expected, you’re tight and tense. He rubs, working his fingers into your knots, and you answer his massage with a groan of relief.

Your pen taps against the journal. “I’ve narrowed it down. Is it GERD? Peptic ulcers? God, what if it’s her gallbladder?” You sigh. “It’s just… some of the best treatments aren’t available to us.”

Joel nods like he understands, though he has zero clue what you’re saying. But he understands the frustration in your voice, the way your shoulders are already tensing again under his hands. He works his thumbs deeper, feels a knot give way, and you moan a sound that makes that familiar heat pool low in his belly.

“I know you’re doin’ your best,” he says. “And everyone knows that.”

Your head bows, shoulders slumping, and drop your pen. “The text is beginning to swim,” you say, rubbing your eyes.

He spins your chair around. His bad knee protests with a familiar ache as he crouches, bracing his hands on the arms of the chair to crowd into your space. “Then, let me take you to bed,” he says, “and you can get up early tomorrow if you want.”

“You don’t have to convince me.” You’re up in a split second, clicking the lamp off. Joel takes your hand and pulls you down the hallway.

He lays you down on the bed gently. He’d be lying if he said he hasn’t been thinking about this since the moment you disappeared into your office tonight… especially when you’re only clad in a pair of flimsy pajama shorts and one of his old tees. Joel crawls across the mattress, propping himself over you. He could stare at you for hours, take in all of your beauty, and memorize every tiny, gorgeous detail of you. His wife, his future, his happiness, already melting for him, body rolling under his.

He hooks his fingers in the waistband of your shorts, tugging them down, palm dragging up the length of your leg. He pushes your shirt up, baring your tits, and he leaves open-mouth kisses down your chest, your stomach, running his tongue in hollows as he makes his way down your body. He cradles your foot, presses a kiss to your ankle before he moves to your other leg, kissing his way back up the inside of your calf and your knee. He kneads your thighs, massaging the tension out, working his way closer.

“You work hard, baby, you deserve to relax,” he grits, lying down between your legs, face pressed in the cradle of your thighs. He breathes you in, all warm and musky and sweet, and he can’t resist you any longer. His tongue runs along your cunt, parting you with his mouth, a groan leaves him, eyes fluttering shut because he just can’t get over how good you taste, how perfect your body responds to his mouth. God, he loves you.

Your fingers twist in the curls of his hair, and he thinks to himself he’d like to skip the haircut he’s due for later this week, wanting you to always pull on the loose waves at the nape of his neck. He wills with every lap of his tongue against your clit for you to forget every patient, every worry, every page of the open books left on your desk.

You’re definitely forgetting, because you’re so greedy for him tonight, hands braced on his head as your hips roll. He lets you ride his face, he goes on and on, happily drowning in the taste of you and the desperate sounds you’re keening out. Your thighs tense around his head, and you gasp that little high-pitched noise that tells him you’re close. He groans against your puffy, needy pussy, and you cum with a gasp of his name, and god what a sound.

It only makes him want more of you. He kisses his way up your belly, up the hollow of your throat until his lips meet yours. You’re reaching, helping him slide his own pajama pants down, and he rests his cock right there in the crook between your legs, waiting, just looking down at you and your lovedrunk face, all soft with heavy eyelids and a little smile.

He runs his length along you, dipping in between your legs, covering himself with your desire before he slowly pushes into you. Christ, he loves the way you wrap your legs around him. His hand slides under your head, cradling you, tilting your mouth up to kiss him as he fucks you slow and deep, letting each thrust press out the last of your stress.

Your arms twine around his neck, nails digging into his back, and he lets you pull him closer, lets you bite his shoulder when he sinks his cock deeper into your heat. He buries his face in your throat, wanting to be as close to you as he can. Chanting your name, he tells you over and over how good you feel, how pretty you are, how he’d do anything for you, always.

You’re already tensing, another orgasm building, and when you shatter again, he fucks you through it as you sob his name all drowning and needy, it’s the only thing he wants to hear for the rest of his life. You clench and pulse around him, pulling him right to the edge, as his hips stutter, breath catching. 

Pelvis grinding against you, Joel cums, spilling inside you with a groan that rattles his whole body. He tightens then slacks, before he collapses against you, catching his weight on his forearms. He just breathes, face pressed into your neck, smelling the heady scent of sweat, sex, and you. Your heartbeat is hammering, and it’s a shared race.

“Joel,” you whisper.

He kisses your throat, your jaw, the corner of your mouth. “Yeah, baby?”

You don’t answer with words, just a smile and a curl of your fingers into the hair at the nape of his neck. That’s enough of an answer. 

He shifts, rolling onto his side and pulls you against his chest. You tuck yourself against him, leg hooked over his hip. He strokes your back, kisses your forehead, feels the way your breathing slows. You look up at him, and he can see the relaxation in your face, the relief that wasn’t there before, and it fills him with a pride he’s only known since loving you.

“Better?” he asks, lips against your forehead.

You nod. “Much,” you giggle.

He smiles, arms tightening around you as he relaxes in the peaceful haze of this beautiful life he shares with you. 

—-

No huge disasters happen during your first few weeks at the clinic, just a lot of congratulations, patients, mysteries you can solve, and a steady build of confidence. By the end of the second week, you feel like you’ve earned the title of Clinic Head, and it stops feeling like your imposter syndrome might just swallow you whole. People tell you you’re doing well, and you actually believe them.

The routine establishes itself without fanfare. You wake up every morning to a kiss on your forehead and a cup of tea or coffee in Joel’s hand. He’s already been awake, adamant on making you breakfast. Most of the time, it’s eggs, sometimes potatoes, sometimes toast or bacon if they’re available that week. He always sets the plate in front of you, with another kiss against your forehead, before he serves himself. You both eat, you a little slower than he, and when he’s done, he scoots his chair back, watching you with that exact softness in his eyes that still, even after all this time, makes you feel loved and adored.

He walks you to work, carrying your bag, his hand against the small of your back or in your hand as you walk together down the road toward the clinic. He leaves you with a kiss, no matter who’s watching, and you watch him head to work, broad back moving through the crowd, standing out amongst your fellow Jacksonians. You don’t open the clinic door until he turns at the corner and raises a hand and sends you a wink in farewell.

Work is work. Every patient, illness, and cure is vital because it’s part of the thousand small ailments of a community trying to survive. You suture cuts, you set bones, you mix tinctures. There’s a rhythm of healing… hurried or slowed, you respond to every beat. 

Steven, Wendy, Linda, and Dr. V–whenever he pulls himself away from retirement–are a godsend. You’ve even taken on a couple of new apprentices, including—to your surprise—Dina. She shadows you with an intense focus, proving herself a quick study and a natural healer.

Most days, around noon, Joel appears in your office, lunch in a tote bag, and a doting smile on his face. You eat together at your desk, and you tell each other about your mornings. Ordinary things… things you never thought would matter to anyone. But they do. They matter to him, and you.

Some evenings you don’t leave the clinic until late, depending on the patient loads, but your home is always your salvation. Dinner cooked by one of you while the other sets the table. You wash dishes side by side, clean up the kitchen, and fold the laundry. Domestic bliss is in everything you do, especially when Joel is right by you.

The best parts of your day are once the sun hides behind the mountains, the curtains are shut, and the fire in the hearth is lit. The couch, a blanket pulled across both of your laps, Jefferson on your lap, purring as you pet him. Your shoulder is always home to Joel’s arm, hand resting against your skin, thumb tracing idle circles on your skin.

Sometimes there’s a movie playing on the TV, maybe if you’re lucky, it’s a newly scavenged movie from the library. Sometimes it’s a book shared between you two, or a single one in each of your palms. Sometimes Joel carves, and you knit, the sounds of your progress soundtracked across the living room. Sometimes you just watch the fire, or let your eyes trace the lines of Joel’s profile in the flickering light. You relish these nights, the particular peace of having nowhere to be.

It’s peaceful. It’s wonderful. Something you once thought had been burned out of the world along with everything else. It’s a simple, unremarkable happiness. A routine. An ordinary life built every day, in a house on a road in a town behind walls, with a man who makes you eggs in the morning and holds you on the couch at night, and transformed a bedroom into an office because he wanted you to have a place of your own.

This is enough. This is more than enough. This is everything.

—-

Boggle, Scrabble, Clue, Sorry. A stack of board games Joel has saved in the back of the closet for a rainy day… or a perfect housewarming gift for Ellie and Dina.

Their house sits only a short walk down two streets. It’s a narrow, gray two-story with blue trim and window boxes that you mention you’ll help Dina fill with herbs. It already looks lived in, with the glow of the lamplight and Sally looking out the screen door.

You knock on the doorframe. He stands at your shoulder, games under one arm, a wrapped stack of cookies in his other hand. He hears the scrape of a chair against the hardwood floor he just helped repair last month, and someone says something, then footsteps.

The screen door swings open, and Ellie’s face is wide and bright, clad in her trusty flannel shirt with the sleeves pushed up to her elbows. She looks happy, genuinely, ridiculously happy. Her eyes drop to the cloth-wrapped stack in his hands, and her eyes widen. Her mouth opens a little.

“Are those—”

“Gingersnaps,” you say.

“Oh my god. Get in here, come in, come in.”

Dina has set the table. There’s a cloth on it, candles lit in the middle, and there’s a savory smell of roasted chicken and sweet corn coming from the kitchen. Joel sets the games on the side table near the door and follows you in, taking in how much Ellie and Dina have already accomplished. There are already framed drawings of Ellie’s on one wall, a selection of carved horses Joel made for her on the mantel, and the scarves you’ve knitted for Ellie and Dina hanging from a coat hook by the door.

It looks like a home.

“Smells good,” he says when Dina comes out of the kitchen, wiping her hands on a towel.

“Chicken,” Dina says. “And corn, and potatoes. Nothing fancy.”

“Nothing fancy is good,” you say, and Dina grins.

Joel settles into the chair at the table, you to his left. He watches Ellie move around her home with Dina, watches the way she leans against the kitchen counter while Dina dishes things out. It’s so different for her now.

He thinks about the strange arithmetic of family. Ellie wasn’t born his. She had a mother she never knew, she had Marlene, a whole history before she ever wound up in his and Tess’s hands. But somewhere between that and this table, something shifted. She’s now his daughter. There’s no other word for it.

He watches her argue with Dina about whether the corn is better on or off the cob, watches her take the last piece of chicken off the serving plate, and wipes her hands on her jeans.

His daughter.

His daughter, who, after dinner, has finished half the plate of cookies all by herself. Next to the half-eaten platter of cookies, Boggle sits on the table, and as Joel expected, he’s losing. Horribly.

He stares at the letters. They stare back at him. He writes down cat. He writes down act. He even tries tac. He stares some more.

He writes down tact. That’s probably three points. He looks over at you, and your pen is moving fast.

The timer runs out.

The reading off starts. You go first, a long list of words, and Ellie scoffs every time you read out a word she’d also found. Dina has a solid list. Ellie’s is shorter than she wants it to be, he can see it in the line of her jaw.

He reads his list last. Four words.

“That’s it?” Ellie asks.

“That’s it,” he nods.

Dina’s the first to laugh helplessly into her hand. You’re biting your lip with a hidden smile. Ellie’s shoulders begin to rock up and down as she giggles her high-pitched squeak. He keeps his face straight for a second, until he also breaks, and the sound of laughter fills the little house on the street two over from his.

You win. Of course, you win. You announce it, with your hands pumping in the air, and Ellie points at you and says, “Of course the doctor wins!”, and you thank her.

Joel watches all of it. He never expected to have this. A table with people he loves around it. His daughter reaching for another cookie that his wife baked for her.

He reaches under the table and takes your hand. You squeeze back without looking up.

Ellie hugs him tight when the night is over, his arms wrap around her, and his chin rests atop her head. “Thanks for coming over,” she says. 

“Of course, Kiddo, wouldn’t miss it for the world.” 

He watches you hug Ellie just as tight, and promise her you’ll show her how to make the gingersnaps she loves so much. 

I don't wanna be here. Don't wanna listen to this shitty music, don't wanna drink overpriced whiskey, and I definitely don't wanna spend my Friday night in a bar packed with people.

Steve called it a DEA night. What actually happened is he dragged me here, ditched me ten minutes later, and disappeared onto the dance floor the second Connie showed up.

Yeah. Team night.

So now I'm sitting at the bar with my second whiskey, trying to figure out how long I have to stay before it's socially acceptable to get the hell out. Honestly, I could probably leave right now and nobody would even notice. I've basically been abandoned at this bar for the past half hour anyway.

This place is about as safe as Bogotá gets. Tourists. Embassy people. Expensive liquor. Still not somewhere I wanna spend my Friday night.

Fuck it. I'll finish my drink and leave.

Steve's dancing with Connie. Trujillo somehow ended up out there too. Carrillo's laughing his ass off at something. I genuinely don't understand how everyone got possessed by this terrible fucking music.

I let out a sigh and decide I'm done. Escobar's still out there. The son of a bitch keeps slipping through our fingers. And lately it feels like I'm the only one who still gives a damn.

I slide off the barstool, throw some bills onto the counter, finish the last of my whiskey, and the second I decide to leave, something cold hits my shoulder. The fuck? I look down. My shirt's turning darker by the second. Vodka. Definitely vodka.

Before I can even react, somebody nearly screams right into my ear. "Jesus, I'm so sorry!"

I turn.

Girl. Young. Way younger than me. She's holding an empty glass, which apparently used to contain the vodka currently soaking through my shirt. Light brown hair. Green eyes. Tiny. And judging by the absolute massacre she's committing against the Spanish language, she's American.

"Jesus Christ, I'm sorry, I... one second..." Her Spanish is awful. Like she memorized six sentences on the flight here and decided to commit to them. She drops the empty glass onto the bar and starts digging through her purse. A second later she pulls out a paper napkin that looks like it survived at least three previous emergencies and starts rubbing it against my shoulder.

"Hey, hey, stop." I lean away. For one, it's not helping. And two, I'm about eighty percent sure she blew her nose into that thing earlier. "This really isn't doing much."

She freezes. Then her eyes go wide. "Oh my God. You're American?" She switches to English so fast she practically gives herself whiplash. Well. That answers that. The second she hears my accent, she jerks her hand back along with the napkin and finally looks at me properly. She's tiny. Like, really tiny. She has to tilt her head back just to look me in the eye. She's wearing a simple dress. White. Thin straps. It reaches her knees. Nothing fancy.

"Actually, at the moment I'm a soaked American. And a soaked American who's leaving." I reach for my jacket hanging off the back of the stool and start pushing my way toward the exit.

"Hey! Hey!" Jesus Christ, she's loud. Then again, with this music, maybe screaming is the only way to communicate in here. "Hey, wait!" Her voice gets closer. She's following me. Of course she is.

I roll my eyes and stop. Slowly turn around. Yep. Still there. I let out an exaggerated sigh, loud enough for her to hear even over whatever the hell is currently playing. "What?" It comes out rougher than I mean it to. Not angry. Just... what now?

"I'm sorry, I just..." She runs a hand through her hair. "Seriously, I didn't mean to spill it on you. Somebody bumped into me and... well. It happened."

"It happened?" I repeat it back to her, lifting an eyebrow.

Apparently that was the wrong thing to do. Because something changes in her face. The guilt disappears. Now she looks annoyed. Actually annoyed. "You know what?" she says. "I was trying to apologize. I really was." She crosses her arms. "But now I'm mostly upset because I waited twenty minutes for that vodka at the bar."

I stare at her. "You followed me to tell me you're more upset about losing your drink than dumping it all over me?"

"I mean..." She points at my shoulder. "Your shirt still exists."

I almost laugh. Almost. "This is unbelievable."

"No, you're unbelievable."

Okay. Now I'm definitely entertained. I should probably still be pissed about the shirt. I smell like a liquor store and my shoulder's soaked, but honestly?

The girl standing in front of me is kind of ridiculous. Not in a bad way. She's standing there with her arms crossed, trying very hard to look angry. And somehow she ends up looking...

No. Absolutely not. I shut that thought down immediately. Cute? Jesus Christ. What the hell is wrong with you, Peña? You don't go around calling women cute. Especially women who dump vodka on you.

"God," she mutters. "You're so..." She searches for the word. "Grumpy."

That one actually gets me. I laugh. An actual laugh. Because this whole thing is absurd. I shake my head. "Unbelievable." And I turn to leave. Mostly because my shirt still smells like vodka. Partly because I should leave. And partly because if I stay here much longer, I'm probably going to ask the girl who spilled a drink on me what the hell she's doing in Bogotá.

"Jesus, you're really an asshole!" She yells it after me. In Spanish. Or at least something very close to Spanish.

And somehow that actually makes me stop again. I turn around slowly and walk back a few steps. "Your Spanish is terrible."

She lets out an offended breath. Actually offended. But her eyes are sparkling now. Like she was waiting for that. "Excuse me?"

"I said your Spanish sucks." This time I say it in Spanish.

She stares at me for a second. "Okay, I understood exactly one word in that sentence, and I'm pretty sure it was shit, so I'm guessing you just insulted my Spanish again. In Spanish. Which honestly feels unnecessary."

I shrug. "Seemed appropriate."

She folds her arms. "Are you showing off right now? Because that's extremely annoying."

And honestly? This whole thing has become ridiculous. It feels like being back in high school. Maybe middle school. But at the same time, this random American girl is the first thing that's managed to pull me out of my shitty mood all day. So standing here talking to her isn't exactly the worst thing that's happened to me tonight.

People keep squeezing past us trying to get to the bar or the exit. She points a finger at me. "You are–"

"You, you," I interrupt, mimicking her.

She glares at me.

I sigh. "Let's make this easier. Peña."

She blinks. "Peña." My last name rolls awkwardly off her tongue. Then she frowns. "Okay, but do you also have a first name, or do you just walk around introducing yourself like some mysterious cowboy?"

I look at her. Green eyes. Still staring. Still waiting. And for some reason I actually think about it for a second. "Javier." The name comes out before I can decide not to say it.

She's definitely provoking me. I know that. But I also find myself wondering what her name is.

A smile appears on her face so quickly it almost catches me off guard. She holds out her hand. "Katie."

I hesitate. Then I take it. Her hand is tiny. Warm. And for some reason the first thing that pops into my head is hope my hand isn't sweaty. Jesus Christ. What's wrong with me? "So let me get this straight," I say. "American girl. Can't hold onto a drink. Dumps vodka all over strangers. Then attacks them with a used napkin."

"Hey!" She still hasn't let go of my hand. "That was not–"

"The napkin looked like it'd already been through some things."

"It was wrinkled!"

I raise an eyebrow. She's still shaking my hand. At this point we've been standing here holding hands like idiots for at least a minute. She could let go. I could let go. Neither of us does.

"You are seriously the grumpiest man I've ever met," she says. "First of all, somebody pushed the American girl, so maybe the American girl didn't have time to think about her balance." She takes a step closer. "And second of all, the napkin was wrinkled, Peña. Not used."

Only then do I glance down. Our hands. Still connected.

Apparently she notices too. Her eyes follow mine. And suddenly she pulls her hand back. Not fast. Not embarrassed exactly. Just... aware. "Okay," she says. "So. You were leaving."

"Yeah." I nod. "I should probably go."

"Yeah."

But neither of us moves. Music keeps blasting. People keep yelling. Some guy bumps my shoulder on his way to the bar.

And I start feeling like an idiot. Because if I wanted to leave so badly… why the hell am I still standing here?

"So..." Katie says.

"So...?" I ask, giving her a look.

"You don't seem very committed to leaving."

"Maybe I changed my mind."

She laughs. "Really? After you nearly started a war over your shirt?"

"Hey, I–"

"What do you actually do, Javier?"

That catches me off guard. "What? In Colombia?"

She nods.

"I live here. Work here. Probably not nearly as exciting as whatever you're doing."

"Hey, what's that supposed to mean?"

"Well, my first guess is tourist. Mainly because your Spanish is terrible." I'm waiting for her to fire back immediately.

She doesn't. Instead she just looks at me. "So what do you do that makes your Spanish so..." She tilts her head. "Perfect?"

Of course. Genuine curiosity with just enough sarcasm to keep me from getting comfortable. Honestly, I don't really want to talk about work. Everything's gone to shit lately. Escobar's still out there. Nobody seems nearly as bothered by that as they should be. "Nothing exciting," I say. "Pretty boring, actually."

She studies me. "Hmm." That usually means trouble. "Okay, let me guess."

"Oh, this should be good."

"Bartender."

I actually laugh. "What the fuck? Bartender?"

She shrugs. "You seem grumpy enough."

"Out of every job in the world, you picked bartender?"

"No. Fine. Not bartender." She points at me. "Something boring."

"Thanks."

"Maybe..." She squints at me. "Mailman."

That one actually makes me laugh. "What the fuck is with you and mailmen?"

She laughs too. "I don't know!"

"Do I look like a mailman?"

"You look like somebody who's annoyed all the time."

"Fair."

"And mysterious for no reason."

"Maybe there's a reason."

She narrows her eyes. "Oh my God."

Here we go.

"We're in Colombia."

"Very observant."

"So maybe..." Her eyes widen. "Drugs?"

"What?" I stare at her. "What?!"

She points at me. "You said mysterious!"

"Jesus Christ. We went from mailman to drug dealer in thirty seconds. How many vodkas did you have?"

She opens her mouth.

I stop her before she says something even worse. "DEA."

She blinks. "Wait. Seriously?"

"Yep."

"You're a federal agent?"

"Unfortunately."

She stares at me for a second. And then she nods. "That actually explains a lot."

"What does?"

"Why you're such an asshole."

I let out a laugh through my nose. "Do you talk to all strangers like this?"

"Only the ones who insult my napkins."

Jesus. The napkin. We're back to the napkin. "That napkin was a crime scene."

"It was trying to save the situation."

I point toward my shoulder. Still damp. "Didn't do a very good job."

"Because somebody immediately accused it of being used and covered in snot." She's laughing now.

And that's when I realize I actually like the sound. Fuck. Maybe I really should've gone home.

"Alright, DEA." She straightens up, trying to look serious. "Next question."

"That doesn't sound good."

She ignores me. "How long have you been in Colombia?"

"A few years."

"You like it here?"

I think about it. "Not much lately."

"Friends?"

"A few."

"Girlfriend?"

I look at her. "Was that a question?"

"Yes."

"No."

"Wife?"

"Jesus Christ."

She raises both hands. "Okay, okay. I'm just gathering information."

"For what?"

"So I can figure out whether you're rude to everyone or just me."

That one gets another laugh out of me. At this point I'm not even trying to stop it.

Katie smiles like she just won something. Some competition I didn't even realize I was participating in. "See? You're not that bad."

"Wouldn't get used to it."

"Too late."

Some guy pushes past us toward the bar and bumps into Katie hard enough that she stumbles.

I catch her elbow automatically. Just reflex. Nothing dramatic.

"Thanks," she says quietly.

I let go almost immediately. "You want another drink?" The words come out before I can stop them.

Katie just looks at me. "And what happened to leaving?"

I shrug. "I'd just go home and stare at the ceiling anyway."

That, apparently, amuses her. "Wow. You really know how to make a girl feel special."

"I'm just being honest."

And somehow we end up back at the bar. I'm honestly not sure when exactly that happened. Half an hour ago I was trying to get the hell out of here, and now I'm sitting next to the girl who spilled vodka all over me, insulted me at least five times, and asks questions like a goddamn machine gun. And I'm answering them. Which might actually be the strangest part of the whole night.

She's twenty-five. So my guess about her being ten years younger wasn't that far off. She's from Ohio. Her mom apparently has some distant family somewhere in Colombia, and Katie decided spending a few weeks traveling through South America sounded like a good idea.

Judging by her Spanish, I'm not entirely convinced it was.

She studied something at college that I stopped understanding after about five minutes. She works in an office somewhere. She hates winter. Hates olives. Is terrified of spiders. And apparently has the overwhelming need to talk to absolutely everyone. Including grumpy federal agents.

And somehow I'm telling her things I usually don't tell strangers. Nothing important. Texas. My dad. How long I've been in Colombia. How work's been kicking my ass lately. How much I miss actual Mexican food. How much I hate the music in this place.

And somewhere in the middle of all that, I realize something deeply fucking annoying. I'm having a good time. Shit. An actual good time. For the first time in a long while, I'm sitting in a bar laughing and not thinking about Escobar. Not thinking about work. Not thinking about how many people died today.

And honestly? That pisses me off a little. Because the girl sitting next to me is practically a stranger. I barely know anything about her. She barely knows anything about me. And somehow I feel more relaxed sitting next to her than I do around people I've known for years. That feels suspicious.

"So," Katie says eventually, finishing the rest of her drink. "You're not as grumpy anymore."

"That's the whiskey."

"I don't believe you."

"Don't really care."

She smiles. Then she turns toward the dance floor. The music's changed at some point. Something slower. Less screaming. More actual music. She looks back at me.

And I know that look immediately. Jesus Christ. "No."

"What no?"

"I don't dance."

She squints at me. "I'm supposed to believe that from a guy from Texas with the last name Peña?"

"Not everybody from Texas can dance." I glance toward the dance floor.

And of course. Of fucking course. There's Steve. That asshole is standing next to Connie and both of them are looking directly at us. Steve grins. Connie grins. Steve raises an eyebrow. I give him the finger. Connie starts laughing.

Katie follows my gaze. "Friends?"

"Unfortunately."

"Why are they staring?"

"Because they're idiots."

"That doesn't sound very friendly." She smiles. Then she holds out her hand. "One song."

I don't know if it's the whiskey. Or the night. Or the fact that I've laughed more in the last hour than I have all week. But I take her hand.

Katie smiles immediately. Of course she does. Like she knew I'd do it the entire time. "Knew it."

I shake my head and let her pull me through the crowd.

The music's still too loud. People are still bumping into each other. The whole place still gets on my nerves. Just... maybe a little less now. The song changes again. I don't know what it is. Something slower. Something you can actually dance to instead of jumping around like an idiot.

Katie turns toward me. "Well?"

"Jesus Christ."

She laughs.

Eventually I put a hand on her waist. Carefully. Mostly because I have no idea what the hell I'm supposed to be doing.

She rests her hands on my shoulders.

For a second we both feel stupid. Maybe because hour ago we were arguing about vodka and napkins. Maybe because an hour and a half ago I wanted to be home. But eventually the music does the work for us. And to my own surprise, my feet still remember.

Katie looks up at me after a minute. "You asshole."

I raise an eyebrow. "What?"

"You can dance."

"I never said I couldn't."

"Yes, you did."

"No. I said I don't dance. That's not the same thing." I snort.

Eventually she stops teasing me. Stops laughing so much too. Now she just looks at me every now and then.

And I'm starting to regret agreeing to this. Because she's closer now. Way closer. I can smell her perfume. Something sweet. I can feel her hand moving against my shoulder. Her fingers brushing my neck. The way she occasionally misses a step and bumps into me. And instead of stepping back, I automatically pull her closer again. Shit.

I glance up and spot Steve somewhere across the room. Of course. That idiot is dancing with Connie again, and both of them are looking our way. Steve is wearing the stupidest grin I've ever seen. I ignore him.

The music keeps playing. And somewhere along the way, we've ended up a little closer. Not much. But enough.

Her face is only a few inches from mine. If she looked up, our noses would probably touch. And then something changes. The smile disappears.

At first I think she's tired. Then I see her close her eyes. "Katie?"

"Hm?"

"You okay?"

She nods. A few seconds later she shakes her head. "Maybe a little dizzy. I don't think I ate much today."

Jesus Christ. "You've been drinking on an empty stomach?"

"I had dinner plans."

"Had?"

"Then there was vodka. Then I spilled vodka. Then there was you..."

I close my eyes. "Unbelievable."

She smiles. Only this time she looks tired. Really tired.

I take her elbow. "Gimme a second."

"Where are we going?"

"Outside."

"I'm fine."

"Katie."

She looks at me for a few seconds. Then she sighs. "Okay."

So I lead her through the crowd because she's pale as hell now, and I don't like it.

The air outside feels better immediately. No music. No people bumping into each other. No sweating idiots trying to dance.

Katie leans against the wall outside the entrance and takes a few deep breaths.

"You okay?"

She nods. "Yeah. Just got dizzy."

"That's called drinking on an empty stomach."

She rolls her eyes. "Thanks, doctor."

"Federal agent."

"That's somehow worse."

I snort.

There's a little taco stand down the street. I stop there sometimes after work. The tacos aren't terrible and they're open half the night, which automatically makes them one of the best businesses in Bogotá. "Stay here."

She looks up at me. "Where are you going?"

"To save you from your own stupidity." A few minutes later I come back with a bottle of water.

The way she looks at it, you'd think I brought her buried treasure. "You actually bought me water."

"Shocking, right? Coming from somebody as grumpy as me. I'm starting to regret it."

She smiles. And that smile is starting to become a problem.

We sit down on the curb next to the stand. She drinks the water slowly. I catch myself checking on her every couple minutes. Color's coming back to her face. Good.

"You hungry?"

She looks at me. "I'm starving."

"And that didn't occur to you earlier?"

She shrugs. "I'm on vacation."

"And?"

"People make stupid decisions on vacation."

"That explains why you're talking to me."

She laughs.

Eventually I grab us tacos.

And somehow an hour passes. Maybe two. I honestly stop paying attention. We talk about absolutely nothing. Movies. Ohio. Texas. Food. Random bullshit.

And somewhere in the middle of all that, I notice something else. She touches me. Not intentionally. Not flirting, exactly. Just...

When she's laughing. When she's telling a story. When she disagrees with me. Her fingers brush my shoulder. My arm. At one point she brushes something off my shirt.

Normally I'd pull away. Normally I'd put some space between us. This time I don't. And honestly? That might be the thing that's freaking me out the most. Because I can't remember the last time I felt this good. No work. No DEA. No Escobar. Just for a few hours. I'm sitting on a curb in the middle of Bogotá eating tacos with a girl I didn't even know existed a few hours ago. And I'm laughing. Fuck.

Katie takes another sip of water. Then she goes quiet.

And immediately I don't like the look on her face. "What?"

She looks out toward the street. "Nothing." A few seconds pass. "I'm flying home tomorrow."

For a second I don't understand. "Where?"

"Back home." She looks down at the half-empty bottle. "Back to the States."

I blink. "Tomorrow?"

She nods. "Morning."

And suddenly I really don't like that answer. At all. Which is ridiculous. I've known her for what? A few hours? A few fucking hours. And somehow that hits me harder than it should.

Katie gives me a small smile. "So technically, this is my last night in Colombia."

I don't say anything. Mostly because I have no idea what I'm supposed to say. A few hours ago she spilled vodka on me and I wanted to go home. Now I'm sitting on a curb trying to figure out what the hell to do with the fact that this girl is leaving tomorrow.

And judging by the look on her face, she doesn't know either.

For a while we just sit there. Cars pass every now and then. The taco stand still smells like grilled meat and spices. Somewhere in the distance the music from the bar is still going. And the whole night suddenly feels different.

Katie starts messing with the bottle cap. I stare out at the street. Neither of us seems to know what comes next.

Eventually she smiles a little. "You know..."

"Hm?"

"You said people make stupid decisions on vacation."

I look at her. "No, you said that."

"Oh." She laughs quietly. "Right. That was me."

I can't help the small smile.

She goes quiet again. Then she looks at me.

And something about it feels different. I can't really explain it. I just suddenly feel way too warm.

"So I was thinking..." she says. Her voice is quieter now. "Maybe I'd like to make one more bad decision."

Before I can ask what she means, she leans toward me. And kisses me.

For a second I completely freeze. Because I didn't expect that. Maybe I thought about it. Maybe the idea crossed my mind back at the bar. But I definitely didn't expect her to do it. Didn't expect her to lean over and kiss me in the middle of the night on a sidewalk in Bogotá.

Her hand touches my face. And I realize I haven't breathed in several seconds. Jesus Christ. The kiss is careful at first. Like she's not entirely sure.

And then I realize something that feels equally inconvenient. I don't want her to stop. So I kiss her back. Slowly. One hand stays on the ground beside me. The other finds her waist without me even thinking about it.

She takes a small breath. She's closer now. Really close.

I can smell her perfume. Feel her hair against my face. Feel her fingers catching on my jacket.

And my body very quickly reminds me that I'm still a man. And Katie is a very attractive woman. Very.

And then: "KATIE!"

We both jump. She opens her eyes. So do I.

A few yards away stand three women. Her friends. Very drunk, judging by the volume. "Oh my God!" one of them yells. "She really disappeared with the hot stranger!"

"I TOLD YOU!" another one shouts.

Katie immediately covers her face with both hands. "No. No, no, no. Please don't."

"There you are!" one of them says. "We thought somebody kidnapped you!"

"Not yet," I mutter.

Katie looks at me. And to my surprise, she starts laughing.

Her friends are already standing in front of us. One of them points at me, then at Katie. "So this is why we couldn't find her."

"Emily!" Katie hisses.

"What?" the woman says, shrugging. "He's hot."

"Oh my God."

And honestly? I don't know if she's more embarrassed than I am.

One of her friends finally announces, "The taxi's here. We gotta get back to the hotel. We have to be at the airport in a few hours."

And there it is again. That feeling in my stomach. Because for a little while I'd actually forgotten. Forgotten that she's leaving. Forgotten that this whole thing was always going to end.

—

"The taxi's here!" one of them yells a few minutes later.

Katie closes her eyes. "I'm gonna kill them."

"That'd probably make getting home a little complicated."

She looks at me and smiles.

Her friends are already heading toward the car. One of them turns around. "Katie! You have one minute!"

"Shut up!"

"And don't forget to take the hot guy with you!"

"Emily!"

This time I'm the one laughing.

Katie covers her face. "I'm so sorry."

"For what?"

"Them. The napkin. The vodka."

I raise an eyebrow. "That's a pretty long list."

"Yeah."

For the first time all night, neither of us says anything else. And for the first time all night, I honestly don't know what to say.

She pushes her hair behind her shoulder and glances toward the taxi. Then back at me. "So..."

"This the part where you leave?"

She gives me a small smile. "Yeah. I guess."

I nod. And it feels weird as hell. Because a few hours ago I couldn't wait to get out of that bar. And now I'd take another five minutes. Ten. An hour. Anything.

Katie studies me for a second. "You know," she says, "when I found out you were DEA, I thought you were gonna arrest me for the vodka and the attitude."

"DEA doesn't arrest people for that. Trust me."

"That's unfortunate."

I look at her. "Why?"

"Might've missed my flight."

The words hang there. Neither of us says anything. Because we both know exactly what she means. And neither of us knows what the hell to do about it.

"Katie!" somebody yells from the taxi.

"One minute!" Katie stands up from the curb.

I stand up too.

She steps closer. Close enough that I can smell her perfume again. "Just so we're clear," she says quietly, "I still think you're grumpy."

"And I still think that napkin had seen some things."

She wrinkles her nose. "It hadn't."

"It absolutely had."

That finally makes her smile. Then she leans in. Slowly this time. Giving me every chance to move.

I don't.

She kisses me.

And I kiss her back. This time it isn't a surprise. This time I know exactly what I'm doing.

Her hands slide up my neck. Her fingers disappear into the hair at the back of my head.

And without thinking, I pull her a little closer. Just enough. Just enough that there's no space left between us. For a few seconds I forget everything. The bar. DEA. Escobar. Tomorrow. All of it.

And maybe that's why it feels so damn empty when she pulls away. Her fingers are still in my hair. She's still looking at me.

And I realize I honestly can't remember the last time somebody touched me like that. Like they weren't in a hurry.

Eventually she lets go. Her smile's different now. Smaller. Sadder. "Thanks for the tacos."

"Thanks for the vodka."

She laughs softly. "I really am sorry about your shirt."

"Maybe it'll survive."

"Hopefully."

And suddenly we're just standing there looking at each other.

"Katie!" somebody yells again.

"Yeah, I'm coming!" She looks at me one last time. "Bye, Peña."

For some reason it takes me a second. Maybe because it suddenly sounds way too final. "Bye, Katie."

She nods. Turns around. And walks away. I watch her run toward the taxi while her friends immediately start yelling something at her. Katie throws something at them. Her purse, I think. Maybe not. The door closes. The car pulls away. And just like that, she's gone.

I stay there on the sidewalk. The air's cold now. The music from the bar is still drifting down the street. And I'm standing there holding a half-empty bottle of water she forgot to finish. Jesus Christ. A few hours ago all I wanted was to go home. Now I have no idea what the hell I'm supposed to do once I get there.

I stay there for a while. A minute. Five. Who knows. The street's mostly empty now. Somebody's yelling in Spanish somewhere around the corner. Bogotá keeps moving. Same as always. And I'm still standing there like an idiot holding somebody else's water bottle.

In a few hours she'll be on a plane. Tomorrow night she'll probably be back in Ohio. Maybe unpacking. Maybe telling her other friends about the grumpy federal agent she spilled vodka on.

And me? I'll be back at DEA. Bad coffee. Steve talking too much. Escobar still out there. Paperwork. Bullshit. The same as always. This is my life. Colombia. DEA. People dying too fast. Or not fast enough.

Katie was never really part of it. Maybe if we'd met somewhere else. Texas. Ohio. Some normal bar in some normal city. Maybe. But we met here. One night. One stupid night. And some things only exist because they happen exactly once.

Still, somewhere on the walk home, I catch myself smiling. And I know one thing… the next time somebody at the office says Colombia can't surprise you anymore, I'm probably gonna think about the girl with the terrible Spanish, the wrinkled napkin, and the vodka all over my shirt. And the fact that by the end of the night, I really didn't want to go home at all.

💌 @idknananchimaybe @pascalispunktexas @mothmanuwu @pascalispunkbr @reasonablyluminousquill @justmasblack @indiegirlunited @saralovesjoelmiller @picketniffler @canonisoptional @katyispunk @daltoncharm @kirsteng42 @borinquenasoy @cuteanimalmama @negramurguera @senoratess @misstokyo7love @suestormnotcheatingversion @lizette50 @grxnde-dwt @harriedandharassed @somedayheaven @ningaispunk @ladyofmidlo72 @bardot49 @scarlettval2 @goonersquad101 @loveoverpride @fckyeahsaltandpeppercurls @javierarchieve @shadowqueen2024

Thank you so much for reading ♡

He stills, lips parted but you press a finger to their softness. “Don’t speak. I know what you’re thinkin’.”

His mouth closes but not before he kisses your fingertip, then drags his teeth down your throat, fists bunching around your pants.

His gaze meets yours, dark and unyielding before he slides his cock through the wetness between your legs. The teasing doesn’t last long, his restraint crumbling completely when he drives deep inside you.

The sound of his desire, his desperation, lights an inferno inside you, and you meet every punishing thrust of his hips with one of your own. Your fingers rake through his hair, deepening the kiss and holding him as close as possible, all your senses ablaze.

His armor digs into your soft curves, and you tilt your hips toward him, moaning his name when he sweeps your leg up and around his waist to sink even deeper.

“Again,” he demands, voice rough and low. “Say my name again.”

You climb together, clenching around his cock as he fucks you harder than he ever has. Your orgasm slams into you and he follows with a low rumbling sound, his cock pulsing as he spills his hot release, his name on your lips.

“Tell me this isn’t goodbye,” he whispers, still inside you.

“I could never tell you goodbye.”

“Divorced divorced? Like legally? Or just separated? There’s a huge difference.”

“Yes, he’s divorced divorced. And really cute! He’s a government agent.”

I let myself drift off as Pickle rambled on.

“So, this Saturday at eight?” she asked.

“Huh? Where? What?”

Pickle sighed, frustrated with my lack of attention. “You. David. Date. Saturday. Eight pm. Copper Creek Grill.”

“O.K.,” I responded, just as exasperated. “What’s the deal with him anyway? Why is he perfect for me?”

“Because he’s single and cute and has a good job. Plus he has kids from his previous marriage, so he probably wouldn’t expect you to get knocked up or anything.”

“Great,” I said sarcastically. “My Prince Charming.”

“So you’d be willing to date a divorced guy?”

“I have to meet him first, Pickle.” Content that my nails were dry I put my sister on speaker as I started on my fingers. “Don’t start choosing bridal shower invitations just yet.”

“I just want to see you settled, Dais,” she said gently. It turned my heart all around.

“I know.. and I appreciate it.. love you, sis.”

“Love you too, sis,” she said back. “So. Should I call David and let him know you’re interested?”

I sighed. “Yeah, sure. Why not?”

“You’re David?” I asked the tall, broad gentleman at the bar, nursing a whiskey.

“Yes,” he said enthusiastically, standing to shake my hand. “And you’re Daisy, right? Your sister told me a lot about you.” He walked with me to get a booth nearby.

“She’s my older sister. I bet she had a lot of interesting material,” I said we sat down.

“Any other siblings?”

“Thankfully no,” I smirked.

“I see.” He smiled at me as he settled in across the table. “I have an older sister myself. I can relate.”

We talked a little bit about our families. He brought up his divorce, which was pretty recent but, in his words, was “long overdue.”

He was cute – I couldn’t stop checking him out as he spoke – his eyes lit up when he talked about his daughters, the soft plushness of his lips held my attention, the perfect thickness of his fingers as he held the menu had me wondering where else he’d be thick..

If he was feeling the same way he didn’t show it. He was a gentleman the entire time, and at the end of the date he only kissed my cheek. I supposed he was taking it slow because he didn’t want to rush into getting physical with someone so soon after divorcing.

He insisted on my calling him “Dave” instead of “David” and I teased him for having such a game show host name. Secretly I wondered how I was supposed to scream Dave in a fit of passion. Maybe I could scream baby or oh god yes or even daddy if he was amenable to it. I figured I had time.

After five dates (our first dinner, the movies, another dinner, a concert, and then late night drinks) I finally popped the question.

“Do you want to come up?”

We barely made it past the front door, leaving a trail of clothes in our wake. But as much of a hurry he was in to get there, he took his time with me. He ate me out as I bent over the bed, spreading me wide to lick up every inch of space he could, then using his fingers to fuck me until I came over and over again until I finally had to push him away, my pussy and clit oversensitive.

He liked me to ride him in reverse cowgirl, his big hands grabbing my ass and giving light spanks as he guided me up and down on his cock. And when I finally tired out after coming again he pressed me flat to the bed and fucked me so hard my bedposts rattled against the wall.

I ended up screaming Dave after all.

“You’re neighbors are gonna hate me,” he said breathlessly, falling next to me on the bed and getting rid of the condom.

“I hope that means you’re going to be coming over a lot more.. and coming over and over..” I grinned like an idiot as he held me close.

Pickle was insistent on knowing the details, so sure that I was going to tell her Dave was The One. I liked him, but I wasn’t too interested in maintaining an actual relationship. Even if he was hung and could fuck like a machine.

Getting invested in furthering whatever this was with Dave meant I’d eventually meet his kids at one point, and possibly his ex-wife. It was a lot to consider. I was just enjoying myself in the meantime.

We always ended up at my place, even just for lazy nights watching TV. “Are you living in a motel or something?” I teased him one night as we shared Szechuan noodles and pinot noir. “Did your wife get the house in the divorce?”

He just smiled and shook his head. “I’m there a couple nights out of the week, for the girls’ sake,” he said. “I’ve got a place a few blocks over, just to keep close to them.”

“That’s really sweet,” I said, touched by the efforts he made to stay in his daughters’ lives.

“Do I get any points for that?”

Smirking, I climbed onto his lap, grinding down slowly. “Just a few.. for now.”

“Come back to my place,” he invited me after a particularly long makeout session in the car after another date. We were still in the parking lot of the pub, a light rain dotting the windows around us.

“Are you sure?” Secretly I was excited to see where he lived. I wanted to see Dave in his own surroundings for once.

He nodded. “Yeah, come on. You can spend the night if you want.”

We tried to be quiet as we got in the door, but I was too excited, jumping on him immediately. My lips crashed against his as I jumped into his arms. “Take me to your room,” I whispered.

We were having fun under the sheets, Dave especially excitable as he fucked into me with more energy than he ever had before. He flipped me into every position, eager to make me come in every way imaginable. He had me in doggy style when his bedroom door suddenly opened.

I froze, ducking my head even as he kept thrusting into me, the bedframe rattling with the movement.

“Sorry,” someone whispered from the doorway. “It’s just me, honey, I forgot to put your laundry away. I don’t want it staying in the dryer overnight.”

“It’s okay, Mom,” Dave replied, albeit a little breathless.

MOM?? I muffled a shriek and pulled the pillow over my head, tapping Dave’s thigh to signal him to stop.

“Don’t worry, I’m not looking,” Mrs. York said in a teasing manner. It made me want to puke. “David, are you ever going to introduce us to your friend?”

“Dave,” I hissed. “Get. Off. Me.”

“Sure, Mom. Hey, can you hand up those shirts? I don’t want them wrinkled.”

“Of course, honey. And I’ll iron them for you in the morning if they need it. Are you two being safe?”

“Yes, Mom,” he said, somewhat annoyed.

“What’s your name, dear?” the lady asked me. I shook my head, wishing I could shrink or turn invisible.

“She’s Daisy, okay? She’s my girlfriend. Thanks for bringing the laundry, but can you give us some privacy please?”

“Sorry, dear. I’ll get out of your way. You two enjoy, and please don’t make too much noise. I don’t want you to wake your father.”

“I’m already awake,” a deep voice grumbled. I cringed. Both of his parents were in the room.

“Dad!” Dave protested.

“All right, son, we’re leaving. Say good night to your friend from us.”

The door closed. Dave had already gone soft.

“What the hell was that??” I hissed at him, pushing him off me and wrapping the sheet around myself.

“Well.. I’m living with my parents. It’s temporary,” Dave added sheepishly.

“You said you had a place close to your children,” I reminded him.

“I do,” he admitted with a sigh. “My kids are only a short drive from here..”

I shook my head. “Oh my god.. and why the hell did you let them walk in on us?”

“They always do that when I bring a girl over. Ever since high school. Believe me, it’s weird but I’ve learned to just put up with it.”

“It is weird,” I muttered, getting up and putting my clothes back on. “Is that why you never wanted to bring me over?”

“It’s either this or bring you back to the home I still share with my ex-wife.”

“I can’t do this,” I decided. “I’m sorry, Dave. I like you, but this whole situation is just too much.”

Dave sighed deeply, closing his eyes. “Yeah.. I understand.”

I felt bad, but a middle-aged divorced man splitting his time between his ex’s home and his parents’ place was not someone I could continue with. Maybe Dave would reconcile with his wife. Or maybe he’d find someone who was okay being interrupted during sex by his parents as if it were nothing.

All I knew was I had to get out, and that I probably couldn’t trust my sister’s opinions of men from here on out.

dividers by @/strangergraphics 👑

Main Masterlist | Series Masterlist | Read on ao3

"What the fuck, Dieter! This isn't a cabin, it's a mansion!" Alma exclaims as soon as she sees the place they are going to stay in for the weekend. A surprise getaway Dieter had organized after they had both been tied up with work and hadn't seen each other for the past month.

"The website said cabin." Dieter answers, a little embarrassed by the sheer size of the place standing in front of them. He always feels a little self-conscious of his wealth, and the fact that he has gotten used to some luxury. He knows Alma loves to tease him, and of course she hears it in his voice.

"It's wonderful, Dee. I just imagined something smaller. But this is amazing, it's going to be so great."

"You're sure?" He can't help how insecure his voice sounds.

"Of course, honey! Oh! Is there a hot tub?"

"Yeah, why?"

"Oh my god!" She cries out as she runs toward the house. "I can't wait to defile you in it! Let's go!"

That makes Dieter laugh and removes all the remaining tension he has in his body. He wants to do so well, and he puts so much pressure on himself, organizing this with only one thing on his mind: making this weekend perfect for Alma. She's been working so hard, and he still can't believe she chose him. That she loves him and that she lets him love her in return, however imperfect he is. Something he is having a hard time accepting. But she helps him. Her and the amazing people that are still by his side.

—

Alma can't believe how fancy the place is, but she knows better than to continue teasing Dieter. Instead, she marvels at everything and enjoys every little luxury the place has to offer: a cozy dinner on their first night and lounging in the expensive couches in the living room, by the fire, once they managed to understand how to turn it on, a walk by the lake in the morning, lunch on the deck overlooking the water, sex in the hot tub where Alma made good of her promise. Sex in the shower. Sex on the couch after a nap. Sex in the kitchen, with her bent over the counter. They hadn't seen each other in almost a month, of course, they were ravenous for each other.

And tonight Dieter told her he had a surprise.

Alma is waiting expectantly, after dinner, trying to read her book in the living room, but she is distracted by the multiple noises and curses she hears Dieter utter, louder and louder as time goes by.

Eventually she sticks her head outside when she hears a loud crash and a "Fuck! Fuck this fucking shit," and the smell of something burning catches her nose.

"Dieter? Are you OK?" What she sees makes her want to laugh: the fire in the fancy barbecue is clearly dying, and Dieter stands in the middle of a broken dish and small carbonized pieces on the floor that she realizes are burned marshmallow. But the look he has on his face prompts her to rush and hug him instead. He bends his head in the crook of her neck and mumbles a pitiful "I'm sorry," that breaks her heart.

"Why are you sorry?" Alma can't understand what makes him look so crushed when he withdraws from her arms. She takes him to one of the outside couches and cradles his head to her chest, holding him tight and kissing his head. His hair smells of smoke and shampoo, and her heart breaks a little when she feels him holding her tight, like he never wants to let go.

"I wanted to make S'mores for you. But first I couldn't light that stupid barbecue, and then I burned everything." He sounds so sad and defeated.

"It's OK–"

"But I wanted you to have some." He whines. It's endearing, but Alma knows there is something more.

"Why is it so important?" She gently prompts.

"Because you said you never had them growing up, that you never had the whole cabin by the lake and barbecue experience, and I wanted this to be perfect. I wanted this to be memorable."

Alma wants to cry. She feels her overwhelming love trying to crawl its way out of her. She wants to hold him tight, kiss him, and make all his sorrow go away. Gently taking his face with both hands, she makes sure he looks at her straight in the eyes.

"Dieter, everything we do together is perfect. And it's perfect because you are here with me. I love you, OK? With or without S'mores."

"But–"

"No buts, except your cute one." He chuckles, and Alma is happy to see the worry leave his eyes.

"You know what I've never done?"

"What?"

"I've never had sex outside, by a barbecue." Alma leans in, her nose brushing Dieter's.

"That's such a shame. But I think I can make that work." He smiles, his mouth almost closing the gap, their breath mingling.

"I think you can make it perfect." Alma murmurs before bringing her lips to his, both smiling as they kiss, turning the moment into something perfect and memorable.

When you come to, you can feel the solid warmth of something against your weak frame. Your entire body is shaking from the cold and you can feel the chill right down to your bones. It's only then that you realize that you're being carried and even in your weakened state, you try put up a fight. You let out a weak groan and try elbow whoever it is that's carrying you. You don't want to be taken by someone who is clearly strong enough to lift you. You've spent long enough surviving on your own and you know how people have become, now that there's nothing good left in this world. Feebly, you kick your leg but you can't remember the last time you had something to eat that wasn't frozen snow and the meager crumbs of crackers you had found in an abandoned backpack a few days, or maybe weeks, ago. You can't tell how much time has passed.

"Shh," a low voice says. "It's alright, I've got you."

You try protest, you want to say no. You want to scream at whoever it is, tell them to let you go. You don't want to go with them. You don't want to be taken. But your throat feels dry, and your voice is lost to you. You try move but whoever it is that has you, tucks you closer to them. You can smell the faint trace of sawdust and something clean, almost like the detergent your parents used to buy, before the world had ended. But luxuries like that no longer exist. You try move your arm again but every part of your body feels as heavy as lead.

"You're safe," the voice says again, a soothing murmur. It's the last thing you hear before you lose consciousness.

It takes you sometime to adjust to life in Jackson. You haven't been around so many people in years — since you left your QZ really. You struggle at first, to make small talk with curious neighbours and to come across as well adjusted and forthcoming. You aren't used to the hustle of a town, of people laughing loudly at social gatherings. But slowly, you grow to enjoy it. You begin volunteering in the kitchens once you've regained most of your strength, around four weeks after you were first found. You like helping with peeling carrots and cutting up vegetables for hearty stews. It gives you a purpose and you've never been good at sitting still. But you had spent years on your own, and with that, you've become good at scouting and combat. So you give it some more time, make certain that your legs feel strong and that you can run without feeling a tug in your lungs and you broach the topic of joining patrols to Maria.

"I think we could arrange something," Maria says, smiling at you. "I'll talk to Tommy since he usually works on the schedules, see where we can fit you. We always need the extra manpower."

"Thanks Maria," you say, beaming. As scary as the outside world can be, you miss it. You miss seeing the smudge of green trees in the horizon and the melting snow sliding off icy branches.

"Tommy'll come by later today with an update," she says and you nod in thanks, before bidding her farewell. You take the long way back to your house, meandering through the streets and avoiding the piles of snow which are slowly beginning to melt as the spring sun begins to break through the cloud of frozen cold that has settled over Jackson. You're too busy avoiding the puddles of muddied water and slush, looking down at your ragged winter boots which is why you end up walking into what feels like a wall of muscle.

"Shit," you say, reaching up and holding onto whoever it is you've just rammed into. The other person grunts, more in surprise than anything. You look up and are met with Joel Miller's dark eyes. His cheeks are red from the cold, as is the tip of his strong nose.

"Alright?" Joel asks, steadying you. Even through the layers of clothes, you can feel the heat of his large hand against your bicep.

"Sorry, Joel," you say, standing up straight. You let go of his arm, taking a small step back so that you're no longer toe to toe. "Wasn't watching where I was going."

"I can tell," Joel says, but his voice isn't sharp. There's a teasing lilt to it. You give him a sheepish smile, shrugging. You've interacted with Joel quite a few times, mostly when Maria would invite you over for supper to her and Tommy's house. He had been quiet at first, almost aloof. But slowly, the two of you had built some sort of friendship, making small talk whenever you ran into each other in town or in the dining hall. Joel was surprisingly easy to talk to once he let his guard down, quick to tease you and crack jokes, which had surprised you at first but was now something that you looked forward to whenever you saw him. If you're being honest with yourself, you're nursing a small crush on him. But can anyone blame you? He's all gentle smiles and little jokes and the flannels and long sleeves he wears are always so tight around his biceps and you're only human.

"What's got you so distracted then?" he follows up and you grin, unable to hide your excitement.

"I'm going to start on patrols," you say. "Maria gave me the all clear and she said she'd talk to Tommy about fitting me into the schedule."

You expect Joel to smile and nod, maybe make some comment about how you're going to have to start waking up at the crack of dawn. Instead, his mouth pulls into a small pout, and his brows furrow. You watch as his jaw clenches and he looks past you for a moment before settling on you again. His gaze always feel weighted when it's on you but now, it feels even heavier.

"Right," he says. "You sure you wanna go on patrols?"

There's something in his voice — stern and serious. You haven't seen this side of Joel ever. It makes you bristle. Sure, you might not be as seasoned as him but you're still capable. You've been able to handle your own since you were thirteen and you won't have anyone doubt you. Not even someone as experienced as Joel.

"I'll be fine," you say, voice more serious now. "I can take care of myself plenty well."

Joel nods, but his eyes are focused and his jaw is still clenched, beneath the greyish brown of his beard.

"I gotta go," he says, sidestepping you. "I'll see you around."

It's abrupt and something is most definitely off but you're still annoyed by his insinuation. So you nod. You can feel his heavy footfalls become fainter and only when you're sure he won't see you do you turn around to catch him turn onto the main street and out of your sight.

A sharp knock on your door interrupts your cooking, if you can call it that. You've been making what you hope is stew for the last hour but there's an almost burnt smell to whats bubbling on your stove and you're fairly sure you've over salted the broth. You turn the stove off, not wanting to burn it any further before you wipe your hands on a terry cloth and head towards your front door. When you swing it open, Tommy Miller stands on the other side. His hair is tied away from his face and he looks flushed from the cold air. You usher him inside, not wanting the frigid weather to seep into your warm home.

"Hey there," Tommy greets. "Maria told me about your interest in startin' on patrols."

"Yeah," you say, voice pitching higher with excitement. "I think I'm good to go back out there. Been itching for it really. I mean, don't get me wrong, I love Jackson but I miss seeing the outdoors."

"Don't much like feelin' cooped up, huh?" Tommy asks and you shake your head.

"Not the biggest fan, no," you agree and he nods. You watch him shift on his feet, something nervous filling the air.

"Listen," Tommy begins. "It's been a bit tricky sortin' out schedules for patrols 'cause we've got so many new people now so I was thinkin' you could help out with construction for a bit. Just until I figure out how to organize the newcomers."

You can feel your brows furrowing. Maria's been talking about how badly they need more people on patrols, especially since a whole unit came back injured a few weeks ago. A couple of people had died at the hands of Clickers, a bloody ambush that had left tensions running high in Jackson.

"Construction?" you ask, sounding incredulous. You haven't built anything, ever, really. "I'm not sure I'd be much help with building things, Tommy."

Tommy chuckles, but he's avoiding your gaze. His shoulders are tense.

"I'm sure Joel will find somethin' for you," Tommy says and you pause. Joel? You think of earlier today and how Joel had reacted when you had told him about being put on patrols. And now, you're magically being reassigned to his team. You can feel your patience wearing thin, irritation slowly building up inside of you.

"Did he put you up to this?" you ask and Tommy rubs the back of his neck, meeting your gaze. He looks as if he'd rather be anywhere but here.

"My brother's a complicated man," Tommy says. "I think it'd be best if you spoke to him."

You scoff, rolling your eyes.

"That's not fair," you say. "How come what he says goes? He's not in charge of me. I'm perfectly capable of going on patrol, Tommy. And you know that. I don't really give a damn if Joel thinks I'm too young or weak or whatever."

Tommy shakes his head, a curl falling loose against his jaw. "It's nothin' like that —"

"Then what is it?" you interrupt. You had spent most of your life being second guessed by people in your QZ and those you had traveled with — people who thought you were too weak because you were a girl. People who viewed your empathy as a flaw, rather than a strength. People who second guessed your decisions, who had been arrogant men who thought they knew it all. And you had let them, because that's what survival meant. But now, you were safe in Jackson and you weren't going to allow Joel Miller of all people, to bully you into submission again.

"I think it's best if you speak with him," Tommy says. "I know you're tough and can handle patrols. So does Maria. Hell, so does Joel, alright? It's just complicated, I suppose. Talk to him."

You sigh, shoulders slumping.

"I just don't get why he has a say in this," you say and Tommy nods.

"He doesn't," Tommy says. "He just…asked me to keep you on construction for a bit and my brother can be damn frustratin' if he doesn't get his way and I don't have the time to argue with him today. M'sorry, this isn't a reflection of your abilities. I know you'd do great on patrol and so does Joel. He's just a fuckin' idiot sometimes. Plus, his crew really are short a couple. We had to put most people on patrol so other things have taken a backseat."

You still don't fully believe him but Tommy sounds desperately tired and you know he has a toddler to get home to so you acquiesce.

"Alright," you say. "But I'm gonna give him hell during my shift."

"I'd expect nothin' less from you," Tommy says, giving you a smile. "You're actually on duty tomorrow mornin'. Bright and early at seven a.m near the west gates. They need reinforcin'."

"I have no idea what that means," you say and Tommy chuckles, shaking his head.

"Get some rest tonight," Tommy says and you nod, waving in farewell.

Once you lock up, you make your way back to the kitchen and spoon some stew into a chipped bowl. It isn't terrible but you're definitely sticking not winning any awards for your culinary skills. You had traded for some fresh cheese earlier in the week so you cut a generous slab into your stew, hoping the creamy saltiness of the dairy might add some level of flavour. While you eat, you think of how you might confront Joel. You don't want to do it in front of the rest of the crew, knowing how quickly gossip spreads in a town as small as Jackson. So maybe you'll pull him aside at the end of the shift. And you'll be firm. You have to be. It doesn't matter if you sometimes think he has dreamy eyes or nice arms. He's making you feel less than, weak, and you won't allow it. Not from anyone.

"Right," Joel says, in a dark green flannel that you would admire on him if you weren't already annoyed with him sabotaging your patrols. He's looking at the crew which consists of you, a man named Landon who you've seen around but never really spoken to and Ellie, who looks like she'd rather be anywhere but here. At least Tommy hadn't been lying when he said they had been understaffed. Still, it doesn't explain why Joel's being such a dick about you going on patrols. Before you can work yourself up, he continues speaking.

"Today's goin' to be fairly simple. We need to move those logs of wood," he gestures to an almost perfect pyramid of wood with a gloved hand, "and place them on the marked areas. If we have time, we'll start reinforcin' with metal wirin' but let's focus on making sure the wood is exactly where it should be."

"Sounds riveting," Ellie says and you snort before you can stop yourself. Joel gives her a stern look but there's softness in his eyes, something fond even though his mouth is pulled into an unamused frown. His eyes then land on you, and now there's something else in his gaze. You don't back down, still frustrated that he had thwarted your opportunity to go on patrol. He's the first to look away, clearing his throat before he speaks once more.

"M'glad you think so," Joel answers and Ellie rolls her eyes. "Ellie, you and I can work together." He then looks to you and Landon. "You two pair up. Grab a pair o' gloves and start with shiftin' those logs and placin' them on the right end of the gap. Ellie and I'll work on the left. That way no one's gettin' confused."

You give Joel a short nod, before you slip on the thick pruning gloves. Landon follows and soon enough, you're slowly moving logs of wood that are deceptively heavy. You already know that your back's going to hate you tomorrow and you make a mental note to pick up some salve from the apothecary.

"You familiar with construction?" Landon asks as the two of you shift a log so that it aligns with the markings. It's maybe been twenty minutes since you started but somehow it feels like two hours.

"No," you sigh. "Can't say I am."

That's about all the small talk that he makes, and you don't make an effort either. You're still stewing in your annoyance. You're not one to stay angry but there's something about this. You had thought Joel was different. He treated you like an equal, never condescending the way most men were. And the truth is, you feel foolish for thinking so. You had developed a fondness for him, for his low drawl and poor attempts at humour. You had considered him a friend, albeit a one you were attracted to, but still. And now, he had questioned your capability just like most other men did.

You're unsure how long it's been when you move the last log in your pile but the position it needs to be laid in is awkward. The angle makes it so you have to hold it on one side, rather than at it's end, while Landon tries to push it into place.

"A bit to the left," you tell Landon and he moves to the right instead. "Your left Landon," you say, and it's at that exact moment that he sneezes. You watch his grip falter and suddenly, the entire log is being supported only by you. It's too sudden and too heavy and you buckle under the weight. You move your feet, trying to widen your stance but your left foot catches on something and your ankle twists. You yelp in pain, and the log falls right onto your newly injured foot.

"What happened?" Joel asks, voice loud and angry. He's looking at Landon who looks, frankly, sort of terrified. Joel's jaw tics and he glares at the log of wood, leaning down to push it off of you. Ellie helps you stand, and when you put pressure on your left foot, you wince. The pain is sharp and unpleasant. You don't think it's anything more than a light sprain, but you'll need to rest it for a few days, at least. Great.

"Here," Joel says, reaching towards you. "Let me."

You feel a flush of embarrassment. All that big talk about being ready for patrols and you've been taken down by a piece of wood. You shake your head, trying to stand up straighter.

"I'm fine," you say, but it's only as convincing as the tears of pain that cloud your vision.

"Your ankle bent in a pretty gnarly way, dude," Ellie says, nose crinkling. "It looked bad."

"Just a light sprain," you say, aiming for nonchalant. "Really. I'll be fine."

"You can't walk on that foot," Joel says, brows furrowed and mouth pulled into a frown. His grey brown hair falls against his forehead, messy from the morning of labour. "I'm goin' to take you home. We're done for the day."

"I'm so sorry," Landon says, eyes apologetic. He sounds genuinely upset.

"S'alright," you say. "It was an accident."

"The next time you feel a sneeze comin'," Joel says, still glaring at Landon. "Let your partner know. This was an easily avoidable injury."

Landon looks like he might cry and it grates on you — Joel acting like you're going to die from a sprained ankle.

"I'm fine," you snap at Joel. "It's a sprained ankle, and I've had much worse. It was an honest mistake, Joel. Let it go."

Joel's sharp gaze falls on you and he looks surprised at your reprimand. He opens his mouth as if to say something and then closes it. You watch his jaw tic and he looks away, his shoulders stiff. An uncomfortable tension settles in the air.

"Okaaaay," Ellie says. "Joel, you should take her back to her house. Me and Landon can wrap up and give Maria and update."

Finally, Joel nods. Ellie and Landon begin moving the fallen log of wood and Joel comes to stand next to you.

"Can you walk?" he asks, and you look up at him. You clear your throat, gently placing pressure on your left foot. It throbs with pain and you suck in a breath, shaking your head.

"Okay," Joel says. "I'm going to have to carry you back to yours. Shouldn't take long. S'that alright?"

You don't have any other options really, and on another day, you'd be glad to be carried by Joel in his strong arms, if you're being honest. So you nod. You feel him wrap an arm around your back, and one under your thighs and he lifts you up slowly. You startle and the sudden shift, wrapping your arms around his neck. You focus on his Adam's apple, not wanting to meet his gaze. All of this feels like too much. You can't remember the last time you've been this close to anyone else. You shift and Joel pulls you closer, adjusting his grip.

"It's alright, I've got you," he says, voice surprisingly gentle. Suddenly, you have the weirdest sense of deja vu. Maybe you dreamed about this or something.

Joel makes his way through the side streets, avoiding any of the main roads, which you're grateful for. You don't like seeming weak and being carried across town by one of the strongest men in Jackson would make you seem exactly that. The only drawback to Joel not using the main streets, is that it makes the journey longer. Long enough that you begin to think of what Tommy had said, how Joel had made it so you wouldn't be put on patrol. How Joel had reacted when you had told him about wanting to go on patrol. And so before you know it, you looking up at Joel and asking him what's been nagging you since yesterday evening.

"Why'd you tell Tommy to take me off of patrols?" you say. "And don't deny it, Joel. He told me himself. Not that he needed to with the way you reacted yesterday."

His dark gaze falls on you and you resist breaking the eye contact, holding your ground.

"I —" he starts before he stops. "I was worried for your safety."

"I can handle myself," you say immediately. "I survived out there, you know. I know I'm not you but I'm strong and capable, you know."

"I know," Joel says quickly. "I know you're tough as nails."

"Yet you still forced Tommy to take me off patrols," you say and Joel sighs.

"It's not like that," he says. His voice is gentler now, a low drawl that you can feel against the side of your head. You shift in his arms and he holds you tighter.

"Then explain it to me," you say, and your voice is softer now too. "Because right now it seems like you think I'm incapable of taking care of myself and others and I don't want to be undermined, Joel. Especially not by you. I thought we were friends."

"Alright," Joel says. "When we get to yours. I'll tell you then."

"Fine," you agree, leaning against his broad chest a bit more. The two of you manage to avoid any passers-by, and when Joel settles you on your old, worn couch, you sigh in relief. Gently, he begins undoing the laces of your boots. He pulls off your right boot and you flex your toes.

"This might hurt a little," he says, holding onto your left boot. You nod and he slowly begins to wiggle it off. You wince and he immediately stills.

"It's fine," you say. "Keep going."

Joel tugs your boot off fully, holding the heel of your foot in his large palm. Slowly, he rolls your sock down, revealing your injured ankle. It looks swollen and he presses his thumb gently into it, gauging your pain.

"How's that feel?" he asks, voice low. He looks up at you and it feels painfully tender. You can't remember the last time you experienced gentleness like this in your adult life.

"Hurts a bit," you say, doing your best to keep your voice even. He nods, standing up. His knees creak and something fond settles in you as you watch him walk towards your fridge. He brings back a bag of frozen peas wrapped in a tea towel, gently placing it on your ankle.

"I worry about you far too much," he says, as he adjusts the makeshift ice pack. "Been worryin' about you since I found you all those months ago."

It's an honest confession and you know it takes something out of him, to be so vulnerable. It's also news to you. You didn't know that Joel had been a part of the patrol team that had found you, had always assumed it had been Tommy that had taken you to safety because he had mentioned that he had been the one to come across you, hidden and dying under a frozen oak tree.

"You were the one that carried me back to Jackson," you say. "It's why you carrying me back home just now felt like deja vu."

Joel nods, mouth still pulled into a small frown.

"Never meant to be condescendin' or anythin' like that," he says. "I know I seem old school but I ain't like those men that think women are weak or incapable. Just wanted to keep you safe is all. Didn't go about it in the best way, I can admit that."

You can feel your heart begin to hammer against your chest and you feel warm all over. Joel is still kneeling between your legs, his large palm still holding your throbbing ankle. His eyes are intense as they stay focused on your face. You don't know what this is, where he's coming from, but you have some inclination. And god, you hope you're right.

"How come?" you ask. Joel's mouth twists in a wry smile.

"I like you," he says, voice steady. "I've liked you as long as I've known you. Didn't mean for it to happen and wasn't goin' to tell you at all but I reckon you deserve the truth. Don't want you thinkin' I think any less of your abilities. I know you're a strong woman."

"Oh," you say, shifting. Joel sits up straighter on his knees, so that he's almost eye to eye with you.

"This doesn't have to change anythin'," he says. "I'll talk to Tommy, make sure you get put on patrols once your ankle heals up and I'll stay out of you way. M'sorry about all this."

He goes to stand up but you reach out, settling a hand on his broad shoulders. Joel's eyebrows raise in surprise. It's quiet enough now that surely he can hear the thump thump thump of your pulse.

"Can I kiss you?" you ask, and watch in delight as the apples of his cheeks flush pink.

"Do you want to?" Joel asks, voice low. Up close, you can see the gentle lines of age around his eyes. You nod, moving closer. A hand comes up to cup your face, his calloused palm warm against the line of your jaw. When his mouth presses against yours, you feel hot all over. A flush of warmth consumes you as he gently nudges his nose against your own. You gasp when you feel his tongue against your mouth and open up to him. His tongue presses against your own, and you press yourself closer to him, your chest against his. You're ravenous for more, wanting to feel every point of his body pressed against your own. He presses a thumb at the hinge of your jaw, coaxing it to open more and tilts your head so he can kiss you with more fervour. You lean closer, your legs bracketing his waist, and his other hand is still holding your injured foot. You moan and tug at his grey-brown curls, and you feel him shudder against you. He pulls back, panting.

"Sweetheart," he says, leaning back as you lean forward to kiss him once more. He sounds so damn fond that you can't even bring yourself to be embarrassed at his rejection. "You should get some rest."

"M'fine," you say, voice breathy. "Really."

Joel gives you a gentle smile, rubbing a thumb across your cheekbone. You lean into the touch.

"I'd like to take you out," he says.

"Like a date?" you ask. You didn't think that happened anymore, not in this world. You've never actually been on a date, really.

Joel nods. "Only if you want."

"I just kissed you," you remind him. "Of course I want."

Joel grins now, his crows feet prominent. You smile too.

"Good," he says. "Get some rest. I'll talk to Tommy about puttin' you back on patrols. And I'll come by again, if that's okay. Just to check in."

You nod. You watch him lean forward, pressing a soft kiss to your mouth. He pulls back far too soon for your liking.

"I'll see you soon," you say and Joel nods. His knees creak as he stands up and affection blooms in your chest.

"Are you sure this is fine?" you ask Joel for what's probably the fifth time. You're in your nicest pair of jeans and a fitted long sleeve. Underneath, you're wearing the nicest bra and underwear you own, both black and with lace trimmings although they're not a set. It's been almost ten days since you hurt your ankle, and it's almost fully healed now.

"S'more than fine, you look beautiful," Joel says and you smile.

"You know, if you just tell me where we're going, I'll stop bothering you," you say and Joel shakes his head.

"I told you where we're goin': out," Joel says and you groan.

"Like out to The Tipsy Bison? Or to Lola's cafe? Or to the barn?" you ask and Joel shakes his head.

"Out as in put your boots on and let's go," Joel says but his voice is gentle. You do slip into your boots and grab a coat. Although it's spring in Jackson, the air still has a light chill to it. Joel opens the door, gesturing for you to go first. When you're outside, he steps up beside you. There's a backpack leaning against your porch which Joel slips on, the straps tight against his broad shoulders. He looks so handsome. His hair is combed and pushed back from his face, and he's wearing a dark green flannel and dark wash jeans. He smells like laundry detergent and something smoky.

"When was the last time you went on a date?" you ask Joel as he leads the way to your mystery location. You watch him think for a while before he speaks.

"I think it was the summer of 2003," Joel says. "Went to a bar with someone Tommy tried to set me up with."

"Was it nice?" you ask, genuinely curious. You know it isn't proper etiquette to ask your date about their other dates but it was twenty-two years ago now so you doubt it matters much.

"It was alright," Joel says. "She didn't like it much that I was a single father so we both knew it wouldn't go anywhere."

"Oh," you say. "Well lucky me, then."

You watch Joel's mouth tug in a smile.

"How about you?" he asks and you laugh.

"This would be my first," you say. "Was pretty young when the world went to shit and dating wasn't really a priority after that."

"Well I'd better make it good then," Joel says and you hum.

"Lotta pressure on you," you say, voice teasing.

"Reckon I can handle it," Joel says, eyes dark as they trace over your face. Your stomach flips and you can feel your ears growing warmer. You hadn't even realized until now that Joel's led you to a clearing, near the far edge of the walled part of Jackson. It's beautiful. There isn't anything around except the shade of trees and fresh grass. Wildflowers are beginning to bloom everywhere, along with bunches of lavender and daisies. The sun in warm and the sky is the bluest you've ever seen it. It's a perfect day, really.

"Is this what you meant by out?" you ask and Joel hums.

"You've been cooped up at home because of your foot and I know Tommy's put you on schedule for patrols soon but I thought you might like bein' outdoors for a while. Thought we might have a picnic here," Joel says, rubbing the back of his neck. He seems almost shy, now.

"It's lovely," you say, meaning it. "This is perfect Joel."

He seems pleased, giving you a small smile. You both set up a picnic blanket and Joel insists you take a seat so you do, and watch him lay out the spread. There's a basket of fresh blackberries and sandwiches made with fresh bread and thick slices of cheese. He even has a tumbler of freshly squeezed lemonade. And then he brings out generous slices of chocolate cake, the frosting thick and shiny. You can't remember the last time you had chocolate. Actually, you can. It had been in your QZ, almost a decade ago now. You had traded a pack of cigarettes for a dry bar of chocolate and cried as you ate in your cramped, makeshift bed.

"Joel," you say. "You should have told me. I could have helped, brought something too."

Joel shakes his head. "No need for all that," he says. He hands you a sandwich and then takes one for himself. In between bites of buttered bread and soft cheese, you ask each other questions. It feels like the two of you have been doing this for a long while. There's nothing uncomfortable or awkward about it.

"You're tellin' me your favourite movie was The Princess Bride?" Joel asks and you nod.

"It has everything! Action, romance, drama, humour. It's perfect," you argue and Joel shakes his head, a smile tugging at his mouth.

"That ain't no action movie, sweetheart," he says and the term of endearment settles warmly in your chest. "Now Curtis and Viper, on the other hand."

You laugh, shaking your head. "Absolutely not, Joel. I've never even heard of it."

"Well then I'll just have to show you some time," he says and the prospect of another date, of multiple of them, makes your heart flutter.

"Fine," you say. "Only if you rewatch The Princess Bride with me. You gotta give it another chance."

Joel sighs, but you know he's not being serious.

"Deal," he agrees, passing you the lemonade. You take a swig of it, handing it over to him. You watch him place is mouth right where yours was, taking a drink. You track the movement of his Adams apple, suddenly feeling hot. The two of you haven't kissed since that first time, and if you're being honest, you've been desperate for him ever since. Joel tracks your movement, and you can tell there's a shift in the air. Something tangible between the two of you that you want to reach out and feel.

"I got this cake from Lola's cafe," Joel says, putting a slice in front of you. "So you were sorta right."

You smile, taking a bite. The chocolate is rich and melts on your tongue, the sponge of the cake soft and moist. You can't help but make a noise of pleasure, and when you look up at Joel, his dark eyes are trained on you.

"You should try some," you say and Joel nods. Before he can reach out for his own fork, you spear a piece onto yours and bring it to his mouth. Your gaze stays on him as he takes the bite from your fork, as he chews and swallows, all the while still watching you. It feels shockingly intimate, even more so than your kiss.

"S'good," Joel agrees, nodding. You spend the next few minutes swapping bites of the cake and talking some more. Joel tells you about how he wanted to be a singer, how his favourite colour is dark grey, about how he likes the movie nights in Jackson because the popcorn reminds him of the overpriced kind at AMC. In turn, you tell him about how you tried to dye your hair on your own when you were younger and how you had to end up chopping a good portion of it off, how you don't know how to swim even though it's a necessary survival skill and he offers to teach you. By the time you're done with the slice, you know so much more about Joel and it still doesn't feel like enough. You want to know everything about him, really.

The two of you pack up quietly, something buzzing in the air. You help put the used utensils in his wicker basket, and take turns finishing up the lemonade. When there's no other reason to dawdle, you clear your throat.

"I had such a lovely time, Joel," you say. "You set a high bar for any future dates I go on."

He cracks a smile, taking a step closer to you. You look up, to maintain meeting his gaze.

"Hopefully it's a bar that only I have to meet," Joel says, eyes tender.

"I think that's a fair assumption," you say, voice quieter.

"Can I kiss you?" Joel asks and you're barely done nodding before his mouth is on yours. This kiss feels just as feverish as the first, but there's something else there. Something more tender. He grips the back of your neck, tilting your head upwards, and you grant him access to your mouth. You whimper when his tongue touches your own and he wraps an arm around your waist, pulling you closer. You slot your legs between his, the seam of your pants and his strong thigh providing a delightful pressure against your core. You can't resist moving your hips, needing more. Joel lets you, his hand going down to grip your hip and guide the movement. He pulls back, looking down to where you're rutting against him and swears.

"Fuck," he says. "I'm trying to be a gentleman."

"I know," you say, leaning your forehead against his chin. "I wish you weren't."

"You deserve a bed, sweetheart. Not me takin' you hear like some sort of animal."

"I don't mind," you say. "Really. Maybe we can do it again, on a bed. Multiple times even."

You feel more than hear him laugh, his chest shaking against your own. He presses a gentle kiss to your forehead before he maneuvers the two of you. You let him. He lays you down on the thick picnic blanket, hovering over you.

"I won't have you like this," Joel says, voice gruff. "You deserve more than that." You're about to protest, tell him you really don't care but before you can, he begins unbuttoning your jeans.

"But I'll give you somethin' to tide us over, hm?" he says, and you lift your hips so he can pull them down to your thighs. You watch his gaze darken when he sees your underwear. He leans down, pressing a kiss to your clothed mound, pressing his nose right to your clit and you shudder.

"Joel," you sigh and he presses another kiss to you. You can feel yourself throb, feel the wetness grow even more. Slowly, he pulls the gusset of your underwear to the side, running a finger against where you're desperate for him. He then presses a kiss to your cunt before he runs his tongue over your sopping folds. You moan, arching your back. His large arm comes to rest against your hips and he settles himself on his front.

"Okay, sweetheart?" he asks, looking up at you. His hair, which was previously pushed back and neat, is messy now with strands falling against his tan forehead. You nod, tilting your hips subconsciously against his arm and he grins before he goes back down. He eats you out like a man that's starving, his tongue moving against you in a rhythm so pleasurable that you think this might be one of the best moments of your life. He presses his nose to your clit and you shudder, moving desperately against him. Slowly, you feel something breach your hole, a thick finger that slowly prods at your entrance. You whimper as he curls his index finger into, finding that spot inside of you that you can never find yourself.

"Oh my god, Joel," you moan, as his tongue and his finger move in unison. He groans against you, his breath hot, and continues his ministrations. He slips a second finger in and pulls back to watch you.

"You're takin' it so good, sweetheart," he says, his mouth glistening in the sun. "Would you take the rest of me just like this?"

You nod, pushing your cunt against his fingers. You can feel the pressure building inside you, a rubber band waiting to snap.

"Joel, I can't, I'm gonna come," you say and he moves back, pressing his mouth to your clit. You can feel yourself dripping onto the blanket below you, so wet that you're thighs are smeared with it too. You whimper when your orgasm hits, hips lifting up off the ground despite Joel's arm holding you down.

"Attagirl," Joel says, lifting up and watching as you shudder. You cover your face with your hands as the waves of pleasure wash over you, your nipples stiff against the material of your long sleeve.

It takes you a few minutes but you come back to yourself. You move your hands from your face and rest your upper body on your elbows, lifting up to find Joel watching you reverently. He gives you a gentle smile, pressing a kiss to where your thigh meets your hips before he moves you underwear so it covers you again. Then, he presses another soft kiss to your sensitive clit through the cotton fabric of your panties and you shiver.

"Okay?" he asks, and you nod, sitting up.

"Better than," you say and he grins. "I want to do the same for you."

You watch his already pink cheeks flush even more as he shifts up so that he's no longer flat on the ground. He kneels between your open legs, and something like embarrassment plays on his face.

"I, uh," he starts. "I'm already taken care of."

It takes you a second to understand what he means. He came from eating you out. You feel a throb of want between your legs and before you know it, you're pulling him down, pressing your mouth to his in a desperate kiss. He tastes different now, something muskier coating his plush mouth. He groans when you push your tongue into his mouth, wanting to taste more. He angles your jaw, pushing at the hinge so your mouth widens and it's almost as if you're both trying to devour each other. You can feel your cunt throb once more. When he pulls back, his chest is moving with the deep breaths he's taking.

"You're gonna kill me," he says and you grin, pressing a kiss to his chin.

"Good thing I'll be on patrol sometimes," you say. "It'll help keep me distracted from you."

Joel hums, pressing another soft kiss to your mouth. You like the way his mustache tickles your skin. Slowly, the two of you part. He helps you button your jeans and slip on your coat. You run your hand through his hair, fixing the messed up strands so that they're no longer falling against his forehead. The two of you pack up slowly, sharing small smiles and warm glances. When you begin walking back to Jackson, Joel pulls you to him, his large arm draped over your shoulder. He tucks you into his side like you're something precious.

"I am sorry about how I went about it but I can't say I regret the outcome of me tryin' to keep you off of patrols, sweetheart," Joel says and you laugh.

"Me neither," you agree, and he presses a kiss to your forehead.

On your first day of patrol, Joel comes by early to give you a pair of soft, leather riding gloves.

"Stay safe," he says, as watches you slip them into your coat pocket. You nod, giving him a smile. You lean up and press your mouth against his own, a gentle kiss.

His knees nearly buckle beneath the force of it, but he lifts you from the ground, wrapping your legs around his middle, not caring who else surrounds you.

Every slide of his lips is a brand, a claim. You belong to him.

He presses you into the crumbling wall…a throat clears.  

Zeb stands by the doorway; Grogu perched on his shoulder. “We’ll leave you to it, then, yeah?” He grins with a wink.

Grogu coos and searches for his cookies.

“Put me down,” you say, nudging Mando.

“Not a chance in hell,” he answers, before addressing Zeb and Grogu. “See you back at the ship. Keep him safe.”

Zeb nods with a wry smile. “Of course and take your time.”

“Oh, I intend to,” Mando murmurs.

Before you can chide him for his cheeky response, Mando covers your mouth with his once more. “I love you,” he murmurs against your lips.

“I love you too,” you say breathlessly. “But what about….?”

He interrupts, his lips just a breath away. “I don’t care about any of it. Just you, just Grogu. I want this. I want it all.”

His next kiss is slow and thorough, as though you have all the time in the world. As though you’re not standing in the ruins of an epic battle. You deepen the kiss, reveling in the knowledge that he’s yours.

Because suddenly, Marcus was there in front of you, beaming as he welcomed you in with a lingering kiss and a gentle hand on your hip.

“Hi, sweetheart,” he said lowly, his voice rich as he rested his forehead against yours.

“Hey, handsome,” you replied just as low, closing your eyes for a moment to just enjoy being near him. “Happy Friday.”

“Happy Friday, indeed,” he chuckled, pulling away to close the door behind you. “I officially don’t have to think about the London case anymore until I go in on Monday. Which is good, because all I could think about since I left your office was you.”

“Hm, that’s funny,” you countered, “because all I could think about since you left my office was you.”

Marcus threw his head back as he laughed, exposing his throat to you as his Adam’s apple bobbed. You took the opportunity to draw your gaze down, failing to suppress a small smirk as you took in his navy flannel thrown on over a soft black t-shirt with a sinfully comfortable pair of gray sweatpants hanging from his hips.

By the time your eyes returned to Marcus’s face, he looked thoroughly smug and more than a little amused.

“See anything you like?”

“Always, with you,” you replied, your face heated both from checking him out and from getting caught.

“Good,” he murmured with a small kiss before he then looked down to take in your form, your casual yet comfy ensemble complementing your body perfectly. “I feel the same,” he whispered as he brought his gaze back up to meet yours.

The two of you stood there for a minute, eyes glinting as you each tried to convey unsaid words with a smile. Eventually, Marcus broke away from you to take your bag and lead you into the kitchen.

“Considering I was out of the country for a few weeks and am still partially jet-lagged, I figured we could just order in. Maybe watch a movie or something,” he suggested.

“Sounds perfect,” you agreed, grinning at him. “Nice and homey, but low effort.”

Marcus looked up at you with delight from the drawer he’d started pulling take-out menus out of. “That’s exactly what I was thinking.”

He laid out a few options in front of you on the counter before moving to your side. “What are you in the mood for?” he asked. “I’m partial to this Mexican place, but I kind of feel like Thai food tonight,” he said, skimming two menus he’d picked up.

You leaned over, pressing your side against him so you could see the menus. “Thai sounds good,” you agreed. “And I like that restaurant. They have excellent pad thai.”

“My thoughts exactly,” he agreed, nodding. He leaned into you, deepening the contact between you as you both stood over the counter. “I can call in an order for delivery if you wanna get comfy?”

“Are you just offering to call so you can pay for me again?” you smirked.

“Hey, you’re at my apartment. And I don’t know if you’ve been told, but you are dating a gentleman.” He paused his playful argument to kiss you. “I’m paying.”

“I figured you would,” you sighed with a smile. “And no one had to tell me you were a gentleman. You showed me you were instead, and that’s way more meaningful. At least to me.”

Marcus looked over at you, his gaze soft as he searched your face. “Well then, I’m doing my job right,” he muttered smugly before he grabbed the Thai menu and opened his phone. “Get settled, I’ll be right back.”

You watched him walk to the hallway before moving over to his couch. It was a large couch for such a small apartment, the kind of L-shaped sectional you would expect to see in a family home rather than an apartment where one man lived alone.

The space was comfortable, and very Marcus. Abstract paintings hung from the walls and plenty of lamps filled the room, letting him choose how bright or how dim he wanted it to be. A small record player sat alone on a bookshelf—the records and books, you noticed, were mostly in boxes and piles scattered at the base of the shelves.

You cozied up with some pillows and a fluffy yellow blanket on the couch as your eyes swept the room, the designer in you coming out to analyze how he chose to keep the space he lived in.

Marcus returned, joining you on the couch with a muted thud. “Should be here in 20 minutes.”

You hummed your assent, still eying his decor. He turned his head to watch you, finding you wide-eyed as you took in his living room.

“So what does my apartment say about me?” he asked, amused. You looked over at him, slightly startled but touched that he’d known where your mind was.

“You like to indulge in the small things,” you speculated. “Things that make you feel more comfortable and more like yourself. Or maybe more like a better version of yourself.” You eyed the boxes of his things by the shelves again, wondering. “Did you move here recently?”

He huffed. “I don’t know how recently you would say about nine months ago was, but yeah.”

“And you still haven’t gotten settled?”

Marcus looked over at the boxes, too, shrugging. “I don’t know. This place was meant to be temporary. I transferred here to D.C. from the Bureau back home in Austin, expecting for this to be a go-between before I found a place to really start my life here.” He looked back at you, a sad smile on his face. “I guess it didn’t feel like my life here started until I met you.”

You melted a bit at that, taking one of his hands into both of yours as you brought it up to your lips. You placed a gentle kiss on his knuckles, keeping your eyes locked with his all the while.

Marcus’s breath audibly hitched. You lowered his hand, holding it gently in your lap. “I’m glad we found each other, Marcus,” you murmured.

“Me too,” he agreed, his voice small.

You and Marcus smiled softly at each other for a moment as you ran your thumbs along his knuckles. Just as you opened your mouth to break the silence, the buzzer went off at Marcus’s door.

He reluctantly pulled his hand out of yours as he got up from the couch. “I’ll be right back,” he promised as he walked the 10 steps to the door.

In the brief moment it took him to grab the food, you filed away this new information about his semi-recent move. It was another piece in the puzzle of Marcus, one that you were increasingly eager to get to the bottom of. Though he didn’t let his insecurities show very often, what you saw when he did—a man worried about someone he loves actually staying—made your heart ache for him.

It made you want to show him that you were here to stay—no matter the challenges or conflicts, and in spite of everything he sees as something wrong within himself.

You didn’t have time to simmer on this long, though, as Marcus plopped down next to you and started unloading the food onto plates he’d grabbed from his kitchen.

As you both settled in with your meals, he grabbed the remote and turned on the TV, browsing what was on. He murmured the titles of various movies and shows as he scrolled the channels, gauging your interest out of the corner of his eye.

“Star Wars, Avengers, Game of Thrones…” he rattled off a few bigger series, things you’d be sure to know before listing some more niche titles. After a minute, he grew quiet, a silent question of whether anything sounded interesting.

“Let’s keep looking,” you gently encouraged him. “What channels do you usually go for on nights like this?”

He chuckled lightly before typing a channel number in. “Classics,” he responded resolutely. “The oldies and the goodies.”

“What do they have on?” you asked through a bite of food.

He paused for a moment, causing you to focus your attention on him. He almost looked scared, as if the answer wasn’t one he wanted to give.

“Casablanca,” he eventually provided in a low voice. “One of my favorites.”

You beamed at him. “Oh, that’s perfect! Let’s watch it.”

He turned to you, doubt written clearly all over his face. “You wanna watch Casablanca tonight? Really?”

Your smile fell a fraction at how quiet and unsure he sounded. “Well, yeah,” you reasoned. “If it’s one of your favorites, of course I wanna watch it. It’s like you said when we went to the classic movie theater. Movies are a part of what makes you you. And I can’t see any better way to spend the night than watching it with you.”

Marcus stopped for a second, his breath caught in his throat.

“Have you ever seen it before?” he asked suddenly.

“No.”

“Do you know what it’s about?”

“Not really.”

“Are you—”

“Marcus, why are you fighting me on this?” you cut him off. “Do you not want me to watch it?”

He sighed deeply, taking you in with eyes that seemed to be pleading you to stop. But as you let the silence drag on, waiting for an answer, he crumbled.

“The last time I watched this was with my ex,” he explained softly. “We didn’t get very far before it became clear she wasn’t interested in it at all and we switched to baseball.” Marcus took a steadying breath. “I love Casablanca, but I haven’t been able to bring myself to watch it since then.”

You took his hand, cradling it between your own. “We can pick something else, if you don’t wanna watch it,” you said gently. “But I would really like to watch one of your favorite movies with you, and I don’t think you should let your ex ruin something you love just because she was stupid and didn’t like it.”

He laughed at that, a watery smile growing on his face. Slowly, he brought his hand up, yours still clasping it, and kissed your knuckles. “What did I do to deserve you?”

A smile broke out on your face. “You were just you, Marcus. That’s the beginning and the end of it all.”

Marcus returned your grin and leaned in to kiss you, his lips soft and sure on yours.

Before you knew it, he grabbed the remote to turn the movie on, and he was settling into the couch, leaning his weight on you.

You maneuvered yourself so that he could lay between your legs, his head resting on your chest. He let out a deep sigh of relief.

And when you wrapped your arms around him and started carding your fingers through his short curls, he absolutely melted into you.

As the movie went on, you truthfully couldn’t tell if Marcus was awake or not. He’d go from deep, steady breathing to muttering a fun fact about the movie or its actors so fast that it was hard to discern.

He needed the rest, so you didn’t push him if he really was asleep. Besides, his body still thought it was much later in the night than it really was.

But you stayed up through the whole movie to the end, watching the main character as he found a love he thought was lost, only to let her go when he discovered she loved someone else.

It made your heart ache in all the best ways, seeing the plot play out the classic trope of if you love something, let it go.

You wondered if maybe that’s why Marcus had been so hesitant to watch this. If he’d let too many of his own loves go, and he didn’t want the reminder.

Maybe it’s because he didn’t want to have to do it again.

He interrupted your thoughts with a light snore, confirming that he had fallen asleep. You chuckled lightly, admiring his relaxed form still tucked into yours.

Reluctantly, you nudged Marcus’s side until he awoke.

“Baby, the movie’s over,” you whispered. “Let’s go to bed.”

He nodded slowly against your chest, letting a yawn overtake his face. “Thanks for watching Casablanca with me. Even if I slept through half of it.”

You smiled as you helped him up. “Of course. Now we can spend the next time we watch it discussing it since I’ll have seen it.”

He murmured a quiet, “Yessssss,” an exhausted grin lighting up his face as he led you to his bedroom. You quickly cleared away the plates from dinner and grabbed your overnight bag before joining him. Marcus sat on the edge of the bed, eyes droopy with sleep.

“‘M tired,” he stated, making you laugh.

“I can see that, baby. Let’s take that flannel off and we can go to bed.”

He complied easily, if groggily, as he shucked the flannel lazily into his hamper and raced to get under the covers. You just smiled, shaking your head at how silly Marcus was when he was exhausted, and loving every moment of how easy and domestic this was.

Soon enough, you were joining him in bed, and almost instantly, he snuggled up against you like you were his center of gravity. His arms wrapped around you, their weight comfortable and safe as they held you against him.

With a soft hum, you reached up to brush some hair out of his face and kissed him lightly. “Goodnight, Marcus. Sleep well.”

“G’night sweetheart. Can’t wait to wake up with you.”

You melted in his arms as he quickly drifted off to sleep. And watching him—his breath slowing, his muscles relaxing as all of the stress in his waking mind faded away—made one thing, one very important thing, incredibly clear in your mind.

You loved Marcus Pike.

But more than that, you knew that it was about time that he knew it, too.

Next

Author’s Note: Have you been wondering when the “sharing a bed” tag would come into play? Surprise, babes! It’s now! (I probably didn’t need to add it until now, haha. I wasn’t planning on taking this long to get here.) (Almost three and a half years. Yikes 😬) This fic was always planned to be smut-free, but that doesn’t mean they can’t literally sleep together.

Your whole relationship with Frankie had been like chasing a storm from the beginning. Despite living in Florida, the sunniest place either of you had ever known, the rain always found you faster than you could prepare for it.

Some storms arrived quietly.

Others kicked the front door off its hinges.

This one had come in the shape of a tiny plastic bag tucked inside the pocket of his jeans.

***

Frankie was dead silent the whole drive. While the first traces of sunrise bled orange into the sky, turning it into something that looked like a watercolor painting, you couldn't bring yourself to appreciate it today. His knee bounced the entire drive, his foot tapping relentlessly against the floorboard. His shirt clung to his back, damp with sweat despite the air conditioning blasting at full volume.

"You know, you don't need to do this. You could just... drive home."

You shook your head immediately. "And then what?"

"I can do the rehab at home."

"Like the last time?"

He flinched at the memory, just a little.

"I don't do this to punish you, Francisco."

He scoffed, thumb rubbing over his bottom lip as he stared out the window, watching the landscape blur by.

"I don't see what's gonna be different there than when I lay in my own vomit at home."

"They're professionals, Frankie. You can talk to someone who can really hold you through this without falling apart alongside you."

"Mhm."

"Frankie..."

He shook his head. "Don't use that tone on me."

"Which tone?"

"The pity one."

"I don't—" You exhaled. "I'm sorry."

"'s okay." And he sounded honest. "I'm the one who should be sorry."

"You're sick, Frankie. You didn't choose this."

"I am a fuck up, cariño."

Your eyebrows furrowed. You bit your lip before blindly reaching for his sweaty hand, squeezing it while keeping your eyes fixed on the road—even as your vision began to blur with uninvited tears.

"No, you're not. You survived things most people couldn't even imagine surviving. Somewhere along the way your brain found something that quieted all that noise, even if only for a little while. It may have chosen the wrong thing but that doesn't make you wrong. You're still you."

"What if this is all I'm gonna be now?" His voice barely rose above a whisper. "This washed-out version of me. I'm farther away from the man you fell in love with than ever..."

"Hey, hey," you reined him in gently. "No, that's not true. He's still in there. He just needs a little help finding his way back to shore, hm?"

You squeezed his hand again. "And there's nothing wrong with needing help sometimes. The strongest people do. And you, Frankie Morales, are one of the strongest people I've ever known. I'm so so proud of you."

You weren't able to look at him as the sun climbed higher, promising another day of scorching heat. But you heard a small, broken sound that sounded suspiciously close to a sob. Without thinking, you took the next exit, still twenty minutes away from the rehab center. Gravel crunched beneath the tires as you pulled onto the shoulder and finally looked at your boyfriend.

Despite his broad frame, he suddenly looked so unbearably small in the passenger seat of his own truck. He looked hollowed out by the weight he carried. By the guilt clawing at him for failing you. He looked lost.

You unbuckled your seatbelt and leaned toward him, still holding his hand before pressing a kiss against his knuckles.

"Look at me," you pleaded.

He shook his head stubbornly. So you cupped his cheek with your free hand, gently guiding his face toward yours. His soulful dark eyes shimmered with tears, red-rimmed and exhausted. The sight hit you straight in the chest.

"How can you..." His voice cracked. "How can you still stay? Why didn't you just leave already?"

A watery smile tugged at your lips. "Because, unfortunately, I love you a shit ton."

A weak laugh escaped him before his face crumpled again. He took your hand between both of his and kissed it with all the devotion only he had ever shown you.

"I'm scared."

"I know you are."

You brushed your thumb across his cheek. "I am too."

Silence settled between you for a moment. "But I think we just need to do it anyway. Even if we do it scared."

He closed his eyes. "I can't do this for you. God, I wish I could." Your voice wavered. "But this is something you need to do for yourself. For the man you've always told me you want to be. Not only the one scarred by war and loss."

You rested your forehead against his. "And I believe in you."

A tear slipped down his cheek. 

"I'll always be here, rooting for you."

"You're truly too good for me, mi amor."

You smiled—a real one this time—and shrugged. "Maybe."

Another shrug. "Guess you're just a lucky bastard then."

"The luckiest on this fucking planet," he murmured.

Like magnets finding their opposite, you drifted toward one another. Your hand rested against the back of his neck, your thumb brushing behind his ear, tracing the small letter tattooed there for you. Matching the one you wore in the same place, even if you'd gotten yours weeks later. Your foreheads touched in a grounding gesture.

He let out one long, shaky breath. "I love you."

And you knew he meant it. God, he meant it with every bruised piece of his heart.

"I love you more," you whispered. "Always more."

You smiled through tears. "And now I'll drop you off for your very expensive extended holiday."

That earned you the smallest huff of laughter.

"I'll be right here picking you up when you're ready, okay?"

You felt his nod more than you saw it.

***

A few minutes later, you watched him disappear through the doors of the rehab center. Only then did you realize your hands were still gripping the steering wheel so tightly they hurt.

For a long moment, you couldn't make yourself put the truck into gear. Watching the biggest part of your heart walk away was hard. Trusting that he was walking toward himself again was harder.

The whole drive home you cried, singing along to your shared playlist between shaky breaths, selfishly wishing that, when all of this was over, you'd get the love of your life back whole instead of only living with the fragments addiction had left behind.

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main masterlist • ko-fi

It was three in the morning when I felt her move beside me.

At first, I ignored it. Because I was tired as hell. Because it was dark. And because unless the apartment was on fire, I wasn't interested in dealing with anything before morning.

Then I felt her hand on my chest. Slow. Careful. Like she was checking whether I was awake.

I wasn't. Or at least I pretended not to be for about five seconds. "Baby," I mumbled without opening my eyes.

She immediately went still. Busted. I could practically hear her brain scrambling for an excuse. "You're awake?"

"Barely."

A quiet little laugh. So soft I almost missed it.

The bedroom was dark, with only a little moonlight slipping through the curtains. Tito was asleep somewhere in the apartment. The city outside had gone quiet.

And apparently my wife had decided that three in the morning was the perfect time to start being a menace.

I finally opened one eye. I switched on the little lamp on the nightstand. The room was suddenly lit by a soft yellow light that made me squint for a second.

She was already looking at me. With that look.

The one every husband learns to recognize. "Oh no."

She smiled. "Oh yes."

I groaned and dropped my head back into the pillow, but my hips jerked on their own when her thumb brushed right over the wet tip of my cock. I was already half hard from sleep, but the second she touched me, my whole body tensed. "You know what time it is?"

"I know."

"Normal people are asleep."

"Good thing neither of us is normal."

Fair. Unfortunately.

She moved closer until her head was resting against my shoulder, but her hand never stopped. She started pumping me slowly, her grip tight as she stroked me from base to tip, and a rough sigh got caught in my throat.

Comfortable. Patient. Completely aware of exactly what she was doing. Which was bullshit. Because she was warm. And she smelled like vanilla and whatever shampoo she used that somehow always wrecked my self-control.

Without even thinking about it, I wrapped an arm around her and rested my hand on her bare hip.

She wasn't wearing any panties. Just one of those oversized shirts she'd already pushed up around her waist.

"You're trouble."

"I know."

"You woke me up."

"I know."

"No guilt?"

"None."

At least she was honest.

For a while, neither of us said anything. We just lay there while the only sound in the bedroom was the wet slide of her hand moving up and down my cock. The kind of silence that only exists when you've been with someone so long you don't have to fill every second with conversation.

Then she tilted her head back. Smiling.

And that smile gets me every damn time. So I kissed her forehead. Then her nose. Then the corner of her mouth.

She smiled against my lips while her hand sped up, squeezing me tighter until I was fully hard and throbbing in her palm. Looking way too pleased with herself. Like she'd known exactly how this was going to end from the moment she touched me.

"You're impossible," I told her.

"Yeah."

I pulled her even closer and grabbed her by the hips. Blood was already rushing through my body, every bit of it heading straight between my legs. Whatever self-control I'd been starting to feel was completely gone.

She gave me that innocent look that would've worked a lot better if her hand wasn't still wrapped around my cock.

I raised an eyebrow. She bit back a smile. Neither of us said a word. Because there wasn't much left to say. We both knew where this was headed.

So I tightened my hands around her waist, and lifted her on top of me.

She looked down at me, eyes wide, and a breathless gasp slipped from her lips when I guided her over my thighs. She quickly pulled off her shirt before lowering herself onto me, her knees sinking into the mattress on either side of my hips. Completely bare now, she couldn't hide a thing from me.

And God, she was soaked. I could feel it against my thigh when she shifted. The scent of her arousal mixed with vanilla nearly drove me out of my mind. "Look at you," I muttered, reaching up to cup her face and brush a loose strand of hair behind her ear. "All horny and wet in the middle of the night."

"Your fault." Her voice came out soft and sleepy. Then she leaned down and kissed me. It was a messy, desperate kiss. All tongue. All heat. Whatever sleepiness was left disappeared instantly.

While I kept her occupied with my mouth, I guided the head of my cock between her legs.

She was so slick and wet that the tip slid right over her clit, pulling a soft whine from her lips and straight into my mouth.

I gripped her hips tighter, my fingers digging into her skin. "Take it, baby."

She broke the kiss, tipped her head back with a soft cry, and slowly started lowering herself onto me. Dios. She was so fucking tight. Her heat wrapped around me like a vise, swallowing me inch by inch until her hips were pressed flush against mine.

A rough, uncontrollable groan left my lips, and my hips jerked upward on instinct, trying to drive myself as deep into her as possible.

For a second, she stayed still, her hands braced against my chest as she breathed hard, letting her body adjust to my size. "You're so good, Javi," she whimpered.

"Don't stop," I choked out, my hands sliding from her hips up to her tits. I squeezed them, rolling her nipples between my fingers.

That got her moving. She started riding me. Lifting herself just enough to free the head of my cock before sinking back down again. Over and over. Finding a rhythm that was absolute torture in the best possible way. Every time she came down, her clit rubbed against the base of my cock, sending shocks straight up my spine.

The wet sounds of our bodies coming together filled the dark room.

"Ah, mierda... right there... fuck..." My voice came out ragged as I lifted my hips to meet every movement.

She was relentless. She arched her back, dug her fingers into my shoulders, and picked up the pace. With every movement, her muscles tightened around me as if trying to squeeze me out, pulling me closer and closer to the peak.

I watched her in the pale moonlight.

Her chest rising and falling. Her eyes half-closed with pleasure. Completely lost in the feeling of me stretching her open. She looked like a goddess. Fuck.

There was no way in hell I was just going to lie there and take it. I pushed myself up a little and smacked her ass with my free hand. The sharp sound cracked through the quiet apartment.

She gasped, and her pussy squeezed me so hard I nearly came right then.

"Faster, cariño," I growled against her ear, dragging my teeth lightly over her earlobe. "Take every inch."

She whimpered, and her hips started moving in faster, wilder circles. She was completely breathless now. Every sound coming out of her was louder than the last, muffled only by the back of her hand as she tried not to wake the whole damn building.

I felt the exact moment she started breaking apart. The way her muscles began trembling. The way her pussy started pulsing around me.

"Javi… fuck..."

"That's it, baby. Come for me." My hand clamped down on her hip, helping her slam down onto me faster and harder.

She lost control. The orgasm hit her full force. Her body twisted against mine, her pussy clenching around my cock in tight, desperate waves. She buried her face in my neck, crying out my name as she came, her pussy pulsing wildly around me.

That was the last thing I needed. Feeling her come apart around me was enough to push me over the edge. My hips jerked up in one last deep thrust as my own orgasm hit. I came deep inside her, one pulse after another, my whole body trembling as I held her against me.I pulled her tightly against me and held her there, our breathing loud and uneven in the darkness.

Slowly, the tension started leaving her body. She slumped forward, her damp forehead resting against my neck, her muscles still twitching faintly around my softening cock.

I wrapped both arms around her and pulled the blanket over her bare back so she wouldn't get cold. My heart was still pounding against her ribs. I pressed a kiss to the side of her neck. "See?" I whispered, my voice completely wrecked. "Impossible."

She let out a weak, exhausted laugh and kissed my jaw. "Worth it."

"Yeah," I breathed, closing my eyes as the heavy pull of sleep finally started dragging both of us under. "Worth it."

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Which almost surprised you, given how chaotic leaving New York had been. The night before your flight had been a storm of tissues and tangled hugs with Amy, both of you crying in fits, promising calls and visits that you both knew would ache in the waiting.

You’d cried yourself hollow with your best friend, but not with Harry.

Not gonna lie, that had made it a lot harder to fly over the Atlantic after.

With him, it had been different. He’d insisted on driving you to the airport, even at four in the morning, his eyes sharp and awake while the world was still heavy with sleep. You’d thought he might give you one of his quiet, knowing goodbyes, a brush of lips against your cheek.

But no - Harry had pulled you into his arm, hand firm on your chin, and kissed you full and unapologetic. A kiss that told everyone in that departure hall exactly who you belonged to.

Your first few workdays at Dalton & Price blurred by, long hours in glass-walled meeting rooms, piles of briefing papers, juggling calls and schedules while trying not to drown in acronyms and egos. You’d been handed into the merger planning team directly and you took it with the same grit you always had. Smile, nod, write faster, be indispensable.

Tonight, though, you were drained. Your body ached from your heels, your brain hummed with legalese and corporate jargon.

But slipping into Harry’s bed definitely made your evening better.

The sheets smelled faintly of detergent, too clean to carry any trace of him. He hadn’t been here in weeks, and the flat bore no sign of daily life - no jacket slung over a chair, no half-empty coffee mug, no scent of his cologne lingering in the air. And still, you pulled the blanket to your chin, closed your eyes, and pretended.

Pretended that the warmth was him, not just the radiator humming. Pretended that he’d come up behind you, hand on your hip, mouth on your neck, growling into your ear that you were his.

Your phone chimed on the nightstand. The screen lit up, pulling you out of your fantasy. You blinked, reaching blindly for it.

Harry: No touching in my bed. You wait until I am over there.

A laugh burst out of you, sharp in the silence. Typical. The man could work eighteen-hour days across the ocean and still find the time to police what you did in his bed.

Your thumbs flew over the keyboard.

Emily: Christ, you got cameras here? Was not even thinking about that, too tired. But now that you mention it…

You grinned at your own wickedness, then sat up, tossing the blanket aside. The wardrobe across the room stood half-empty, but you’d already raided it for sleepwear. Tonight you wore one of his old shirts - The Cure, faded black cotton with a cracked print. He hadn’t even bothered to pack up his whole closet when moving to New York.

Lifting the hem, you snapped a photo: bare stomach, a teasing flash of underboob, your hand sliding suggestively beneath the waistband of your slip. Mischief curled in your smile. You captioned it simply: oopsie.

Send.

The rush of adrenaline was ridiculous. You lay back, staring at the ceiling, waiting. A minute. Two. Five.

The reply buzzed in.

Harry: Look at who’s begging for a spanking.

You bit your lip, giggling into the empty flat. God, you missed him. Missed his voice, his weight, the way he could turn your bratty little quips into pleading without lifting a finger.

Emily: Look at who’s having a hard-on in the office.

It was nearly ten in London. Which meant he was five hours behind. Definitely still working. Which made it even better.

The screen lit again - this time with a picture.

Not a dick pic. No, this was Harry smirking at his own desk, tie loosened, glasses sliding down the bridge of his nose. His expression was the picture of innocence, though the caption betrayed him: Never had a hard-on in my LIFE at the office.

You barked a laugh, then zoomed in, studying him like you could inhale him through pixels. God, he was pretty. Annoyingly so.

Emily: Liar. Bet there was some movement when I fixed your IT problems under your desk the first week.

You sent it before you could hesitate, then stared at the image again, warmth flooding your chest.

The typing dots appeared. Paused. Then appeared again.

Harry: If I knew back then what I know now…

He didn’t finish it. Didn’t have to. You felt the words, heavy and sharp, tugging low in your stomach.

Another ping.

Harry: Sleep tight, Emily. And no touching. Four days to go.

Your lips pulled into a grin you couldn’t suppress.

You curled back under the duvet, clutching the phone to your chest, still giggling softly. Your mind mocked you even as you drifted: Enjoy your evening thinking about me, Harry.

You nearly added a heart emoji. Nearly. Your thumb hovered over it before you caught yourself and locked the screen instead.

No. Not yet. Not that.

But as you buried your face into the pillow, inhaling the detergent-clean linen, you knew damn well your heart was already in it - whether you texted it or not.

London rain had a way of cutting straight through him. Not like the New York sleet that slapped sideways, or the thunderous summer storms that broke the heat like a curse. No, London rain was a mist, a constant curtain, clinging to his coat, dampening his collar, slipping under his glasses in droplets that blurred his vision and forced him to swipe them uselessly with his sleeve as he strode across Bishopsgate.

This was not the morning he’d planned.

Last night had been a blaze. You and Harry had pushed your words until the screen between you felt like it was glowing hot - half-teasing, half-promises, your bodies already syncing in imagination. A shower together, slick skin, your laugh in the steam, the weight of your breasts against his chest as he pressed you into the glass wall. You’d both gone to bed wound tight as bowstrings, clinging to the fantasy that when dawn came, you’d unravel together.

But dawn had come with a delay. A grounded flight. Hours in the fluorescent purgatory of JFK Airport instead of your bed. He hadn’t even had the chance to drop his bag at the flat; the driver had gone straight to the City.

And now here he was: damp, late, and walking into a room where the last thing he could be was yours.

He pushed the heavy glass door open. Catherine Dalton’s clipped voice filled the air, Richard Price’s deep laugh punctuating whatever joke had been made before his arrival. The legal team was already flipping through papers, their pens ticking against notepads. And there -

There was you.

Sitting upright, hair shining under the recessed lights, a navy dress that hugged your body in all the places he knew by heart. You were already speaking when he entered, your voice low and firm, your hands cutting neat gestures above the folder in front of you. And you looked up. Just a second, just a flash, but it hit him with the force of a fist to the gut.

Your eyes widened, softened. Longing there, plain as day. Longing that no one else at that table would recognize, but he saw it instantly. His cock twitched. He tightened his jaw and shifted his bag higher on his shoulder.

“Apologies for the delay,” he said smoothly, voice the practiced baritone of boardrooms, not bedrooms. “Weather wasn’t on my side this morning.”

He let the room laugh politely, let them nod, let the rhythm continue without him being the disruption. He shrugged off his coat, hung it deliberately, sat down. Corpo-Harry was in control. Corpo-Harry could glide into a late meeting like he’d meant to be fashionably late all along.

But under the table, his knee bounced once, a sharp tick of energy he couldn’t bleed anywhere else.

He forced his focus onto Dalton and Price, forced his notes into order, forced his voice into the steady cadence of a strategist discussing timelines and integration processes. He ignored the rain still cooling in his hair, the way his shirt clung faintly to his shoulders. He ignored you.

Except he didn’t. Couldn’t.

Every time you spoke, he caught the timber of your tone - the strength, the clarity. He watched Dalton nod at you, impressed, watched Price lean in, amused. And Harry’s jaw set tighter. Because all he could think of was how that same voice cracked, broke, whispered his name in the dark. How you begged and cursed in the same breath when he had you against the wall.

He adjusted his glasses, clenched his pen. Corpo-Harry, he reminded himself. Corpo-Harry didn’t imagine pushing you onto the gleaming boardroom table.

You hadn’t meant to flee. Not exactly. But the break had come and if you’d sat in that chair another minute with his aftershave curling through the air toward you - God, you knew it was his, the kind of clean, woodsy scent that once clung to your sheets for days - you would’ve sighed. Actually sighed. In front of Catherine Dalton.

So you ducked into the women’s restroom instead, shutting the stall door and leaning your head back against the cool metal. Three weeks. Three weeks since New York, since the airport kiss that had burned into your lips all the way across the Atlantic. Three weeks of late-night calls, teasing texts, photographs, promises layered like bricks. And now he was here.

And you were supposed to talk EBITDA and timelines like you hadn’t spent half the night picturing him inside you.

“Get a grip,” you muttered at your reflection as you washed your hands, splashing your wrists with cool water like that could wash him off you. You dabbed at the corners of your eyes, pressed color back into your cheeks, smoothed your hair. Professional. You had to look professional.

You pulled the door open -

And collided almost exactly into him.

Harry, stepping out of the men’s room, straightening his suit jacket. A beat. A breath. Your eyes met and broke into something too quick to stop - a laugh, a smile tugging both your mouths wide before you could fight it down.

“Great to… see you again,” you said, voice higher than you wanted, clipped into something polite.

“Likewise,” he replied, throat clearing, glasses glinting under the hallway light. His expression slipped into corporate formality again, but his eyes - his eyes were fire. “You’re holding up great in there. Good work.”

It was stupid, how much that sentence meant. Professional praise, the kind that could’ve been delivered to anyone on the team. But you swallowed it like champagne, let it fizz in your chest.

Well, we take what we can get feeding our praise kink, right?

You opened your mouth, trying to conjure something equally safe in reply, but he was faster. His gaze darted down the hall, left and right. Empty.

Then he stepped in, just a fraction, close enough that you felt his breath against your cheek. His voice was low, meant only for you:

“Hope we can continue the good work… later.”

Your breath caught, the flush racing down your throat so fast you thought it would betray you instantly. You shot him a look, biting back the smile that wanted to burst.

And there it was - the sly grin, already tugging at his lips, like he knew exactly the effect it had on you.

He stepped back, smooth as ever, tilting his head slightly toward the hallway, giving you the space to walk out first.

You did. Your heels clicking down the hall, your spine ramrod straight, your pulse hammering in your ears.

And you didn’t have to look behind you to know - absolutely, without a doubt - that he was watching your ass as you walked away.

You let yourself fall from his lap onto the couch cushions, limbs boneless, chest rising and falling too fast.

Your thighs still tingled from how tightly they’d wrapped around him. God, you hadn’t even made it upstairs into the bedroom. The minute you’d stepped through the door, coats barely off, you’d pounced like lust-drunk teenagers.

“Quite… convincing arguments you got there, Mr. Castillo,” you managed, voice frayed by panting. Your lips curved into a smirk, though you couldn’t quite look at him without remembering how thoroughly he’d just kissed you senseless. “I’ll weigh them out with my legal team and get back to you in due course.”

His laugh broke warm and low across the space between you. “Shut up,” he groaned, dropping his forehead against yours before kissing you again, stealing away the rest of your teasing. When he finally pulled back, his voice dropped to something startlingly plain, startlingly real. “I’ve missed you.”

Simple words. So simple, they nearly undid you.

You swallowed hard. Through all the nearly-sent heart emojis, the playful sexting, the fevered texts about missing his hands, you’d been careful. Guarded. You weren’t sure what you were yet, what you could become. The safety of professional distance always kept your tongue in check. And now here he was, throwing it out so casually.

“That’s… good to hear,” you said softly, driven by pure honesty.

But Harry’s scoff cracked out instantly. His mouth tugged into that infuriating grin. “Oh wow. That’s what I get? ‘Good to hear’? Christ, Emily, you sound like a customer service auto-reply. Should I wait three to five business days for your actual feelings?”

You couldn’t help it - your laugh spilled out, high and bright, and you slapped a hand weakly against his chest. “Shut up, that is not what I sound like.”

“Mm,” he hummed, mock-serious, “I can practically see the email subject line now: ‘Re: Missed You - Thank you for your feedback.’”

Your stomach ached with laughter even as your cheeks burned.

He leaned in again, stealing your laughter with another kiss that pressed deep, silencing every retort you might’ve thrown back at him. When he pulled away, there was still amusement in his eyes but something sharper beneath it. “Play hard to get all you like. I’ve got the whole night to wring some words of affirmation out of that pretty mouth.”

Your heart skipped, traitorous and eager.

Harry pushed up from the couch, his body unfolding into the dimness of the flat, dress shirt unbuttoned down his chest and clinging slightly with sweat. You glanced down at yourself - your navy dress pooled on the floor, bra still clasped in place like some flimsy shield.

You thought he was heading to the kitchen, but instinct - or maybe pure want - caught you before he could go far. Your hand wrapped around his wrist, tugging him back down, back into the gravity you couldn’t seem to shake.

Harry froze, then tilted his head, eyes narrowing with something unreadable before softening. You folded yourself into his chest before you could second-guess it, pressing your cheek against the steady rise and fall of him, your arms circling his middle.

“Dito,” you whispered. Not loud, not brave, but real.

His chest rumbled with a low hum, deep enough to vibrate through your cheek. One large hand smoothed over the back of your head, fingers carding lazily through your hair before settling to hold you in place. Then a kiss, slow and grounding, pressed to the crown of your head.

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"We don't have to," he says, the same words he's used three times this week alone, delivered in the same careful register – not cold or resentful, but something more exhausted than either of those things. Like a man who’s learned to keep his voice very level around something that spooks easily.

"I know we don't have to."

You hear the snap in your own voice and hate yourself for it. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean…"

"It’s okay."

But it isn’t okay. Not because he’s angry, but because he isn’t and somehow that’s almost worse. You'd prefer anger. Anger would give you something to push against, something to explain yourself to. Instead, there’s just this careful, considered gentleness that makes you feel like a wounded animal being handled by someone who doesn’t want to lose a finger.

You shift onto your side, facing away from him. His hand stays on your hip for a moment longer, then withdraws to his own side of the bed.

The coals tick and outside the wind moves through Jackson in long dark sighs that mirror how you feel.

Tears prick at the corners of your eyes, because you haven’t always been like this.

You can remember – with a vividness that now feels almost cruel – the way it used to be. The hunger and ease of it. Joel’s not a demonstrative man by most measures. He doesn’t talk about his feelings any more than he absolutely has to or offer reassurance or emotional narration. But in bed, in that particular dark, he’s always been completely present with you in a way that feels like its own language.

His hands know you, have learned you with the patient attention of a man who genuinely wants to learn something and who finds the subject endlessly interesting.

You’ve wanted him just as badly, more some weeks. You've been the one reaching across the space between you in the early morning light, when he makes a low pleased sound and pulls you closer, and it’s been easy. Not effortless, but easy in the way that breathing is easy, the way you don't have to think about it.

Now it feels like breathing at altitude. Like your body has quietly, without consulting you, moved somewhere the air’s thinner.

It started, if you had to name a starting point, maybe eight months ago and it was small things at first. Like when you went to bed on a regular Tuesday intending to reach for him and found yourself simply...uninterested.

You weren’t tired, not upset, not distracted by anything specific. You were just blank where the want usually lives. You rolled over, went to sleep and told yourself it was nothing. That it was a phase, or a bad week or, more likely, the cumulative weight of living in this world doing its usual arithmetic on desire.

But the blank Tuesdays became blank weekends, the weeks between stretching. And when you do try – because you love him and don’t want to lose the thread of this thing between you – there’s the dryness.

You've never experienced it like this, that specific discomfort that makes everything feel wrong, that makes you tense when you've always melted, that turns something that’s been pleasure into something you’re simply enduring and hoping he can’t tell.

Of course he can tell.

Joel Miller has spent twenty years before ever laying eyes on you learning to read threat and deception in the smallest tells of human behaviour. He isn’t going to miss the way you go a little still, or the way your breathing shifts from something good to something controlled.

He pulled back the first time, quietly, without making it a thing and kissed you carefully.

But you saw his face in the low light, saw the confusion there, the careful way he smoothed it back to neutral, and you felt a cold shame settle into your chest that hasn’t fully left since.

****

The hot flashes start in October.

That’s what finally makes you go to Dr Vee.

They come at night mostly, though not exclusively – this drenching, furnace-blast heat that wakes you from sleep damp and disoriented, your heart clattering, kicking the blankets off while Joel sleeps beside you oblivious. Sometimes you get up and stand at the window in the cold air until your skin cools and your pulse settles.

Once he wakes, finds you there and asks if you’re all right. You tell him you’re fine, just warm and that he should go back to sleep. And he does, slowly, with that same careful patient stillness he's been wearing like armour for months.

The sleep disruption makes everything worse. You’re tired in a way that sits in your bones. Your moods become unreliable, small things snagging at you. You snap and then feel terrible and then snap about feeling terrible. Your cycle has gone strange too – irregular, showing up when it pleases and sometimes not for two months running.

The brain fog is the worst indignity. You stand in the kitchen trying to remember what you've gone to get and find the word for it has just – slipped.

Like a wet bar of soap.

Gone.

You’re forty-six years old, you’re falling apart and you don’t know why. And you haven’t told Joel any of this properly because you don’t know how to explain something you don’t understand yourself.

Dr Vee is sixty-something and was a family physician before the outbreak, keeping meticulous notes in a series of composition notebooks and has a memory like a steel trap. She stitched your shoulder up two winters ago after a patrol gone sideways and, in some way, you trust her.

You sit on the paper-covered table, whilst she listens to you with the particular quality of attention that good doctors have. The kind that makes you feel like you’re the only person in the world and your problem is the only problem.

You tell her everything. The libido, the dryness, the hot flashes, the fatigue, the mood swings, the irregular cycle, the brain fog. Your voice stays level and clinical because you’re holding it that way with both hands.

When you finish, she’s quiet for a moment, tapping her pen against her notebook.

"How old are you?"

"Forty-six."

She nods slowly. "And these symptoms – all of them, taken together – when did they begin?"

"Eight, nine months ago, I guess. But they’ve come on gradually."

She nods again and sets her pen down. "I'm going to ask you something and I need you to think about whether any of this is new information or whether some part of you has already been thinking it."

You frown.

"Perimenopause," she says. "That’s the transitional phase before menopause. It can last anywhere from a few years to a decade. The hormonal fluctuations account for every symptom you've described – the hot flashes, the night sweats, the sleep disruption etc. The irregular cycle is also textbook." She pauses. "You're not falling apart. Your body is doing something it's been designed to do but just doing it rather loudly."

You sit with that for a moment.

Some part of you has known. Some quiet, careful part that you haven’t wanted to examine too directly because examining it means acknowledging it, and acknowledging it means – what? You’re not entirely sure what it means and that’s the problem.

"The obvious treatment is hormone replacement therapy," Dr Vee says, "which we don't have."

"Right."

"But there are things we can do. I have some dried black cohosh root which helps some women with the symptoms. There are also things you can do in your overall lifestyle things, which in Jackson, mostly amounts to what you're already doing. A cool sleeping environment is essential and help with managing stress which is, of course, not simple in this world.”

She writes something in her notebook.

"The genitourinary symptoms – that’s the dryness, the discomfort during sex – that's a direct effect of declining oestrogen affecting the vaginal tissue. I have some things that can help with that too. Vitamin E oil and coconut oil for example. It’s not the same as actual oestrogen cream, but they can provide some relief and work on lubrication, externally and otherwise."

You nod slowly.

"This is a normal transition,” she says gently. “It’s not a failing. A lot of women go through this without ever talking to anyone about it because it's been treated as something shameful or taboo for most of recorded history, which is frankly absurd, and I won't have that in my practice." She looks at you steadily. "You doing alright?"

"Yes," you say, your voice only wavering slightly. "I just…I didn't know what was wrong with me. I thought I was…"

"Thought you were what?"

"Losing something."

She pauses for a long moment. “Are you still with Joel?”

"Yes."

"Have you talked to him?"

"No."

She looks at you with the particular expression of a woman who’s seen a great many people avoid a great many necessary conversations.

"That might be worth doing."

****

You hold off for four days, telling yourself that you’re waiting for the right moment, the right mood, the right confluence of evening light and privacy and emotional bandwidth. In truth you’re waiting for the courage to arrive, and it’s taking its time.

The morning of the fifth day you wake before dawn from another hot flash, the searing flush cresting up through your chest and neck, and you sit up in bed breathing through it while Joel sleeps beside you.

You watch his face in the dark – the lines of it, the grey at his temples, the slight parting of his lips in sleep – and you think that this man has has watched you cry, has stitched you up, has held you through nightmares, has seen you covered in mud and blood and worse, has loved you through four winters and the particular relentless grinding difficulty of this world, and the idea that you can keep something from him because you’re embarrassed seems, in this predawn hour, genuinely absurd.

You get up and head to the kitchen. Standing at the window, you watch the first pale light come into the sky over the ridge and put the kettle on. When you hear his footsteps come up behind you, you don’t turn around.

"You're up early," he says casually.

"Couldn't sleep."

He comes and stands beside you at the window. You hear him pour himself a mug of coffee and lean against the counter drinking it quietly. If there’s one thing you’ve learned since you hitched your wagon to his it’s that Joel’s good at quiet. Sometimes it’s the thing you love most about him and sometimes it drives you absolutely insane.

"Joel.”

"Yeah."

You turn away from the window to see him watching you with those dark eyes that always seem to be calculating something, reading something or running some private assessment that you stopped trying to decode years ago. He’s in his undershirt and flannel pants, a crease from the pillow on his cheek, and he’s so familiar it aches.

"I need to tell you something," you say, "and I need you to not make it into something it isn't."

He pauses. "Okay."

"And I need you to not try to fix it immediately."

The pause lasts longer this time, and you can see his brain already working through a million different scenarios. "I'll try."

You wrap your hands around your mug and look at the table rather than at him.

"I went to see Dr Vee."

The quality of his silence shifts. You feel him go still in a specific way – the way he goes still when the information arriving requires him to revise something, to quickly run new calculations.

"When?" he asks, carefully.

"A few days ago."

"You didn't tell me you were goin’."

"I know, I'm telling you now."

You make yourself look up and instantly see that his jaw’s tight.

"I'm okay. It's not…it's not that kind of thing. I'm not sick or hurt. I'm..." You exhale. "I'm going through the change of life. It’s called perimenopause."

The word sits in the kitchen between you.

Joel says nothing. He looks at you with that particular expression that means he’s processing and isn’t ready to respond yet. You’ve learned over the years not to rush that expression because rushing it gets you something defensive and half-formed rather than whatever he actually thinks.

"It's the…it's the hormonal transition before menopause," you say, because the silence is getting heavy and you need to keep talking or you’re going to lose your nerve. "The hot flashes I've been having, those are a symptom. The…the sleep stuff, being tired, the moods…"

You swallow.

"The...the not wanting to. The difficulty with…with being dry when we…when we try."

The last part costs you something and you haven’t known how much until you say it, until the warmth hits your face and you realise you’re actually blushing, actually mortified in a way you haven’t been in front of this man in years.

Joel sets his mug on the counter and stays quiet for so long that you’ve started to construct catastrophic narratives – he's disgusted, he's disappointed, he's realising he's stuck with someone whose body is doing something irreversible and unglamorous and…

"Why didn't you tell me?" he says, his voice low.

"Because I didn't know what was wrong," you reply, "not exactly. Not until I saw Dr Vee. And before that I just thought…" You press your lips together. "I thought I was losing something. Or becoming… less. I don't know. It's embarrassing, Joel. It's embarrassing to not want someone you love, and not know why, and not be able to explain it to them. It's embarrassing to…"

Your voice threatens to fracture, and you hold it level.

"To be lying there while someone you love tries and feeling nothing and not knowing if it's ever going to come back."

Joel looks at you for a long moment. Then he crosses the kitchen, takes the mug out of your hands and sets it next to his, his hands coming to rest on either side of your face, large and warm.

"Look at me," he says and you raise your eyes to meet his. "You thought I'd…what, think less of you?"

You don’t answer, because yes – that is precisely what you thought, and saying it out loud to his face feels even more foolish than it seemed in the privacy of your own catastrophising.

"Hey." His thumb moves along your cheekbone. "I've been worried sick for weeks. I didn't know if I'd…if I'd done somethin’ or said somethin' wrong. I didn't know if you were tired of me, I didn't know if there was somethin’ wrong and you weren't tellin’ me…I've been lyin’ next to you not knowin’ what was wrong, watchin’ you pull away and not…not known how to ask without makin’ it worse."

Oh.

You haven’t thought of that. You’ve been so consumed by your own experience of this thing – the confusion of it, the embarrassment, the quietly devastating sense of your own body becoming unreliable – that you haven’t fully reckoned with what it looks like from the other side of the bed.

Joel, who loves you, can’t fix things, can’t explain things and has been waking up next to a wall he doesn’t know how to scale.

"I thought you knew it wasn't you," you say.

"How was I supposed to know that?"

You close your eyes briefly, because he’s being entirely fair.

"I'm sorry," you say. "I should've…I should've said something earlier. I was ashamed and I didn't…"

"Don't." His forehead comes down to rest against yours. "Don't apologise. I'm not…I'm not angry with you, baby, I just." He exhales. "I just needed to know."

You stand there, and something you've been carrying for months loosens in your chest. Not entirely, but enough that you can breathe differently.

"Dr Vee gave me some things," you say. "Botanical stuff, and some…some preparations that are supposed to help with the physical symptoms. She said it's normal. She was very clear about it being a normal process."

"Good."

"It doesn't mean the wanting is gone forever. She said for a lot of women it adjusts and evens out eventually. Just the transition is…a lot.”

"Okay." He pulls back enough to look at you, his eyes moving over your face in the way they do when he’s committing something to memory or making a decision.

"What do you need?"

The simplicity of the question almost undoes you.

What do you need. Not, what should we do about this or how do we fix it. Just, what do you need.

"I need you not to make me feel like something's broken," you say. "I need you to…I need it to be okay when I can't. And I need you to not…not pull away entirely, just because I've been different. I still need you close, Joel. I still need to feel like you…like you still want to be close to me, even when it can't go anywhere."

Joel holds your face in his hands for a moment longer, and you watch him work through something – that interior processing, the careful assembly of a response that’s actually true rather than just immediately comforting.

"I pulled back because I didn't want to push," he says finally, “not because I didn't want you. Those two things ain’t the same."

"I know that now. I think I just needed to hear it."

He makes a low sound that isn’t quite a word and pulls you into him, one hand flat against the back of your head, your face against his shoulder, and you stand there letting him hold you with the particular solidity he has and feel, for the first time in months, like you’re in the right coordinates. Like you've been slightly displaced and have finally found your way back to exactly where you’re supposed to be standing.

"We're gonna figure it out," he says into your hair. Not it'll be fine, not don't worry, but rather the specific practical commitment of we are going to work this problem together, which is the most Joel Miller expression of love you can imagine, and it breaks something loose in your chest that you haven’t realised was still clenched.

****

The first week after the conversation is its own kind of awkward.

You've spent so long not saying things that having said them leaves you both slightly exposed and uncertain how to proceed. The way you feel after finally lancing something – relieved but also raw and tentative about what comes next.

Joel’s careful in a new way now, a way that’s warmer than the previous caution. He touches you more in the small ways – his hand at the small of your back when you pass in the kitchen, the deliberate way he drops a kiss to the top of your head when you’re reading by the fire. Not loaded touches, not leading anywhere, just present. I'm here. You're here. This is still us.

You keep meaning to use the preparations Dr Vee’s given you and keep finding reasons to put it off. They sit in the small box on your side of the dresser, and you regard them each morning with the complex emotional relationship one develops with necessary but humbling things.

On a Thursday evening, almost two weeks after the kitchen conversation, Joel picks the box up off the dresser and you look up from where you’re taking off your boots to see him turning it over in his hands with an expression you can’t immediately read.

"This what she gave you?"

"Yes."

He opens it and looks at the small, stoppered bottle of vitamin E oil, the tin of coconut oil and the cloth packet of dried black cohosh with Dr Vee’s careful handwritten label. He examines each one with the focused attention he gives to anything mechanical or practical, the same way he assesses a weapon's condition or a vehicle's engine problem – with genuine interest and no apparent judgment.

He sets the black cohosh aside and holds up the bottle. "This one?"

"And the tin."

He nods slowly, sets them both on the nightstand and sets the box on the dresser.

"Okay.”

That’s it – okay. No commentary, no visible awkwardness, no performance of being fine with something he’s secretly weird about. It’s such a profoundly Joel response that you find yourself laughing and he glances over at you.

"What?"

"Nothing. Just…you."

The corner of his mouth moves. "Me?"

"The way you just…filed it."

"What else was I gonna do?"

You don’t have an answer for that, so you finish pulling your boots off, set them on the floor, look at him and feel, quietly and simply, that you love him very much.

****

The hot flashes continue. The black cohosh helps by blunting the worst of them and taking the edge off the frequency. You still wake sometimes in the small hours with that internal furnace blast, but more often now Joel’s awake too, or half-awake, and he simply folds the blanket back without a word, and you lie there in the cool air until it passes. He waits until, eventually, you're cold again and he pulls it back and then settles back into sleep.

He starts leaving the window cracked without being asked. One night you wake up to find it’s cracked, and it always is after that.

The mood swings are harder to navigate cleanly. There are evenings where something small catches at you and becomes enormous without your full participation.

Some hormonal amplifier turning minor friction into something that feels catastrophic. You hear yourself say something sharper than you intend, see his jaw tighten and know he’s choosing to absorb it rather than return it.

Afterward, when the chemical weather has shifted and you feel like yourself again, you apologise and tell him it’s not about him, and he says he knows and means it, you think. Or is at least working on meaning it.

Once he says, almost under his breath: "This what it was like livin' with me for years?"

You look at him.

"The moods," he says. "The not knowin' where it's comin' from."

He’s mapping it onto something he recognises, offering a kind of symmetry that you haven’t expected. A quiet, private acknowledgment that the territory of being difficult and not fully choosing it is not unfamiliar to him.

"Probably something like that," you say carefully.

He nods once, looking at some middle distance. Then he goes back to whatever he’s been doing, the conversation over, and it’s been one of the most unexpectedly intimate exchanges you can remember.

****

It’s a Saturday night in late January, the cold absolute outside, the woodstove doing its best, when things shift.

You haven’t planned it. That’s the thing about desire – when it finally finds its way back through the fog and the flatness, it doesn’t arrive with ceremony. It arrives the way returning feeling arrives in a limb that's been asleep – tingling, slightly shocking and suddenly present.

Joel’s at the table reading one of the battered paperbacks from the community library, and you’re watching him from across the room with a cup of cooling tea and registering, with something like surprised relief, that you want him.

Not a polite wanting, not a decided wanting, not I should try. Just clean simple want, easy as breathing, the old thing returning like a word you've forgotten you know.

He looks up and finds you watching.

"What?”

"Nothing."

He holds your gaze for a moment, and you see him recognise something in your expression, something he hasn’t seen in a while. The particular quality of his attention shifts and he closes the book.

In the bedroom, with the lamp turned low and the cold pressing at the windows, you let him relearn you slowly. Not rushing, not the practiced ease of a routine you can both do without thinking – this is more careful than that, more deliberate, His hands move over you with the genuine attention you remember from the first year and also entirely unlike it because you’re not who you were in the first year, neither is he and the difference isn’t loss.

He finds the oil on the nightstand and uses it without comment or making it a thing, with the same practical and focused care he brings to anything that needs doing right. His hands are warm and unhurried, and you feel the tight-held embarrassment you've been carrying for months release its grip. Because there’s nothing here to be ashamed of, nothing clinical or distancing about it when done like this, in the low light with his eyes on your face and his attention fully and specifically yours.

"Okay?" he asks.

"Yes," you say, genuinely meaning it.

"Tell me if it's not."

"I will."

He believes you. That’s the thing – he believes you now, because you’ve finally told him the truth about what’s happening in your body, have let him into the actual territory instead of leaving him to navigate it blind. The trust moves in both directions, and it makes everything different.

It’s slower than it used to be. Some things are different, some sensations subtly altered, some angles better than others. You tell him what you need as you find it and he adjusts without question, without ego in it, which is its own language, its own kind of devotion.

Afterward you lie with your head on his chest in the dark and his arm around you. The woodstove ticks and outside the wind moves and you feel quiet in a way you haven’t felt in months.

His hand moves up and down your back in a slow unconscious rhythm.

"Still with me?" he says. He sometimes asks that, after. It’s never entirely lost the meaning it acquired in the first year – are you here, are we here, is this still the thing we're building?

"Still with you," you reply.

"Good."

You press your lips to his collarbone and think about what Dr Vee said. You’re not losing but rather becoming – which is harder to hold in the mind but feels, in this moment, truer.

"It might not always…"

"I know."

"Some nights it might still be…"

"I know." His arm tightens slightly. "And some nights you'll wake up at two in the mornin’ like you're on fire and I'll open the window and we'll lie there 'til it passes. And some mornin’s you won't be able to find a word you're lookin’ for, and some days the smallest thing's gonna catch you sideways, and I'll figure out which days those are and give you a wider berth."

He pauses.

"And I'll still be here."

You lift your head to look at him, his eyes finding yours with the ease of long familiarity.

"You rehearse that?"

"Little bit."

You laugh – really laugh, the kind that comes from somewhere warm and involuntary – and feel him smile against the top of your head, that rare private smile he only wears when no one’s watching, which means he’s wearing it for you.

"Joel."

"Mm?"

"Thank you for being…" You stop and try again. "For not making it smaller than it is or bigger than it is. Just…"

"Just what it is," he finishes.

"Yeah."

He pulls you back down against his chest. "Get some sleep while you can."

You close your eyes and realise that you don’t feel like something’s ending. Rather you feel, in the particular stillness of this room and those arms and this quiet dark, like something’s continuing – not unchanged, not unmarked, but continuous.

Still yours. Still his. Complicated and warm and stubbornly, essentially here.

The window’s cracked two inches.

You’re already half-asleep when you notice.

➰➰➰➰➰➰➰➰🔥➰➰➰➰➰➰➰➰

About two hours after leaving port, the ship leaves the archipelago and cuts into open water, and the breeze becomes noticeable.

”That’s nice,” you murmur as you sip your ice cold Pepsi with muddled lime. Even in the shade on sun deck, it’s warm enough for you not to feel anything but refreshed when the wind hits. Frankie hums next to you on the plastic wicker couch as he takes a sip of his beer. It’s ten in the morning, but he’s on vacation, coming with you on your work trip that required some traveling – first several hours by train, a hotel night in the port town, and now an early morning departure to go out to an island where you’d do fieldwork. When you told him in April that you were going, he immediately suggested that he’d come with, which you happily agreed would be a wonderful idea. The event you’re documenting is one where most participants bring their families, so Frankie wouldn’t even stand out in any way.

Except, of course, that you already knew he’d be the most handsome man in a crowd of a couple of hundred people.

Aboard the ship, you first went to the breakfast buffet before trying to find a somewhat calm and secluded place where you could hang out for the next four hours. Turns out, sundeck was the place to go. Dance music blasts out of the speakers at a volume which allows for conversation, people are happily lounging in the sun or shade, having ice cream or drinks, and there are children present – something you could do without, but at this time of day it means that there probably won’t be many drunks causing a commotion. You managed to snag a couch in the shade, Frankie bought drinks for you both as you pulled out your knitting project from your bag. You’re quietly knitting away, looking up to watch the small islands go by, and to glance at your pretty man next to you. He’s wearing shades but from your angle next to him, you can see that his eyes are often closed. His face is relaxed underneath the bill of his trademark cap, and he’s sunk deep into the embrace of the couch, right ankle resting over his left knee, leaving his right thigh pressing against you. When he puts his glass down, he yawns, stretched his arms up, and his right arm lands on the backrest of the couch, slung around your shoulders. You smile at the cliché movie theater move but know that it’s not a way of discreetly trying to get close to you: it’s just Frankie wanting the physical contact. So you say nothing, but move your row marker on the knitting description up, and begin a new row. Neither one of you speak much, except for when you see something to comment on: a very nice summer home on an island, a cool sailing boat passing by, the nice view. The music and sound of other people talking fades into the background as you glide smoothly through the waters, relaxed and happy in your public little bubble on the sea.

The hotel is more of a motel, and hasn’t been renewed at least since Clinton was president. But it’s clean, and the room isn’t too warm, despite the late June heat.

Frankie enters behind you, but stops in the doorway.

”Do they honestly expect us to not share?”

You grin as you look from his aghast expression to the two single beds with a small table in between.

”I don’t think they expect anything,” you tell him. Frankie releases his backpack and immediately starts to redecorate: moving the bedside table out of the way, and pushing the beds together. The ugly, early 1990’s bedspreads are an eyesore, but he seems a lot more pleased with your accomodations when it’s clear that you can sleep together.

”The bathroom’s almost as big as the room itself,” you announce while you’re washing your hands. ”And there’s a ramp at the front door. I didn’t expect this old dump to be fitted for disabled people.”

”Good on them.”

You come out of the bathroom, finding Frankie reclined on the bed in a typical 1970’s soft porn pose, chin seductively lowered and brows wiggling.

”Why don’t you come over here, let’s test the bed.”

”We don’t have time, the bus leaves in half an hour,” you laugh as you walk up to him.

”I’ve been known to get you off in less than that.”

”Tempting,” you smile as you take his hand and pull him up to a sit, ”But I need to freshen up and repack my bag so that I remember to bringe everything.”

”Let’s just test the springs?” he suggests, patting his thigh, and with him sitting like this on the side of the bed, you can’t resist sliding into his lap, straddling his thighs and slinging your arms around his neck. His skin is warm and a little sticky from sweat: after coming ashore, you were packed into a bus which rolled out of the ship alongside you, and the AC had no time to come into full force, so the heat inside the vehicle very nearly killed you.

”Just a quick test run,” you agree, and he pulls you close for a kiss while starting to bounce carefully. You giggle against his lips but are in no way immune to the way the apex of your thighs rub against his crotch when you rock together like this.

”I reckon we can have a good time here later,” Frankie murmurs before trailing kisses along your jawline to your ear. ”We’ll open the window and anyone who dares use that pool at bedtime will regret it.”

He’s referring to the pool right outside your room. Your door goes directly out onto the quad, and you can hear the delighted screams of children who, hopefully, will be in bed by the time you get back from your evening program.

”Everybody in the building will hear us,” you point out with a soft sigh, the heat of the day mixing with the heat Frankie’s stirring up in you. ”I don’t think this hotel has soundproofed rooms. I won’t sleep a wink.”

”We can do other things,” Frankie shrugs before getting up, holding onto you and throwing you down onto the bed before covering you with the entire length of his body.

”It’s too warm!” you protest, but he presses his lips to yours, effectively silencing you, and grinds against you, pressing you into the mattress. You’re pleased to notice that he’s getting hard.

”Yeah, I can work with this,” he states before getting off you as quickly as he pushed you down, and offering you his hand to pull you back up. ”Let’s freshen up and go to work.”

”Here.”

You look up from your camera at Frankie, who’s handing you an water bottle, cap already off.

”You’ve been running around in 79 degree heat for over an hour. You’re dehydrated.”

”Thanks.” Gratefully, you accept the bottle and take half of it in one go. The bottle is straight from the cornershop: cold and refreshing in the heat.

Frankie takes the bottle when you return it to him.

”You doing okay?” he asks, and you step close to him to give him a little smack on the lips.

”Am now. Thank you.”

”You’re welcome,” he smiles, and even through the sunglasses, you can see the way his eyes crinkle.

”What time is it?”

”Around six.”

”Christ, already? I have lost track of everything. It’s almost time for dinner. You got your ticket?”

”Yup.”

Without a word, you hand him your camera and turn around, and he puts it into your backpack. You grin at him when turning back to him, and take his hand.

”It’s good to have an assistant.”

”Only here to make your life easier, m’am.”

Hand in hand, you start to walk towards the building where dinner will be served.

”I really can’t.”

It’s closing in on 11 pm and you’re finally in bed, fresh out of the shower and crashing hard. Not even Frankie’s roaming hands and the idea of ”trying out” the bed can keep you awake.

”I figured.” Frankie kisses your shoulder. ”You need sleep. Tomorrow is a long one.”

You murmur something affirmative, eyes falling shut. Finding his hand under the covers, you clasp it lightly and settle in.

Despite being tired, however, you notice after a while that you’re too tightly wound up still. You try to turn onto your other side, Frankie fitting himself to you when you do, but it doesn’t work.

”Babe?” you finally whisper.

”M-hmm?”

”I think I could use a little orgasm to help me sleep.”

His arm around you tightens a little.

”Is that so?”

”Yeah. But I’m as dry as a tinderbox, it would be a lot of work, I’m afraid?”

He nuzzles your neck. ”Never too much work for me, my love.”

You roll onto your back and accept his sweet kiss before he moves down your body, casting the covers aside while peeling your pj pants off.

”Go ahead, say it.” You grin at Frankie, who smirks back.

”Say what?” His tone is perfectly innocent.

”You know what.”

”I told you that you need to pack a cardigan.”

”There, thank you, yes, you told me, and I didn’t because it’s gonna be hot all weekend, but you said we’re going to the archipelago, and so you packed one, and lo and behold – ”

”It’s really windy and cold this morning,” Frankie finished your sentence, but he’s not being smug about it, at least not annoyingly so. And he did tell you so, told you when you were packing that you’re going out to a tiny kingdom of islands, and that it’s probably going to be windy at some point. You vehemantly resisted the idea of bringing a piece of clothing that you probably wouldn’t need, so Frankie pretty much shoved one of your favorite cardigans, one that goes with most of your other clothes, into your suitcase. And even if you’re not exactly freezing this morning when you’re on a boat ferry on your way to another, smaller island, the gale and the heavy clouds in the sky are a far cry from last night’s heatwave temperatures. You’re a lot more comfortable with the cardigan, that’s for sure.

The ferry ride is barely a half hour long, and there’s a small cafeteria on the ferry, but you and Frankie, and maybe two dozen other travelers stand on the sun deck and look over the dark sea and surrounding islands. He has his arms around you and even if you’ve slept too little and are worried about your energy levels for the day that’s promising to be a very long one, you feel good about Frankie being with you. He has your back, right now very literally: he’s standing right behind you, arms around you, keeping you warm and safe.

The day starts off with orientation around the small island community, before the musicians scatter into different directions for practice, workshops, and concerts. You walk around for an hour, taking photos and notes, talking to people and getting the vibe of the place. The sun finally breaks through and you can put away the cardigan, applying sunscreen instead and putting on your hat to protect your face.

After lunch, you take a little break to enjoy yourself, attending a workshop for singing sea shanties. The leader, an accomplished folk musician specialized in shanties, has rigged up a rope in a tree. After an introduction, you join other participants in pulling the rope in rhythm to the responses you sing out to the shantyman’s call. It’s a lot of fun, and very different from anything you’ve done before. The chance of participation is also a very welcome break from just being an onlooker.

When the workshop is over, you’re wearing a huge smile as you join Frankie again. You noticed that he took both pictures and video, and you know that he’s probably already sent a clip to the group chat he has with the guys, probably accompanied by some horribly cheezy line about what his girl is capable of.

”You looked good,” he compliments you. ”Very strong and sailor-like.”

You scoff in good fun, taking out the water bottle from your backpack for a sip. Frankie glances around before stepping closer to you and mumbling into your ear:

”Maybe we should try that rhythm in bed? Heave a-way, haul a-way…

You almost choke on the water as you laugh.

”Who would be the caller?”

”Duh,” Frankie rolls his eyes, ”You, obviously. You’re the one with the experience now. You’ll just do the screaming, telling me what to do, and I’ll heave away.”

You feel a short burst of heat inside you at the thought, and Frankie snickers.

”You’re blushing. Let’s go get ice cream.”

It’s close to midnight when you finally get to leave the festival venue and walk the short distance to the hotel. The Saturday night is cool and calm, and you’re so tired that you’ve gone non-verbal. The mere thought of having to wash off your makeup and take a short shower to get all the sticky sweat rinsed off is almost too much, but once you reach the hotel room, Frankie quietly takes off your clothes. You manage the rest by yourself before you stumble into bed, this time really too tired for sex.

”I wanna learn how to play the fiddle,” you murmur into the pillow before you’re out like a light.

The next morning you allow yourself a little sleep-in, only because the shitty motel serves Sunday breakfast one hour later. Still tired and unable to think about the day ahead, you and Frankie take your breakfasts along with the other earlier risers, before retiring back to your room. As Frankie packs his few belongings, you try to make sense of the morning’s programme.

”So there’s a bunch of people going to another island again for a fiddler’s sermon at the local church, we’re definitely not going on that one, and then there’s just random people playing in random spots in the vicinity. We have checkout at noon, and the bus leaves for the harour at 1:15, from downtown.”

”Okay, you gonna do some more documenting?”

You sigh and put down the itinerary. You’re all socialized out, still tired and feeling extremely drained, and it’s hard to plan.

”I don’t know… I think I’ll just listen to some of the playing and make up the rest in my field report.”

”Atta girl. Wanna do some sightseeing? You said you were interested in the museum of cultural history?”

”I don’t know…” You can’t think, dread walking around but also sitting still. The long stretch of over five hours on a cruise ship back to the mainland during the afternoon and early evening feels overwhelming.

Frankie sees your exhaustion, and takes the itinerary from you.

”Let’s see… okay, so there’s going to be playing in the park right next to here, why not go there? Then check out, put our suitcases on the bus, walk downtown to get a little stretch, then get on the bus there as it leaves for the harbour.”

”I really should work at least a little…” you mumble, but your thoughts are already straying to your knitting project.

”You’ve worked enough, and you’re still going to write your report on the way back. Let’s just take it easy for now.”

You gratefully accept his idea, and start to pack up your own stuff.

It is with a deep sigh of relief that you come on board the ship back to the mainland. Frankie immediately takes the reins and steers you down the stairs.

”Where are we going, the restaurants are up one level?” you ask, still too dazed to really care. You’re stuck on this ship for hours anyway.

”We’re getting a cabin,” he tells you. ”You’re exhausted, you need to be away from people.”

”Oh, okay,” is all that you can say. You thought you’d be cheap and get away without a cabin, but you can settle the expense with Frankie later. As you wait in line to the info desk, you duck into the ladies right next to it. When you come out again, Frankie’s holding a key card and looking pleased.

”How far down are we?” you ask, expecting the below-the-car-deck tiny wardrobe that usually is within your price range. Frankie just guides you to the elevator with a hand on the small of your back. You look at him again when you’re about to hit the right button, but the elevator fills with people and you don’t see which button he presses. The elevator goes down several floors, letting people off, but Frankie keeps you where you are.

”Frankie, where are we going?” you ask when the elevator goes up to the 12th level. When the doors open, you look at Frankie with big, round eyes. He can’t keep his face straight anymore.

”I got us a suite.”

”You did what?” you gape. Frankie gently pushes you out of the elevator and looks around for the right numbers, then directs you to the right.

”I got you a suite,” he corrects himself. ”You need to rest, baby, and I want you to do it in luxury.”

You’re at a loss for words, just following him to the right door that he unlocks and opens, inviting you to go first.

The suite is elegantly and peacefully decorated with a king-size bed, a lounge corner, a huge bathroom and an infrared sauna. You just stare around you, trying to understand what it is you’re seeing. What your man is treating you to.

”I think it’ll get us by for the next five hours, don’t you?” he asks a little shyly, and you look up at him.

”Frankie… this thing’s three hundred bucks. For five hours.”

”And you deserve it. You worked so hard this weekend, baby, and I know you’re going to spend tomorrow’s train ride writing your report. And we’re not going anywhere on holiday this summer. This is self care, nothing else.”

You shake your head and blink away the tears. ”Thank you. This is… you’re the best.”

”You’re welcome,” he says gently, pulling you in for a hug and a kiss. ”Let’s rest for a bit, then go find a restaurant, and then come back here and kick our shoes off.”

About ninety minutes later, you’re on your back in the soft bed, the clean white linen soft and nice against your naked skin. Frankie’s buried to the hilt in you, slowly fucking you, kissing you over and over again. You let your hands travel all over his back, down to his ass cheeks, pressing him deeper inside, moaning into his mouth when he hits some deep, intense place inside your core. He murmurs sweet nothings into your ear and thrusts harder a couple of times, smiling devilishly at your whimpers. He then resumes his slow but resounding pace, hiding his face in the crook of your neck. You sigh out a moan before your brain makes a connection, and you start to giggle.

”What?” Frankie slurs, and you draw a deep breath before blaring out a resounding:

”Heave a-way, haul a-way!”

Frankie joins you in your laughter, propping himself up onto his elbows.

”Give me a rhythm,” he chuckles, ”and I’ll stick to it until you cum.”

You try, god knows you try, but you’re laughing too hard. When you finally calm down, you pull him down over you for a kiss.