Geez, Louise!

It’d been raining all day and the clouds still looked heavy as the afternoon moved into evening. You shivered in your wet clothes, the thin windbreaker jacket you wore had been soaked through for hours, and everything on your body was wet from the rain. But you pushed forward, putting one foot in front of the other, feeling the wet socks squish in your trainers. Stopping here was not an option, you might as well just give up and die if you tried to survive a night in the cold rain. 

The goal was a small cluster of cabins down by a lake. You’d seen them from a rise earlier in the day, and you’d been walking in their general direction for an hour now, hoping you’d make it before nightfall. As the trees thinned out, and the remains of a broken fence came into view, you breathed a sigh of relief. 

The cabins were strewn across the shores of the small lake, a holiday resort before the outbreak. Now they were in various states of disrepair, dilapidated and crumbling. Most of them had broken roofs, or crumbling walls, but a few, those more protected from the elements, seemed to have fared better. 

There was always a risk of infected, but you were banking on them having wandered away from this area by now. And hopefully the cabins were remote enough not to have attracted other people, fear made you tread carefully over the wet ground towards them. But you were unarmed, had no supplies, and knew you were dead if you didn't find shelter and food soon, so, biting back your fear, you moved closer. 

As quietly as you could, you made your way towards one of the more sturdy looking cabins. The roof was whole, the shutters closed, and as far as you could see, the walls were intact. Wary of infected or other humans, you gingerly put your foot on the first step up to the porch. 

The broken screen door of the cabin swung open, a shotgun barrel pointed at your chest. 

“Back up,” a man growled, his body and face hidden in the shadow of the cabin, only his hands on the gun visible. 

Your breath hitched in fright, and you stumbled back a few steps, putting your hands up. 

“Pl..pl..please,” you stuttered, from fear and cold, “I’m just looking for shelter.” 

“Go find it somewhere else,” the man snarled, and motioned to the forest with his gun. 

“Pl..please, I can’t,” you whimpered, “I need shelter.” 

“I should shoot you right now, you’re shaking like you’re about to turn into a runner any second,” the man lifted his shotgun and aimed down the barrel at your chest. 

“I’m-I’m not infected,” you said through chattering teeth, “I’m cold. I’m soaked, and I’ve walked for four days without anything but water." 

You put out your hand at the man and held it as steady as possible, “Please” you sobbed, your shoulders heaving under a ragged breath. 

“Try one of the other cabins,” the man finally relented, “I checked them when I arrived, they’re empty.” 

“Please, do you have any food to spare?” 

You wrapped your arms tight around your body as the man started to retreat through the door. 

“No,” he growled, closing the broken screen door. 

You drew a deep breath, clenching your hands into fists, wrapping your arms tighter. 

“I’ll have sex with you," you pressed out, "if you give me food.” 

The man behind the screen door pushed it open again, and stepped out onto the porch, into the fading light, with an angry look.

“Do I look like the kind of man who buys sex with food?” he snarled at you, “Trade something else.” 

“Does it look like I have anything else to trade?” you spat back at him, gesturing at yourself, “I lost my supplies and my group a week ago, I have nothing but the clothes I stand in. I’m starving, and if you have food to spare, then all I have to trade is sex.”

You glared at each other for a few seconds before you seemed to falter and shrink. 

“I’ll go, I’ll go to one of the other cabins. I’ll leave at first light, you won’t see me again," you said, your voice defeated, as you started moving towards the next cabin. 

The man watched you go, silently cursing under his breath. 

“Wait,” he called after you, “wait there.” He stepped inside the door frame and reached for something just out of sight and came back out, “Here, have this.” He tossed a can of peaches that you caught with a surprised look. 

You grabbed the tab and pulled it open, eagerly drinking the sweet juice that spilled out. 

“Take it easy, take it easy,” the man called to you, “You’ll make yourself sick if you haven’t eaten in that long.” 

You took the can from your mouth and wiped it with the back of your hand as you looked up at him. 

“Thank you,” you said. 

“Yeah, just don’t go turning in the night and make me waste that can on you.”

The man closed the screen door again, and you heard him close the front door too, something heavy sliding in place behind it. 

You scooped up half a peach from the can, and made your way to the cabin next door, pushing your way past the front door that stood slightly ajar. As the man had said, it was empty, only a few pieces of half rotted furniture remained. With a sigh you sank down on the floor in the most sheltered corner of the living room. 

Joel woke the next morning, looking around the unfamiliar cabin and the gear tucked in behind his head. He hadn’t planned on stopping here, but the rain had been relentless, and made it hard to hear anyone approaching on the trail he’d been on. He’d been through these cabins before, looted anything of use, and now they were just a convenient stop for shelter, tucked away out of sight from the trail a mile away. 

The rain had stopped overnight but the low light filtering through the window shutters signalled that the sky was still overcast. Pushing himself up with a groan, he stretched his aching back, and picked up his gun. Before anything else he needed to check on the woman from last night, to see if she’d moved on or turned infected. 

Hitching up his backpack, he carefully opened the door and peered out through the screen door. The world outside was quiet in the dim morning light, water dripping from the roof, and the trees surrounding the cabins. Silently he stepped out onto the porch and surveyed the surrounding area before walking down the stairs and moving over to the next cabin a short distance away. 

The shutters on this one weren't closed, Joel knows they’re hanging slightly ajar because he was the one to pry them off the first time he was here, looking for a way into the locked cabin. Now he moved closer to the window, edging up to it so that he could peer into the gloom of the room. In the furthermost corner he saw you curled up, knees drawn to your chest, and arms wrapped around your legs. The windbreaker is spread out over one of the pieces of furniture, a puddle of water underneath it. 

Joel watched you for a few minutes, trying to discern if you were still alive or not. Your face was drawn, pinched even as you slept, and he couldn’t tell if you're breathing or not.

Hiding himself from view, he peered through a crack in the shutter hanging on the side, and lightly tapped the window pane. You didn't move, and he tapped it again, a little bit harder. Your eyes flew open, and you stared towards the window. For a minute or more, you didn't move, and Joel held his breath, getting ready to take you out. But then you started to get to your feet. The movements were smooth, a little stiff, but not the jittery cramps of the infected. You still watched the window warily as you grabbed the windbreaker and tied it around your waist before you hunched down and retied your boots.  

Joel watched you rub your hands along your arms, trying to bring warmth to them, as you looked around the living room. You really had no supplies, there was no bag, no weapon, and Joel cursed himself silently as he realised what he was about to do.

"Should’ve just fucking left right away," he mumbled to himself.

“Come outside,” he called, and you jumped, crying out and stumbling back against the wall, “Don’t be scared, I’m the guy from last night, I’m not going to hurt you.”

Joel walked around the cabin to the front door and tapped on it before stepping off the porch again. He pointedly hung his shotgun on his back and waited. He noticed the empty can of peaches sitting on the stairs, full of rainwater.

After a few minutes you cautiously peeked out through the door, only your nose showing. 

“C’mon, you obviously didn’t turn in the night and I’m not gonna hurt you,” he said again, trying to sound reassuring. 

You stepped out further through the door, and stood at the top of the stairs, looking around with apprehension. In the daylight Joel could see the bags under your eyes, the skin dull and lifeless, starting to take on the complexion of the many starving, or near starving, people he’d seen in the QZ. You licked your chapped lips, and as you wrapped your arms around yourself again he saw a shiver run through your frame as the breeze hit your sweater. 

Joel pulled his backpack off and opened the top flap, pulling out a hoodie. It was his spare and was pretty worn, but it was dry and warm. He held it out to you. 

“Here, take this for now, it’s dry and I can see that you’re still freezing.” 

“Why?” you asked, not moving from the porch. 

“Just take it, I’m not asking you for anything,” Joel took a few steps towards you and shoved the hoodie into your hands, and you baulked back from him but grabbed the hoodie. 

Joel stepped back again, to his backpack, and pulled out a granola bar, and threw it to you as well. 

“And eat this, you look like you’re about to keel over at any second.” 

You slowly picked up the granola bar from where it had landed on the porch without taking your eyes off him, and retreated back into the cabin. He could hear you move around, and after a few minutes you came out again with his hoodie on, chewing on the bar. Picking up the peach can, you sipped on the water collected inside, and Joel realised you'd put it out on purpose last night.

Smart.

You were drowning in his hoodie, it reached half way down your thighs, and you’d rolled the arms up. You gave him a cautious look from the porch, “Thank you."

“You’re welcome,” Joel replied, and you stared at each other for a few seconds. Joel was uncertain about what he should do next. He didn’t really want to leave his spare hoodie with you, but now that he’d given it to you he could hardly ask for it back straight away. But he was also reluctant to offer you to come with him on the next part of his journey to Bill and Frank’s. 

"I'm heading to a small settlement a few hours away," he said, reluctantly making up his mind, "And then back to the Boston QZ. I'll take you there."

"Why?" you asked again, and he sighed.

"Because I'm not a complete ass hole, and now you're wearing my hoodie, and I'd like it back at some point."

You still looked apprehensive, so he put out his hand to you.

"I promise, I'm not going to hurt you, but you can walk away now if you want to."

It took a few more moments, but then you stepped off the porch and took his hand, giving it a brief shake. You knew you had very little choice, on your own it was a miracle that you'd survived this long, and without him, you'd most likely be dead sooner rather than later.

When his rough fingers closed around yours, they were warm and dry, and it lingered on your hand after you'd let go. It had been weeks since you'd been properly warm, and more months than you cared to remember, since you'd felt touch of another human that wasn't hostile.

"Thanks," you said, tucking your hands into the sleeves of his hoodie to keep the warmth, "I'm-"

"Don't tell me," he cut you off, "I'm taking you to Boston QZ, I don't want to know more than that."

"O-oh ok," you nodded, but he'd already turned and was walking away between the derelict cabins.

"Stay close, make as little noise as possible, and if you see infected, run."

"Won't they catch us?" you asked, falling in line behind him.

"Maybe, but they don't run faster than humans, so running and hiding is always the best choice if you can't kill them all."

"Can't you shoot them?" you asked, and he threw a look back at you.

"And attract every infected nearby? That's a sure fire way of getting yourself killed."

"Oh…"

He didn't say anything more, and you followed him in silence as he entered the woods, back towards the trail you'd come on.

The woods weren't quiet, but your companion, or escort, was. Birds were singing around you, and there was a steady drip from the trees after last night's rain. The walking, and the hoodie, warmed you up, and after a while not even the wet feeling in your shoes bothered you too much. It felt safe walking behind this broad backed man with his shotgun slung over his shoulder, a knife in his belt, and a world of supplies in the heavy back pack. He looked dangerous, and you hadn't doubted his threat last night. But for now at least, he was on your side, and it made you feel safer. And the warmth of his hand still lingered like a phantom touch on your skin as you buried your nose into the soft fabric of the well worn hoodie and inhaled his scent.

Another two hours in, and the morning sun broke through the clouds, lifting your spirits even more. Your stomach grumbled though, loudly, and he turned around and glanced over his shoulder at you.

"Sorry," you whispered, but he slowed his step and came alongside you.

"We'll be at the settlement in about an hour, and I know they'll feed you. Can you hold out until then?"

You nodded, "Yeah, what's another hour after four days?"

His eyes scanned the surrounding countryside as the woods thinned out and the road came out into empty fields, but seeing no threat, he looked back at you.

"What happened?" he asked, digging into a side pocket of his backpack and producing a small parcel. Waiting for your answer, he unfolded it and handed you a slice of dried meat.

You took it gratefully and ripped a chunk from it, chewing to make the tough beef soften as you considered how much to tell this stranger. Deciding it wouldn't make any difference what he knew, everyone was dead anyway, you shrugged.

"You know Richmond? Small settlement with people who left the Albany QZ."

He nodded, "Yeah, I heard it was run by Fireflies."

"It was, but raiders attacked about six months ago and took over, made a base. They killed anyone who resisted, the rest of us were made to work for them. Myself and three others managed to run away when they used us to dig a new field outside the town fences."

"How?"

"Infected are useful sometimes," you said, giving him a crooked smile, "A couple of them attacked, and in the chaos we slipped away. But one of the men, Jerry, got bit and tried hiding it, so Amir had to kill him the first night. Lisa broke her ankle when she tried running from Jerry, so we had to leave her behind. I'm pretty sure she'd been bit too though. And then Amir just left the third night, I don't know why," you shrugged, "He had the second watch and when I woke up he was gone. Maybe the raiders got him. Maybe he turned back."

"How far back was this?" he asked, and you had to pause and think.

"We left Richmond six days ago, I think I covered ten, maybe fifteen miles per day? Less when I ran out of food."

He nodded, doing the calculations in his head, "Seventy, maybe seventy-five miles then. We should be out of their range, unless they're really fucking determined to get you back."

You scoffed, chewing on the meat again, "Hardly. Me dead in the forest was their preferred outcome. I was on field duty because I pissed off the wrong guy."

Joel glanced over at you again with raised eyebrows, in your half starved, pitiful state, you didn't look like someone who'd mouth off against a raider.

"What did you do?" he asked, and you shrugged.

"I may have pointed out that he was hung like a baby carrot and two peas…."

Joel chuckled, "Smart move."

"Yeah, not my brightest moment…but it felt good at the time."

You bit off another piece of jerky and chewed it while he scanned the surroundings again.

"It almost got me killed though," you said, as an after thought, "And no-"

"Quiet."

His voice was low, and you froze mid-sentence, snapping your mouth shut. Up ahead was a cluster of trees, and from them you now heard the tell tale sound of a clicker. Joel grabbed your arm and pulled you to the side with a firm hand, his eyes never leaving the trees. Stepping into the ditch on the side of the road, he signalled for you to crouch down and stay out of sight. Doing as he said, you ducked down low into the long grass.

"Stay here," he mouthed, and you nodded.

Staying low, he stepped up out of the ditch, and you watched him disappear over the edge as he took the shotgun from his shoulder.

Birds were still chirping in the sky above you as you waited, a couple of sparrows taking up their interrupted song nearby in the long grass. Straining your ears, you tried to hear the clicker, or the man's footsteps, but all you heard were the birds. You didn't even know his name yet, and he'd saved your life last night, probably twice by giving you some food and pointing you towards shelter. And here you were, hiding in the long grass while he risked his life. You guessed he wasn't doing this for you, more likely that he didn't want random clickers where he usually walked. But still, he could die in the next few moments, and you didn't even know his name.

In the distance you heard the sounds of the clicker, that whining, raspy sound they made as they stumbled blind through the world. You wondered how the man would handle the clicker, especially if he didn't want to use the gun. Close combat with them was dangerous, maybe he just wanted to make sure there was only one, and then come back so that you could avoid it. Nervously you tried to peer over the edge of the ditch, trying to see anything. The long grass swayed and obstructed your view, but a flicker of movement caught your eye. Suddenly you realised that the birds had gone silent around you.

Holding your breath without realising, you slowly pushed upwards. Just up ahead, moving towards the cluster of trees, was another infected, a stalker. It was crouched down in the long grass, almost hidden from view as it moved with quick, sly movements.

Cursing under your breath, you carefully climbed up the side of the ditch. Were you really about to risk your life for this guy you didn't even know?

The stalker was creeping along in front of you, and its slow movements meant it hadn't spotted the man yet, but if he made any noise killing the clicker, it would go for him in an instant. And the worst thing about stalkers was that people usually didn't see them coming.

The grass was still wet from the rain of the past few days, and it muffled your footsteps as you crept along behind it. It slipped into the small forest, and you hurried your step to not lose it. There was an old abandoned house, the roof half collapsed, and a barn among the trees, overgrown and covered in vines, and you saw the stalker slip in through a broken first floor window of the house, and out of sight.

"Fuck," you breathed, stopping, unsure what to do. There was no sign of your companion or the clicker, and you couldn't hear anything either. Going into the house after the stalker was out of the question, too many places for it to hide and ambush you. But you needed to see what was going on, and warn the man.

Looking around you spotted a storage building up against the house, just low enough for you to climb onto and then shimmy up onto the roof of the house. An infected could certainly climb that too, but as long as you were quiet, you'd be able to see without being seen.

You were holding your breath again as you carefully made your way towards the storage building, trying to watch both your back, the window where the stalker had disappeared, and keep an eye out for anyone, or anything, coming around the corner. Stepping onto the door handle, you pulled yourself up, biting into your lips as you tried to move as quietly and quickly as possible. You were a sitting duck with your legs dangling over the edge, and when the rubber of your sneakers scuffed against the shingles, you froze in place.

Nothing moved, the birds in the trees above you were back at their chirping, and you took that as a good sign. Gingerly you stepped across the small storage roof and grabbed the next ledge. This one was easier, you climbed up, rolled onto your back, and waited a few moments. 

All silent.

Carefully getting to your feet, you crouched down and moved over the roof, praying the rest of it wouldn't collapse under you as it took your weight. The chimney that stood in the middle looked stable enough, and you slowly made your way over to it as you tried to spot your unknown companion in the yard beneath. When a shriek suddenly went up, cutting through the air, you nearly lost your balance, and you grabbed the chimney, heart pounding. From the barn across the yard came the sound of something breaking, and the door flew open, the man stumbling out. He took a few steps, and then bent forward, hands on knees as he drew a deep breath.

Relief flooded you as you saw him, but you didn't dare call out to him. Instead you shuffled forward on the sloping roof, waving your hands over your head.

"Up here!" you hissed, "Up here!"

He must've heard something, because he straightened up and grabbed the shotgun off his shoulder as you waved again. It flew up and aimed at you, but he dropped it again as you waved a second time.

"Stalker! Stalker!" you mouthed, pointing down at the house beneath you, "In. The. House!"

He understood you this time, and levelled the gun at the front door. Moving slowly forward, he disappeared from view under the eaves. On your hands and knees you crawled towards the broken edge of the roof. There was no sign of the stalker as you looked down over the half rotted away second floor, a crumbling staircase leading down to the first floor. There was a slight squeak from below, but you couldn't see who'd, or what, had made the noise. Shuffling around the edge, you changed your position, and you spotted your companion, his back against you. He was moving towards the half closed kitchen door, gun raised, and just as he pushed it open, you heard the scuffling of the stalker across the floor beneath you. It was straight under you, but the man hadn't heard it, he was slowly walking towards the kitchen, and the stalker was quickly moving towards the stairs.

You opened your mouth to warn him, and then it all happened too fast.

A second stalker flew out from the kitchen, straight at the man, and the gun went off, the shot going wide as the stalker barrelled at him. They tumbled to the floor, and the first stalker reached the stairs as you jumped without thinking. The thump of your feet landing on the landing sent a shockwave through your knees, but you managed to stay upright as the stalker whipped around to face you. You could only see its head and shoulders above the ledge of the landing, but the fungus growing out of its head and neck seemed to reach out for you as the infected stared at you for a beat.

Somewhere a second gun shot rang out, and the stalker launched itself at you. You kicked out, pushing it back to avoid the snapping mouth, and it came at you again. It grabbed your hoodie, pulling itself closer, and you narrowly missed the teeth as it went for your neck. Desperately you tried to kick it again, it was much stronger than its slight shape would suggest, and you could feel your own strength failing, the grotesque, contorted face coming closer to your own with each second.

Suddenly it was yanked back, pulled off you, and as you scrambled away, the man, your companion, threw it to the floor and bashed the butt of the shotgun through its head, once, then twice, until it lay still.

The next few minutes were a haze. He pulled you to your feet, dragging you from the house and back outside. Your hands were shaking, your whole body was trembling as his hand held hard onto your wrist, tugging you along. Stumbling, you almost fell, but he pulled you up, and got you moving again.

It could've been just a few minutes, or it could've been an hour, you weren't sure when he finally stopped and set you down on a log hidden among thick bushes. You blinked a couple of times as shrugged out of his jacket and ran his hands over his forearms and neck.

"Take it off," he ordered you, and you had to shake your head a few times before the words sank in. He was already pulling at the hoodie, helping you out of it as you realised what he was doing.

"I-I think I'm ok," you mumbled, but he didn't stop. Tossing the hoodie to the side, he grabbed your hands and pushed up your sleeves, turning your arm in his big hands. His hands were dry, and warm, and your hazy mind couldn't stop thinking about how they were still dry while you were soaked in cold sweat.

He dropped your arms and put his hand on your neck, tilting your head back as his fingers ran across your skin. It made you tingle, the touch leaving trails across your neck, and it felt good, which was such a strange thought to have right now. You snorted out, a half choked giggle, and he let go of your neck.

"What's so funny?" he asked, staring down at you with a deep frown between his brown eyes, and it made you laugh again.

"We almost died," you said, another giggle bubbling up, "And all I can think about is how good your hands feel."

His eye brows flew up into his hair line at that, and he looked at you like you were out of your mind.

"Maybe it's the shock, or no food," you said, tampering down another bout of laughter, drawing a deep breath, "But it's been a long while since someone touched me, and I guess…near death and everything…"

He didn't reply for a moment, just looked down at you as his jaw ticked, something strained in his eyes.

"We need to move," he said eventually, picking up his hoodie and handing it back to you, "Got another hour to go."

A man with a big beard came down the street towards you as you finally reached a small town surrounded by a tall chain wire fence. Your companion punched in a code to the gate, making sure you didn't see it, and let you through as the other man waited half a block away, a rifle slung over his shoulder.

You watched him with trepidation as you followed your companion up to him.

"Who's this? You didn't say anything about bringing company," the man said, "I thought we had clear rules about this kind of thing, Joel."

"I know, Bill," he replied, "I'm taking her to Boston QZ tomorrow, we just need to crash here tonight. I'll pay you extra for your trouble."

"It ain't about the trade, I don't allow strangers here, and you know it."

The man, Bill, looked like he was ready to turn you away, and your companion, who you now knew was called Joel, sighed.

"She's starving and-"

"Hello, Joel, good to see you!"

A second man was jogging down the street, wearing running gear, and clearly sweating from his exercise. He stopped next to Bill, and held out his hand to you with a friendly smile.

"Hi, I'm Frank. It's so nice to see a new face around this pla-"

"She's not staying," Bill cut off, "Joel knows the rules."

"What rules? He's never brought anyone else. What's saying he can't bring someone he trusts?"

Frank was still smiling at you, and you gave him a small smile back from behind Joel's back. It felt safer to stay there while the other guy, Bill, was glaring at both you and Joel.

"You look hungry and tired," Frank said, ignoring Bill's open mouth, as if the decision had already been made, "C'mon inside, we've got hot water and I bet you'd love a shower."

You glanced up at Joel, who nodded, "Go with Frank, I'll explain to Bill."

Frank beamed at Joel, and waved you forward, "C'mon then."

As you followed him into the house, you heard Joel's voice behind you.

"She's unarmed, and half-starved, Bill. But she still took on a stalker to save me…"

The rest was lost as the front door closed behind you, and Frank put his hand on your shoulder, leading you towards a staircase.

"There's a guest bedroom upstairs, it's en suite. Take as much time as you want, we've got plenty of hot water, and there's soap and shampoo in there too. I'll get you some clean clothes and put them on the bed for you."

"Th-thanks," you stuttered as he opened the door to a bedroom with flowery wallpaper.

"Don't say anything, I've been where you are, and Bill saved me. I'm just paying it forward," he smiled, "Now, come downstairs when you're ready, and we’ll get some food ready for you both.” 

With that, he left you to it, and you had to pause for a minute to take in your situation. The room was so well kept it looked untouched by the outbreak, as if you'd stepped back in time to a normal afternoon without cordyceps and infected. Somewhere nearby a door opened and closed, and you heard voices moving through the house, Frank calling for Bill, asking where the boxes with women's clothes were.

Stepping into the en suite, you locked the door, and peeled off your clothes before turning on the shower. It was impossible to not moan when the hot water hit your body. It felt like years of grime and sweat rinsed down the drain as you scrubbed your skin and hair. When your skin tingled from all the scrubbing, and you finally felt clean, you just stood under the stream of hot water, relishing the feel of normalcy.

A knock on the shower room door pulled you back to reality, and you grabbed a towel, turning off the water.

Joel cleared his throat outside the door, and knocked again.

"Sorry, I'm just checking on you, you've been a while."

His voice was low, and he cleared his throat again as you fumbled with the lock.

"I lost track of time," you apologised, opening the door, and Joel stepped back, his eyes drifting down over the towel you'd wrapped around yourself, before snapping back up. You could see his Adam's apple bob as he swallowed, clearing his throat a third time.

"Just wanted to make sure you were alright," he said, "Frank said he's put out clothes for you, and dinner is ready in five."

"Thanks," you replied, leaning against the door frame as you wiped water from your face, "The shower was amazing, I feel human again."

Joel nodded, and shifted his weight from one foot to another, his hands twitching by his side.

"I…I never said thank you," he finally said, "For saving my life. And risking your own."

"Oh…" you felt your cheeks heat up as you shrugged, feigning indifference, "I-I mean…you saved me, and I kinda need you alive…?"

He barked a laugh, almost startling you as he chuckled, "Yeah…I guess, but you tried taking on a stalker, that's one hell of a risk."

"I didn't really think about that, in the moment, if I'm honest," you replied, "I kinda just…jumped."

"You're crazy," Joel smiled, his features softening as he looked at you, "Thanks for saving my ass."

You smiled back at him, and the moment seemed to freeze, only his eyes moved as they drifted down to your lips, and your skin burned under his lingering gaze.

"You should put some clothes on," he finally said, his voice a low whisper as his eyes dragged across your still damp skin, coming up to meet your eyes again.

You nodded, your voice stuck in your throat, and Joel backed away, turning to the bedroom door. 

It took you a few moments to gather yourself after he'd left, a long exhale escaping you as you walked back into the bathroom to dry off.

There was a full selection of clothes on the bed, courtesy of Frank, and you had to wonder where they were all from. Jeans, skirts, dresses, t-shirts, cute tops, hoodies, even clean underwear and socks, it was all there. Putting on jeans, and a t-shirt, you tied a hoodie around your waist, and made your way downstairs in search of the kitchen.

The other man, Bill, was standing at the foot of the stairs, looking at you as you came down, and something told you he was standing guard. Joel appeared behind him in the doorway, his hair damp now, and in a fresh shirt. He must've taken a much quicker shower than you.

"Dinner's ready," Bill told both of you, and held out his hand, pointing you towards a set of double doors.

Joel gestured for you to walk in first, putting himself between you and Bill, and you were relieved when you saw Frank already sitting at the head of a dining table with a bright smile.

"There you are! Come on, sit down here, and Bill will bring out the food," he said, waving you towards a chair next to him. Joel sat down opposite you.

"I forgot to say, you're welcome to take any clothes you might need, and we've got spare back packs you can have too. Seeing as you seem to have turned up with nothing but the clothes on your back," Frank said, pouring water for everyone.

"Thank you," you said, "You're really generous, and the shower was incredible, it felt so good."

"I know what you mean," Frank smiled, "When I first came here I hadn't showered or eaten in days. That first shower was the best I've ever had."

A door at the end of the room swung open, and Bill walked in, carrying two plates that he set down on the table, one for you and one for Joel.

"It's just stew," he said, "But it'll give you some energy back. And there's bread."

"I made it," Frank beamed, holding out a basket filled with soft looking rolls, and you gratefully took one. Frank immediately put a second one on your plate, "Eat slow, but make sure you fill up properly. The food in the QZ isn't that great."

"I know," you replied, wrinkling your nose as you tore open the roll and inhaled the rich smell of the stew, "I was at the Albany QZ for years, the food was always terrible no matter how hard we tried to grow crops. Not even the Fireflies could get the food production up and running properly."

Further down the table Bill scoffed. He'd brought in two new plates, one for Frank and one for himself, and had just sat down opposite Frank.

"Fireflies are only good for blowing things up," he said, "Feeding people is another thing."

"I've lived in a regular QZ, and then with the Fireflies, and then we were taken over by raiders. The Fireflies at least tried to make things better," you objected, "Beats living in a QZ or with raiders any day."

Bill opened his mouth to say something, but Frank cut him off.

"This stew is really good, Bill. Did you use the spices Joel brought last time?"

Bill nodded, and Frank smiled at you, "Bill's a great chef, but it's getting harder to get hold of spices, especially the stuff we can't grow ourselves. Joel is a great smuggler though."

You glanced over at Joel who was staring down at his stew, fork in hand, and Frank continued on.

"So, tell us about yourself. But only what you feel comfortable sharing of course. If you're anything like Joel I'm guessing you don't share much," he grinned the last part at Joel, who seemed to grunt, and then looked over at you.

It struck you that it was strange how much the passage of time, a shower, and good food, could change your view of a man. When he'd first stepped out onto the porch of the cabin last night, staring at you from behind his shotgun, you'd been too petrified to notice what he looked like. He was just another large, threatening man. When you offered your body to him in exchange for food, you'd only hoped he wouldn't be violent. But now, when you were warm, fed, and safe, he had a magnetic pull on you. His eyes were dark as they looked at you over the edge of his wine glass, dwarfed by his thick fingers, and the memory of how he'd dragged his gaze over your body earlier made your cheeks heat up. You hadn't minded then, and you didn't mind now. It had been a very long time since you were close enough to someone, safe enough, to even consider the feelings that were slowly spreading through your warm limbs, pooling in your core with a promising heat.

 Frank kept the conversation going while you all ate, and you tried to be polite and answer his questions, Joel added a few things, and Bill only replied when Frank said something to him. By the end of the meal he pushed back his chair and said he was doing his security round, and Joel stood up, offering to join him.

The two men disappeared through the front door while you helped Frank clear the table. As you brought the plates into the kitchen, he grabbed them from you, and pointed up the stairs.

"Go to bed, you look like you need a good night's sleep. And don't worry about getting up early tomorrow. I'll talk Joel into letting you stay here another day or two before you head over to Boston."

"Thank you, Frank," you replied, "I'm so grateful, I don't even know what to say, you've been so kind to me."

"Oh, don't say anything," he shook his head, "Just happy to help and to see a new face. We don't get many visitors out here as I'm sure you can imagine. Sleep well."

"Thank you, sleep well too."

You left Frank in the kitchen and made your way upstairs to the bedroom at the end of the landing, the same one you'd had your shower in. There was a soft t-shirt in the pile of clothes that you pulled on to sleep in, brushing your teeth in the bathroom, wondering how the hell Bill and Frank still had real toothpaste. The minty flavour burned your gums but left your teeth feeling cleaner than in a long time.

Pushing back the covers, you crawled into bed and let out a long sigh of contentment. A real bed, a real pillow, and soft sheets…you groaned with pleasure as you burrowed deep into the mattress. This day had really started in a very shitty way, but had turned around, with a few hiccups along the way. You shuddered at the thought of the stalker trying to get to you, pushing the thought to the back of your mind. Just another traumatic memory to ignore in this nightmare world.

But it hadn't been all bad. Joel was an unexpected, and pleasant, new development. And he seemed to have got over his initial suspicion of you, he even seemed protective now. Your mind returned to his eyes on you over dinner, lingering on your lips as they closed around the rim of your glass. His fingers had danced across the rim of his own as you met his gaze, letting your tongue catch a drop in the corner of your mouth as his eyes darkened.

Falling back against the pillow, you drew another deep breath. How far could you take this? Would he want to get that close? You had no qualms about it, it had been a long time, and with a soft bed and full belly, your other needs were starting to wake up. Everything could end tomorrow, so if there was an attractive man who wanted to share your bed tonight, you wouldn't discourage him.

A low knock on your door pulled you from your thoughts, and you sat up.

"Come in," you called, keeping your voice low too.

There was only a small bedside light on in the room, but Joel was holding a candle when he pushed the door open, and it lit up his features.

"Did I wake you?" he asked, "Can I come in?"

"Yeah, come in, I wasn't sleeping," you told him, and he softly closed the door behind him, but he remained by the door.

"I wanted to say good night," he said, and you noticed that he was out of his boots, bare feet on the carpet, a t-shirt stretching tight over his broad shoulders as his empty hand rubbed over his strong thighs. He was dressed for bed, his hair unruly as if he'd pulled his shirt over his head, and then yanked it back down.

"Sit down," you told him, making room on the bed, and you hoped he would take the invitation for what it was, "I wanted to thank you, you saved my life, and you brought me here. And I'm pretty sure you knew Bill wouldn't like it."

He shook his head, but he didn't really mean "no", just an uncomfortable shake as he made his way to your bed and sat down, putting the candle on the bed side table.

"We don't need to talk about it," he said, "It's done, and I wanted to say something else."

He pinned you with those dark eyes again, and your breath caught in your throat as he leaned forward, his leg pressing against yours as he took up more space on your bed.

"You said my hands felt good when I touched you…and I can't stop thinking about how soft your skin was..."

His voice was low, a whisper of roughness in the silent room, as he dropped his head closer to yours.

"I'll leave right now, if you want. But if you want me to stay…

He let the question hang between the two of you for a beat, and you felt the need for him to touch you rush through your limbs at break neck speed, making your hands tremble as you reached for him.

"Stay," you mumbled, pulling him backwards with you without a second thought. And he let out a deep groan as his arm wrapped around your waist and pulled you up the bed, dropping you in the middle.

"I was hoping you'd say that," he mumbled,

He was on his arms above you, filling your field of vision completely as he dragged his gaze down over your body. His hand followed, slipping down over your chest, down over the hem of your t-shirt, and then he reached your skin, sliding his rough fingers over the inside of your thigh, pushing it open under him. The touch made you let out a moan, heat filling your body as you pulled him closer, pulling him down over you. There was no hesitancy now, he was here, offering you exactly what you wanted. And when he slotted himself between your legs, the evidence of his need was hard against your core as he rolled his hips, both of you moaning into the dimly lit room.

He buried his face in the crook of your neck, inhaling deeply as he rolled his hips again, "You feel so good, so soft."

Heavy, and thick, he dragged against your underwear, and you could feel how wet he was making you. Each roll of his hips caught on the bundle of nerves at the apex of your sex, and the friction made you cant your hips, chasing his hard length. Groaning again, he kissed your neck, his tongue licking over your heated skin, scraping with his teeth as he pushed your legs wider underneath him.

"Take off your clothes," you mumbled, tugging at his t-shirt. His fingers were still digging into your soft thigh, and you wanted to feel more of him. The warmth of his hands on your body made you feel light headed with need.  

He pushed up a little, and tugged your shirt over your head in one smooth motion, lifting your arms over your head in the process. Tossing it to the side, he impatiently pulled his own shirt over his head and dropped down over you again. The heat of his body was intoxicating, feeling him cover every part of you with his heavy weight.

"Condoms are hard to come by these days," he said, "but I'll do whatever you're comfortable with."

Wrapping your hands around his wide shoulders, you hooked your legs around his hips, making him roll his hard on against you again. He groaned as you smiled up at him.

"I want you to fuck me, just don't come inside me, and we're good," you replied with a smile, his eyes darkening as you spoke.

"God, you'll kill me," he mumbled, "Do you know how long it's been? I might not make a very good impression…"

"You already feel so good, your body feels so good on mine, Joel," you told him, groaning as he ran his hand over your torso, cupping your breast with his calloused fingers.

He grunted in reply, dipping his head down to your neck, scraping his teeth over your skin. 

"Gonna make you feel even better," he whispered, slipping his hand further down, pushing past the edge of your underwear, thick fingers sliding into your slick heat. You whined as he teased your opening, his thumb finding your clit, dragging over it, and lighting a fire through your body.

"More…" you breathed, "More, please, Joel."

Above you he pushed himself up, off your body, and you looked up at him, protesting at the loss of his body.

"Patience, woman," he growled, reaching down and pulling your underwear off you, tugging them down your legs before he pulled down his own boxers.

You inhaled sharply as his hard cock bobbed free, thick and flushed red between his strong thighs. But he only gave you a moment to admire it, he knelt down and grabbed your thighs, pulling you towards himself as he came down on his elbows, his face between your legs.

"I'm going to make you come on my face before I fuck you," he informed you, "But keep your voice down, Bill hears everything."

Nodding, you bit your bottom lip as you watched his dark eyes trail over your sex, his hands pulling you open, leaning closer, his breath ghosting over your swollen folds. He tested your opening, a finger circling through the wetness, letting it slip in, pushing as he felt your body contract as you moaned. 

"Relax," he hummed, and you felt him kiss your clit, a feather light touch, "I'll give you everything you need."

His tongue dragged across it as he pushed his finger in further, the scrape of his beard across your sensitive skin a sweet contrast to the electricity that was shooting from your core. Keeping silent was becoming difficult, you clapped your hand over your mouth as he pushed a second finger inside you, whining into your palm. The force of your climax was already beginning to build, and he could feel it, curling his fingers, pulling them out as your body tried to keep them tight. When he pushed them in again, he closed his mouth over your clit, smiling into your flesh as he heard your gasp.

"You're so tight, sweetheart," he mumbled, moving above you, his fingers pushing deep, fucking you harder, "So tight and wet, so fucking needy for someone to make you come."

You nodded, reaching for him and tangling your fingers in his hair, "Please…Joel…Joel," you whispered, your voice breathless, and he smiled, lowering his mouth to your clit again.

"Come for me, honey, and I'll fuck you until you come again on my cock," he promised, "So fucking wet, you're just dripping down my hand, and you taste so good, so sweet, my girl."

He was rambling, lost in the feel of you, the taste of you, and as he closed his mouth over your clit again, his tongue circled it in tight movements, his fingers picking up speed as he fucked you on them.

You had to slap your hand over your mouth again, your body bowing up from the bed as it all came crashing down, stars exploding behind your lids as the climax hit. Joel felt it, and dragged his fingers through your cunt as you shook under him, his tongue never stopping its tight circles. You were panting through your nose, fingers tight in his hair, keeping him between your legs until it began to ebb away. A long deep breath escaped you, and you felt your body relax, sinking down into the bed, your hands shaking as you let go of Joel's curls.

Above you, Joel pulled his fingers from your sopping wet sex, and crawled up your body, leaving sticky, warm kisses on your skin, nipping at one nipple, and sucking hard on the other one. You could feel his cock against your thigh, hard and leaking. Joel moved, his hand disappearing between his legs as he grabbed it, and slid it through the slick mess between your thighs. The tip caught against your sensitive clit, and you both hissed.

"Let me fuck you," he muttered, his mouth against your ear as he held himself up over you on his elbow, "I need to feel that tight cunt squeeze me, pull me in, you feel so fucking good, sweetheart."

The firm head of his cock dragged through your sex again, the head against your opening, and Joel groaned, a deep growl from his throat, his eyes black as he looked down at you.

Nodding, you reached down and closed your hand around the hard length, helping him push it in, "Fuck me hard, Joel, I want to feel it tomorrow."

With a strained grunt, he drove forward, sinking deep in one smooth stroke, groaning as he bottomed out inside of you. Grabbing behind your knee, he pushed your leg up, opening you up for him as he buried himself against your neck. His hips snapped, picking up speed fast, jolting your body under him as you hooked your feet around his broad back, spreading yourself wide for him. He panted into your ear, and strangled moans mixed with filth poured from him as you felt the coarse curls around his cock graze your clit with every deep stroke.

"Sweetheart…so good, you feel so fucking good," he groaned, "So tight for me, this tight fucking cunt, she'd taking me so well…I want to fill you up, fuck you so full…"

His words turned to panted grunts, his speed picking up as you felt your body contract around his thick length, each snap of his hips driving him deep inside until your world shrank to the way his heavy body was pushing you into the mattress, his broad shoulders over you, his mouth moaning in your ear, the heat of his thick cock buried inside you. 

"Joel…" you cried out, much too loud, but he was past caring. He could feel your cunt squeezing him as your body began to shake. Your teeth bit into his shoulder, and he slammed his cock deep inside over and over, pulled in by your legs and your arms wrapped around him, fucking you through the waves of pleasure as you came around him a second time.

He had to bite his lip to stave off his own release, he could feel it coming, "Let go, let go," he moaned, pushing you away as he wrenched himself from the tight grip of your cunt, grabbing hold of his cock.

It took only a stroke, staring down at your swollen folds, your clit wet from his mouth and your juices, and he came with a deep groan. Falling forward on his hand, he milked himself, covering your thighs and mound with ropes of pearly white cum, gasping for air as his own climax hit.

"Fuck…" he groaned, his hand still stroking his aching cock, softer now, as he watched the last drops fall onto your skin. He couldn't stay upright, collapsing onto you, he felt your arms come around his shoulders again as you pulled him in.

You drew a deep breath, Joel's body heavy on top of your own, warm, solid and real. It felt better than you ever could've imagined, and your body was slowly relaxing, sinking deep into the soft bed. He mumbled something above you, and pushed himself off, but you didn't have the energy to protest. There was movement somewhere in the room and then he came back to the bed, you felt him wipe your body with something soft and damp.

"I made a mess," he muttered, tossing the towel on the floor and looking down at you. You saw his shape between your half closed lids, and held out your hand to him.

"What are you doing? Come back to bed," you mumbled.

"Wasn't sure if you wanted me to stay," he replied, and the tone of uncertainty in his voice made you open your eyes properly and look up at him where he stood. He'd pulled on his boxers and was standing next to the bed with a frown, his left hand twitching as he looked at you.

"I want you to stay, and take off those boxers. We're not done, I just need to sleep first."

You heard him chuckle, and the sound of his boxers sliding off again as you closed your eyes. The bed dipped down next to you.

"Scoot up then," he said, and you shifted over as he pulled the covers over you both. His chest was warm and solid under your head as his arm came up to curl around your shoulders, and you felt his fingers caress your cheek.

"Sleep well," he mumbled, pressing his lips to your forehead.

The End

A/N - I hope you enjoyed this little smutty one shot! I seldom write for Joel but it's always fun to do. Long before Pedro played him, he held such a special place in my heart!

June 22, 2024

The week following the funerals drifted as you’d expect, but the black, hazy mist of grief hijacking your brain didn’t. It stayed stuck like chewing gum on the bottom of your boot, reminding you of it’s presence with each and every step.

Over the course of the last six days, a lot had happened that kept you adequately preoccupied. 

Tommy announced that patrols were being paused indefinitely, news that went down better than he anticipated it would. The reality was that people wanted their loved ones home and safe more than they wanted to know on what was going on outside the walls. The change was received as less of a retreat and more an act of responsible protection from a leader putting his people first. 

In doing so, he appeared to win back some support from certain people who were becoming more dubious of him as their chief in command. It doesn’t necessarily help with your circumstances, but you’re a little relieved to see some of the heat off of Tommy at least.

Then the news arrived that Marco had made it through NAP by the skin of his teeth. Maria divulged some of the information reserved only for the council. His physical evaluation went heavily in his favour and was a deciding factor for many of the council members. Whatever he was living off of out in the wilderness, it kept him in incredible shape and meant that he would be an ideal addition to many jobs around the settlement.

The rest of it was more complex. His recent history of coming from Silver Lake raised some eyebrows as anticipated, but your close proximity with Tommy, the example you’d set in your time here so far and the fact that he and Maria both stand firmly in your corner regarding the recent tensions swayed a lot of them to trust him enough to vote in his favour. He secured six votes. Just like you did. Just enough.

Since his vote, you haven’t seen much of him around. He’s been keeping quiet and largely to himself while trying to find his footing and taking on whatever work he could find without complaint. It’s not like you can blame him, seeing as you did very much the same thing in your early days here, even with your then sprained ankle. The odd time you did see him, you saw that familiar look in his eyes. The look of realising you’ve been saved and wondering if it was even worth it. You keep reminding yourself: Give him time. Let him settle.

At Joel’s suggestion, you started spending more time over at his house, even going as far as bringing Jeremiah along with you in his wheelchair to get him out of the cabin and around other people that weren’t you, which was great until his health took a turn for the worst and you had to leave him in better hands at the medical centre. Every day has been so quiet without the sound of his wet wheezing and the pitter patter of his slippers moving around the kitchen.

You got to witness Ellie finally play through ‘Take On Me’ without mistake for the first time and helped her build targets in the back yard for her to practice archery. Her confidence is beginning to soar even more with every new achievement and it’s evident in the way she walks a little taller.

Observant as always, Joel saw your faint smiles from a distance when you were with her, but it’s what he saw in the empty space that worried him. He’d catch your face between conversations or moments when you thought no one was watching and he’d see it still living inside of you, burrowing deeper and deeper and making itself at home in a part of you only he could see. 

He wasn’t interested in tackling it head on, but in his eyes, it’s a problem he doesn’t know how to fix — and he doesn’t like now knowing how to fix something. At his core, Joel is a problem-solver and a protector. That’s his purpose. He wasn’t about to allow it to take you the way it took him. Not on his watch.

The afternoon sun rays come through Joel’s living room windows in long, honey-coloured slants that reach across the floorboards warming whatever they touch. Outside, the settlement bustles the way it does every Saturday with children playing and laughing and neighbours going about their weekend business.

You’re curled up into the corner of Joel’s couch with your knees pulled up and one of the books from his bookshelf your lap. You’ve spent the last ten minutes reading and re-reading the same page about the murder mystery the book is based on, struggling to absorb the contents in any meaningful way. What you do know is that this is not Joel’s book. It’s not something he would have any interest it. This was clearly gifted, found or just came with the house, and he leaves it there for decoration.

The occasional creak of the floorboards overhead tell you Ellie is still moving around her bedroom. She set herself the task of rearranging her room’s furniture today because she’s bored of the current layout. After so many loud drags of her chest of drawers and bed frame breaking your focus, you close over the book with a frustrated huff and chuck it to your side.

As if he could smell it, Joel appears in the living room doorway a moment later with his forearm leaning against the frame, watching you massaging the prickling heat out of your scalp. He’s spent the day hovering in the background pretending to do small chores, but not enough that you could really have an issue with it. He’s been silently monitoring you, regularly asking if he can get you anything, being there without trying to overwhelm you more.

“Did you hear? Tommy’s got somethin’ on tonight,” he says finally.

Now realising he’s standing there, you turn on the couch and look at him. “Hm? What is it?”

“‘Nother movie night.” He adjusts his weight onto the other hip. “In the hall. Figured it’d be good for everyone. After last week.”

You look back down at the abandoned book next to you on the couch.

“Thought maybe we’d go together.”

The careful casualness in the way he says it tells you that this wasn’t a passing thought. He’s grasping at straws trying to think of a way to shift your mood after co-existing with this energy you’ve brought into his home. As kind as the offer is, nothing about it appeals to you.

“I think I’m alright here,” you reply.

He pushes off the doorframe and starts to move towards you. He doesn’t take a seat. He just stands over you, letting out a soft breath.

“You’ve been alright here all week,” he says. It’s not necessarily delivered in an insensitive or judgemental way, but it is factual.

“That’s because here is fine.” You pick the book back up and open it to try and find what page you gave up on. “I’m not really in the mood to watch a mov—”

“I know you’re not.” He plants his hands on his hips. “I’m not askin’ if you’re in the mood. I’m sayin’ we should go.”

Your eyes peer up at him over the top of the book and he stares back. Something about his assertive tone and the way the sunlight catches the left half of his face, making that eye shimmer like gold, takes your breath away briefly. 

“Tommy put it together because the town needs it,” he continues. “Everybody needs it. He’s tryin’ to do somethin’ to help.” He pauses for a second. “Come on. It’d be good for you to get out of the house for the evenin’. Be around other people.”

After a moment, you sit up straight, letting out a deep sigh and run a hand through your hair, ruminating on whether or not you have the endurance to actually be around other people.

“What movie is it?” you ask.

“Don’t know.”

“Well, that’s extremely helpful.”

He rolls his eyes. “Are you comin’ with me or not?”

You unfold completely and pull yourself to your feet. “Fine.”

Just as his posture unwinds fractionally from that small win, a voice interrupts the conversation.

“You guys are going to that movie thing tonight?” 

Ellie materialises at the top of the stairs, her head leaning over the banisters. Who knows how long she’s been there listening in. She has become an expert at stepping socked feet on the exact floorboards that don’t creak and timing bites of her apples with other noises so that she doesn’t give away her presence.

“Yeah,” you say loud enough that your voice travels back out of the living room and up the stairs.

“Okay, cool.” She takes a chomp of her apple. “I’m coming too.”

“What’ve I told you about eavesdroppin’?” Joel says with a firm parental tone.

“I was just in the hallway going to the bathroom!” she says. “What, am I not allowed to walk around my own house?”

“My house,” Joel corrects.

“Well, it’s not my fault you guys can’t keep your voices down.”

She has already retreated into the bathroom and closed the door over before Joel can respond.

You stand in the middle of the living room with your arms stretched out overhead, loosening your body and letting out a soft groan. Joel instinctively slides his hands around your waist and brings you into him, planting a gentle kiss to your forehead and holding it there for a moment before nuzzling against your temple. You rest against his chest and let him hold you.

“This’ll be good for you,” he murmurs into your hair. “I promise.”

“I just don’t think I’m ready to be around anyone else,” you say. “I can’t cope with the staring and looking over my shoulder.”

“I’m gonna be there,” he says reassuringly, like you’ve somehow forgotten. “Good chance Michelle and Arron will be there too. It’s gonna be dark in there. I’m not gonna let anythin’ happen to you. I just don’t want you to rot indoors like this for too long.”

Pulling yourself back a little, you take in his features up close — the lines that act like a roadmap of his face, the soft curls starting to grey around his hairline, the chocolatey brown eyes perched above the beautifully arched nose. You feel grateful for him. You want to do this for him if no one else.

It takes some effort, but you perform a half-smile and reach up to kiss him once and then again.

“Mind if I take a nap in your bed before we get ready to go?” you ask. “I’m feeling kind of sleepy.”

He nods simply. “‘Course.”

—

The hall is almost at capacity by the time the three of you step through the entrance. The wall of heat created by the hundred-and-something bodies packed into the space hits you before anything else does. The air is dense and too close to your face, but thankfully someone had made the executive decision to keep the heaters off tonight. Summer has certainly arrived.

People are settling into seats or moving between rows to converse with each other before the movie begins. Children giddily chase each other around the perimeters but the energy amongst the adults is vastly different. Everyone is still wounded and carrying the upset from recent events. There’s a faint look of hope on some of the faces around the room, but others are, similarly to you, not entirely pleased with being here.

Joel’s hand briefly finds the small of your back as he steers you forward towards the seating area. His touch is quick and gone almost immediately, so fast that you didn’t even have time to enjoy it.

“Ugh, great,” you mumble.

“What’s the matter?”

“There’s no rows of three left.”

Joel follows your eyeline to the remaining available seats. All single or pairs. His jaw clicks trying to come up with a solution.

“It’s alright,” he says lowly. “I’ll make someone move.”

He’s about to move off and you’re about to grab his sleeve to pull him back and tell him that he can’t do that when Ellie interjects.

“No, it’s okay,” she says. “I see Dina over there. I’m gonna go sit with her. You two sit together.”

The pair of you look to where she’s pointing near the top of the room where the teens have gathered. An empty seat awaits next to a girl with shoulder-length, dark brown hair. She glances around the room nervously as if she’s waiting for the chair next to her to be filled. Ellie dashes off into the crowd before either of you can tell her to enjoy the movie.

About three rows from the back, near the corner of the room, you spot a suitable pairing of chairs that are tucked away enough that you won’t feel too out in the open. Joel steps aside and lets you shuffle in first, brushing knees with people and apologising under your breath as you make your way down, pull off your jacket and take a seat. 

The aroma of the same buttered popcorn that’s supplied at every movie night fills your nostrils, and the second that you realise you want some, Joel nudges you. 

“Want me to get you some popcorn?”

“Oh, please.”

He’s up again and moving back down the row, probably pissing off the others that have to angle their knees again to let him by.

You’re stretching your neck up to check on Ellie when a familiar, friendly voice calls for you.

“Joey!”

Michelle appears at the end of the row with Arron following close behind her. They make their way down the next row back, dropping in to two seats directly behind you.

“I haven’t seen you in days,” she says, pulling her arms out of her own jacket. “Where the hell have you been hiding?”

“Uhh— Nowhere. Just… around.” You give a small, uncomfortable smile that telepathically communicates you’re trying to say Joel’s without saying it because Arron is sitting right there and he still doesn’t know. “Jeremiah’s not doing too good so I’ve been staying in mostly. He’s back at the medical centre now for a bit.”

She reads you for a second and then realises what you’re saying between the lines. “Ahh… Sorry to hear that,” she says. “And how are you doing? After everything.”

“I’m grand, yeah. Grand as I can be.”

Her eyebrow arches a little higher and she just stares right through you the way she does when you’re bullshitting her. “Wanna try that again? And make it sound convincing this time.”

You grumble under your breath. “I’m just— people are still gawking at me,” you say, keeping your voice conspiratorially low. “First the ambush and then the whole thing with Marco. I can’t walk down the street without feeling like someone’s going to say or do something. I can’t handle it.”

Michelle leans forward and places her forearm on the back of your chair. “Joey, listen to me. There’s zero evidence that actually links you to any of what happened. You’re forgetting that for every one person who doubts you, there’s like ten people who don’t.”

“Exactly,” Arron says, leaning in from the other side. “People love a conspiracy theory. It’s easier than accepting that we don’t know who exactly to point a finger at yet. Unfortunately, they’ve just chosen you as the one to blame. It’ll probably stay that way until we do get some real answers.”

“Incredibly comforting, thank you Arron,” Michelle says with a heavy side-eye.

He shrugs. “Nothing’s gonna happen though. We won’t allow it.”

Joel returns holding two bowls of popcorn, barging through and blocking Arron’s view of you before taking his seat again. He hands a bowl to you and starts chucking a few pieces of his own into his mouth.

The lights start to dim gradually, sending a ripple of hushing through the rows and signalling for the last few people to get to their seats. On the small stage at the top of the room, Tommy steps up and raises a hand to quiet the remaining whispers.

“Alright, folks. Good evenin’ and thank you for makin’ it out tonight.” He looks out across the packed hall with a little less brightness than usual. He chooses his tone and expressions carefully. “Last week was another dark week for Jackson. I think I speak for everyone when I say this whole year has been challenging, and we’re gonna be carryin’ this for a long time to come, because that’s how much we care about one another.”

The room remains very quiet.

“Tonight is for Stevie and Gerry,” he continues. “We wanna honour them by doin’ somethin’ they woulda loved. Knowin’ them, they woulda said the world is grim enough as it is.”

A few people crack a small smile.

“So tonight, we’re gonna watch a movie picked out by Stevie’s daughter, Rose, which is her all-time favourite movie, and I think it’s the perfect choice.” He pauses and glances down at her briefly, pressing his lips together in gratitude. “So, without further ado, an absolute classic, E.T the Extra-Terrestrial.”

A gentle and sincere applause kicks up, one that’s laced with a touch of residual grief. Some of the younger children whooped without fully grasping why the adults had gone a little misty-eyed from Tommy’s words.

You go stone still in your seat.

Joel notices when your hands don’t join in on the applause. He turns his head and looks at you in that way when he’s trying to read what you’re thinking. When he’s unable to decode what’s on your mind, he leans in a little closer.

“You alright?”

“Yeah.” Your voice comes out a little compressed and performative. You clear your throat, unable to look back at him. “Yeah, it’s just— this was Anna’s favourite film too.” 

Joel stares at the side of your face for a long moment, watching how your eyes are already glistening and your jaw is clenched trying to bite back everything you’re feeling. He lets out a small breath and turns his attention back to the screen.

The movie begins.

And for most of it, you held it together a lot better than you thought you would be able to. Something caught in your throat watching the younger kids up front take in the magic of it all with pure delight. It almost gets to a point where you’re watching them more than the actual movie. It’s like getting a glimpse through a window into the past and seeing Anna fall in love with the movie all over again.

But the dam eventually breaks.

Seeing the film through this new lens, how love between two unlikely beings is depicted as the most ordinary thing in the universe and then the inevitable but necessary goodbye devastates you deeply. The sentiment is thick in the room around you. Whether viewing for the first time or again, everyone is left overcome with emotion and pensive.

A warm tear slips down your cheek before you can do anything about it. Suddenly, you’re back on your parents’ couch somewhere in the backroads of Kildare on a rainy evening with Anna tucked in by your side clinging to your arm. Her enormous eyes fixated on the TV and then asking you to rewind the best parts. How you’d give absolutely anything to watch her face light up with joy in those precious moments once more.

And then, Joel’s knee presses against yours. Firm, grounding and without a word, saying nothing but saying everything.

Without thought, your hand reaches across the dark space between your laps and finds his. Your fingers close around his fist and you hold on because you need it more than you need air. Only when he turns stiff do you remember what it means to do something as simple as hold his hand in public. Even in the shadows, even in the privacy of the space you share, for Joel, this is dangerous.

But he lets you. 

That is, until six seconds later when someone further down the row rises to their feet and excuses themselves as they shuffle past knees with mumbled apologies towards the end of the aisle. You recognise him. He’s one of the ranch hands that works the evening shifts down at the stables. 

Before he reaches you, Joel snatches his hand away so fast that it makes you flinch. He shifts almost imperceptibly in his seat, fractionally repositioning to put an additional inch between the two of you as the ranch hand passes by.

The cold and crushing cruelty of it makes you recede further into yourself, your shoulders hunching over as you remember the limitations and restrictions of what it means to be his. 

You stare out blankly at the screen, watching but no longer taking in the closing scenes. Your hands are back on your lap, curling into tight balls. 

Unable to sit there for a second longer, you abruptly get to your feet and start to leave. 

You keep your head down and step through the row with murmured apologies until you’re at the back of the hall and approaching the exit, leaving the swelling movie score and Joel behind. His eyes follow you until you push through the door and the cool evening air hits your skin.

Joel, silently panicking now, sits frozen in place back inside and unsure what to do with his hands. The empty seat next to him eventually starts to make him restless. He crosses his ankles and then uncrosses them a moment later. He glances over his shoulder once, then twice, shifting in his seat like he has an unscratcahable itch. 

A hand taps his shoulder.

Michelle leans forward with her forearm resting on the back of his chair. A miniature version of the movie reflects in her glasses as he turns to look back at her. 

“Go,” she whispers. “Go check on him. Now. Before everyone starts leaving.”

His eyes flick over to the exit behind her and he’s on his feet a second later.

—

The walk back to Jeremiah’s feels longer than it should even though it’s the same fifteen minutes distance that it always has been. The streets are soundless and lonely. The only company is the swarms of flies buzzing around the streetlights above. 

When you get back to the cabin, you let yourself in and are immediately confronted by the darkness. Jeremiah’s bedroom door is half-open and his bed sits empty and stripped, waiting for him to come back home from the St. John’s. You forgot he wasn’t going to be here to ask you how the evening went as soon as you walked through the door. His absence makes you feel even worse if that’s even possible.

After flicking on a couple of lamps for company, you plop onto the couch and bury your face into your hands, replaying those six seconds of him you got to have before it was ripped away. It wasn’t long enough to even appreciate it fully. For the next few minutes, you go back and forth wondering if you’re overreacting but then convincing yourself that you have every right to be upset.

All you wanted was him. Yes, it was in public. Yes, you both went over the logistics of this before. But you can’t help how you feel tonight. With everything he knows about you now, how can he still choose this made-up perception others may have of him over your very real suffering?

Why can’t this just ever be enough?

Three gentle knocks pull you out of the thought. You knew they were coming. You knew he’d follow you back.

Some petulant, petty part of you considers letting it go unanswered and leaving him to stand out there in the night.

But for some annoying reason, you can’t bring yourself to do it.

You drag yourself up, head down the narrow hallway and open the door.

He stands there under the porch light with his hands shoved deep into the pockets of his jacket and his shoulders pulled in tight, looking smaller than he normally would. His eyes lift to find yours immediately, full of regret and apology before he has even said a word.

“Joey.”

You stare back at him and say nothing.

He goes to take a step forward like he intends on coming inside the way he always does, but you don’t move aside for him. You stay planted exactly where you are, hand resting on the edge of the door and blocking the doorway. He looks up at you again and you watch the realisation set on his face. The surprise and hurt that follows closely behind, like he’d never considered a reality where you wouldn’t at least let him inside.

“Joey— baby, I’m sorry,” he says. “I swear to you, I didn’t mean it to be—”

Although his voice is dry, his the warm porch lights highlight the tears starting to form at the edges of his eyes, making them as glossy as they are mournful.

“I—I panicked,” he goes on. “I wasn’t thinkin’. I saw someone comin’ towards us and it was just— it was instinct.” He drags a hand across his mouth. “You know I didn’t mean to— I’m still—” He stops himself and searches for the rest of that sentence like it might appear in the air between you.

“I know.”

The simplicity and softness in your response makes him go still again. He looks at you with despair plastered all over his face, waiting for you to elaborate, desperate just to hear you speak back to him.

“I know what you’re going to say. But, all I needed tonight, was for you to let me hold your hand,” you say. “That’s all.”

The only part of his body moving at this point is his chest rising and falling slowly. His mouth hangs open and his arms now hang loosely at his sides.

“You know better than anyone how these last few weeks have been for me. Not only am I dealing with my own shit, but I’ve had half the town wanting me gone again. I sat through that funeral knowing that the people around me would rather my name was on those stones instead because they think I’m the reason Stevie and Gerry died.” 

You take a pause, hearing your voice rise and throat tighten.

“And then you and Tommy go and put together a whole memorial for my family. All to make me feel like I belong here and that you care about me.”

“I do care about you—”

“You say that, but then why do you only show it when we’re alone?”

He shakes his head slowly but doesn’t speak.

“You take such good care of me. In your living room, in your bed… behind closed doors, where I’m already safe. But when I step outside, where the real danger is, you can’t even hold my fucking hand when I need you to.”

“Joey, I—”

“I’ll always be grateful for everything you’ve done for me, and I’ll never be able to repay you, but the fact of the matter is, even with everything you’ve done for me, you’re still a selfish fucking coward stuck in the past.”

A tear breaks loose and tracks down his face and drops to the wooden porch below.

“Are you—” He stops himself and then starts again, as quiet as a whisper now. “Are you ashamed of me?”

The question catches you off guard, mostly because you can hear unfiltered fear in it and how it seems like it may have been bubbling under the surface somewhere for quite some time. 

“No,” you breathe, shaking your head lightly. “Of course I’m not.”

A moment passes where the only sound is the porch light humming faintly above his head.

“But I think you’re ashamed of me.”

He blinks as the words hit him. Something collapses behind his eyes and his mouth falls open like he wants to respond but nothing comes out.

“I don’t think you’re ready,” you say, gentler now, even though it doesn’t soften the truth of it. “And I don’t know if you’ll ever be. But I can’t keep doing this, only getting to have half of you and hoping that one day the other half will show up. It’s not fair when I give you all of me. Without fear.”

“Joey, please—”

“I think I need to be alone. I don’t know if I can do this right now.”

His brows shift and his chest starts to move faster, his breath picking up in a panic as you start to slip through his fingers. 

“No,” he whispers, barely audible. Another tear rolls down his cheek. “Joey, please. I’m beggin’ ya.”

You hold his gaze for one more moment, because some part of you needs to remember it exactly as it is. Then, you step back and close the door over, leaving him alone out on the porch. The latch catches with a small, punctuated click before you turn the lock.

Inside, you stand there in the dark hallway with your hand pressed flat against the door and your adrenaline doing something strange. Through the thrum of your heartbeat, you listen for any sound on the other side. There isn’t one. No voice and no footsteps retreating down the garden path.

AN: Well... 🫠 I'm just gonna log off for two weeks. BYE 👋🏼

Joel turns, the dimple-deepening, eye-crinkling smile that makes you melt even after all these years lighting his face. “Hey, baby, happy anniversary,” he greets.

You look past him, at the progress laid across the worktable. “How’s it going?”

“Good, just have to finish some of the detailing on the lid.” He holds up a piece of wood, turning it to show the grooves of what he’s been carving. “See, I’ve got the beveling mostly done, but the chamfer edges need a finer grit, and I can’t rush that part.”

You still don’t know what chamfer means. You’ve heard him say it a dozen times, and each time it sounds more like a type of wine than some sort of woodworking term. But the way his voice sounds, all low and assured when he talks about the wood, like he truly understands it, makes you want to listen to him forever.

“Then I gotta double-check the rabbet joints. If I don’t get the fit right, the whole thing’ll warp once any type ‘a humidity hits it. And then JJ’s gonna be without a toybox.

JJ.

Patrollers had found him three springs ago, left in the car off an old, abandoned highway. Barely even walking at the age of around two years old. You had been called into the clinic on that day, your and Joel’s second anniversary, to assess him. He was so small and helpless then, feverish, weak, and malnourished. Dina had been tasked with taking care of him at the clinic, bonding with him in that maternal way as she nursed him back to health, and she just couldn’t imagine her life without him. Now, the almost-five-year-old is the light of her and Ellie’s life, as well as yours and Joel’s.

You walk over to your handsome husband, brushing the more-gray hair from his forehead, pressing your lips against his warm skin. The memory shows only for a second: Joel’s battered and bloodied body dying in the street. A stranger then, just a patient you had to save. And now his hands are covered in sawdust, and he’s building a toybox for a boy who calls him Grampa. It’s a miracle. “He’s going to love it,” you say softly. “It’s perfect.”

He tilts his head, looks at you with those big, brown eyes of his. “Yeah?”

“Of course,” you assure. “You made it for him… and we all know Grampa Joel can do no wrong.”

Joel’s face softens, those furrowed eyebrows of his loosening. He sets the toybox lid down, runs a calloused thumb over the edge he just smoothed. “Still not sure if I like the dinosaurs on the front.”

“What’s wrong with them?” you ask, wrapping your arms around his shoulders, resting your head on one.

“Look a bit foolish, don’t they?” “They don’t. JJ’s gonna lose his mind. He’ll probably try to sleep in the thing.”

The rumble of Joel’s chuckle travels through your arms draped around him. “Gonna be breakin’ all the rules just like his mama.”

“And he’s going to be just as stubborn as his grampa,” you say, kissing his cheek. “Now, come on, we have a party to set up.”

—-

Joel’s yard is alive with the happy shouts of children, the casual conversations of adults, and the cheerful chaos of a five-year-old’s birthday party. Today is your fifth anniversary, a day that once would have been shared only by you two. But this is the life you’ve built, and JJ’s birthday happily takes precedence.

Ellie’s over by the wooden playhouse Joel built for JJ, hands on her hips, smiling as she watches her little boy and Benji play monkey-in-the-middle with Benji’s little sister, Stevie. They’re all shrieking with laughter, and Joel takes all of it in.

When Ellie watches JJ, he knows the look. It’s one he recognizes from somewhere he’ll never return to. He’s had that same look. The kind of look that only shows up when you’re watching something you’d die for. She laughs at something Maria tells her, and she looks so goddamn young and so goddamn old all at once.

He remembers the night Ellie and Dina told him. Him and you, sitting across from them at the dining table. The way Ellie’s voice wavered, like she knew she was handing him something fragile.

“We want to keep him,” she’d said. “We talked about it. We want—we want to be his parents.”

Joel sat wide-eyed, watching the way Dina had squeezed Ellie’s hand. His heart had cracked open, but it wasn’t painful. It was something else. Something that felt like a beautiful, hopeful new beginning that feels rare in this world.

“You sure?” he’d asked. It’s what you ask when someone tells you they’re about to love something that could be taken away.

Ellie had nodded the way she always does when her mind is made up.

“We’re sure,” Dina had said.

And that had been that. The next day, Joel started on the toddler bed, and you began knitting a blanket with his initials, JJ, in bright blue.

He never once thought he’d be standing in his own yard on a spring afternoon, watching Ellie’s son chase a ball across the grass. He’d taught her how to shoot a rifle, how to clean it, how to hold it steady when her hands were shaking. Saved her from a man in a hospital who wanted to cut her open for the sake of a cure that never came. He heard her screams and pleas to get up, to survive. He’d made it halfway across the country with her, carried her through snow and fire and blood and confessions, and he’d done it all with little thought to it, because he loved her.

It was all worth it.

You walk over, in one of your light, spring dresses, a pale green, flower-filled soft fabric that falls just below your knees. You’re smiling at him, and when he grins back, he knows he looks like a goofy fool still head-over-heels for his wife, even after all of these years.

“I think we throw a good party,” you say, finding that perfect crook of yours as he wraps his arm around you. “The kids are having fun.”

“Mm, it is,” he agrees, kissing the crown of your head, breathing in the sweet smell of you, happiness, and spring.

JJ runs across the grass, Benji and Stevie hot on his heels, they’re both covered in grass stains and dirt. JJ trips over his own feet, flies and falls into the dirt. Joel’s heart lurches for a second before the kid pops back up, laughs, and keeps running.

“Tough guy,” you say. “Just like his Grampa.”

Presents are before the cake, and Joel watches, your arm wrapped around him. Ellie sits cross-legged with JJ in her lap. The boy oohs and ahhs at every gift he gets, even if it’s a half-filled box of crayons someone was lucky enough to scavenge. The toy box sits in the corner of the porch, wrapped in an old quilt. He got it done right before the party, needing it to be perfect as he sanded the edges one more time. Both the T. rex and Triceratops on the front are carved, complete with horns and tiny arms. Dina pushes the quilt-wrapped chest forward, saving his gift for last. Joel doesn’t know why he’s nervous about it… there are dinosaurs on it, of course the kid’s going to love it.

JJ tears at the quilt, and Dina and Ellie help him with soft directions. The toybox shows itself, honeyed wood shimmering in the sunlight. JJ stops in his tracks, palms flat against the top of it as he assesses the carvings of his two favorite dinosaurs. He claps and starts giggling, bouncing in Ellie’s lap.

Joel feels the relief flow through his whole body. He double-checked every pivot and edge, sanded it down uncountable times… he would’ve thrown the whole thing out and started again if he didn’t think it was perfect.

Ellie lifts her head, and Joel thinks he sees tears brimming in her eyes before she blinks them away. She sends him a silent thanks in the way she looks at him, then looks down at JJ. Joel nods back, with something that feels like pride and a wish that he could’ve done a thousand more things for her, for all the years of her childhood lost to FEDRA.

The kids are back to playing in the yard with all of JJ’s new presents as you and Dina walk out on the porch, a large, lopsided cake in Dina’s hands, homemade by you and her. It’s not nearly as well done as what Seth would make, but there’s love in every sweet ingredient. It’s perfect.

Dina gets a small smudge of frosting on her wrist, and she doesn’t notice. Joel watches you reach over and wipe it off for her, casual like it’s something you’ve done a hundred times.

Family. That’s what that is.

He’s loved seeing your bond with Dina strengthen and turn into something just as unbreakable as his and Ellie’s bond. You took her under your wing, showed her the ways of the clinic, and now she’s a full-fledged doctor, in whatever sense the apocalypse can make of the title.

JJ’s family surrounds him as he blows out his five candles, and when he closes his eyes to make a wish, Joel’s sure the boy’s wishing for something as simple as a new toy truck or maybe a different episode of Bob the Builder on VHS. The luck of the kid, growing up behind these walls and knowing nothing else now besides a warm home, two loving parents, and a comfortable bed.

—-

You collapse on the couch next to Joel once all the dishes are put away, and the madness of the birthday celebration has quieted down to just some leftover handmade streamers and the birthday banner you’re too tired to take down.

“Well, I think this was a pretty good party,” you say, sinking into the cushions, head finding the familiar groove of his shoulder.

Joel hums a low, happy sound, his arm coming around you. You can almost feel the sunbaked warmth of today still on him. “And a good anniversary.”

You sit together in the beautiful shared silence for a while, letting the hush of the night take over, the only sound present is the tick of the clock and the swish of Jefferson’s tail hanging off of his cat tree. The whole house smells like frosting and cherry blossoms that have started to drop their petals in the yard.

“You know what,” Joel rumbles against your ear. “This wasn’t how I planned to spend our fifth anniversary, but—”

You tilt your head up to look at him. “It was perfect.”

He smiles, and the golden lamplight catches the silver that threads through his dark hair, the lines at the corners of his eyes, the softness in his dark brown eyes that now lives there permanently. “Every day with you is perfect, every single day,” he says, looking at you like you’re the one who made it all happen.

The feeling Joel Miller has always been able to give you- that immediate race of your heart, the butterflies that swarm in your stomach- explodes. You turn to him fully, your hand coming up to cup the raspy side of his face, thumb tracing the heart patch at his jaw.

You lean in, kiss him, slow at first, the way you’ve kissed him a thousand times before, and yet it never gets old, never loses that spark. His hand comes up to cradle the back of your head, and he deepens the kiss. Your mouth opens for him, and your body answers him like it always does, like it’s the only thing in the world that will ever make sense, because it does. Because he’s Joel Miller, and you’re his.

His fingers curl into the soft skin at the nape of your neck, pushing your lips firmer against his, his tongue seeking into your mouth. A soft, wanting moan escapes you, and he swallows it down, like he’s starving for you. He’s always starving for you.

You’re starving too. You move, swing your leg over his lap, and drape yourself over him.

“Baby,” he groans against your mouth, his hands finding your hips, gripping you through the thin fabric of your dress.

You straddle, then press down, just so you can feel him through the layers. Hard, thick, straining against his jeans already, even after a long day like today.

“Five years,” you whisper, rocking your hips down, earning you a hiss against your lips and thick fingertips digging into you.

“Five years,” he echoes.

You kiss him again, tasting the cup of coffee he just had, and the remnants of the small slice of leftover birthday cake you split in the kitchen. Your hands push under the hem of his shirt, palms sliding up.

Joel pulls away, eyes gone inky with desire, staring into yours. “Wanna do this in our bed, not on the couch.”

You nod, already sliding off his lap and helping him up. He stands with a grunt, and you lead him up the stairs, shucking your dress off at the landing, your bra in the hallway just in front of your office filled with medical journals and herbs, and your panties just outside the bedroom you share with Joel.

The bed is warm when you lie atop it, bare and ready for whatever pleasure your husband wants to gift you. Joel’s eyes sear your already heated body; he stands at the foot of the bed, fingers flicking open his belt and the fastening of his jeans. He’s studying you like he still can’t quite believe it, that you’re real. “You’re mine,” he gruffs.

You’ve never doubted that. Watching his hands move through each button of his shirt, you assure him, “I’ve always been yours.”

Clothes fall to the floor, flannel and denim pooling in a heap; the bright moonlight gilds Joel in a silver brilliance, the scars of his body glowing in the light as he makes his way towards you. He leans over the bed, hand running along your body. “Pretty thing,” he says, all rough and full of awe. “Always so pretty.”

His fingers trail higher, sliding between your thighs. “Joel,” you moan, shameless in the way your legs spread wide open for him, and it makes his eyes flash even darker. There’s no bashfulness in you anymore, not when the man you love knows every inch of your body, not after all you’ve lived through together.

There’s no rush in the way he moves. It’s an almost lazy exploration of pulling pleasure out of you. He’s so, so gentle with you, in the way he spreads you, two fingers parted, pressing them through your folds, feeling, feeling how slick and ready you are. You’re already clenching around nothing, needy for him, hungry for the fullness only he can give you.

“Joel,” you beg, desperation dripping in the way you moan his name.

His fingers start to circle you, and your hips tilt up automatically, greedy and impatient, always needing more from the man you love. He hovers over you, folding his body down across the bed, one palm pressed into the mattress beside your hip, the other between your legs, lazily stroking, almost teasing in the slow way the pads of his fingers drag through your wet, needy cunt. You open even wider for him, letting him see all of you in the moonlight, your limbs restless, almost shivering. Dark eyes drink all of you in, and you stare right back, mouth parted, eyes open wide, unable to look away even as the heat starts to pour through your body.

He watches you writhe and quiver for him, cocky grin glinting across his lips. “That’s it,” he husks, ragged and growled, “such a good girl for me.” His thumb drags across your clit, slow and greedy and circling, and you can’t help the way you grind against his hand, begging for more. “M’pretty wife,” he adds, and you melt and ache and arch.

The urge to feel him is too much, you reach for his cock, wrap your palm around the solid heft of him, thick and hard and heavy in your grip. He thrusts into your fist, can’t help himself, matching the roll of his fingers deep inside your cunt, back and forth, slick and slow as you stroke him. You give it to him the way you know he likes it the best, twisting your wrist, gripping his head tight just the way he loves. Joel’s head tilts back, neck strained, and an almost feral rip of your name leaves him before he snaps his head back down to look at you.

You clench around his thick fingers, and he leans over, mouthing at your throat, licking across your neck, before he bites the sensitive skin there, not sharp, but firm enough that you gasp and your hand tightens around his thick cock. You jerk him slow and steady, loving how he’s already trembling, loving that you can still make him like this. Each time your hand moves, he’s pulsing, throbbing, and when he angles his fingers in you and hits that gushy spot that makes you lose your breath, your hips lift off the mattress as you keen his name.

Tight, firm circles are pressed against your clit, and your world turns into just Joel Miller and the shattering pleasure of his hand inside you, the warmth of his body hovering over yours, and the always present grinding, hungry need shared between you.

He looks down at you, his lips parted, sweat shining on his brow. “You gonna cum for me, baby?” His voice hums through you, that low vibration that can only make you nod as your breath stutters.

“Atta girl,” he croons, thumb swirling your clit while his fingers fuck you open and wetter. You’re nothing but a frantic heartbeat, tight fist, and wet pussy when you crash into your orgasm hard. You collapse and rise over and over again, staring right into Joel’s eyes as he lets you ride your pleasure, thumb stilling against your clit, as he slowly slides his fingers in and out of your cunt.

When you finally settle down, gasping his name, heart racing, Joel pulls his fingers free and drags your slick along the heavy length of his cock. You watch, barely able to keep still, body trembling and gasping.

He grips his cock and sets the leaking tip against your lips. You open right up for him, tongue flat to take in the taste of you and him and the shared years of wanting. The hot weight of him pools heavily on your tongue when you wrap your lips around him and take him into your mouth. He fucks shallow, keeping searing eye contact as you moan around his dick. “Jesus Christ,” he grits, head tilting to the ceiling as you take him deeper and deeper, his thighs tensing under your palms. You swirl and lick, let him bob out of your mouth until you suck him back in.

There’s a grunt, Joel’s hips stutter, and he pulls free. “Baby,” he huffs. “My back is killin’ me after today.” He laughs, a little ruined, a little low.

You scoot, then coax him down till he’s flat and settled in the bed. His back is barely against the mattress before you crawl up his big, tired body and straddle him. “Comfortable?” you ask, bending down to kiss him, and he grunts an affirmative against your lips.

His tongue seeks into your mouth, hands spreading on your ass to pull you down even closer against him. You rock against him, sliding your cunt along his cock, letting the wet tease of you slip along his length. You angle yourself and can’t help the smile when the wide tip of him catches and sinks into you.

“C’mon baby,” he urges, all doe-eyed and in awe of you even after all these years. You slink yourself all the way down, gasping at how good Joel Miller always makes you feel. You rise and fall languid and savoring as he kisses you, letting the high-pitched, needy growls of his escape into your mouth. You swallow each one, answering it with a moan against his plush lips.

You move together like it’s what you’ve only ever known, your body meeting his, the shared intimacy and peace of knowing your forever in this way. When you sit up, hands bracing on his chest, nails digging into the golden warmth of Joel, you feel the beat of his heart hammering against your palm and the way it always answers to you.

He drinks you down, tracking every way your body moves for him. “Fuck, look at you,” he groans. “Most beautiful thing I ever seen.”

You’re lit by his praise and love, moving faster, grinding down, writhing and shaking, clutching his broad chest as you cum so hard you fall forward, nails digging into his skin. Joel catches your cries of his name with his mouth when he kisses you, swallowing every moan and keen he pulls from you.

The bed groans when Joel starts to fuck up into you with the power an old man like him still miraculously holds. You lean your head back, just so you can watch him fall apart for you. He’s heavy-lidded, plush lips parted as they groan your name over and over; blissed-out Joel Miller is the most gorgeous thing you’ve ever seen. He lets go of your ass only to clamp his hands on your hips, anchoring you so he can pull you down hard again and again, to take every last inch of him.

He cums with a long, guttural “fuuuuck,” fists balled tight at your hips, cock pumping and twitching inside your heat, as he loses himself in sweet, desperate pulses you can feel all the way through you.

You burrow your cheek into the warmth of his chest, listening to the hammer of his heart as his heavy hand slowly strokes your back. “Holy shit,” you gasp, and Joel chuckles a satisfied sound against your hair.

You roll off him and curl into the crook of his sweaty and sated arm, and he tucks you closer. It’s always so perfect, how easy it is to love your handsome, gruff Joel Miller. You could stay here forever, breathing in the smell of him, your home, and the fresh flowers beginning to bloom in the garden outside.

—-

The clinic is busy today. Joel steps in amongst the almost-full waiting room, nods at a few familiar faces, and turns left to take the familiar path down the hall to your office. He sits in his customary chair in front of your desk, and he waits and waits… a little too long than usual.

He peeks out of your office and catches Blake, the new nurse’s, attention. “She’s in surgery,” Blake tells him. “Complications with Mr. Lassiter’s appendix. She said it might be a while.”

Joel nods and returns back to your office, now settling into your chair, facing the door, the better to see you when you come in. Your desk is cluttered. Not messy, just lived and worked in. He picks up your notebook, leather-bound and soft, a rare find he was able to barter a couple of carvings for this past Christmas. Your name’s on the front, and he runs his thumb over the imprint of Miller.

The pages are already full of your handwriting, and he can hardly decipher it. There are whole sentences reduced to fragments he can’t parse. Perfusion adequate. Lateral incision. Diagrams are drawn, a torso with arrows, a hand with tendons mapped. There are plant names and measurements in the margins, long, complicated Latin words he couldn’t spell if it’d save his life. Each page is full of wisdom, and healing, care and dedication. He closes the notebook carefully, like it’s the most precious thing in the world. Jackson is lucky it has you. He’s lucky.

Time stretches, and Joel rests his eyes, but a busy clinic is no place for rest. He gets up, toes around your office, looking through the shelves full of books and journals. He finds a book on something called histology, flipping through it, his brain understanding not even 5% of what he’s seeing.

People pass the door, all with a place to go or things to do. Patients to exam rooms. Doctors and nurses to their next sick or injured case. But Joel doesn’t see you.

Until, finally, he hears the familiar soft, efficient cadence of your footsteps across the tile. You appear in the doorway. Sleeves shoved past your elbows, eyes a little sunken and hollow. The tired smile only comes when you see him.

"You're still here,” you say, surprise lining your tired words.

"Course I am.”

You close the door and lean against it, head tipping against the wood. "I'm sorry.”

"S’okay. Don’t apologize, baby."

“There were complications. But he’s stable now." You take a deep sigh. “His wife was crying when I updated her. It’s so hard when they cry.”

Joel stands and strides towards you, wrapping his arms around you, and you fall into him, forehead pressing against his collarbone. He smells the sweat and antiseptic on you, but underneath it there’s still the ever-present and sweet sage and vanilla.

"It’s been a long day," you whisper.

He kisses the top of your head, already feeling the way you let yourself unwind with him. He pulls back enough to look at you and meets your eyes. “You’re amazing.”

You blink. "I nearly lost him."

"But you didn't."

You softly nod, like you’re letting his words settle you.

Joel leads you to your chair, sits, and pulls you down into his lap. You fall into him willingly, melting against him.

He unwraps the zucchini bread Maria baked first. "Dessert first," he says. "You earned it."

You hum happily as he breaks off a piece and holds it to your lips. He feeds you another, and another, feeling the way you come back to life with each bite.

By the time you're both splitting the chicken sandwich, your voice already sounds peppier, and you’re yourself again, no longer the exhausted surgeon that walked through the door earlier.

When all the food is gone, Joel holds you, and you turn in his arms, head angling to kiss him. “I needed this. Thank you,” you whisper.

“Anytime, baby.”

You give him a final kiss before standing. “As much as I hate to leave, I should get back out there, it’s busy.” Your shoulders are already straightening, preparing to return to being a doctor.

He rises, and you leave him with a kiss before telling him you’ll see him later.

He grabs the empty tote and steps out of your office. Steven nods at him as he passes him in the hall with a patient. Wendy smiles and waves from the reception desk as she updates a chart. The clinic is still alive, people needing things, finding help, and you’re running all of it. He thinks of the nursery, the late tulips Sadie might have in the greenhouse. Something nice to surprise you, no occasion but this: you survived the morning, and he got to witness it.

He heads for the door and takes a left instead of a right to head to the nursery.

—-

You fight a yawn as you make your way out of the clinic. Joel’s in his customary spot, against the post with his arms folded. You’ve lost count of how many times the sight of him there has instantly soothed you after impossibly long days like today.

“Hey baby,” he greets, hand finding the small of your back like it always does as he leads you home.

The walk home is quiet. You’re out of work later than you wanted to be, but the sight of the sun setting behind the mountains and Jackson doing what it does every evening, winding itself down around you, helps remind your tired and weary self why hard days like this matter.

Your husband leads you to your big, white home, the sight of it is always a balm on days like these. Your pair of rocking chairs on the porch move in the gentle breeze, a blanket you knitted still draped over the back of Joel’s chair for the chilly spring evenings you share outside.

Joel helps you with your jacket as you kick your boots off. Jefferson jumps off the back of the couch and pads over to you. His soft meow beckons you to bend over and give him a couple of pets before you make your way to the kitchen to make a cup of tea.

You pause at the doorway when you see them.

On the kitchen table in a chipped blue pitcher are tulips. Their petals half-open, red and yellow. You stare at them and grin wide.

“Nursery had a few of them left,” Joel says from behind you, like it’s nothing. Like he didn’t plan it. “Figured you needed something pretty today.”

You turn, press your face into the broad, familiar warmth of his chest, and he holds you, chin against your hair.

“Thank you,” you say, muffled against his shirt.

Joel squeezes you tight against him. There’s something about the beautiful simplicity of his gift. A man buying his wife flowers, just because she had a bad day. The world ended, and yet moments like this remain.

Dinner is just what you needed, comforting, hearty, and warm. Stew and leftover biscuits eaten at the kitchen table, with the vase of tulips in the center. Joel lifts your feet into his lap, massaging them with one hand while he eats with the other.

When you’re done, you sit at the table for a while, both of Joel’s hands now tasked with massaging your tired feet. When you get up and reach for his bowl, he tells you to leave the dishes in the sink, that he’ll take care of them tomorrow.

You move to the couch, plopping onto it and sinking into the cushions. Jefferson’s instantly in your lap, lying across it, rumbling purrs as you pet him. Joel’s arm is around you, and you burrow even closer against him as Lonesome Dove plays on the TV. Gus and Call are somewhere in Texas, bickering the way they always do. You’ve both seen it enough times now to mouth the lines.

You used to fall asleep to the rustle of infected in the treeline, the sounds of FEDRA’s brutal control in the QZ, but now you fall asleep to Robert Duvall, a cat on your lap, and the steady thud of Joel’s heart against your ear.

—-

This spring has been high on the sweltering scale, the mountains do little to shield Jackson from the hot rays of the almost-summer sun during the day. Joel passes the construction yard, lifting his hand in greeting to some of his old workers who all look hot and miserable. Honestly, Joel’s a little happy you, and the rest of the family convinced him to retire last year. At first, he wasn’t sure how he’d manage with all of his newfound time, but his grandchild has certainly helped fill his days.

JJ’s hand is tiny in Joel’s, and the boy doesn’t stop yapping. “Grampa, have you ever driven a bulldozer?” Joel chuckles. “Reckon I have.” “Did it have a big scoop? Was it yellow? Could it pick up a whole tree?” JJ’s voice pitches higher with each question, his fingers tightening around Joel’s. “Yes, yes, and yes,” Joel says, remembering the old world with housing projects and cul-de-sacs—that old world that now just exists in stories for the boy who holds his hand.

JJ tugs him toward the fence, drops his hand, and bolts. Joel knows exactly where he’s headed. You’re on your knees in the dirt, tending Sarah’s garden, and the boy is shouting your name before he’s even halfway across the yard.

You turn, a big smile on your face, and goddamn, you still take his breath away. You wipe at your forehead with the back of your wrist, leaving a smudge of soil across your brow. Your eyes squint up at them both with that smile of yours… the one that still, after all these years, makes him forget whatever he was just thinking about. He doesn’t know how it keeps happening, how every single day you find some new way to make him feel like the luckiest goddamn man on earth.

JJ drops to his knees beside you, his little body pressing against yours. Your arm wraps around him in that loving, doting way you’re so natural at, and you kiss the crown of his head in greeting.

“Grampa drove tractors!” he excitedly tells you.

“I know,” you answer, glancing up at Joel with a smile. “He was a contractor, meaning he’d always drive construction vehicles and build really big buildings.”

“Contractor?” JJ asks.

Joel’s knees pop twice when he crouches down beside you two, and he lets out a short grunt at the second one. The boy’s eyes are wide and waiting, wanting to know as much as he can. “Contractor’s what they called somebody who built things. Houses, schools, sheds. Anything folks needed. You’d get a call, show up with your crew and tools, and you’d build somethin’ from nothin’. Just dirt and plans. Couple months later, there’s a whole house standing where nothin’ was before.”

JJ’s mouth hangs open. “You built a whole house?”

“Built a lot of ‘em,” Joel answers. “Everybody loved contractors.”

You chuckle and shake your head. “They sure did,” you say.

JJ reaches out, runs his hand along the blooms of lavender in Sarah’s garden.

“You want to pick some flowers for your mamas?” you ask.

JJ nods, reaching towards a bright purple flower. “Can I pick this one?” he asks.

“The aster? Of course, sweetheart,” you say.

JJ reaches for the purple bloom, but stops. A small, orange butterfly has landed in the center of it, orange and white wings fanned open. JJ goes still, and you put a gentle hand on his arm. Joel watches the butterfly and feels something inside his heart flow before he can name it. Sarah’s voice through the years echoes in his head from the first wails of her tiny lungs as a baby, to her sweet, little voice questioning everything, all the way to her smart, teenage pondering.

“It’s so pretty,” JJ whispers.

Joel’s caught in a memory from many years ago. His Sarah, around JJ’s age now, picking flowers out of the Adlers’ garden, a butterfly just like the one in front of him now, landing on a flower. Her bright, proud smile as she stayed perfectly still and watched.

You lean closer to JJ and whisper, “Don’t scare it, hun.”

The butterfly flutters its wings before it lifts off from the aster. Joel watches it leave. It’s her, but it’s not her. Just a memory of his little girl.

He wishes his Sarah could see him now. What would she think of him now?

He’s asked himself variations of it a thousand times over the years, but never while kneeling in the dirt of a garden dedicated to her with his grandson and his wife, the lavender in full bloom, the sun warm as it shines down.

He thinks about the man he was when she knew him. A father with an okay-paying job, a mortgage, a pickup truck, and a future.

He thinks of the man he became after. The one who traversed the world with a gun in his belt and blood on his hands. The man who couldn’t look at a kid without seeing his own dead daughter, who lost himself completely in that.

Until Ellie broke him open, and you saved him.

He doesn’t know what Sarah would think of the man he is now. But he thinks she’d finally see the man she knew. The man that loved her, that held her when she cried, that taught her how to ride a bike and spool a reel onto a fishing line. The man that now knows to love is to be vulnerable and honest.

Joel now knows the universe did the right thing when it let him live again. He wasn’t being punished for surviving, no, he was given a second chance to do it all over again. Every day, and every moment, he’s reminded of what you’ve given him… this beautiful life.

—-

You don’t really think about the future when you’re safe inside it like you are now. Years will pass, days will blend, and time will be marked not by disasters and survival, but by increments of joy and growth. By the changing height of JJ as he grows, the way the fence behind the house sags a little more each spring after the long winters, and by the amount of white in Joel’s hair and beard.

You and Joel will live and love and heal one another in the same quiet and unthinking ways you do now. Every morning, there is coffee and his scratchy voice, and every night, there is his palm against the small of your back as you head to bed and a goodnight kiss before he turns off the lamp.

You’ll spend the rest of your days behind the walls of Jackson, healing your neighbors and friends. You’ll come home to the large, white house with the cherry blossom tree that now has your and Joel’s initials carved in it. You’ll watch your family and friends grow older. Sarah’s garden will bloom, and the memory of her will thrive with each seed you plant for her.

JJ will start to talk in full sentences, then full-blown stories. At six, he’ll break his arm falling off the treehouse ladder, and it’ll be you who fixes him up, while Joel fusses and busies himself building a better, safer way up the tree. At seven, he’ll ask you to help him make Grampa Joel’s birthday card, complete with WORLD’S BEST GRAMPA written across the top. At eight, he’ll carve his first wooden dinosaur with Joel, and it’ll sit on the mantle next to the copy of Lonesome Dove and the picture Ellie drew of you and Joel for your first wedding anniversary present.

You and Joel will get older with each season, the rain will make your bones ache, and on some days, you’ll both stay in bed just a little longer. Sometimes the days will be hard, or exhausting, or consumed by loss—patients you can’t save, loved ones you lose, whether from something as lucky as old age or the erosion of the world outside your safe walls. But no matter what, you’ll always have the beautiful miracle of being loved by Joel Miller. All thanks to you, he will live on, happy and healed.

His right hand is at your waist under the wool of your coat and moves round to the small of your back. He pulls and you come against him, the front of you and the front of him not meeting carefully.

You make a sound into his mouth, and he swallows it and makes a sound back which you swallow in return. And the two sounds behind the hawthorn are the first honest things either of you have said to each other in weeks.

Your hands came off the wool of his tunic. One goes up to the back of his neck, above the collar of his tunic and below the collar of his coat, to the small warm strip of skin under his hair. It’s warm to the touch and you press your fingers into it and pull his mouth down further onto yours whilst your other hand goes inside his coat.

His right hand at the small of your back goes lower to the top of your hip and stays there because he’s a gentleman and not a beast. But you know, in the small honest part of you, that if you move any part of you the inch that would take his hand further, he’ll follow it.

You don’t move, but you also don’t take your mouth off his and the two of you breathe the same warm circle of breath through your noses while his tongue finds its way between your teeth.

It’s warm, you answer it with your own, and you don’t pull back.

You press tighter against him, and his left hand comes out of your hair and down to the side of your jaw, tipping your face so that his mouth can go deeper until it eventually lifts from yours and slides down the side of your jaw, stopping just under your ear, lips warm on the hot flesh there.

You gasp and his response is to continue to press slow, open kisses that make your knees start to give way. His right hand tightens at the small of your back, stopping you from falling, and all you can think about is how badly you want him.

His mouth carries on downwards, stopping at the collar of your coat, and his left hand comes off the side of your jaw and pulls it back, just an inch, allowing him to move his mouth there warm, open and slow.

You make the sound again, louder this time into his hair at the side of your neck, and he makes his own sound back into your skin, teeth grazing ever so gently against your pulse point. Your hand comes off the back of his neck, and you don’t know where you’re going to put it, until it finds its way down inside his coat and over his ribs to the belt of his tunic, causing him to make the sound again, this time different from before.

And it’s the difference between a man slowly sliding from one side of things to another in a direction that you can’t help but feel desperate for him to go – a direction you want him to go and take you with him. You want him to put his mouth further down the skin between the collar of your coat and the collar of your dress and further down still to the top of the hollow between your breasts and further down still.

You want him to loosen the buttons that line your body from the top of the hollow to just under the swell of your breasts, want him to pull the fabric aside so that he can see your brassiere, want his lips to…

You don’t want him to stop at anything.

You want him, and, in that moment, find that you don’t care about anything else – not about Henry or your parents or your reputation or anything that might stop a young English girl from letting a young American pilot touch her.

The girl who hadn’t looked, who told herself she had a boyfriend, who begged another man to stay away…she’s gone, leaving only the girl behind the hawthorn. And that girl wants the man who is currently kissing her neck – wants him to do things to her that she’s never once before considered proper or respectful.

His mouth comes off your skin, he presses his forehead against the side of your jaw and he just breathes. You can feel you pulse jumping under the skin his mouth has just left and you can’t help but want it back there again.

He groans your name into the side of your neck and the saying of it, the tone of it, makes goosebumps rise on your flesh.

"Frankie don't…don't say…"

He says it again and you feel yourself visibly shiver.

"Don't…"

"I have to."

"Frankie…. please…"

"I have to, because if I don't say it now, I’m gonna put you down in the grass at the foot of this hedge and do the thing to you that a man does to a girl in the grass at the foot of a hedge and I can’t do it – not like this. Not to a girl – a woman – like you. A nice girl, a…a respectable girl. A girl that I…that I…”

You don’t have an answer to that because right at this very moment you don’t care about being nice or respectable. All you care about is the fact that he’s refusing to put you down in the grass at the foot of the hedge and take you the way you’ve come to understand men take women, because he loves you.

He hasn’t said that he loves you – not in explicit words. But he’s said it in the way he stopped his mouth and the way he said not like this and the way he groaned your name. And all of those things – every one of them – is the loudest saying you’ve ever heard.

You put your hand – the hand that has been at the belt of his tunic at his hip – up to the back of his head and hold it against the side of your jaw. Closing your eyes, you breathe a small warm breath in through your nose over his hair, and even though you can feel the hot sting of impending tears, you don’t let yourself cry.

You breathe and he breathes, and somewhere three hundred yards down the lane the door of the hall opens again, and you hear a pair of boots coming down the step, making their way towards you and neither of you move.

You hear Margery’s voice, low and urgent, and a male voice responding. Frankie lifts his forehead from the side of your jaw, but his right hand stays on the small of your back and his left hand on your collar. You hold his gaze as his left hand moves slowly, carefully, back to your face, cupping it with his hand, thumb sliding over your cheekbone then down to your lower lip, just as he did behind the hall. This time however, you open your mouth and despite never having taken a man’s thumb in that way before – never having even considered it – you move your head slightly forwards, lips sliding over the digit, until the pad touches your tongue.

“Fuck,” he says quietly, then he blinks rapidly and pulls it slowly back, a thin sliver of saliva obvious on the tip, which he rubs gently over your lip.

He swallows hard and looks at you with the expression of a man who is right on the brink of sliding from one side of things to the other, but who is carefully, slowly, determinedly, pulling himself back.

"You'll… be at the Hadley farm tomorrow, won’t you?"

"I…"

“I know that’s where you’ll be and I’m asking…” he pauses and quickly licks his lips. “I’m asking you to let me come.”

You look at him, face close to yours in the darkness behind the hawthorn with the voices on the other side and you understand that he’s begging.

You’ve never, in nineteen years, had a man beg you for anything.

"Frankie, I…”

"Please.” His right hand tightens on your back, his left warm on your cheek. “Please say yes. I'll find a reason, any reason. I'll take the jeep on a piece of business – Santi can cover for me. I'll say that…that I noticed something wrong with the wiring on the fence between the airfield and the farm last time we were out that way and that it’s only fair I let the Hadley’s know about it. Tom will let me have the jeep for an hour if I say that’s what it’s for. Just…please let me come. I can be at the top field where…where you saw me that day. I can be there at…at ten-thirty if you say you’ll meet me – please.”

"But I don’t know if I…"

"Please, please say yes.”

The voices on the other side of the hawthorn grow louder and now there are two sets of footsteps coming closer.

"Frankie, I can't. I…"

“Say yes,” he says earnestly. “I’m not gonna put you down in the grass at the foot of this hedge tonight, and I’m not asking you to come to me at the top field tomorrow so that I can put you down in the grass there either. I’m asking you to come to me tomorrow so that I can stand there checking a piece of wire whilst you’re, perhaps, checking the same piece of wire and I can look at you in the daylight. And I can hear your voice in the daylight, and I can say to you, in the daylight, what I…what I haven’t been able to say to you tonight. Because I know that…I know that when you told me to stay away from you…”

He takes a breath and says your name again.

“Please. I know you didn’t mean it so, please, let me see you."

You look at him and you know that despite what your brain is telling you – what your brain is screaming at you – there’s nothing you want more right now, if you can’t have him in the way he’s alluded to tonight, than for him to be at the top field tomorrow.

The good, respectful part of you that still remains is holding on by the fingernails – but the fingernails are slipping.

The voices get closer, you can hear Margery clearly now, and you recognise the other voice as being that of Santi.

"Yes,” you say hurriedly. “Yes. Tomorrow at ten-thirty at the top field. I’ll be there. I…I’ll be there.”

"Thank you,” he breathes before pressing a final, warm kiss to your mouth. “Thank you.”

“And I was just saying that…oh…”

Margery appears around the corner of the hawthorn, one hand on Santi’s arm as though trying to stop him from moving.

Frankie doesn’t react. He doesn’t start or jump or do anything that would give anyone the impression that he’s doing anything wrong. He simply takes his left hand off your cheek and smooths down the collar of your coat. Then he takes his right hand off the small of your back and steps away from you, but not before tucking a strand of your hair that’s come down from the pin behind your ear. He does it slowly, fingers lingering, the way a man tucks a strand of a girl’s hair behind her ear when he simply wants another excuse to touch her.

“Fish,” Santi says, his voice hard.

“Fish?” Margery echoes with an ebullient laugh. “What a name! Why on earth…?”

“Another time.” Santi steps forward and takes hold of Frankie’s arm, pulling him firmly but gently away from you.

Frankie lets him – lets himself be propelled backwards away from you by his friend. But his eyes never leave yours and he nods once as though to seal the deal of your planned meeting.

“Goodnight,” he says softly.

“Goodnight, Frankie.”

You watch as Santi leads him away, mouth close to his ear, talking low and fast and you keep your eyes on him until they disappear around the other side of the hawthorn, leaving you standing in the cold night air with Margery, your whole body burning.

For a moment, she says nothing, then she steps forward and takes hold of your coat, doing up the buttons quickly and decisively, before anyone who might come upon you could have the chance to enquire why you were standing out in the cold November air with your dress exposed.

“Well…I think it makes sense if we just go straight home now rather than going back to the hall.”

“Yes,” you say weakly, eyes still on the spot where you last saw Frankie, allowing her to loop her arm through yours.

"You said yes to something."

"Margery…"

"You said yes to something, old girl, I can tell. I'm not asking you what you’ve said yes to because I’m sure you’ll tell me when you decide to tell me. But I just want you to know that I know. And I would imagine Santi does too.”

“What was he saying to you?”

“He asked if I’d seen you or Frankie. I, of course, made a subtle gesture to indicate that you were both otherwise occupied, and he seemed quite content to talk to me for a few minutes, but then he became a little restless – concerned as to whether others might wonder what was going on, I imagine – and then he just went around the bush and…”

She sighs somewhat theatrically.

“Thankfully, nobody else came past.”

“Do you think…” you put one foot in front of the other and let her steer you, slowly, back around the hawthorn and into the lane towards home. “Do you think anyone saw him come after me?”

She doesn’t say anything for a long moment, doesn’t rush to fill the silence to placate you. She merely tightens her arm through yours and looks out at the quiet fields beyond. “I’m sure they would just see a gentleman showing concern for a girl he previously danced with.”

“I said I’d meet him,” you say, the words coming out in a rush the way words do when they need somewhere to go other than inside a person’s head. “Tomorrow, at ten-thirty, at the top field. He said he’s going to make some excuse about needing to tell the Hadleys about some damaged wire and I’m going to be at the fence fixing the wire.”

Margery nods slowly. “I would imagine that ruse might be easier for you than for him.”

“Why do you say that?”

“You’re a Land Girl – mending fences is part of your job. But he’s a pilot. How is he going to explain away him needing to go and tell a farmer about a fence?”

“I don’t know, but he said he would. He said that Tom would lend him the jeep. He said…”

“Alright old girl, I’m not meaning to pour cold water on it. Lord knows I’m practically vibrating with excitement at the thought of it myself. But let’s just…let’s not get our hopes up too high until we know it’s achievable. If he doesn’t make it, perhaps we could have some excuse to go to the base…”

You glance at her sideways. “But what would we…?”

“I’ll think of something, just give me time.” She pauses at your gate. “Now, go to bed and try not to let the cat out of the bag. I’ll see you in the morning, as usual.”

“Margery…” you take hold of her arm. “I’m going to need to tell Henry what happened.”

“You’re going to need to tell Henry that it’s over between you,” she corrects gently. “There is absolutely no need for you to tell him that an American pilot has just had his hands on your body and his tongue in your mouth.”

You feel heat rush to your face.

“Goodnight old girl,” she grins. “Roll on tomorrow!”

“Goodnight Margery.”

You watch her hurry down the lane and around the corner to her own house before you open the gate and make your way slowly up the path to your front door, fingers curling around the handle, your heart thumping wildly in your chest.

“You’re back early,” Edie says when you step inside the living room. “It’s not even ten yet.”

“I’m tired,” you explain, taking off your shoes and lowering yourself onto the couch before accepting a cup of tea from your mother. “It wasn’t that good tonight anyway.”

“Why not?” Edie asks, frowning.

“Just…because…”

“No Henry tonight, love,” your mother replies in your stead. “It’s not as much fun at a dance when your young man isn’t there to dance with you.”

“No,” you agree, taking a careful sip, “it isn’t.”

“But were the Americans there?” Edie asks in a tone which suggests that, in itself, should be all the excitement you could ever need.

“Yes, they were there.”

“And did you dance with any of them?”

You lift your eyes from your cup to see your mother watching you from the armchair opposite, her own cup resting in her lap, her gaze carefully watchful. And, for the briefest of moments, you think you see something knowing cross her expression.

“Just the one,” you reply carefully. “He asked me.”

“What’s his name? What’s he like?” Edie sits forwards, her eyes gleaming. “Does he have light or dark hair? What dance was it…?”

“Edie,” your mother says gently. “Enough.”

“I’m only asking,” she replies petulantly. “I mean it’s not as if I’m going to get to go to a dance with Americans any time soon, is it?”

You tune out as they bicker good-naturedly back and forth.

All you can see is Frankie’s eyes, all you can feel is his mouth and his hands, all you can hear is his desperate plea for you to meet him and you can’t help but wonder, shamefully, if he’ll put you down in the grass tomorrow if you ask him to.

➰➰➰➰➰➰➰➰🇺🇸➰➰➰➰➰➰➰➰

Taglist: @mcthsman @ritchmoor @fatima-marisa @jessthebaker @the-heart-is-an-organ-of-fire @ashleyfilm @vickie5446 @originals23 @izzykinzz678 @hanahleahs @eviispunk

Harry let the shower run over him, one hand pressed against the tile with his head hung low. He shut his eyes—it was another early morning. He usually was always the first one to wake up, since taking over the company, he’d been waking up earlier than normal. 

It wasn’t even light out when he woke up that morning. He didn’t even want to get up either—you had been lying on your side facing him, blanket pulled to your chin. He had been having trouble with balancing his work with his home life, especially now that Charlotte was pregnant too. He didn’t want to put too much stress on Peter, not if he could help it. 

But there were moments where he wished he could go back in time—when things were much simpler and easier. 

He was about to reach for his shampoo when he heard the bathroom door open. Harry looked up and watched your figure come into view. It was steaming inside the shower, fogging up the glass so while he couldn’t see you clearly, he could see your shape just fine. 

He bit his lower lip. Yesterday had been an amazing day, despite the stress he felt at work. And he promised you he’d try to balance work and his relationship with his family. 

A minute or two passed before he heard the door to the shower open. Harry turned around to face you, lips parting at the sight of your bare frame. 

“Morning,” you whispered quietly, letting out a yawn. “I figure maybe I should join you in these early mornings.” 

Harry reached out for you instantly. His hands darted out to grab a hold of your hips, gently and carefully pulling you flush against him. “You spoil me,” he said quietly. 

“Just want to spend as much time as I can with you,” you answered. Harry knew what you meant and he leaned down to capture your lips in a soft kiss. 

“I wouldn’t mind… having you join me in here every morning,” he whispered against your lips. 

“We wouldn’t be showering though, would we?” You smiled, your own arms now looping around his neck as you felt the water cascade down the top of your head and down your body. 

“No, I don’t think we would be,” he chuckled, moving his lips to your cheek lightly. “Did you sleep okay?” 

You nodded, tilting your head to expose more of your neck when you felt his lips brush past your cheek to the shell of your ear and down the side of your neck. “I just don’t like waking up to an empty bed.”

“I’m sorry, baby,” he said, pulling away just slightly to look down at you. Harry reached up to and gently stroked your wet hair back and away from your face. “You know I’ve been getting up earlier than normal.” 

“I know,” you sighed. “But do you need to? I mean, you don’t even head into the office until after we drop the kids off at school.” 

“I do some work before I go in,” Harry reasoned. 

“So, you’re working at home.” 

He nodded. 

“But you’re still coming home late.” 

Harry sighed.

He knew what you were getting at. 

“Baby…” 

Almost like you realized what you were saying, you shook your head and looked up at him. “I’m sorry. I don’t mean to make you feel bad. I just—I miss you.” 

“I’m right here,” he said quietly. 

“Not all the time,” you sighed. 

“I promised you last night that I’d try,” he whispered, moving his hand from your hair to the side of your neck. “I mean that.” 

“I know,” you nodded. 

“And besides, my mom will be coming by the office today,” Harry reassured you. “I’ll talk to her about everything, okay?” 

“And we’ll still have our scheduled morning walk?” 

Harry smiled. He leaned in and lightly pecked your lips. “We’ll still have our scheduled morning walk,” he confirmed. “Everything will be okay,” he nodded. “I promise. It’s just… hard right now, but it won’t always be.” 

“Okay,” you answered. “I trust you.” 

“Good.” Harry pulled away from you only to retrieve your body wash. “Now, let me take care of you, yeah?” 

You bit your lower lip in anticipation. “I didn’t come in here for you to take care of me. I came in here so that I can take care of you.” 

He chuckled. “Return the favor tonight. Deal?” While one hand held your body wash, the other moved between your legs. Harry watched you gasp in surprise. He smiled and leaned in closer. “I love you, baby,” he said huskily. 

Your eyes fluttered when you felt the pads of his fingers brush against you. Answering with a shaky breath, you replied, “I love you too.” 

Harry watched with a quiet chuckle and a permanent smile on his lips as both Frankie and Sammy were talking amongst one another at the kitchen table. You were helping Stevie get ready for school, having promised last night that you’d curl her hair. 

“Sammy, don’t make a mess, buddy.” He pointed out, grabbing the roll of paper towel to set on the table for him. 

“I won’t, daddy,” he answered. 

“I’ll make sure he doesn’t,” Frankie giggled. 

“But you make a mess too,” Harry smiled. 

“No, I don’t! I’m cleaner than he is.” 

Sammy widened his eyes. “Nuh uh!” 

“Uh huh!” 

“No!”

“Yes!” 

“Okay,” Harry said, stepping in between the both of them. “How about we all agree that the both of you are messy? Even Stevie.” 

“Lies,” Frankie said, shaking her head.

Sammy agreed. “Yeah, exactly. Lies.” 

Harry let out a quiet snort and leaned down to wipe both their lips from the syrup that also drilled down their chin. “See, messy.”

Frankie and Sammy looked at each other, quietly giggling amongst one another. They finished their plates of pancakes quickly and stood from the table to set their dishes into the sink. Harry watched the with loving eyes and followed them closely, reaching over to run the water over the dirty dishes. 

“Go and get ready for school, okay?” He told them.

Frankie nodded.

Sammy did the same and then hugged his leg as the other girl ran down the hallway and into her room.

“What’s up, buddy?” 

“Nothing,” he said, looking up at Harry. 

Harry set down his cup of coffee on the counter and leaned down to pick Sammy up. “You’re still hungry, aren’t you?” 

Sammy giggled. “Can I just have some fruit?” 

He smiled and walked to the fridge, grabbing the bowl of grapes as he kept Sammy against his hip. “You can have a bit, bud, but you still gotta get ready for school.”

They younger boy nodded. “Okay, daddy. Did you eat too?”

Harry shook his head. “I’ll have some toast before we leave.”

“You don’t eat in the morning? But you’re always awake before everyone.” Sammy scrambled to his feet and walked towards the dining table again, hoisting himself back onto the chair as he reached for a couple of grapes. 

Harry bit his lower lip and sat down next to Sammy, reaching for some grapes too. “How do you know I wake up before everyone, hm?” 

Sammy shrugged, swinging his feet off the edge of the chair. “Well, you’re already dressed by the time we wake up, so…”

“So observant,” he chuckled.

“I just want to make sure you have some yummy breakfast too, daddy. Tomorrow, I’ll try to wake up before you and make you some waffles too!”

Harry looked at him and smiled, leaning forward to kiss his temple. “You’re the sweetest, buddy, but you don’t need to. I’ll make sure to eat beforehand, how’s that?”

Sammy narrowed his eyes up at his father. Harry couldn’t help but let out a quiet laugh because it was the same look you’d give him. “Promise?”

“I promise, Sammy.”

“Pinky promise?” Sammy lifted his hand in the air, extending his pinky out for him.

Harry nodded and curled his own pinky with his. “I pinky promise, buddy. You all done eating?”

Sammy took a couple of more grapes before he climbed off the chair. “All done. I’ll go get ready for school now.”

“Love you, Sammy.”

He smiled and wrapped his tiny arms around Harry, kissing his cheek. “Love you too, daddy.” 

Harry watched the younger boy disappear down the hallway and into his room as he stood from the dining table. He went to retrieve his cup of coffee before making his way to Stevie’s room. He could hear the quiet chatter between the both of you, so when he slowly opened the door even further, he couldn’t help but smile at the sight before him.

“Dad!” Stevie said, turning her head to look at him. 

“Sorry, sorry,” he mumbled. “You look beautiful, Stevie girl.”

She was wearing a white and black striped long sleeve tucked into a denim skirt. Her hair was curly and framed her face and she looked up at Harry with soft eyes—almost like she was looking for his approval too. 

“Y—You think so?” She asked.

You smiled and stood from the edge of her bed to wrap your arms around Stevie from behind. “Look at him,” you teased. “He’s got tears in his eyes.”

“I do not,” Harry said, blinking back the tears that filled his eyes. “I just—Your mom did a great job on your hair.”

Stevie grinned and leaned back against you. “I’m still wearing my converse though,” she said. 

“Ah, can’t forget about your converse,” he chuckled, walking further into the room and looking down at Stevie. “How are you no longer my little girl?” Harry asked with a sigh. 

“I’m always your little girl,” Stevie answered. “Just… I’m older.”

“I know,” Harry said with a nod. “I look at you and all I see is that same five year old little girl,” he continued. “But now… she’s got a crush that she’s trying to impress and—”

Stevie sighed loudly. “Dad, he’s just a friend.”

“Uh huh,” he replied. “How come you don’t dress up for your other friends then, hm?”

Stevie felt the warmth in her cheeks. “He’s a new friend.” 

You looked up at Harry and smiled, shaking your head as you pulled away from Stevie. “Okay, okay, that’s enough. Make sure to eat breakfast, okay, Stevie?” 

“Yeah, mom,” she nodded. “Thanks for doing my hair. I love it.”

“Taylor better love it too,” Harry muttered under his breath.

Both you and Stevie looked at him, gave him a look that said seriously without saying the words. 

He widened his eyes just slightly and lifted his hand in the air. “Okay, okay, I’ll knock it off.” Then, Harry leaned in and kissed the crown of Stevie’s head. “You do look real pretty, Stevie girl.”

“Thanks, dad,” she smiled, looking up at him. “Still got pancakes?”

Harry nodded. “You know there’s enough left for you, baby.”

“Oh good,” she said, leaving her room to go into the kitchen, leaving both you and Harry standing in the middle of her bedroom.

“She’s—She’s getting so big,” Harry sighed.

You nodded, walking up to him and gently running your hands up and down his chest. “I know, baby, but hey… we’ve got two other babies still.”

“What about… a fourth?” Harry asked.

Your eyes lit up. “Yeah?” 

He smiled. “Yeah.”

“Talk about it tonight?” You asked, hopefully.

Harry nodded and leaned in to lightly peck your lips. “Tonight, baby.” 

Later that morning when both you and Harry parked at the school, Stevie kissed both your cheeks before joining her friends. Sammy held onto your hand and wanted you to walk him to his class, which left Harry and Frankie. 

“Daddy, I think I know what I want to do,” she said, keeping a tight hold on his hand as she led him to his classroom. 

“What’s that, babygirl?” He asked, looking down at her. “Soccer? Gymnastics? Basketball?” 

“Martial arts,” she grinned, looking up at Harry. 

“Martial arts?” Harry repeated, tilting his head. 

Frankie nodded excitedly. “I want to learn how to punch and kick, daddy.”

“You don’t want to do any other sport? What if you get hurt, honey?” 

“Well, I won’t,” Frankie smiled, the dimple on her cheek appearing. 

“You can’t guarantee that, Frankie.”

“No, but I know that I’ll be good at it,” she said with confidence. “Can I at least try it out first?” 

“I’ll talk to mama,” he reasoned, scooping her into his arms and kissing her cheek. “How’s that?”

Frankie smiled, wrapping her arms around him. “Okay, daddy, but I really want to do it.”

“We’ll try it out first, see how you really like it, yeah?” 

“What if mama says no?” She asked quietly. “I think she might say no.”

Harry looked down at her, his lower lip pulled between his teeth. He never realized how much of a soft spot he had for his children. “I’ll—I’ll try to convince her for you to give it a try. I’m not saying that we’ll sign you up—”

Frankie nodded quickly. “Really, daddy? You promise?”

“I’ll do my best, babygirl.” Harry said, kissing her forehead. “But if you can’t do martial arts, what else would you wanna do?” 

“Hmm,” she shrugged. “I haven’t thought that far.” 

“Oh? You think we’ll agree and say yes to you doing martial arts?”

Frankie grinned. “Yes.”

“Confident, aren’t you?”

She giggled. “Yup.”

Harry chuckled and tickled her side, feeling her arms tighten around him as her giggles filtered his ears. He loved that sound—loved hearing every single child of his laugh because of him. “I love you, Frankie.”

“I love you too, daddy,” she smiled, pulling away from him and scrambling to her feet once they got to the door of her classroom. “Don’t work too hard, okay?” 

Harry bit his lower lip. Stevie had said something first, then Sammy, and now Frankie. Guilt filled his chest, so he leaned down and ran his hands down her arms and to her tiny hands to hold in his own. “I won’t, babygirl. Have a great day, okay?” 

Frankie nodded, kissing his cheek. “You too, daddy. See you after school!” 

Harry smiled to himself and watched her walk into her classroom, feeling someone’s arm wrap around him from behind. He turned slightly and noticed you instantly, his smile just growing bigger at the sight of you. 

“Kiddos are all in their classrooms,” you said. 

Harry nodded, turning in your arms and wrapping an arm around your shoulders as you both began walking away from Frankie’s classroom and back towards the car. 

“So… hear me out,” Harry said quietly. 

“What?” You asked, brow arching. 

He bit his lip. “Frankie wants to do martial arts.” 

Your brows lifted upward. “What?” 

“Her words, not mine. She said, I want to learn how to punch and kick, daddy,” he repeated. 

“She could get hurt.” 

“Yes, I told her that.” 

“Harry—”

“I didn’t say yes,” he interjected. “I said… I’d talk to you.” 

“You just can’t say no to our kids, can you?” You teased. 

He chuckled quietly. “I didn’t say yes,” he repeated. 

“But you didn’t say no either.” 

He rolled his eyes playfully and held you closer to his side, turning his head to kiss your temple. “I told her I’d talk to you,” he said again. 

“What if I say no?” 

“Then I’d push back and ask you to reconsider,” he answered. “Let’s just have her try a few lessons. See if she really wants to do it before we commit.” 

You looked up at him, leaning into him. “No sparring.” 

“Baby, she’s six.” 

“No sparring,” you repeated. “Or any physical contact with any other kid.” 

Harry nodded. “Just the foundations,” he agreed. “The basics.” 

“The basics,” you said. “Okay, we can let her know that we can check out some places.”

He smiled. “She’s gonna be so happy.”

Harry got into the office about an hour later. Peter was already there, walking towards his office with a large grin on his face. He always was envious of how easygoing his younger brother was. Harry, on the other hand, was always in his head, always overthinking and worrying. When things were out of his control, it only stressed him out further. 

But Peter was the complete opposite. 

He didn’t mind going with the flow, didn’t spend too much time worrying about one single thing, and he was able to separate his home life with his work. 

“Morning,” Peter said, hands in his pockets. 

“Hey,” Harry answered, holding the door to his office open. “We got a busy day today.”

“Nothing we can’t handle.”

“How’s Charlotte?”

“Good,” Peter answered. “Yours?”

“She’s good too,” Harry said with a nod, his mind drifting to you as he was already counting down the minutes until you got to the office. “Frankie wants to do martial arts.”

Peter chuckled. “You’re gonna have your hands full with that one,” he teased. “I wonder who she got her athleticism from.”

“Me,” Harry answered quickly. “Obviously me.”

“Uh huh,” Peter smiled. “Sure.”

“And Stevie’s got a crush,” Harry added. “Dressed up today. Had her mom curl her hair and everything.”

“Oh,” Peter said softly. “You’ve got a pre-teen on your hands. Good luck.”

Harry laughed quietly. “I know, it’s crazy, isn’t it? How am I gonna survive her teenage years?”

“Well, it’s good thing you won’t be doing it alone,” he answered with a smile.

Harry nodded in agreement. “Yeah, you’re right.” 

“You both still trying to get pregnant?” Peter asked.

“We—we haven’t talked about it since we were having a tough time about a year ago,” Harry answered. “But yeah, I think we want to try again.”

“Could’ve been stress,” Peter suggested. “It’s been a year since we both took over for mom and dad, and… well, you almost overworked yourself until you collapsed last year.”

Harry sighed. “I know. Don’t remind me.”

“But… you’re still kind of doing the same thing, Harry. Maybe not to the same extent, but—”

“I’ve got it handled,” Harry interrupted. 

“Is that why mom’s coming today?”

He looked over at him. “How’d you know she was coming today?”

“Well, she called me. Asked me if everything was okay.”

He sighed. “I just—just wanted to talk to her, that’s all.”

Peter walked over to him and reached out to rest a hand on his shoulder. “I hope you know that you can lean on me, Harry. I know Char’s pregnant and everything, but I’m here for you too. We’re both co-CEOs for a reason.”

“I know,” Harry said. “I know.”

“I’ll take the morning meetings, you take the afternoon. Sound good?”

“Peter—”

“Great,” he grinned. “I’ll catch you later.”

“Peter,” Harry repeated. 

“I am capable of doing this job too.”

“I’m not saying you can’t.”

“But you’re not letting me do anything.”

Harry sighed and nodded. He reached up to run a hand over his face. “Okay, fine. You get the morning. I’ll get the afternoon.” 

“Good,” Peter smiled. “I’ll see you later. You know where to find me.”

“Uh huh,” he said, watching his younger brother leave his office with a large grin on his lips. The door shut behind him and he sighed, walking towards his desk and sitting at his desk. Maybe splitting the meetings equally like this would work, but he couldn’t help the lack of control he was feeling. 

Harry felt his phone buzz. He pulled it from his pocket and looked down to see his mother text him that she was on her way. He replied with a thumbs up before turning his laptop on to at least get started on some work before she got here. 

Harry had been walking back to his office after refilling his cup of coffee when he spotted his mother at the end of the hallway, stepping off the elevators. His eyes lit up and he walked over to her, seeing her gaze find him instantly. When he got closer, she pulled him in for a hug and he relaxed instantly, kissing her temple. “Hey, morning.”

“Hey, honey,” she said. 

“Want a cup?” Harry asked.

His mother shook her head. “Already had my fix this morning,” she smiled. “And you? What number cup is this?”

“Two.”

“It’s not even ten in the morning, Harry,” she said.

“Exactly.”

She rolled her eyes and hooked her arm with his, following him towards his office. It didn’t take long for them to get there, so Harry held the door open for her before shutting it behind the both of them once they were inside. 

“How’s dad?” He asked, walking towards his desk to set his mug down. 

“Good,” she answered. “He’s good. Meeting up with Jay, actually.” 

“Oh?” Harry smiled, arms crossing over his chest at the mention of your dad. When your parents moved back to the city to be closer to you, both of them spent a lot of their time with his parents too. It was like they were long lost best friends now finally catching up. 

“At the gym, apparently,” she laughed quietly. “Which is fine. Considering how often they try to sneak in some sweets, it’s nice that they’re out there working out.”

“Good for them,” Harry said with a nod. “Maybe we should have you guys come over this weekend or something.”

Her eyes lit up. “I think we’d love that, honey. How are the kiddos?”

“Good,” he smiled. “Sammy made a new friend yesterday. Frankie wants to do martial arts. And Stevie—she’s got a crush and I don’t know what to do with that,” Harry answered honestly.

His mother laughed quietly and walked towards the couch, taking a seat on it with ease. “Oh, the joy of growing up.”

Harry followed her and sat down next to his mother, biting his lower lip as he looked over at her. 

“What, honey?” She asked, turning to face him. “You texted me for a reason last night. What’s going on? Are you—you having trouble with—”

Harry shook his head and interjected immediately. “No,” he answered. “We’re not having trouble.” 

“Then, what is it?” 

He sighed and looked down at his hands, his thumb grazing over his wedding ring. “Remember how it was like last year? When you and dad retired and me and Peter took over?”

She nodded. “You wouldn’t stop working… and didn’t let Peter do any of the work.”

“I did let him work.”

“Barely.” 

Harry sighed again. “I’m—I’m having trouble with that again,” he admitted. “I’m working a lot and I don’t know how I did it before, how I fixed it. I don’t know how you or dad even did it.”

“You’re not letting Peter help you,” she answered like it was the most simplest answer there was. 

“Char’s pregnant, mom,” he said. “And you know the challenges both she and Peter had just to get pregnant this time around.”

“Harry,” she sighed, taking his hand once she started noticing that he was fidgeting uncomfortably. “I know you want to take care of them, make sure that there isn’t any other added stress, but you can’t do this by yourself. Why else did you think we named both of you as co-CEOs?”

“I just—I know I can handle it myself. I just need to be better at separating my work life with my home life.” 

His mother said your name, causing his gaze to look up at her. “How does she feel about all of this?”

“Well, that’s the thing… it’s starting to affect us. Our kids are also taking notice.”

“That’s a problem, honey.”

“I know,” Harry whispered, guilt slowly crawling up his chest. “I’m trying.”

“What are you doing to try to make things better?” She asked. “If you’re trying… what exactly does that look like?”

Harry tore his gaze away from her. He couldn’t answer that. “Mom—”

“Your father and I didn’t name you both co-CEOs just for the hell of it,” she interjected. “We knew you both were ready, but if it’s causing you this much stress—”

“It’s not.”

“It is,” she sighed. “Why do you think you need to try and control everything, baby?” She said softly, reaching up with one hand to cup his cheek so that he could look at her. “The company’s thriving, Harry. Nothing’s going to happen.”

His eyes softened. “I just don’t want to do a bad job. You and dad worked so hard for it and I don’t—I’m scared that if I don’t keep up with it that it’ll just go under, that I’ll end up disappointing the both of you,” he answered honestly. 

His mother’s eyes softened too. She leaned forward to kiss his forehead and he sighed, leaning into her like he was that same, sensitive little boy who worried about the smallest of things. 

“Nothing you or Peter could ever do would disappoint us,” she reassured. “And this company—it’s just that. Your health matters more to me, Harry. Same with Peter. If it goes under, it goes under. This company isn’t our legacy,” she continued. “You and Peter are, do you hear me, Harry?”

He looked at her and felt tears sting his eyes. He blinked them back, tried to keep his composure. 

“I said, do you hear me, Harry?”

He nodded slowly, biting his lower lip as he looked into her eyes. “Y—yeah, I hear you.”

“Lean on your brother,” she added. “You aren’t the only one running this company.”

“But Charlotte—”

“Harry, it’s not your job to make sure that they are taken care of. You have your own family to think about too. If it’s affecting your marriage, if your kids are seeing it too, then how can you expect to take care of them if your cup is already empty?”

He sighed. “How did you do it? How’d you work when you had me and Peter?”

“I had help,” she smiled. “I didn’t do it alone. I knew I couldn’t do it alone.”

“Dad,” he said. 

“Exactly. I had your father.”

Harry nodded. “Okay, I’ll—I’ll let Peter take on more. Or at least an equal amount of work.”

“Good, that’s a start,” she said. “And make sure to keep your boundaries. Work should only start when you get to the office and when you step foot out of this building. At home, your priority is to be a father—a husband. Once you take work home with you, honey, it’s hard to separate work and home life after that.”

“Okay,” he repeated. “And waking up early?” 

She shrugged. “You can wake up early, sure, but don’t wake up early because you feel like you need to work.”

“Work when I’m at the office,” he said. “Boundaries—okay, I’ll work on that.”

“Won’t be easy,” she said. “But I know you love being a father and husband more than being a CEO, Harry. This company—it’s not everything.”

He nodded again and leaned against her. Harry shut his eyes and didn’t feel like the weight on his shoulders were dragging him down. “Thank you,” he whispered. “For talking to me. For coming here.”

“Of course, honey,” she smiled, arm wrapping around his shoulders as Harry rested his cheek against her. “I’m proud of you, both you and Peter. So, your homework today is?”

“Once I leave the office, work’s done,” Harry answered.

“Good,” she said softly. “Good.”

You were already in bed by the time he finished in the bathroom. Harry smiled to himself, feeling lighter once he left work once he left the office. It wasn’t easy, especially when he wanted to stay a bit longer after work, but this was the first step. 

“Kids went to sleep pretty quickly tonight,” you said, arms coming up to wrap around him once he laid down next to you. 

“Must’ve been because we let them watch a movie during dinner,” he chuckled.

“They do like their movie nights,” you smiled. “Did you see Stevie? She was grinning the entire ride home.”

Harry nodded, arm snaking around your shoulders. “Guess we’ll have to ask her about it tomorrow. See if she’s willing to let us know what happened.” 

“Wanna bet that she won’t tell us?” You teased.

Harry laughed quietly. “I think she’ll give us some details, but not all.” 

“You might be right,” you smiled. “She asked me if I could show her how to curl her hair.”

“Yeah? What’d you say?”

“I didn’t want to say yes,” you admitted. “Guess I’m also feeling like she won’t need me anymore either.” 

Harry nodded in understanding and leaned down to kiss your forehead. “She’s growing up.”

“I know,” you sighed. “Makes me sad too.”

“She’s still our Stevie girl though,” Harry said. 

“Yeah, she is,” you nodded. “How was your talk with your mom today?”

“It was—it was good,” he answered. “It was what I needed actually. Gave me some good advice.”

You smiled. “Yeah?” 

Harry nodded, turning to lie on his side to face you. His arm draped over your midsection, pulling you close to him as he felt your nose gently graze his own. “Did you know your dad and my dad work out together?” 

“My mom did mention something about it,” you laughed quietly. “I’m sure they get some sweet snack afterwards.”

“Oh, I don’t doubt it,” he smiled. 

You brought a hand up to his hair, running your fingers through his dark curls. “So… what’d your mom say?” 

“I need boundaries,” he answered. “Said that I should only focus on work when I’m in the office.”

“Good advice,” you said with a nod. “And how was that? Today after work?”

“Difficult,” he said honestly. “But felt good.”

You smiled and leaned in to peck his lips. “I’m proud of you,” you whispered. “I know it couldn’t have been easy but I—I’m glad that you’re trying, even if it’s hard for you.”

“I’m doing this for—for us, for our family,” Harry said softly. 

“I know, baby.”

“And I want to try again,” he continued. 

You bit your lower lip and sat up slowly, reaching over to turn the light on on your nightstand. Harry sat up as well, looking over at you with soft eyes. 

“If that’s what you want too,” Harry added.

“It is,” you nodded. “I do want to try again too.”

He smiled, reaching out for you and pulling you onto his lap. “And I know last year was a tough time for us. I know we tried and we didn’t have any luck, but I think it was because of stress,” he said, thinking back to what Peter had suggested earlier that day. “I think I was so focused on work that we just—we couldn’t get pregnant.”

You ran your hands down his chest and back up until they rested on his shoulders. “What about this time around?”

“This time around, I’m gonna be better. I’m gonna establish boundaries wth work,” he repeated. “I want another child with you.”

“A shit ton of kids, right?” You smiled, leaning in to brush your lips with his own. 

Harry chuckled, squeezing your hips tightly. “A shit ton of kids, indeed.”

“And maybe we don’t put a lot of pressure around it this time around?” You suggested.

Harry nodded in agreement. “Yeah, I think that’s a good idea. While we wanted to get pregnant when Frankie and Sammy were born, we didn’t really put a lot of focus on it either. We just—weren’t careful.”

“So… we start trying,” you said.

“We start trying,” he repeated. 

“Can we start trying now?” 

Harry’s eyes lit up. He nodded and slowly rolled you onto your back, settling himself between your legs as his hands moved from your hips to slowly pull your shirt over your head. “Hell yeah we can start trying now.”

You shiver slightly when he comes into the office, shying away slightly and trying to be polite because your momma raised you with manners and it never pays to be rude to a man who beats people up for a living. 

Maybe that’s why he scares you. The intense silence as he watches you when you hand him the paperwork that he needs. The names of the people that have not paid back the loans, their addresses and where they work. Handed to him with an almost clinical professionalism that is in stark contrast to what he’s going to do with that information. 

“Hey, dollface.” He’s never rude. He’s actually always very polite when he comes up to your desk, shoving his hands into the pockets of the black leather jacket that seems like a part of his persona. Your eyes flicker up and you immediately tense slightly, shooting him a nervous smile. “Hey, Clint.” You hum, looking around for any papers that might have been laid on your desk to give him. You hadn’t been told about anything, but he normally never comes and seeks you out unless he needs something. “What’s up?” You ask as you search around. “Need something?”

“Whatareyou doin’ tonight?” His jaw is set, almost taunt as he stares at you. Waiting for you to answer almost impatiently. He shifts his weight from one foot to the other and looks over his shoulder when something moves out of the corner of his eye. It’s just Leonardo, the cat that has more rights in this office than everyone else, jumping up onto the counter to drink from a random coffee cup that someone had left sitting there half empty. 

Your stomach twists and there is a heaviness that presses against your heart tonight. He must need a favor. Tonight of all nights. You sigh and shrug. “I- I don’t really have anything-”

Clint frowns, brows pulling together harshly and you break off the rest of your sentence and let it die. “Okay.” He turns and walks away from you, the bell over the door out of the office ringing as he pushes it open and leaves, making you stare after him in complete bewilderment, unsure of what the hell was going on. 

Leaving promptly at five o’clock can sound strange when you think about a criminal organization literally having 9-5 hours, but the little loan office is supposed to look legitimate. There are smaller loans, $100-200 that little old ladies borrow against their social security checks to pay for an unexpected expense, all legitimate and kept in a proper set of books in case the IRS comes poking around. They never do. 

You gather your purse, slide the ring for your keys onto your index finger as you walk to the door to shut off the lights. Everyone else had already left, just kind of disappearing like normal before the end of the day, assured that you would lock up like you do every night. Making you feel even more invisible as you lock the door with dissatisfaction over the day and wondering if picking up some take out could make it better. 

He’s leaning against your car. Watching you as you carefully lock the front door, tugging on the handle, just to make sure that it’s locked. Knowing that you might jump when you see him, but he waits anyway. The thing behind him something that might make you smile, or it might not, it all depends on if you like fucking roses or not.

It’s a horrible habit, but you walk to your car with your head down. Watching your feet as you count the steps to the compact little Ford you drive, hating yourself for the way your eyes are getting watery and knowing that you're going to have a good cry on the way home. Looking up at the last second before you need to stop in front of the door and jumping nearly a mile into the air when you see Clint Flood leaning against the front fender of your car. “Clint!” You gasp out and almost immediately look around to see if anyone else is nearby. 

“Easy, dollface.” He hates that he scared you, but he hadn’t wanted to call out, almost curious to know what caused that focus that blocked out the rest of the world. It was a dangerous thing for you to do, but he wasn’t here to lecture you. “Didn’t mean to scare you.” That’s true, he hadn’t, and he reaches behind his back to pull out the thing that he had left laying on the hood of the car. 

Roses, a beautiful bouquet of them, a dozen blood red, crisp roses are bound together with greenery and a pretty silver paper, with ribbons curling down from the bow, is in his hand as he draws it into view. Making your eyes widen in surprise, watery and beautiful, then confused as you try to understand. “I-”

“It’s your birthday today, right?” Clint asks, knowing that he hadn’t mixed up the date. It’s today, even if you hadn’t said a word to anyone. Even if no one had thought to say ‘Happy Birthday’ or bring in a cake. 

You stare at him for a moment, jaw slack and then back at the flowers. “It’s- these are for me?” You whisper quietly, hopeful in a way that makes his heart twist and his nervousness about doing this vanishes. 

“Of course they are.” He holds them out as he pushes upright off your car. Suddenly getting about four inches taller out of his slouch and moving closer to you in a gentle step. Careful not to make you jump again. “Every beautiful woman deserves beautiful flowers on her birthday.” 

You make a sound, soft and disbelieving as you slowly take the bouquet he is holding towards you. You gather them into your arms and cradle the fragrant, tender blooms and press your face into the flowers and close your eyes. Overwhelmed by someone remembering, someone caring. You had gone all day without anyone saying anything, thinking that it was just forgotten and pretending it was okay. That it didn’t matter. Adults didn’t need things like ‘Happy Birthday’ greetings and recognition. Except this completely calls you out for being the liar that you are. 

Clint watches you, not saying a word as you hug the flowers and breathe them in. Wondering if he should have done this earlier, but he hadn’t wanted to make you more nervous and he seems to do that easily enough. When you finally look up, he shoots you a small smile. “Come on, we’ll be late.” He tells you, almost laughing when your face clouds in confusion. 

He guides you over to his car, parked just on the other side of yours, and around to the passenger door. Opening it for you and waiting for you to climb in, turning and watching as you slowly walk closer. 

Late? What would you be late for? There was nothing planned, unless….he had asked about your plans earlier today. Did he have something planned now? With you? For you? A surprise? You don’t think that it’s something bad, not after giving you the most beautiful flowers that you’ve ever seen. You can tell he knows that you are confused but he doesn’t say anything, just waits and watches you with that same look that is always in his eyes when he looks at you. 

You get into his car. Part of him is surprised that you got in without any questions, the other part of him is relieved. He knows that he has to talk to you, to explain why, but it will be easier once he gets you to the restaurant. 

You interest him. In a way he hasn’t felt in a long time, in a way that he thought he might never feel again. Grace had made him feel that way, had been the love of his life, will always have a piece of his heart, but he feels something for you. He had wanted to ask you out, but the words hadn’t come. Grace had done the same kinds of things to him in the beginning before he relaxed and opened up to her. 

The drive is quick, he had chosen the place not too far away that he had heard you talking about in the office one day. The steakhouse with the good linens and candle light. The one that you had gushed over the food review in the paper talking about the best salmon they had ever eaten. The one you wanted to eat at but didn’t have a reason to go. Your birthday is obviously the best reason why you should go. 

The entire ride you are staring at the flowers, wondering why he got them for you. Not looking up until he pulls into a parking spot and you look out the windows. “Um, what are-” He doesn’t let you ask, putting the car into park and shutting off the engine as he answers. “Got reservations in ten minutes, dollface.” He says as he turns towards you. “You deserve to be taken out and celebrated.” 

For a long moment, he thinks you might refuse. You stare at him like he’s just spoken another language. One that you don’t understand. Stare at him before looking down at the flowers and then back up at him. “Reservation?” You ask and he nods. “Ten minutes.” He reminds you. “They said if we came early we could get a drink at the bar.” 

He had made reservations. He had planned this. You are confused but the way your heart is pounding, you don’t think it’s a bad thing. Butterflies swim in your stomach and you bite your lip as you look back down at the flowers. “Can I bring them inside?” You ask, not wanting to leave them behind. 

Clint chuckles softly and looks down at the blooms in question. “You can do whatever you want, dollface.” He promises. “It’s your night.” You bite your lip, something that he’s found adorable and even more so now. “Bring them in.” He says before he gets out of his car to round the front of it and open the door to let you get out. 

You unbuckle your seatbelt and slide out, flowers still in your arms and almost floating along in a sense of disbelief as he guides you towards the building. His hand is hovering just above your lower back, not touching you, but you can practically feel the warmth. Making you shiver again slightly. 

There is fancy, almost overly ostentatious music flowing through speakers when Clint opens the front doors. There isn’t a dress code that requires him to take off the leather jacket, but the black slacks he’s wearing are rarely pulled out of his closet. He had pulled them out for you, for tonight. He doesn’t hesitate to walk up to the host stand and give his name.  

You can’t believe that he made reservations. That he is bringing you here based on a conversation you had with Tammy in the office a month ago. A wistful, daydreamy want that is now apparently coming true. It’s everything you imagined it to be, romantic with low lighting and flickering candles at each table. The crisp white linens are almost too fancy to touch, and the host even pulls out the chair for you to sit down. 

It’s after the drinks have been ordered and you have finally swapped the flowers for a menu that you look up at Clint with a curious frown on your face. “Why did you bring me here?” You ask softly, as if you are afraid of making him angry by asking. Clint looks up and closes the menu as he contemplates how to answer without scaring you. 

“It’s your birthday.” He reasons, but that just makes you frown a little more. “I-” he shrugs. “I wanted to do something nice. To treat you.” 

“Why?” You bite your lip again. “I mean, you don’t- we don’t really socialize.” You point out and he flashes a quick half smile before he shrugs again. “It’s hard to socialize when you seem scared of me most of the time.” 

Your stomach drops, and you hate that he had realized that you were nervous around him. You had fooled yourself into thinking that you were hiding it so well. Your hands tighten around the menu and you look down at it in embarrassment. 

“Hey, don’t-” Clint shakes his head, upset that he upset you. “I just- I wanted to do this. Because….I would like to get to know you.” He confesses softly, opening up for the first time since he had lost the woman who had meant everything to him. 

That makes you look up, eyes almost startled as they find his and you soften. Your shoulders seem to drop and relax and you shoot him a shy smile. “You do?” You ask, making him give you a smile of his own as the waiter brings the drinks and asks if you are ready to order. “I do.” 

You seem to really relax and settle into the dinner, asking him questions and answering his own, your guard dropping and he hears you laughing at his admittedly bad jokes. Acting like you are enjoying yourself and moaning over the salmon when you try it. Claiming that it is every bit as good as the food critic had claimed, even insisting on feeding him a bite from your own fork. It was good, for fish. Although it hadn’t beat the buttery steak he had ordered for himself. Offering to let you have a bite of it too since it was just good manners. Watching you carefully take the bite from him and smiling when your eyes slip closed with a groan of pleasure that hits him in the gut like a punch. 

He had ordered you cake. The piece was indulgent, double chocolate with ganache, a single candle in the top of it when it’s brought out. He doesn’t tease you when you nearly cry, just urges you to make a wish and smiles when you blow it out. It would seem like such a small thing to someone else, but it means so much to you. How much thought he had obviously put into tonight. Almost like it was a date.

You are quiet on the drive back to your car. Making him nervous as he grips the steering wheel and glances into his mirrors so he doesn’t look over at you for every few seconds. He doesn’t try to talk to you, letting the silence settle but it’s not a heavy silence. Just comfortable in a way it might have not been before tonight. 

“I- I had a great birthday.” You admit when you’ve opened your car door and set your purse and the flowers inside. Turning back and shooting him another smile. One that pulls him closer as he resists the urge to pull out that pack of cigarettes from his jacket pocket and light one up. Clint nods and takes another step towards you. “Better than your earlier plans?” He asks, making you laugh. “My plans were to eat take out and watch tv.” You snort, reaching out and patting his arm. 

Clint reaches for you slowly. Giving you time to pull back if you want to, but you don’t. You bite your lip and look up into his eyes. “Don’t know…” Clint murmurs, “that could be a good night.” He teases quietly. “With the right company.” 

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Dividers by @/saradika-graphics

"What do you wear to a fight?" You asked Di on the phone when she called to give you the information about the fight.

"I don't know? Very short shorts and a bathing suit top?"

"I don't plan on stealing the ring girl's job!"

"Shame, I think you would be a hit. Just wear something comfortable. And something you won't mind having beer spilled on."

"Damn, I wanted to wear my red cocktail dress and the stilettos I never use."

"The backless one that shows your boobs? I think every man in the room would love it if you dressed like that." Di laughs, and you join in, imagining the incongruity of such a scene.

"It's all the way down Clearwater, I'll pick you up at 6, just in case we hit traffic on our way there."

"Aren't you going to ride with Benny?" You are surprised by the arrangement; you thought you would drive there by yourself.

"No, he'll be there earlier and probably leave after us. Doing his trainer job. He'll meet me at my place later. That way we'll have time to debrief on our way back."

"Sounds like a plan! "

The day Di comes and picks you up, you are ready in your most comfortable outfit, including a black t-shirt that says, Feminist is My Second Favorite F word. You figure it'll be a great conversation starter. Or a way to see how Benny and his friends react.

While waiting for her, you smile, remembering the last time you saw Frankie, on Thursday evening. You stood on the tarmac to wait for him, and you had watched him land his helicopter after his sunset ride. You were here to give him the next day's weather report, since you weren't working that day, and you decided to wait for him outside, to make sure you wouldn't miss him. Not because you wanted to see him fly again. Not because you loved watching him from afar, as he maneuvered the tricky vehicle. Watch his face as he concentrates, his serious look and the headset that makes him look so competent. No, not at all.

After he said farewell to the passenger on his flight, he spotted you, and your heart jumped at the smile that spread on his face. This had to mean something, right? You felt like a shift as you both walked toward each other, and while you both talked about work. It felt like both your minds were elsewhere, not in the words you were saying. You felt it in the way he seemed to lose track of his words, on the way you both smiled at each other, at the way you both lingered instead of saying goodbye. The evening wind was blowing the curls out of your bun in every direction, sometimes coming on your face. And for a moment, it seemed like he was going to tuck a wild curl behind your ear. You saw his hand move toward your face, the finger twitch. But instead, Colin interrupted whatever was about to happen by calling out for Frankie, and you had no choice but to leave. But turning back to look at Frankie, you saw he was still looking, with a small smile on his face. You've been replaying the scene in your head ever since, wondering what might have happened if he had tucked that curl. You think you might have kissed him.

You're going to ask him out. You are done wondering, you've had fun with the flirting, but now you want more. Maybe you could ask him to that movie you talked about earlier. Something innocent enough, should he not want to date you, which you are doubting more and more. Yes, that's what you are going to do. You'll text him something tomorrow. By the time you are in Di's care, you are composing the text in your head.

"¡Carajo! [Damn it!] Why can't this thing stay in place?" He's been trying to fix Mia's hair into the same complicated harido she had when he picked her up last week. But he can't seem to follow the YouTube tutorial he found. His clumsy fingers are too big for his daughter's fine curls. And the fact that she keeps fidgeting on her chair doesn't help.

"Daddy!" Mia giggles and turns to put her hand on Frankie's mouth, totally unravelling the part that he had managed to secure on her hair. "You said a bad word!"

"Ooooh, Daddy is in trouble!" Santi, who has been sitting at the kitchen table, doing whatever on his phone, pipes up with a look that can only mean one thing: make Frankie's life harder. "Well done, mi princesa [my princess], for understanding the word, your Spanish is getting better and better!"

Frankie is torn between embarrassment at having cursed in front of his daughter, and wanting to kill Santi for not helping at all.

Mia is in stitches. Her shyness with Santi is now totally forgotten. They are like thick and thieves, and despite all the mischief that happened in the past week and the time he wanted to kick his friend out of the house, Frankie is trying very hard not to smile, especially when he can sense Mia is almost ready to repeat the word. He can see it in her face, the cute grin she wears and the way she squints her eyes in concentration. He cuts her off before she can say anything with a stern, "Mija," [honey] She giggles again and jumps from the chair when the doorbell rings.

"Your hair!" Frankie yells after her but to no avail. He follows her to the door, watching the last strand of hair fall off from the pin that was vialantly holding it on top of her head. He sighs and opens the doors as Mia yells, "Mama!" Selena picks her up and smothers her in kisses. She gives Frankie a look after taking a look at Mia's hair when she puts her down. He just shrugs, and Selena smirks before hugging Santi.

"Muñequita [Sweetie], ready to go to mom's house?"

"Yes!" Mia runs to get her small backpack that contains her most precious treasures: trinkets and toys she carries with her everywhere.

Frankie picks up Mia's other bag and hands it to Elena, apologizing, "I was trying to do a French braid, but I just can't get it right."

"That one's hard, especially because this little one moves around all the time." She tickles Mia, who is back in her arms and squirming as she laughs.

"Say goodbye to Daddy and Uncle Santi!"

Frankie goes to kiss Mia after Santi, patting her hair to try and make it less wild. "Goodbye muñeca [sweetie], have a fun week with mommy and Jorge, I'll see you next week."

"Bye Daddy!"

The door closes, and like always, Frankie feels some little relief in the quiet that settles in the house and huge sadness to see his daughter go.

"Shit, you were right, the place looks like a tornado went through it." Santi is standing in the middle of the living room. Toys are scattered all around, and Frankie knows the kitchen isn't any better. He is relieved his friend is here to help with the loneliness he feels every time Mia leaves.

"We'll have to take care of it tomorrow. We should leave now if we don't want to be late for Benny's fight."

"Yeah, right, let me grab my things."

Driving over the causeway, Frankie thinks back on last Thursday, when he could have sworn you wanted to kiss him. You had been waiting for him as he landed the helicopter, looking prettier than ever, loose curls flying around your head. Your pretty smile as you gave him a report that could definitely have waited for him to come back to the office, or could even have been left on his desk. Your eyes were sparkling as you laughed at a bad joke he made, he doesn't even remember what it was. And the way your eyes dropped to his mouth when he almost reached out for your hair. He could have killed Colin for interrupting the moment.

He keeps replaying this in his head, and the more he thinks about it, the more he knows he wants to take you on a date. He's been denying it, but he really likes you, and he is pretty much certain you like him too. Wh? He can't understand, he was such an ass the first time you met, but he isn't going to throw away his second chance. He'll text you tomorrow, there is a movie showing you mentioned wanting to see, and he hopes you haven't yet.

When you arrive, the place is already packed. The fight is supposed to start in less than 30 minutes, and people already have drinks in hand, and some are already seated. You are nervous. Not because you're about to meet your friend's boyfriend, even if she refuses to use that word, "we aren't in high school". It's because you are going to have to meet other people in a setting you are definitely not used to.

"I texted Benny, he's in the locker room with Jim, the guy he's training. He'll come out and say hi before going back there."

As you order your drinks, you watch as a tall blond guy comes up to Di; she squeals in delight, kisses him, and then introduces you to each other. You see what she meant, he is tall, muscular, very hot, and also the exact opposite of every guy Diana has dated. He looks like the type she sleeps with but never dates. And with the look of utter love he gives her, that she gives back, the smile they both have on their face while they chat as you wait for your drinks, you can tell this is serious. More than any other guy she had introduced to you. Benny is nice, he includes you in the conversation and even gets a kick out of your t-shirt. All in all, you feel at ease, until he says, "Let's go meet the guys. You can sit with them, and I'll join you when the fight starts."

You sense Diana tensing next to you, so you try to ease your own nerves. It doesn't matter if no one likes you. You have to be there for her.

You walk toward a group of 4 men; you immediately recognize Benny's brother, another tall, hot, blond guy who smiles at both you and Di when he sees you arrive. The guy standing next to him has brown hair, and when his gaze follows his friend's, he seems a little annoyed at the interruption. The two other guys have their backs turned to you. One is a little shorter, he has black and grey hair, and next to him, a silhouette that makes your heart stop. The shoulders, the hat- that can't be him? And then he turns around, and you exclaim, "Frankie?"

Upon arriving, the first thing Frankie notices is the beer Tom has in his hand. Unless the bar sells non alcoholic beer, which he doubts, it means he was right in doubting Tom's commitment, and he hates the feeling of being right. He doesn't have time to linger on the feeling, because Benny greets them with a big hug and a slap on the shoulder, showing his excitement at having everyone for his protégé's first fight. It's hard to stay fixated on his uneasiness when he sees his friend so happy, even more when he tells them, "Diana is coming with a friend."

Tom rolls his eyes and is probably ready to make a snarky comment, which leads Frankie to think this is not his first beer. Fortunately, Santi jokes about Benny's new relationship status, and after Benny leaves them to go check on Jim, the group of friends talks and laughs like old times. It feels like a moment coming around, like everything is folding back into place. The irony is not lost on Frankie that the last time they were all in this place was just before they left for Colombia and before everything fell to pieces.

Suddenly, Will, who was telling them about the latest project, stops talking, his eyes focusing on a point in their group. It only takes a second for Frankie to understand that Benny is here with his girlfriend, and when he turns around, ready to greet her, he hears, "Frankie?"

He sees you, standing in front of him, a bewildered look on your face.

"You two know each other?" Benny asks.

"We work together!" You say, turning to Benny.

"You must be Frankie's new colleague." Santi chimes in, extending his hand to shake yours, making Frankie want to hit him when he sees you confused as you nod.

Luckily, there is no time to linger on this, as Will greets Diana, Benny's girl, a very pretty tall brunette, who seems nervous but also very much smitten, which makes Frankie happy. They all barely have to introduce each other, as Benny leaves, asking them to play nice, kissing Diana and going back for the last pep talk.

"What are the odds?" Diana turns to Frankie, a grin on her face, one that clearly means trouble as she adds, "I've heard so much about you."

Frankie mirrors her smirk, "Have you? Not too much bad stuff, I hope?"

"You mean apart from your first impression? What was it? 'pretty face and no brain', something like that?" Frankie can't help his wince. You elbow Diana, hissing "Di!" and she laughs.

Soon after, the MC announces the arrivals of the fighters and everyone's attention is centered on the fighters and the ring. And you shuffle closer to him while Diana is drawn to Benny, who has just joined them.

"I can't believe you're here! I'm here to meet Di's elusive boyfriend, and you've been his friend all this time. She's been so secretive about him." She adds like an afterthought.

"I didn't even know Benny's was going to introduce us to Diana tonight. He barely talked about her, even we knew something was up. So yeah, not only was I surprised when he announced she was coming, but knowing you are her friend, that's inconceivable."

"Look at these two being so discreet when they evidently like each other so much." They both look at Diana and Benny. He has his arm over her shoulder and is whispering something in her ear. She tilts her head back as she laughs, still clapping for the fighters. You and Frankie look at each other and smile at the scene.

The fight starts, and he notices your wince when the first blow hits, and then your head turns away when another blow brings blood from a cut on one of the opponent's faces.

"First fight?" He leans in to ask, making sure you hear him over the loud cheers.

"That obvious? Yeah. Not my scene, but I was curious." You turn your face to him, eyes still showing your uneasiness.

"It does take a while to get used to it."

"You are?" You look at him intently, like you are trying to read him, search deep inside him. He turns his face to the ground. He isn't ready for you to see all the ugly parts he hides.

"Unfortunately, yes. But you don't have to watch, we can go sit in the back."

"I don't want to take you away from your friends. And I want to be here for Diana, it's also her first fight." Your eyes are drawn to your friend. "Promise you won't tell anyone, but she's so nervous to meet everyone. I know she's faking the ease she is showing right now to fit in."

"I don't think she needs to fake anything. If she makes Benny happy, which is definitely the case, we are going to love her."

For the rest of the fight, he makes sure to talk to you and bring your attention to something else when he senses it gets too much for you.

The fight is thankfully over soon, and Benny leaves them again to debrief the fight. The guys are actually a great group, not that you would have doubted it, but you might have had your own prejudice. But with Frankie there, it's fairly easy to feel included. And you can tell Will does everything to make Di comfortable in Benny's absence.

They are all a tight group of friends, joking around, rough and nice to each other. Santi uses his charm on both Diana and you, and you understand very quickly that it's just a facade when soon he launches into a talk about his own girl who is coming to join him in a few weeks, his eyes betraying the love he feels for her. The only one you have a hard time talking to is Tom. The more the evening goes on, the more aloof he seems to get, and you can't help but count the number of beers he drinks. It's hard not to notice his eyes going out of focus and his speech getting slurred, even if he still seems pretty held together.

When you return from a brief stop at the bathroom, you find yourself a little alone. Benny and Di are a little further away, in a corner, talking like two people in love, as if the world didn't exist despite the noise and crowd. You don't want to interrupt them, they seem so sweet together. But you feel a little nervous to go join the group of men, not because they won't welcome you, but just because you don't want to interrupt the heated conversation they seem to have. You grab a drink, and since you see that Frankie doesn't have anything, on a whim you get him the same drink he's had all night. You arrive with both drinks in hand, and Frankie, seeing you, smiles, which eases your nerves. But once you join the group, Tom turns to you and, with unconcealed annoyance, snaps, "Can't you see you are interrupting us?"

You feel shame and embarrassment, but also anger all at once, and you let anger take the lead because even if you were afraid of bothering, the exact reason you hesitated to join them, you won't let anyone talk to you like this.

"Fuck you!" That's all that comes out of your mouth. You barely see your surroundings, you have tunnel vision, and everything is red. "You don't get to talk to me like this."

"Excuse me?" You can see the rage radiate from him as he moves to tower over you. He is taller than Frankie, and he is using all his height to intimidate you, taking another step toward you. But you don't care; your fury is making you take a reckless decision, as you take your own step forward and look him straight in the eyes. You barely listen to the guys around starting to talk; you don't know, care, what they are saying, instead flare.

"I'm sorry I interrupted your chat, and I would gladly have left if you had had manners. And yeah, I'll leave, but fuck you for talking to me like this." And before you leave, you pour both drinks down his crotch, you don't care that it also soaks part of your shoes. You just look at his face as it goes red, and veins threaten to pop from anger on his forehead. You see hands restrain Tom on his arms and torso, and with a smile and one last look, you leave. As you walk away, you feel all the anger leave your body, and the adrenaline leaves room for anxiety and fear. You quickly leave the building, not daring to look back. You hope the guys will hold him because he definitely seems like the guy who could punch you, especially since he is drunk and probably not in his right mind.

Frankie is too shocked when Tom yells at you that he barely reacts, Santi being the first to hold Tom's arms, and Will putting a hand on his chest when he takes a step toward you. He does manage to warn Tom by calling out his name, getting closer to intervene. But he is still so stunned, he didn't expect your reaction and could almost have laughed when you poured the drink on Tom. And it's only when you leave that his temper flies. He is torn between wanting to punch Tom and run to you. He manages to contain himself, stepping in front of Tom, once you leave and look at him straight in the eyes.

"What the hell is wrong with you?"

"What the fuck? Have you seen what she's done?" Tom is ready to fight, Frankie can tell, but he holds still, pushing hard on Tom's chest to make him back off.

"Fuck off, Tom, you don't talk to people like this. I'm going to see if she is ok, but this right here, what just happened? We are going to talk about it. Get a grip on yourself and stop the fucking booze." He doesn't care if he angers Tom, if he embarrasses him in front of their friends, calling out his drunkness, he just wants to get to you and check that you are ok.

He needs to temper his anger, because he is furious. Before you arrived, Tom was back on his usual shit, talking to them all excited, booze running through his veins, rejoicing in Santi coming home, and starting to plan a very dangerous trip to get the money back. The disappointment he felt when he saw Tom drinking again was only heightened when he realised neither Will nor Benny seemed to notice. Only Santi sent a look his way to see how he fared. And as the evening went on and Tom got drunker, Frankie got angrier until this moment where he might have punched Tom and started a fight, instead of doing what was important, which was coming to see you.

You are out, a phone in your hand, when he gets to you. Calling your name, you turn around, and you seem relieved when you see him, but still a little apprehensive.

"I'm sorry about Tom; he should never have talked to you this way." Frankie wants to put you at ease.

"You don't have to apologize for your friend. He's a grown man and needs to own up to his shit."

"You're right, but I don't think he's in the right state of mind to realize that right now. And I don't want you to leave like that, thinking we are like that, that's not how–" He doesn't even know how to finish this sentence.

"He needs to stop drinking, that guy had some serious issues." He can see you are still angry, and the hand not holding your phone is trembling. He takes a step toward you and holds your hand. "I know, he does. I've been trying to talk to him. I'm really sorry."

You take a deep breath and leave your hand in his, letting him squeeze it.

"I'm sorry about my reaction, I might have gone a little too far."

"You didn't. I'm sorry I was so slow at reacting, I didn't expect this to happen. But I can tell you he didn't either, and he deserved it. You ok?"

You take another deep breath and take your hand away from his. You look at your phone and sigh. "Yeah, I just want to leave, but I don't think there are any cars around."

"Why don't I take you home?" Frankie doesn't want to see you go, but he understands your need to be alone.

"No, I don't want to bother you, you have to go back to your friends."

"Believe me, I don't want to go back there and face Tom after what I told him. What about Diana?"

"She'll be fine, she's with Benny now, and I don't want to bother her."

"Let me take you, I'm ready to go home too." He wants to make sure you get back home safe and that you are alright.

"Ok," you relent after another look at your phone.

As he takes you to his truck, he quickly texts Santi, letting him know his driving you home and seeing if he can get a ride with Will. He quickly gets an answer: "Don't worry, I have my key in case you don't come home ;)."

The drive is mostly quiet, he tries to talk a little but senses you need quiet. He can feel you relax, and that eases him. When you get closer to your place, you direct him, and soon they are in front of your house. He gets out before you can turn to him to thank him. He wants to walk you to your door. He wants to apologize again, wants to make sure you are ok, and maybe if he can muster the courage, ask you out. He doesn't get in time to open your car door, but you let him walk you to your door.

Once you get there, before you turn to thank him and take your leave, he speaks. "I'm really sorry about how the evening ended, but I want you to know the guys really enjoyed their evening, and that Diana was a hit."

You smile at that, and Frankie rejoices that he managed to make you feel lighter.

"I'm really happy. She hasn't had a relationship in a while, and I was surprised when she told me about Benny. I really hope this works out."

"Me too. Benny has been through some shit, and he had a hard time settling. Seeing him with her makes me happy. They look good."

"Yeah, I think they bring a lot to each other. I hope I didn't ruin anything with my reaction."

Frankie grabs both your hands, he wants to make sure you listen, and you look at him in surprise when he pulls you toward him.

"You did nothing wrong. Frankly, I've got enough of Tom's bullshit, and I think everyone has. This has to be his wake-up call. And nothing you do will ruin anything for Benny and Di." You look at him with such openness, like you are drinking his every word, that he almost bends his head to kiss you. But he doesn't want to do this now after what happened, so instead he adds, "And I promise, if the guys don't like you, they won't hold it against Di."

That makes you laugh, and he smiles watching the last bit of tension leave your body. For a moment you just look at each other, letting the moment fill you with warmth.

Until you say, "Frankie. Kiss me."

Spanish translation: muñeca/muñequita: literally doll, sweetie carajo: literally dick, cock, used to say damn it, hell, fuck

You’ve known it was coming – of course you have. But when Joel had helped you up into James’s brougham for the ride home, you’d pushed the thought from your mind, consumed only with the true purpose of the stolen hours you’d been granted. And now…now reality looms like a harbinger of death over what has become so sacred.

It sits on the ranch like a shadow the whole day long. Joel had risen before dawn and done more work than three men – mended the pasture fence, reshod a mare, split a winter's worth of wood and stacked it under the lean-to against the day you might need it and he might not be there to swing the axe. You had watched him from the kitchen window through the long bright morning, stripped to the waist in the heat, driving himself at the work like a man trying to leave his hands' labour behind him in the very grain of the place, and you had understood that this was how he was saying goodbye to it.

To the ranch. To the life. To the small chance that he might not come back to any of it, despite how positive you’ve both allowed yourself to feel in the cocoon of one another’s embrace.

The afternoon comes too fast.

He comes in at four o'clock, washes, and puts on one of his good shirts. Then he comes into the kitchen where you’re stood at the table not doing anything at all, only standing with your hands flat on the warm scrubbed pine, and he stops in the doorway, looks at you, and neither of you say a word.

"Please,” you whisper, your voice coming out cracked. "Don't say it's time yet, Joel. Not yet."

He crosses the kitchen in three strides and gathers you into him.

You press your face into his chest, wind your arms around his ribs and hold on the way a drowning woman holds a spar. His arms come around your back, his beard presses into the crown of your hair and he holds you just as hard. For a long while the two of you stand there in the afternoon kitchen holding on and saying nothing, because there’s nothing to say that will make it smaller than it is.

"Darlin’, we have to go soon. If I ain’t through the Sheriff’s door by sundown he can send men out here, and I won't have men ridin’ onto this place after dark with you and Sarah in it. I'll go on my own two feet or not at all."

"I know. I just…I don't want you to go, Joel." The words tear out of you. "I know I have to let you. I know there's no help for it. But I don't want you to go and I’m not going to pretend that I do."

His arms tighten. "Good," he says roughly, "don't pretend. I couldn't stand it if you pretended. I’m done with any kind of pretendin’ for the rest of my life however long that turns out to be."

You laugh at that – a wet, broken thing – tip your face up, and he bends his head, and kisses you in a quiet and terrible way, a long careful pressing of his mouth to yours as though he means to learn the shape of it and carry the shape of it away with him into the cell. You kiss him back the same way, memorising, hoarding, and when he draws back at last his eyes are wet and yours are streaming.

"Where's Sarah?" you manage.

"Nappin’. Clean wore herself out helping me stack the wood." His thumb wipes at your cheek. "I know it goes without sayin’ darlin’, but if anythin’ bad does happen, Sarah’s yours – you understand me?”

"Joel…"

"When I'm gone, whatever happens at that trial – she's yours. You’re my wife, in every way possible now, so nobody can take her from you. She's yours. And this place is yours, free and clear, whatever…" His voice catches. "Whatever they decide about me."

"Stop." You catch his face in both hands. "Stop talking like a man saying goodbye, Joel Miller. Stop it! You didn't do the thing they're saying you did. You defended this family. Any man in the county would have done what you did, and you know that James is positive about the outcome. We have the town council on our side, and you are coming home."

"You believe that," he says, eyes searching yours.

"I believe it with my whole heart. And I thought you did too."

"I do, I…want it to be true."

He bends and presses his forehead to yours, and the two of you stand there breathing the same air in the afternoon kitchen until the light through the window begins to gild toward evening and there’s no more putting it off.

You wake Sarah together, which is the hardest part. She comes up out of her nap warm and rumpled and slow to understand, and when she does, she comes apart in a way you haven’t expected. She flings herself at Joel, burying her face in his neck, unwilling to let go. He sits down on the edge of her bed and holds her and rocks her, and his own face is a thing you have to look away from.

"Don't go, Pa, please don't go. I'll be good. I'll be so good. Don't go!"

"Babygirl, look at me." He draws her back and thumbs the tears off her cheeks. "You listen to me now. I have to go and talk to some men in town about what happened. That's all. And they're gonna talk it over, and they're gonna see that your Pa did right, and then I'm gonna come home. You hear? I'm gonna come home."

"When?"

"Soon."

"How soon?"

"I don't know exactly, babygirl. But soon. And while I'm gone you gotta help out, okay? And you say your prayers. And you know what you can pray for?"

Sarah hiccups. "A baby sister?"

Joel's face breaks and mends in the same instant. "You pray for whatever your heart wants, babygirl," he says, thick. "You pray real hard and God’s gonna hear you.”

He holds her a long while more. Then he stands, sets her small hand into yours, and looks at the two of you standing there together in the failing gold light and something passes over his face that you’ll carry with you the rest of your life.

"My girls," he says.

Then he nods and goes outside to help Tomás with the wagon.

****

The ride into town is made mostly in silence.

Joel handles the reins and you press against his side on the wagon bench with your hand tucked into the crook of his arm, the country going by gold and green and heartbreakingly beautiful in the last of the light, Tomás silent in the back.

For some reason, you find yourself memorising it – the way the live oaks throw their long shadows across the road, the way the cicadas saw in the heat, the way the dust rises gold behind the wagon wheels, the warm hard press of Joel's arm against your side, and the smell of him. You memorise his profile against the gold light, the rough dark beard, the eyes fixed on the road, the small muscle working in his jaw.

"Darlin’..."

"Yes?"

"When this is over…"

"When this is over," you interrupt, "we are going to have the rest of our lives, Joel Miller, and I intend to be a very great trial to you for every day of them."

The corner of his mouth pulls. "That so."

"That is so. I’m your wife proper now and you’ll be sorry you ever wished me to speak my mind."

"I'll never be sorry for that." His hand leaves the reins a moment to cover yours in the crook of his arm. "Never once. Whatever comes, I want you to know that. You're the best thing that's happened to me since I lost Tess and I need you to know it before I go through that door."

The gold country blurs through your tears.

"I love you, Joel," you say, “and I need you to come home to me."

"I'll do everything a man can do to come home to you," he says, not quite a promise because he’s too honest a man to promise what he can’t command, but as near a promise as the truth allows and you took it and hold it.

Sawyer’s Creek eventually appears on the hazy horizon. The same townsfolk who watched you leave a few days ago now watch you return with wide-eyes and whispers behind hands, but you lift your chin and look none of them in the eye.

Joel draws the wagon up before the sheriff's office and sets the brake. He sits a moment with the reins in his hands looking at the building, and you feel the breath go out of him. Then he wraps the reins, climbs down and comes around to lift you down, his hands spanning your waist and setting you on your feet in the dust of the street.

He nods to Tomás and doesn’t let go of your hand as you go up the steps to the door.

Inside, Sheriff Hayes is sat behind his desk, and when he sees you, he nods briefly, an acknowledgement of a bargain made and kept. In the corner, you see James leaning against the wall, a glint of satisfaction present in his eyes.

"Mr Miller,” James says, coming forward to shake Joel’s hand. "You're a man of your word. I told the Sheriff you'd be here by sundown on your own two feet and here you are. That counts for something."

"Mr Oliver." Joel nods in return.

"Well." Sheriff Hayes rises from behind the desk. “I'm as sorry about this as I was the last time, but I have to do it. Come on back, Joel.”

The moment arrives and though you thought you were braced for it, you realise you’re not. Not now, after everything. Joel turns to you, takes your face in both his hands, and looks at you as though he means to take the whole of you with him down the corridor and once more into the dark.

"Joel…" Your voice won’t hold. "Joel, I…"

"Darlin’, you listen to me now. You go home, take care of my girl and take care of yourself – just like you did last time. You eat and you sleep even when you don't want to because I need you strong and I need Sarah minded and I can't do either of those things from in here. Can you do that for me?"

"Yes,” you swallow hard, “Yes, I can do that."

"That's my girl." His thumbs wipe at the tears streaming down your face. "I'll be alright in here, just like I was before. It's a few days and then the trial, and then…"

"And then you come home."

"And then I come home," he says, and he kisses you, long, hard and desperate, one hand fisting in your pinned-up hair, the other splayed wide against your back crushing you into him.

You kiss him back with everything you have, both of you knowing it has to last and neither of you able to make it enough, and it’s Hayes clearing his throat who finally, gently, ends it.

"Come on now, Joel, before it gets harder.”

Joel draws back and presses his forehead to yours one last time, his breath shuddering against your mouth.

"I love you," he says low, just for you. "Don't watch me go through that door.”

You shake your head fiercely. “I watched last time and I’ll watch this time too.”

"Darlin’…”

"I'm not going to look away from you, Joel Miller. Not now, not ever. If you're walking through that door I'm going to watch you do it with my eyes open, and I'm going to be standing right here when you walk back out of it. That's my promise."

Something breaks and blazes in his eyes.

"God, I love you," he says.

Then he lets go of your face, steps back, squares his shoulders, and turns to Hayes.

“Let’s get this over with.”

Hayes nods and opens the door. You watch your husband walk through it, watch as he turns back once and lifts his hand, before the door closes behind him.

Then comes the sound of the cell door - the iron scrape and the heavy clang and the turn of the key, ringing down the corridor into the office, into your chest, into the marrow of you. You stand and listen to your husband being locked away, and something inside you that had the fortitude not to break the last time, but doesn’t possess that same fortitude now, gives way.

James catches you before you can fall and sits you in a chair by the window. He crouches in front of you, letting you weep and not saying the useless things men say. Not telling you to hush or be brave or that it will all come right, only staying there, crouched before you, with a steady hand on your shoulder while the storm of it goes through you.

Because he knows what these few days have meant.

Hayes reappears, and, seeing how it is, pours a tin cup of coffee and sets it wordless on the ledge near your hand, retreating behind his desk to give you what privacy the small room allows.

It passes the way even the worst of things pass. You come back to yourself by degrees and wipe your face with the back of your wrist, drawing in a shuddering breath.

"Forgive me, Mr Oliver."

"There's nothing to forgive, Mrs Miller,” James replies. "I've done this work for a long time with a good many wives. There's not one of them didn't do exactly what you just did. You go ahead and feel it. It means you've got something worth feeling it over. That'll serve you in the days coming."

“But…before…”

“No talk of before,” he shakes your shoulder gently. “We’re living in the here and now.”

You nod and meet his gaze. "How many days? Don't spare me because I would rather know the shape of the thing than imagine it worse in the dark."

His eyebrows lift with something you might call amusement.

"That is exactly what I wanted to tell you. Word came in on the noon rider to say that the judge will be here in three days' time."

You stare at him. "Three days?”

"Yes,” he nods. “Three days and then we can hold the trial. I know three more nights in that cell sounds like a cruelty when you'd take him home this minute if the law let you, but this is a good thing. And if I do my work the way I mean to do my work, then at the end of the fourth day, your husband walks out that front door on his own two feet and rides home with you."

“You truly believe he'll be acquitted?”

“Mrs Miller, I’ve already been given a letter from the leader of your town council vouching for your husband.”

He looks at you levelly, and you understand that he’s a man who chooses his words with care and doesn’t spend hope cheaply.

"I don't tell people what they want to hear. I tell them the truth. Three days, and then we have a fight I mean to win."

You close your eyes.

Three days.

It has a shape now, a bottom, and an end you can see – with hope shining.

"Thank you," you say calmly. "Thank you, Mr Oliver. You cannot know what it is to have a shape to hold onto instead of the dark."

"I have some idea." He rises and offers you his hand, drawing you to your feet, steadying you until he’s sure your legs would hold. "Now, I saw your man through the window, and he’ll be able to drive you home. I'll come out to the ranch tomorrow to go over the particulars of the day with you – what to expect, where you'll sit, what the lawyering will look like so none of it takes you by surprise. Between now and the trial you're not going to sit alone at that ranch imagining the worst. You're going to be busy helping me build the thing that brings your husband home.”

You look toward the mouth of the brick corridor, where the shadow had swallowed Joel whole.

"Sheriff,” you say tightly, regaining the strength you know you possess. “Before I go, may I say goodnight to my husband?"

Hayes looks up, mouth opening as if to refuse, then sighs and rises from his chair. “You seem to like asking me to break the rules, Mrs Miller.” He shakes his head. “Two minutes.”

You nod and wait for him to open the door, then move pass him down the now familiar corridor, the other cells empty on either side, until you reach the bottom. Joel rises from the cot to greet you, his hands going around the bars.

“Darlin’…”

“I had to tell you,” you say hurriedly. “Mr Oliver says the judge will be here in three days. Three days, Joel. He says if he does his work you'll walk out on the fourth day and come home."

You felt the breath go out of Joel, the naked relief of finally having a date to keep in mind.

"Three days.”

"Three days, my love."

He shakes his head. "I thought it might take longer. I thought…but this way, Sarah won't hardly have time to miss me again. Three days and it's decided, one way or the other. I can do three days standin’ on my head. Three days is nothin’. You go home tonight, and you tell my girl it’s only three more sleeps and then her Pa’s comin’ home.”

"I will,” you nod.

“Then, maybe…” he pauses, almost bashful, “maybe we can get to workin’ on that baby sister she asked for.”

Emotion swells in your chest, tears jump into your eyes and all you can do is nod.

“Three days,” he says, bending to kiss your fingers. “And then I don't ever leave you again as long as I live."

You press your mouth to the gap in the bars and Joel presses his to it in somehow one of the truest kisses you’ve ever been given. And when you draw back, you’re both weeping and both, underneath the weeping, lit up from within by that hard bright number.

Three.

"Go on now,” Joel says. “Go home to my girl…our girl. I'll see you first thing, when they bring me to wherever it is they’re plannin’ on holdin’ this thing. You be in the front row where I can find you."

"I'll be in the front row. Eyes open."

"Eyes open." The old lazy, crooked smile pulls at his mouth. "That's my girl."

You make yourself let go of his hands and it’s the hardest thing you’ve done all that long hard day, harder than watching him walk through the door, because now you truly know the shape of what you’re letting go of and you know it’s only for three days and even three days is three days too long.

But you let go, and you step back, keeping your eyes on him until Hayes’s broad body comes between you and gently turns you back up the corridor toward the office and the door and the purpling evening beyond.

James walks you out into the evening light and Tomás immediately jumps down to help you into the wagon.

“Thank you,” you say to the lawyer. “For everything.”

“I’ll see you tomorrow,” he nods sagely.

Then Tomás clicks his tongue and the wagon leaps into life, setting off up the Street and out of town. You don’t look back. You look ahead, up the darkening road toward home, toward Sarah, safe with Maria, who needs to be told three sleeps, toward the ranch and the split wood stacked under the lean-to and the bed you’ll lie in alone tonight.

But only three more nights, only three, and then the trial, and then Joel will come riding home to his girls at last.

The first stars come out over the live oaks, and you ride home through the warm Texas night holding the hard bright number against your heart like a coal against the cold.

Three days.

➰➰➰➰➰➰➰➰❤️➰➰➰➰➰➰➰➰

Two days had passed since your hospital visit. Your frustration probably didn't just stem from not being able to give your all at work, but from the total lack of distractions.

Dean was about to head back to Austin, and you still hadn't figured out how to break the news to him. Cheating on him was one thing, and you could have sidestepped that detail during the breakup; maybe Kat was right, and you could spare him the painful details, even if it wasn't the most honest or respectable route. But things had changed. Monumentally.

He was sensing it, you could tell. Lately, he had started calling and texting more often, likely picking up on something off in your tone. But what could you tell him? Nothing's wrong, really. And that was a flat-out lie.

Meanwhile, Joel kept texting you every day. He could read you a bit better, even over text. When your replies started taking a bit longer than usual, he called you.

"What's wrong? You okay? Is Dean back?"

You did your best to assure him nothing was wrong, that you were just a bit tired. He probably didn't buy it, but didn't ask.

Since yesterday, he hadn't asked about it either. But as you listened to Nora and Giuliano laughing over a tik tok they'd just watched while drinking the coffee you'd poured them, you stared at your phone screen, knowing you had to do it now.

The last message in your chat with Joel was from him. You hadn't replied yet.

[J]: Outlander

[J]: it’s on netflix, have you seen it?

[J]: if you haven't you should

[J]: I only watched the first two eps but i know you’ll like it because it has time travel, it's historical and it has muscular men in kilts

You bit the inside of your cheek. You had read the text two hours ago and had almost replied no, I haven’t seen Outlander. But every message you sent him made you feel more sick to your stomach because of what you weren't telling him.

It wasn't his reaction that scared you; you could already picture exactly how he'd take it. What terrified you was how fragile everything would become the moment you said the words. Because this changed absolutely everything. This was no longer just about the two of you; it was about something far more vulnerable and precious, something you couldn't afford to ruin. And at the same time, a suffocating fear crept in, making you wonder: What if it's like last time? What if your body can't handle it, if you aren't strong enough?

You were scared. Terrified. You couldn't imagine going through that kind of pain again; you couldn't imagine surviving it. But you clung to the hope that everything happened for a reason, and that if this pregnancy had come right now, in the middle of this chapter of your life, it was meant to stay.

Nora and Giuliano didn't notice when you slipped away from the main workshop area and headed toward the tiny kitchenette in the back. Or maybe they did, but they didn't think much of it. Either way, you shut the door behind you and leaned against the counter, unlocking your phone as your chat with Joel appeared on the screen.

Alright. You can do this. It’s Joel.

Quickly, you tapped the phone icon and brought the receiver to your ear, nervously tapping your chin with your other hand.

Suddenly, your overalls felt incredibly suffocating. The denim was too thick, and it was smudged with paint and—oh, you couldn't be breathing in too much paint, or varnish, or any of that. What were you going to do with all the work you—

"Hey."

Your mouth flew open. "Joel, hi."

"Hey. Was just thinkin' about you."

"Thinking about me?" Your eyebrows shot up, pushing past your nerves to muster a bit of playfulness. "Did you watch Kramer vs. Kramer again?"

A soft, low chuckle rumbled through the receiver. "Nah. Just finished off a blueberry muffin."

Any urge to throw back a witty retort vanished; you just smiled with your cheeks tight.

"You at work?"

"Yeah, in my office. Folks think I'm workin', but I'm mostly just hidin' from a real pushy architect. My assistant told him I was in a meetin'."

"And you're really just in there eating muffins. Uh, that's unfair."

Joel clicked his tongue. "Only for a couple more minutes. I'll get back to bein' a responsible boss once my fictional meetin' wraps up. Won't be long now. What about you? How's work goin'?"

You crossed one foot over the other. "Good. Everything's good. Wasn't really doing anything. Actually, I was calling because I thought... I was thinking, if you're up for it, maybe we could meet up to talk?"

On the other end of the line, there was a brief pause.

"Yeah," he said. "Yeah, when were you thinkin'?"

Your stomach suddenly fluttered, and you took a quiet breath to steady it.

"I know it seems quick, but does today work? Can you do today? Dean gets back tomorrow and I have to talk to him, and I need to talk to you about a few things before—"

"Everything alright?"

"Yes," you said quickly. "Everything's fine, don't worry. Just... I'd really like to talk to you today. If you can."

"Course I can. I'm off around five, maybe five-thirty. But I can head out early."

You nodded. "Yeah, that's perfect. How does six sound?"

"Sounds good."

"At my place. I'll text you the address."

"Alright. I'll be there."

"Okay," you said, straightening up from the counter. "I'll see you then. I'll leave you to your fictional meeting now. You know I could totally expose you, right? I bet your employees would love to know how you're spending your time."

He laughed. "Hey, I just gave 'em some pretty nice bonuses not too long ago. I'm a real good boss. I think I can pick my battles every now and then."

"I'll let you off the hook, then," you said, resting your palm against your cheek, smiling so hard it hurt. "But only until six."

"Until six." From the way his voice sounded, you knew he was smiling.

Before either of you could say another word, you pulled the phone away and ended the call. An overwhelming wave washed over you, rising through your chest until it finally escaped your lips as a long sigh.

"Okay," you muttered to yourself, running a hand over the back of your neck to steady your nerves.

Slowly, hesitantly, you lowered your hand to your flat stomach, resting your palm right over it.

"What a time to show up, baby."

When Joel heard the line go dead, it took him a few seconds to pull the phone away from his ear. He held it out in front of him, staring at the screen for a moment longer.

On the outside, he looked relaxed. He was kicked back in his chair with his legs stretched out under the desk, crossed at the ankles. In front of him sat a coffee mug and a plate littered with blueberry muffin crumbs. There were crumbs on his black t-shirt, too, and a few caught in his beard.

Suddenly, he felt hyper-aware of it. He brushed a hand down his chin and across his chest, shaking off every last trace of his little feast. He straightened up, pulling his chair closer to the desk.

He checked his watch. It was barely eleven in the morning.

He could handle this today. Say the right words, give you the right silences. Above all, he just couldn't ruin things.

Joel knew your relationship with Dean wasn't officially over yet, and that he would need to keep his distance until you gave him the green light. He didn't have any guarantees with you either; just a fresh chance to get close again, and he couldn't afford to screw it up.

But to be completely honest, he didn't give a damn about Dean. He didn't care if the guy was good, or ideal, or any of the things he'd heard over the last few months. He probably wasn't anyway, and Joel knew it. Even if he was, it didn't change a thing. He didn't care.

After tonight, if things changed, Joel had everything ready to offer when the time was right. He knew you too well to think this would be a quick fix, and he knew himself well enough to know that, if it were up to him, he’d be putting a ring back on your finger the second the nearest church opened tomorrow morning.

Two years he’d spent without you. Two years of waking up lonely and miserable in a king-sized bed, in an apartment that felt way too big and entirely useless. Every single day since the last time he’d seen you had been pure torture, a constant reminder that he’d lost the most important person in his life.

He didn’t blame you—he truly didn’t. And he knew that no matter how much he’d hurt right alongside you, no matter how much he wanted to understand, he’d never truly know what it was like to be in your shoes. He’d watched your body suffer, watched you nearly slip away, and saw the raw pain in your eyes every single day afterward as you tried to piece yourself back together. That memory had chased him all this time, a brutal reminder that he’d been completely helpless to stop it.

But when he saw you in Maui, he knew instantly: it wasn’t over. Your eyes had always been dead giveaways, and Joel knew that even with another man in your life, there was still hope for him.

You weren’t the same person you were two years ago, and neither was he. The grief was still there, just as heavy and close to the surface as ever if you dared to reach out and touch it. But things were different now; he hadn't doubted for a second that he was ready to try and win you back. And if luck was on his side, you’d look at him again with those eyes that told him everything with just one glance.

Tonight. He just had to wait until tonight.

Three sharp knocks on the door made him look up startled.

"Yeah? Maggie?"

The door swung open immediately. Maggie poked her head in, tilting her chin down to peer at him over her glasses. It reminded Joel of the silent, scolding looks his mom used to give him.

"Di Palma just left."

He nodded. "Alright."

"Can I officially wrap up your fictional meeting, then?"

"Please do," he said, tilting his head.

Maggie shook her head, but he caught the brief smile she tried to hide before she turned and walked out.

No matter how many times you scrubbed, it still didn’t feel right. And you thought of it as a feeling rather than a sight because, logically, you could see the place was spotless, but it just didn’t feel clean.

Your apartment wasn’t too big, nor was it too small. It fell right into that average comfortable sweet spot. In your living room, you had a cozy, nice navy blue sofa and walls lined with frames full of photos of the people you loved. The television across from the coffee table was on, the evening news murmuring in the background entirely ignored. The place smelled clean; actually, the whole apartment did, mixed with the sweet scent of the vanilla candle you’d lit ten minutes ago.

Joel would be here any second now. You knew he was punctual, and it was already twenty to six. It was only a matter of time before the buzzer went off and he was standing right there with you.

That was when you realized you had to be quick.

He could read you so well. He always had. If he showed up and looked you in the eyes for even a second, he’d know something was up.

It was a childish idea, but you wanted to beat him to the punch, to catch him off guard before he could do the same to you. You wanted to see just how long it would take him to figure it out.

You deserved to have a little fun with this, didn't you?

Okay, you gave up. You had officially polished every single surface in the place, and you were well aware that your nerves were making you act a little irrational. If you scrubbed the floor one more time, you’d be able to see your own reflection right where you stood.

With a sigh, you sat down on the sofa, cradling a warm mug of tea, and checked your phone. 5:48 PM.

Oh, God, please just let him get here.

You’d sent him your address a few hours ago, and he hadn't texted back—he’d just reacted to the message. You weren’t sure if that was his way of trying to play it cool or what, but it definitely wasn't helping your anxiety.

You were being incredibly restless today.

You took a deep breath, trying to steady your nerves. And then, your phone buzzed in your lap.

You snatched it up and stared at the screen.

It was Dean.

Your eyes traced the letters of his name two, three times, debating whether or not to pick up. But before you could make up your mind, the call cut out.

[Dean]: heyy, you there?

The text popped up a few seconds later. You decided the best move, at least for now, was to ignore it.

Tomorrow you’d have to face him anyway, with no way out.

At exactly 5:55 PM, the buzzer rang. Punctual as usual.

You quickly got up from the sofa and stood frozen for a second, catching your breath before you could actually open the door.

This was it. The first time you were going to see each other since Maui.

You pulled the door open, and there he was.

Your eyes lingered on his face, unable to look away and silently acknowledging how handsome he looked. Tall and broad-shouldered, Joel stood in your doorway, his curls looking neatly styled but perfectly messy at the same time. He was wearing a black cotton t-shirt with a small company logo on the chest, paired with black dress pants and his black boots. It was a strange outfit on anyone else, but on him, it looked fucking good.

The look in his eyes said only one thing. He was mirroring your own thoughts.

But Joel didn't say a word about it. Instead, he just smiled softly, tilting his head slightly. "You don't live too far from me."

You smiled back. "Oh, really?"

He shook his head. "No. And I've never run into you once. Where've you been hidin'?"

You laughed and stepped aside, letting him into the apartment before shutting the door behind him.

"Want something to drink?"

"Uh..." He hesitated, and you immediately caught the quiet wave of nervousness rolling off him. "Sure. Whatever you're havin' is fine."

"Alright," you said, leading the way into the living room.

Joel sat down on the sofa, his eyes wandering curiously around the space. You noticed him clasping his hands together, his fingers fidgeting; a nervous habit he'd always had.

Stepping away, you headed into the kitchen.

"Coffee?" you called out from there.

"Yeah, sure," he replied.

You didn't ask how he took it; you already knew. You poured him a mug of the hot, black coffee that had been ready on the counter for the last ten minutes, and prepared a cup of tea for yourself. You dropped three small spoonfuls of sugar into your mug, stirring for a few seconds as your stomach tightened, your nerves winding tighter and tighter with every swirl of the spoon.

You pressed your lips together. Dozens of ways to break the news flashed through your mind, but unable to pick just one, you picked up both mugs and walked back into the living room.

Joel was sitting very straight, but he squared his shoulders even more the moment he saw you walk in. You set his coffee down on the coffee table, placed your tea right beside it, and sat down next to him.

"How've you been?" he asked. "How's your shoulder? You feelin' any better?"

You nodded. "I think so, yeah."

"Don't go doin' anything you shouldn't be doin' in the meantime. I've been there, and the healing takes a whole lot longer if you push it."

You hummed and smiled, completely unable to find your voice, even for some light silly reply.

Joel picked up his mug and brought it to his lips.

You watched his profile; his nose, his soft lips resting against the warm porcelain, the curve of his eyelashes, and the stray curls partially hiding his ear.

You licked your lips. "Joel, thank you so much for coming today. I know it was really sudden."

He looked at you immediately, shaking his head. "Not at all. You don't have to thank me for anything. You know I wanted to see you."

You swallowed hard and nodded, lowering your eyes to your hands resting in your lap. "Well, I wanted to see you too. A lot," you confessed, lifting your gaze back to his. "I've been thinking so much, though there wasn't really all that much to think about, to be honest."

He offered a soft lopsided smile. "No?"

You shook your head slowly. Your eyes locked with his, and for a long, heavy moment, neither of you looked away. The quiet space between you felt intense; there was no wall anymore, nothing to stop yourself from spilling everything you hadn't said over the last two years.

Joel set his mug back down on the coffee table. He paused for a split second before turning fully toward you, shifting a little closer.

"Tell me what you want," he said, reaching out and bringing his hand close to yours where they rested in your lap, but he stopped just short of touching you, as if he were afraid to break the spell. "What are you thinkin'?"

You took a slow, deep breath and let it out. Your heart was drumming so hard against your ribs, and every nerve in your body ached to close the distance and just… touch him.

"I'm thinking... I'm thinking that I want you. I want you back," you let the words rush out. "Because I need you, and... and because I can't help it, and I don't want to help it either." You shook your head slowly, keeping your eyes locked on his. "But most of all, Joel, because I love you."

It felt so good to finally get those words out of your chest. And looking at Joel, the way his eyes grew glassed over, his expression seemingly shattering and piecing itself back together all at once; you knew he felt the weight of them too.

He sat completely still, frozen by the sudden rush of it all.

You swallowed hard, waiting.

"I want you back, too," he said, as he nodded slowly. "I've never wanted anything else. My feelings are the exact same as they were in Maui, and the same as they were years ago. I'm always gonna regret a lot of things, mostly not fightin' harder for us back then, but I'll never regret choosin' us over and over again. Because I love you, I'll always love you."

Your throat tightened just as a sudden ache bloomed in your chest as the urge to cry threatened to spill over. You swallowed past the lump, trying to hold it in. Words failed you completely, so you didn't even try to speak.

Instead, your body just leaned forward, your hands reaching up to wrap around his broad shoulders.

The second you moved, Joel was already matching you, his large arms locking around you and pulling you flush against his chest; his mouth found yours in a desperate, breathless kiss, one that tasted of salt as the tears you'd tried so hard to hold back finally slipped down your cheeks.

This wasn't like Maui. This wasn't desperate and built on need; now Joel kissed you with tenderness, with all the time in the world in his hands while they traced your back and kept you close to him.

As he held you steady, you slid your hand up to his face, cradling his cheek. Your thumb swept over his damp skin, and only then did you notice the few warm tears trailing down his face.

You had to tell him now.

Softly, you pulled your mouth away from his; he sought it again.

"Joel, wait."

He barely nodded, his nose brushed yours. "Yeah."

"I need to talk to you about one more thing."

"That about Dean?"

You licked your lips and shook your head, his hands still tracing quiet patterns along your spine. "No. It's not about Dean."

"Oh."

Your hand slid down his neck, resting on his shoulder. "Wait here."

Carefully, you pulled away and stood up from the couch. His hand lingered until the very last second, his fingertips brushing yours right before you stepped out of reach.

You walked to your bedroom and straight to the nightstand, pulling open the top drawer to retrieve the white envelope you'd hidden there two days ago. You gripped it tight, your fingertips pinching the paper as if it might slip away, and headed back to the living room. Joel was waiting exactly where you'd left him, sitting in the same spot.

Sitting back down beside him, you instinctively shielded the envelope under your palm.

Joel's eyes caught it instantly. He looked at the white paper, then at your trembling hands resting over it, before his gaze drifted back up to meet yours.

"I didn't tell you everything the other day," you started, and his brow furrowed right away. "When I went to the hospital, it wasn't just 'cause I got hurt working. Actually, for the last couple of weeks, I've been gettin' dizzy. That's how I got hurt. I fell—"

"You alright?"

He sat really still.

You nodded quickly to reassure him. "Yeah, I'm okay. Don't worry about that. The doctor told me everything was fine; my bloodwork, the X-ray, absolutely everything. I'm healthy."

Joel let out a long breath of relief, his gaze dropping to your feet.

You were doing this so terribly.

You took a breath. "I'm okay. And I'm..."

He raised his eyes back to yours.

"I'm… I'm pregnant."

Instantly, the worry on Joel's face shifted into complete, silent shock. His brows lifted slightly, and his mouth pulled into that soft frown he made whenever something was just too much to take in.

Without a word, you reached out and offered him the paper envelope. He took it automatically, quietly, his breathing picking up noticeably even as he kept his composure. His fingers opened the unsealed flap, and he pulled the paper out. He unfolded it, held it up, and read.

Meanwhile, you read every single micro-expression on his face.

His eyes welled up, and he brought his hand up to cover his mouth, trying to steady himself. A muscle twitched in his brow as his eyes traced every single word printed on the paper.

"Is it…" He looked up at you, his gaze completely melting you. "Is it… mine?"

"It's yours," you nodded, tears blurring your vision. "It's ours. Dean… Dean can't. And we use protection anyway."

Joel nodded, and whatever was keeping him together shattered right then. A smile broke across his face, wide and radiant, contrasting with the fresh tears spilling over his lashes. He reached out and grabbed you by the waist, and you immediately crawled into his lap, burying yourself in an embrace you'd been starving for.

You hid your face in the crook of his neck, finally feeling the reality of it sink in.

"I love you so much," he breathed, his warm breath brushing against your shoulder. "You make me so happy."

"I love you too, Joel, so much," you wept.

With your eyes closed, all you could feel was his warm body against yours; his hands, one of them moving up your back to the nape of your neck, where he tangled his fingers gently into the hair there; his arms holding you firmly by your sides; his scent, which you had longed for so much and that now completely invaded you as you buried your nose in his neck.

It felt so good to have told him, to finally have lifted from your chest the small secret that had been with you for just two days.

"I promise you, baby, I'm gonna make it up to you. Everything."

A sob escaped you. "I missed you so much. I'm so sorry I pushed you away. I never wanted to do that."

"I know, is okay. You don't have to say sorry," he murmured, his thumb pressing softly against your neck. "I should have done things different."

"No," you lifted your head and looked straight at him, shaking your head; your hand took his chin. "You did what you could. I know you were scared, and how much it hurt you. It was your baby too. You deserved support too, Joel, and I couldn't give it to you."

He shook his head gently. "Was not your fault, none of it."

Suddenly, a very subtle pain appeared on his face. To anyone else, it might be almost imperceptible, but it pierced right through your chest.

"We are gonna do better this time," he added, his lips curving into a smile that still held a trace of sadness.

Nodding, you brushed your thumb against his lower lip, pulling it down slightly as you leaned in to kiss him.

Softly, at first; a strange sensation washed over you. A sudden mix of lingering pain, relief, and an aching desire. The different emotions blurred together until they became just one thing: pure necessity.

The softness melted away as the kiss deepened, growing more desperate. When you parted your lips and slid your tongue into his mouth, Joel let out a low breath, tightening his grip around your waist. His hand slid back up to the nape of your neck, his fingers tangling firmly into your hair. He pulled back just enough to tilt your head, changing the angle to take your mouth exactly the way he wanted.

A small, breathless moan escaped the back of your throat, and that single sound broke whatever restraint he had left.

His pace turned urgent, his mouth devouring yours as if he were trying to make up for every second you've been apart. You couldn't get close enough; your hands gripped his shoulders, your fingers digging into the fabric of his shirt to pull him even closer.

"Need you," he muttered against your lips. "I need you right now."

"Bedroom," you managed to breathe out between kisses.

Holding you tightly by the hips, Joel stood up from the sofa with you still wrapped around his waist. Your feet touched the floor as your hands kept searching, tracking the lines of his back and shoulders, while his arms remained locked around you, lifting you slightly off your feet whenever the distance became too much.

Every step toward the door was a messy rush of breathless gasps. Joel pressed your back against the corridor wall for a fleeting second, his mouth dropping down to bruise your jawline and the soft skin of your neck, making you arch into him with a gasp.

Look at him. His body was so warm and solid, a mountain of need and beauty. And before you could even catch your breath, he caught your lips again, carrying you forward until you finally crossed the threshold into the bedroom.

Once inside, you finally broke the kiss, but the desperation took over completely. You scrambled backward a step, your hands tearing at the hem of your shirt and pulling it over your head and tossing it blindly aside.

Joel was already mirroring you; his thick fingers gripped the edge of his shirt and ripped it down his arms, exposing his broad chest to the dim warm light in your room. Your heart started beating so fast at the sight, you felt your cheeks boiling hot.

You kicked off your shoes and pushed your jeans down your legs, stepping out of them until you were left only in your underwear. Joel’s shirt hit the floor, and his hands immediately went to his belt, unbuckling it. But the need inside you was too loud to wait.

Dropping to your knees right there in front of him, you reached out and gripped his hips, pulling him firmly toward you. Joel let out a ragged breath, his hands coming down to rest on your shoulders for balance as you reached for his trousers. You undid the button, slid the zipper down, and hooked your fingers into the waistband of his boxers, pulling them down together.

His length freed itself, heavy and fully aroused, standing thick and rigid right before your face. The sight of him, so ready for you, made your mouth water.

You leaned in, breathing your warm air against the sensitive skin of his tip before you ever touched him. Joel’s thighs flexed, and a quiet hiss escaped through his teeth.

Slowly, you extended your tongue, licking from the base all the way up to the crown.

"Ah... god," Joel groaned, his head tilting back as his fingers tangled into your hair. His grip wasn't harsh, but it was firm enough as you swirled your tongue around the ridge.

A moment later, you parted your lips and took him inside.

You started slow, letting your lips coat him as you drew him into the wet heat of your mouth, moving your head in a steady, rhythmic slide, using your hands on his thighs to pull him deeper, and deeper, and tasting him fully.

Joel's groans grew thicker; he began to budge his hips forward, a desperate instinct taking over, but he caught himself, his hands gently framing your face instead.

"Baby... look at me," he strained out.

You looked up, your eyes watering slightly as you swallowed him deeper, taking the full length of him until your nose pressed against the coarse hair at his groin.

His thumb stroked your cheekbone, his blown out dark eyes filled with a profound feeling that went far beyond just physical release.

"I missed you so much," he breathed, trembling a confession. "Every single day. Was tearing me apart."

The emotion in his voice, mixed with the friction of your throat around him, sent a wave of heat straight to your core. You gave him a few more deep sucking strokes, swirling your tongue over the sensitive underside of his shaft until he whimpered.

But it wasn't enough. The ache between your own thighs was turning into an unbearable demanding throb.

You pulled back, letting him slip from your lips with a gasp.

"No more," you whispered, your voice trembling as you stood up, hands immediately sliding up his bare chest to his neck. "I need you."

"C'mere."

His skin was so incredibly soft under your palms, a total contrast to how rough and heavy the rest of him felt as you dragged your hands all over his chest.

Joel leaned into you, his mouth capturing yours in a consuming kiss that blurred everything together. And lips locked to yours, he slowly crowded you backward until the edge of the mattress hit the back of your knees.

You let yourself fall back onto the sheets, watching him while he stripped out of his trousers and boxers. And there, standing fully bare at the edge of the bed, his dick was thick, rigid, and glistening in the dim light from your saliva, pointing directly at you.

Your breath hitched. Reaching behind your back, you unhooked your bra and tossed it aside, baring your chest to him.

Joel climbed onto the bed. He crawled over you, his body settling perfectly between your thighs. And with steady hands, he hooked his fingers into the sides of your underwear and slid them down your legs, discarding them completely.

Like a good man, he didn't make you wait. Shifting his weight down, his hands slid under your thighs to open you up, and buried his face between your legs.

The first stroke of his tongue against your aching pussy made your eyes roll back, your eyelids fluttering shut as an intense wave of pleasure tore through you, instantly relieving that desperate need. He ate you out with ravenous hunger, deep and slow as he lapped up your slick heat.

Feelin you, Joel let out a muffled groan against your skin, tasting you like a dying man finally drinking water after a long moment of thirst; he thoroughly enjoyed it, his thumbs pressing into your inner thighs to steady you while your hips twitched helplessly against his mouth.

"Oh, Joel, yes, yes, yes…" Your hand gripped his hair. "You do it so good."

Joel and you had so many beautiful, special things in your relationship. And one of them had always been… this.

It went way beyond the simple act of sex; Joel made you feel a way no one else ever could match. His hands knew exactly how to touch you, his mouth how to taste you, his teeth when to bite. The weight of his body was just what yours needed on top of you and inside you, fitting together so perfectly there was no way you weren't made for each other.

No man could compete with that.

As he kept pushing into you, the tension tightened until you couldn't take it anymore: arching your back, your fingers tangled into his hair and gave it a hard tug, your breath hitching as your body completely gave in.

Your hips twitched helplessly against his mouth as the waves crashed over you, your vision blurring as you squeezed your eyes shut. Every muscle in your body tightened so hard it hurt, and a broken moan escaped your lips while your fingers dug tightly into his hair, pulling him closer, and closer, and closer.

It felt like a total release of all the tension you’d been carrying for days, for weeks. A throbbing ache that melted away into unbearable pleasure as Joel kept his tongue pressed firmly against you, drinking you in and riding out the storm until your body finally went soft.

Your fingers tangled, clumsy and heavy, in the hair just above his ear as your eyelids grew too weighted to keep open. Joel started to move up, pressing one last kiss against your center before trailing his lips over your hip and stopping just above, right against the flat of your lower stomach.

He kissed you right there, and let out a long, shaky breath, his forehead resting against your belly for a beat before he looked up at you.

"Please," he choked out. "Please tell me this means I get to come home. Don't make me leave you again."

A shaky exhale left your lips as you tangled your fingers tighter in his hair.

"Then come up here," you murmured. "Don't just stay down there. Come back to me."

He didn’t need to be told twice. Joel moved up the length of your body, and when his lips met yours, it wasn't frantic or rough; it was a deep kiss full of a soft, sweet desperate hunger.

You wrapped your arms around his neck, pulling him down against you, your fingers anchoring into the short hairs at the nape of his neck just as you were feeling him right at your entrance.

He groaned low in his throat as his large hands slid up to frame your face, holding you there as if you might vanish if he let go. Every bit of the grief and the distance between you seemed to bleed out into the press of his mouth.

Without breaking the kiss, Joel tilted his hips and pushed forward, sliding smoothly and completely inside you.

He didn't rush; he felt massive, a blunt and crowding heat that stretched you open so easily, filling the empty spaces that had belonged to him all along.

He stayed there, buried to the hilt, letting his weight settle completely as your body adjusted to the size of him.

His mouth left yours, breaking the kiss just enough so he could look down at you.

When your eyes met, the emotion in your chest felt almost suffocating, swelling so large and heavy it hurt. You loved him so much it felt like your ribs could barely hold it all in.

Holding your gaze, his dark eyes burning into yours, Joel began to move.

The first few strokes were deep and soft as he slid out and sank back in, testing your limits. But the restraint didn't last. The friction caught, and the pace began to shift, his thrusts gaining a hard, commanding speed that had your hips tilting up to meet him.

A soft gasp broke from your throat, your entire body bathed in electric pleasure that made your eyelids flutter shut.

"Keep 'em open. Look at me," Joel growled.

Your eyes snapped open instantly, locking onto his.

He kept up the pace, driving into you with a force that felt agonizing; a deep ache that hit every single right spot until you were completely breathless. You couldn't speak, couldn't think, couldn't do anything else but feel it. And the intensity of it combined with the unwavering stare he pinned you with, had tears pricking the corners of your eyes.

Another choked moan escaped your lips, your head tossing back against the pillows as the overwhelming pleasure threatened to pull you under completely.

The heat between your skin and his became unbearable, filling the room with nothing but the sound of hitched breaths and the constant clash of his skin against yours; a rhythmic tap tap tap that kept picking up speed.

You wrapped your legs around his waist, locking him against you, searching for him as deep as physically possible. And every time he bottomed out completely, your entire body shook; it was too much, and it felt so good.

As you squeezed him tighter, your shoulder flared with pain, reminding you of the fall from just two days ago. Carefully, you lowered your arm to his waist, digging your fingers into his hip instead.

Joel let out a groan against your jaw, losing track of his own strength. He stopped holding your gaze and buried his face straight into the crook of your neck; his breath burned your skin and his beard scraped your collarbone as he let himself go, hitting the exact center of your pleasure with every single thrust, firmer and harder, while his hands slid down to grip your hips, squeezing your thighs to pin you against the mattress and take everything you had to give.

You couldn't help it; your eyes closed again, completely overwhelmed by the sensation rushing up your stomach. You arched your back against the bed, letting out a loud, broken moan that caught in your throat as you clung to him, feeling your walls squeeze tightly around his cock.

"... Joel, please," you begged in a whisper, not really knowing what you were asking for, just needing more of him, needing him not to stop.

"I got you, baby. Right here," he growled against your neck.

He didn't let you go. He pressed you a bit deeper into the pillows, pinning his chest to yours as he kept moving, gaining speed and force, driven by the need to make you completely his again.

And then, the feeling broke you completely for the second time; your hips trembled and your legs opened even wider as Joel crashed into you faster and faster. His rhythm turned broken, hips driving against yours with an unraveled speed that had you clinging to him for dear life. You were completely coming undone beneath him, your pussy gripping him so hard it finally pushed him over the edge.

He lost his rhythm completely, burying himself to the absolute hilt, and a deep low groan tore from his chest as he came inside you.

Hearing him like that made your heart race; you absolutely loved his groans, loved the way his usual control completely shattered whenever he was inside you. And he didn't pull away; he collapsed his weight over you, and you could hear his shaky uneven breathing right against your ear as the aftershocks kept running through both of you.

It was heaven.

After a few minutes, feeling a fierce need to touch him more, you slid your hands up to his head, burying your fingers deep in his messy hair. His cheek brushed against yours, and you pressed your lips right against it.

You kissed the skin there. "I missed you so much since Maui."

Drunk on you, he raised his head and looked down with a spellbound gaze. "Why didn't you tell me? I’d have come right away. You don't know how bad I wanted to see you."

Your hand caressed his temple. "I wanted to do things right. Wait until I broke it off with Dean..." You shook your head. "I guess it doesn't matter now."

He pressed his lips together. "You ain't a bad person."

"Oh, no?" You tilted your head a bit, raising your eyebrows. "My current boyfriend is away on a business trip and I just made love to my ex-husband, who I'm secretly pregnant by."

Joel rolled his eyes and kissed the corner of your mouth. He was still inside you, soft now, but he didn't seem uncomfortable or in any rush to move.

"I'm sorry for the guy. But this is us." He frowned just a bit. "Don't go callin' him your boyfriend."

The sad edge in his voice when he said that made you smile.

"And what should I call him, then?"

Joel shook his head, and carefully moved his hips back, sliding out of you.

He got up from the bed completely naked, and you watched him move across your bedroom, a space entirely foreign to him, until he found the bathroom door and disappeared inside for a few seconds.

"We can talk about that tomorrow," he said after a moment, stepping back out with a damp towel in his hand. "While I make you some breakfast, how's that sound?" He sat on the edge of the mattress beside you, his fingers brushing against your leg.

"Sounds good," you smiled, reaching out to stroke his bare thigh.

Joel gently wiped you down with the damp towel, cleaning you carefully, and a moment later, you got up to use the bathroom yourself.

In the mirror, your eyes looked different. You couldn't quite explain it; it wasn't a physical change, not exactly, but your entire expression just seemed brighter. You tried to ignore how big this felt. Too much for a night.

Once you finished washing up, you wrapped yourself in a robe and walked back out. Joel was sitting on the bed in just his boxers, checking something on his phone. The deep look of concentration on his face reminded you of your own phone, left behind somewhere in the living room.

You hurried out, flipping on the lights as you went. The night had completely swallowed the house, leaving only a dim glimmer of moonlight through the windows. The living room lamp was still burning, though, illuminating your phone right where you left it on the side table by the couch.

Four missed calls from Dean and three text messages stared back at you from the lock screen.

Your heart stopped for a second.

At six-thirty, he had written:

[Dean]: Baby is everything okay? I've been calling you

[Dean]: you home?

[Dean]: you asleep? how's your shoulder doing?

Now, it was already almost eight o'clock. Jesus.

If you already felt like a bad person, reading his worried messages only made it worse. You were going to pay for this somehow, you were sure of it.

[You]: Sorry, I was asleep

You had never lied so fast in your life.

[You]: Everything's fine, my shoulder doesn't hurt that much. Nora didn't let me work too hard today.

[You]: u getting ready to come back tomorrow?

"You want somethin' to eat? You hungry?" Joel's voice startled you.

You looked back; he was walking down the hall, still in just his boxers.

"Yeah, what do you feel like?"

He stepped up to you, reaching out to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear while pressing his lips together.

"Right now, I'm cravin' a steak."

A laugh escaped your mouth. "Check the fridge."

Joel gave a sideways smile and followed the nod of your chin toward the kitchen. As he walked away, you watched him go with a foolish grin plastered across your face.

He opened the refrigerator, leaning down to scan the shelves.

You loved to cook. You were always making lunch and dinner for your friends, and you especially loved Sundays, which was when your mom would come up from San Antonio every other weekend. Nora almost always joined in too, and you would spend the entire morning getting everything ready. Vegetables, fruits, different meats; you kept a well-stocked fridge.

Joel whistled. "Baby, I'm gonna make ya dinner."

It was as if no time had passed at all. As if there had never been any pain between you. Nothing awkward to hold a grudge over, nothing painful to hide.

Joel made steaks with well-seasoned vegetables, showing off by preparing two different sauces. The man was starving, that much was clear, and his appetite only pushed him to cook dinner with a level of care you could taste in the very first bite.

While he cooked, you set the table and kept him company in the kitchen. You had a few bottles of wine you would have loved to open, and this was the perfect occasion, but given the new guest living inside you, you limited yourself to pouring a glass of soda. Joel drank the same out of solidarity.

During dinner, you realized just how much had happened for each of you since you stopped seeing each other. Joel told you about the progress he had made at work; how a major deal last year had allowed them to grow immensely and secure big, long term clients. He told you how much Tommy had improved on the job; he wasn't getting into trouble anymore and had even stopped going out to bars and all that, since he was trying to be a better man. You really missed him too. He told you about his place, an apartment not too far from yours that he'd been renting for a few months, though it was just temporary since he wanted to buy a place of his own. But not once did he pressure you with questions or demands about what you were going to do now.

Tomorrow at breakfast, he had said. And you both respected that, avoiding any complicated topics.

You wanted to get back together with him, and he wanted to get back together with you. That much was clear. But it wasn't as simple as pretending nothing had happened, getting remarried, and moving back in together right away. You had your own independent life and he had his, and you were going to have to find a way to work together to share them again.

But that was a conversation for tomorrow.

After dinner, Joel cleared the table and you washed the dishes. He stayed in the kitchen the whole time, venting his frustration and telling you about Di Palma, the architect he had been avoiding all week. Apparently, the man had zero work ethic. But Joel didn't waste time on long or boring explanations; he just wanted you to understand why he had decided to fake a meeting.

"And I don't normally do things like that," he said, defending his stance as a good boss. "You know how I am."

You believed every word, of course, because you knew him well enough to know that if there was one thing Joel hated, it was people who didn't respect other people's work.

After half an hour of talking, and with no more missed calls or text messages from Dean, sleep caught up with both of you and you decided to head to bed.

Joel wrapped his arms around you the moment you lay down beside him, and you settled your cheek against his bare chest the exact same way you always used to. His hand caressed your back, and the steady sound of his breathing calmed you down. Nothing could really be that bad if it meant having this.

Looking up, you noticed his eyes wide open and shining in the darkness.

"What are you thinking about?" you asked, sliding your hand up his chest.

He sighed. "I'm thinkin' I need to get fit."

"What?" you laughed.

"I'm gonna be a daddy. Need to be in good shape to play and do all kinds of stuff with the baby."

"Mm. I think you're fine. You've always been strong and tough, I'm sure you'll be able to do whatever you want with the baby. I don't think a little kid demands that much."

"And when they turn into a toddler?"

You smiled. "Maybe. Could be."

"Mm. That's what I thought."

In silence, you kept watching him for a few seconds. He frowned slightly.

"You're doin' alright, aren't you?" When he asked, his voice sounded firm, but the worry underneath it was hard to hide. "I mean, this baby… this baby ain't gonna put you at risk? They tell you anything at the hospital?"

"They told me everything was fine. But I have to go get an ultrasound next Monday. Are you coming with me?"

"Course I am. What time?"

"At ten."

"Good, I'll be here early."

Turning toward you, Joel kissed your forehead and wrapped you tight in his arms.

You kissed his chest. "Everything is going to turn out fine, you'll see."

In the dead of night, a harsh thud ripped you from sleep.

THUMP.

A dull, heavy impact echoed through the floorboards.

It took a second for your mind to claw its way out of the fog. The bedroom was drowned in thick shadows, the door left half-ajar, spilling a faint yellow sliver of hallway light across the floor.

Reaching out blindly for warmth beside you, your hand met only cold sheets. Joel was gone.

"Joel?" you rasped.

You sat up, straining your eyes against the dark as a cold prickle of dread crept up your arms. Then, the muffled rumblings in the hall sharpened, turning distinct, and vicious.

"Where the fuck is she?"

"Hey, take it easy—"

"Don't you fucking tell me to take it easy!"

In a single heartbeat, the blood drained straight to your toes. Your stomach dropped so fast it made you sick.

That voice.

No, no, no, no, no, no…

He wasn't supposed to be back until tomorrow evening. You were supposed to have time. You were supposed to…

Harsh panic hit you like a live wire. Reason vanished. Completely reckless of how incriminating you looked wearing nothing but an oversized t-shirt and underwear, you scrambled out of bed.

Your bare feet slapped against the ice cold floor as you hurried toward the doorway, chest tight, breath coming in ragged uneven gasps. Rounding the corner into the hall, you dug your heels in and froze.

"Dean."

The name slipped through your lips as a shattered whisper, carrying all the guilt you couldn't put into words.

Right there, under the dim overhead light, the nightmare was laid bare.

Dean stood near the front door, his keys still clutched in a white-knuckled fist and his bag dropped awkwardly onto the floor. His jacket was damp from the midnight rain, and his jaw was set so tight the muscle twitched. But what truly stole the air from your lungs was the figure blocking his path.

Joel.

Joel had his back to you, broad and towering, wearing nothing but his boxers. The faint shadow of old scars traced across his bare chest, and his dark hair was rumpled from hours of pressing against your pillow.

At the sound of your voice, the muscles along Joel’s spine went rigid. He didn't break eye contact with Dean, but he shifted back a fraction of an inch, subtly interposing his frame to shield you.

"What the hell is this?" Dean spat, his voice raspy and trembling with fury. "What the fuck is this guy doing here? Is this why you didn't answer a single damn call yesterday?"

Dean’s eyes darted from Joel’s bare chest down to your exposed legs, the wrinkled t-shirt, and the stark lack of any explanation. Every single detail was a piece of damning evidence, tearing down any lie or excuse before you could even frame the words.

"Dean, please, just let me explain..." You tried to step forward, hands rising slightly, but your knees shook so badly you felt on the verge of collapsing.

"What the fuck do you have to explain?" He took an aggressive step toward you. "I go away for a little while and that's all it takes for you to throw everything we have in the trash? If I hadn't walked in right now, what was gonna happen tomorrow? Were you just gonna pretend everything was fine?"

"No," you shook your head, firm despite the panic. "No, that's not how it is. I was gonna tell you—"

"Bullshit."

"I was gonna tell you before your trip but you left—"

"You've gotta be fucking kidding me—"

"Dean, please, just listen to me," you took a step forward, knowing full well you had no right to demand his attention, let alone expect him to give it. "I know you don't deserve this and I didn't plan for it to happen like this—"

His face was flushed red with fury. "You didn't? You've been cheating on me since before I left for Oslo, and now you wanna play me for a fool?"

"I know but—"

He surged toward you, jabbing a finger in your face. "You're a fuckin' b—"

"Step back," Joel cut in, shoving him back with a single hand. His voice was no longer the soft rumble that had been whispering in your ear all night. "You don't talk to her like that, and you ain't takin' another step into this house."

"She's my girlfriend, asshole!" Dean exploded, taking an aggressive step forward. "Who the fuck do you think you are? Get the fuck out of my way!"

Joel didn't even blink. He adjusted his stance, planting his feet firmly like an unmovable wall.

"I don't give a damn who you are," Joel replied, a terrifying calmness settling over him as the vein in his neck bulged. "You take one more step toward her with that attitude, and I promise you this conversation ends right here."

"Joel," you whimpered, your voice shaking and soaked in tears as you reached out, resting a trembling hand against his back to calm him down. Your eyes spilled over, your face burning hot.

At the sound of the name on your lips, Dean snapped his gaze to you, his glare so intense it felt like it could bore right through your skull.

"Joel?" he repeated. "This is Joel?"

Dean's face shifted drastically; the initial confusion mutated into a cold, sickening contempt as the pieces clicked into place.

In nearly a year together, you had never shown him a photo of Joel, never dug deeper than absolute necessity. You had guarded the ghost of your divorce with a painful secrecy, keeping the past hidden like an open wound. You'd told him about him, of course, about the relationship and the agonizing divorce, but for some reason, you had shielded his face, his identity.

And now, the myth was standing right in front of him, bare-chested in your hallway.

"Ah... you gotta be fucking shittin' me," Dean let out a bitter, humorless laugh. His eyes flicked between Joel and you, shredding you with a single look. "Joel? Joel Miller? The grand tragic love you cried about for so damn long?"

"Dean, please..."

"Shut your mouth!" Dean roared, taking a rabid step forward. He pointed a finger at Joel, his whole hand trembling with rage. "This is the goddamn prick who left you broken? You used me! You used me for months just to fill this asshole's shoes!"

"I told you to calm down," Joel's voice rumbled through the hallway, much lower than Dean’s shouting, but somehow carrying twice the weight. He stepped all the way forward, completely blocking you from view. "Ain't gonna tell you again. Grab your shit and get outta here. Now."

"You're telling me to leave?" Dean let out a scoff of sheer disbelief, closing the distance until he was mere inches from Joel's bare chest. "This is my girlfriend's place, you idiot. What the fuck are you even doing here? Came back to play the dutiful husband again? Or'd you just pop in to collect your pity lay?"

"Dean, shut up, please..." Panic was suffocating you, your face burning with tears as your knees threatened to buckle beneath you.

"No, I ain't shutting up," Dean spat, glaring up at him. "Why don't you tell her what you really are? You're a manipulative piece of trash! You know damn well she's sick over you, and you just take advantage of it to come fuck her whenever you feel like it!"

In a flash of instinct, Joel’s hand shot out and clamped around the collar of Dean's jacket, dragging him back half a meter in one violent jerk.

Dean's body slammed against the hallway wall, rattling a picture frame against the plaster.

"Joel, no!" you screamed, lunging blindly to grab his arm.

"Don't you ever speak about her like you know her," Joel hissed. "You ain't got a damn clue what you're talkin' about, or who the hell I am, or what's gone down between us. You walk out that door this exact second or I swear on whatever memory you hold dear in this life, I will drag you out myself."

Dean shoved against Joel’s bare chest, trying desperately to break free, but it was like trying to shift solid stone. The sheer disparity in strength was overwhelming.

"You're crazy," Dean spat at him, but his eyes locked onto yours over Joel's broad shoulder. "You're fucking out of your mind. Go back to him if you want, you're a piece of shit. Every damn bit of you is a fucking lie."

Joel tightened his grip, lifting Dean an inch or two off the floor. "I warned you."

"Joel, no. Please, let him go!" Your trembling hands clawed desperately at his bare arm, feeling the rock-hard tension in his muscle. "I'm sorry... I'm sorry, I'm so sorry..."

The words tumbled out of you in a frantic spill, smothered by sobs as tears completely blurred your sight. You felt miserable, small, utterly hollowed out by guilt.

Seeing you break down like that snapped whatever restraint Dean had left, turning his rage into desperation. Eyes bloodshot, he swung a blind fist straight toward Joel's face.

Joel didn't even blink. With clean instinct, he ducked the clumsy punch, caught Dean's wrist mid-air, and instead of throwing a hit back, used Dean's own momentum to drive him brute force into the adjacent wall. The impact rattled straight through the hallway.

"It's fuckin' enough," Joel warned, raising his voice for the first time, pinning Dean against the plaster with a heavy forearm locked across his chest; no intent to hurt him, just keeping him dead in his tracks. "Settle the hell down and think about what you're doin'."

"Let go of me, you fuckin' bastard! Let me go!"

Joel dug his forearm in deeper.

"Joel, please, just leave it... please," you begged, slipping up beside him, resting your hands against Joel's bare chest, feeling his heart pounding like a war drum.

Dean stopped fighting for a fraction of a second. Pinned against the wall, he locked eyes with you. The rage on his face had cracked, revealing a deep, hollow sadness; the bitter grief of someone who just had their heart smashed into a thousand pieces. His bottom lip quivered.

"Nearly a year..." he muttered. "I gave you everything for almost a year. You let me into your life, into your bed... and I was never even there, was I? It was always him. You're a piece of shit, you make me sick."

You stumbled back a step, stifling a pained groan as you covered your mouth.

Joel's face darkened instantly as he saw the words shatter you. He ground his teeth but forced himself to hold back, and eased the pressure of his arm and stepped back, letting Dean go.

"You said your piece," Joel said. "Grab your stuff and get out."

For a split second, it looked like Dean was going to give in. He straightened his jacket, breathing heavily, eyes fixed blindly on the floor. But it was too much. The wounded ego, the humiliation, and the sheer heartbreak clouded his judgment entirely.

Without warning, Dean let out a roar of fury and threw his entire weight straight into Joel.

"You son of a bitch!"

The charge caught Joel off guard just as he turned back toward you, and the impact threw him off balance, both men crashing hard to one side.

Driven by desperate strength, Dean tackled him into the wall, slamming Joel's back violently against the plaster. A framed picture tumbled off the hook, shattering into a thousand pieces with an unbearable crash against the floorboards.

Dean started pounding on Joel with unhinged violence; a solid right caught Joel flush on the cheekbone, followed by another hard blow to the jaw. Joel tried to throw his arms up to guard, but Dean’s weight in the cramped hallway broke his balance, sending him heavily down to his knees.

"No! Dean, no!" you screamed, out of your mind with terror.

Panic wiped out any trace of logic. You lunged toward them, reaching out to grab Dean by the shoulders, desperate to yank him off, to pull him away from Joel. But the second Dean felt your hands on him, jacked up on adrenaline, he spun around on instinct and swung a blind fist backward.

The full force of his knuckles caught you right in the face.

The pain was dull and blinding; it sent you flying backward, completely stealing your balance until you hit the floor hard on your side, and the heavy impact against the wood knocked the breath right out of your lungs.

And in that hallway, a deafening, sickening silence fell for one terrible second.

Joel saw it all from the floor. He saw your body collapse, saw the terror in your eyes, and saw the blood begin to spill.

Every ounce of restraint, every bit of composure he had been desperately holding onto just to protect you and keep things from spiraling, vanished in a single microsecond.

"She's pregnant, you fucking idiot!" Joel roared.

Before Dean could even process the words, Joel launched himself forward with every bit of his two hundred pounds of muscle and built-up fury. He seized Dean by the throat with a single hand, hauling him nearly off his feet, and slammed him flat against the floor with terrifying force. Dean let out a strangled gasp as the wind was knocked clean out of his lungs.

Joel gave him no room to breathe; he pinned him down and unleashed all the brutal strength he’d been holding back. He drove a vicious fist straight into Dean's face, then another, and another, and another. The sickening crunch of bone against flesh echoed through the space, and within seconds, Dean's face was a bloody mess, utterly crushed under Joel's relentless force.

He was gonna kill him. He was one hit away from beating him to death.

But then, Joel froze his fist mid-air. He was breathing through his mouth, his bare chest heaving violently, slick with sweat and splatters of blood. He stared down at the wrecked man beneath him, released his hold on his throat, and spat in a deadpan, deadly voice:

"You better watch real fuckin' close what you do next."

Joel sprang to his feet, abandoning Dean completely, and rushed straight over to you.

You were trying to push yourself up off the floor, your hands shaking against the wood. Your shoulder hurt like hell, your face felt like it was on fire, your nose was bleeding heavily, and your mouth tasted like copper from a split lip.

"Look at me, look at me..." Joel's voice shifted instantly, turning frantic and soft as his hands gently took you by the arms to help you up. His gaze darted frantically from your bloodied face to your stomach, then back to the door, keeping a sharp eye out in case Dean tried anything. "Let me see you, baby, let me look at you."

"I'm okay... I'm okay..." you managed to choke out between sobs, trying to wipe the blood with the sleeve of your shirt while Joel's face crumpled with raw guilt and agony, his thumb tracing your cheek with tenderness.

A few feet away, a agonizing groan sliced through the air.

Dean, bleeding heavily from his nose and mouth, one eye swelling shut at a terrifying speed, dragged himself up off the floor against the wall.

He was beaten to a pulp, battered and humiliated, but his bloodshot, tear filled eyes weren't locked on Joel. They were fixed on you. On Joel's hands wrapped around you. On the confession he heard minutes ago.

"Are you... are you pregnant?"

Unable to hold his gaze for more than a second, you simply nodded, letting your head drop as a fresh wave of tears burned down your cheeks.

"When?" he demanded to know.

You swallowed hard, feeling your throat close up.

"Maui," you confessed. "It was just one time. I was planning on tellin' you when you picked me up at the airport... but you were so happy about Oslo. I couldn't bring myself to do it."

Dean nodded. A broken laugh escaped his chest as tears cut clean tracks through the blood on his cheeks.

"I didn't tell anyone yet, just Nora," you continued, pleading in a choked whisper. "I only found out three days ago. And Joel found out last night. Before that, we hadn't seen each other, Dean... I mean it. I wanted to tell you."

"But you couldn't wait just one day for me to get home, could you?" he scoffed, shaking his head as he took in the scene: you half bare, Joel standing over you like a protective shield, his skin flushed, his cheek bruised from the fight, and his lip bleeding. The picture-perfect image of a family piecing itself back together over the ruins of his own heart.

"I'm sorry."

Dean shook his head once more, turning away with a defeated sigh.

"You know what? Save it."

He winced as he crouched down, letting out a groan of pain as he scooped his bag off the floor. He grabbed the handle and yanked the front door wide open, letting the cold air from the hallway rush in.

Right before stepping over the threshold, he froze.

He didn't turn around, but his voice sounded hauntingly hollow, worn down to nothing:

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to hit you. Please forgive me for that."

He cast one last look at Joel, then let his eyes rest on you for a fleeting second before stepping out and slamming the door shut.

The silence that followed the slam of the door was deafening, so intense it hurt your ears.

Joel looked at you immediately, and the moment his eyes met yours, the air left your lungs completely and you broke down, crying so hard your whole chest heaved with gut-wrenching sobs. He didn't hesitate for a single second; he stepped forward and wrapped his arms around you, pulling you flush against his bare chest.

"It's okay... it's over now, it's okay," he murmured against your hair.

You wept uncontrollably, but why?

It wasn't the end of your time with Dean that was tearing you apart inside. You didn't feel the loss of that relationship; what suffocated you was that it had gone down in this... this way. So violent, so unfair, so grotesque and aggressive. Because Dean didn't deserve this; nobody deserved that kind of surprise. Every blow Joel and Dean had traded burned in your mind, the sound of flesh against bone echoing in the memory of your ears, and your own body ached from the hit you'd taken in the crossfire.

Joel loosened his hold just enough to frame your face in his large hands. His thumbs gently wiped away the thin trails of blood running down your skin.

"He hit you real hard. We gotta go to the hospital."

"No, Joel, I'm okay," you shook your head quickly, though the motion sent a spike of pain through your temple. "Seriously, it was just... it was just one hit."

"You took a hard fall. And you're pregnant. Best we make sure you're alright. I ain't takin' any chances."

"And what're we supposed to tell them there?"

"The truth. What else?"

Your eyes drifted across Joel's face: the split brow, the nasty scrape across his cheek, and his bleeding lip.

"You need a doctor way more than I do," you whispered, carefully reaching up to touch near his split lip.

"Well, then let's go for me, and we'll get you checked out while we're at it, if that works as an excuse for ya," he replied, raising his brows, though he winced right after; the movement agitated the eye that was already turning dark purple. "I ain't takin' no for an answer. You're still bleedin'."

The firmness in his voice was the exact anchor you needed to keep from completely falling apart. Without another word, you threw yourself against his chest, wrapping your arms around his waist with every ounce of strength you had left.

You felt Joel's hand glide up into your hair, tangling his fingers in your strands and stroking it softly, keeping you safe from the world amid the ruins of that night.

The harsh stench of antiseptic and the glaring fluorescent lights made everything feel far too cold. You had hated places like this for as long as you could remember. But after spending so much time wandering their halls, after collecting so many horrible painful memories in every hospital and clinic across Austin, being here now felt infinitely worse.

Yet Joel, sitting right beside you, made it bearable.

Over two hours had slipped by in the middle of a storm of paperwork, signatures, and suspicious stares. Arriving in the dead of night with battered faces and split skin meant the hospital’s safety protocols kicked in immediately. The nursing staff and the ER physician asked probing questions, pulling each of you aside to rule out domestic abuse or immediate danger. You both had to tread carefully, repeating time and again that it had just been a blowout at your place with your ex, that you didn't want any trouble, desperate to keep the paperwork from turning into a full police report that would only complicate things further.

They cleaned Joel's cuts, closed the split above his brow with a few neat stitches, and handed him a heavy-duty prescription for painkillers and anti-inflammatories; 800 mg ibuprofen and tramadol for the throbbing ache in his bruised ribs. His left eye was now angry purple, swollen and almost completely shut.

From the gurney where they kept you under observation, you couldn't take your eyes off him. And as you traced every bruise on his face, it was impossible to keep your mind from drifting to Dean.

No matter how guilty you felt, no matter how certain you were that what you had with Joel was forever, you couldn't just switch off your empathy overnight. You had shared nearly a year of your life with Dean. He had been good to you—attentive, patient... and knowing the state he was left in, after taking blows three times more brutal than Joel's, made your stomach churn.

You felt like utter trash for how everything had played out, but right now, that mountain of guilt had to be set aside.

There was something far more urgent to worry about.

Even though the general physical exam showed that the hit to your face and the fall hadn't caused any serious trauma, Joel remained completely unyielding. Driven by that protective stubbornness of his, he didn't rest until the ER doctor authorized an ultrasound just to be safe.

They had you lie back on the gurney and exposed your stomach. The cold gel hitting your skin made you shiver, but your entire focus locked onto the dark monitor beside you.

At one month along, the risks after a fall are small but still very real due to the raw impact and severe stress, even if the embryo is no larger than a tiny seed protected inside the gestational sac.

You knew all about loss; you knew every single risk that came with each gestational month. You had studied them relentlessly years ago, and neither the knowledge nor the terror ever truly left your mind.

The doctor glided the transducer over your abdomen and flipped on the monitor. You squeezed your eyes shut right then, completely unable to look. Joel squeezed your hand back tight.

"It's alright, baby."

The sonographer moved the device across your belly for a moment.

"There it is," he said after a few seconds, and your eyes snapped open instantly. He pointed toward the screen. "The gestational sac is fully intact and well implanted. No signs of detachment or hemorrhaging. Everything is right where it should be."

On the black and white screen, nestled among shadows and soft gray tones, a small dark cavity appeared, and inside it, a tiny white dot.

A ragged gasp escaped your chest as an entire mountain of weight lifted off your shoulders.

Turning your head, you looked up at Joel. He stood beside the gurney, his good eye fixed on the screen, his mouth parted slightly.

Despite the blackened eye, the neat row of stitches over his brow, and the faint smears of dried blood still staining his neck, his face transformed entirely. All the harshness, the fury, and thetension of the night melted away in an instant, replaced by a deep almost childlike wonder.

Joel took a step closer, unable to tear his eyes away from that tiny dot on the monitor. He raised a trembling hand, tracing the screen with his fingertips as if trying to touch the image itself.

"It's... it's so small," he murmured. For the first time all night, a single clean tear slipped down his cheek, cutting a path through the scrapes on his face. "Look at 'em... they're alright. Right there."

Seeing him like that, the crushing weight in your chest finally broke. A soft smile touched your lips, shattering the last remnants of the night’s horror, and you tightened your grip on his hand, weaving your fingers through his.

At your touch, Joel pulled his gaze from the screen and turned to you. His features, battered and worn thin by exhaustion, softened completely. He leaned over the gurney with tender care, closing the space between you, and found your lips.

He kissed you softly, a sweet, unhurried press of his mouth. Then came another kiss at the corner of your lips, and another against your cheek; a succession of tender pecks that pulled an airy, honest laugh from your chest despite how tired you were.

Joel smiled, and that grin lit up his entire face. His eyes shone with an overwhelming brightness; filled with hope, with a devotion that left no room for regret.

"Worst of it's over now," he whispered against your lips.

And looking at him right there, with his hand wrapped firmly in yours and the tiny yet monumental presence of the baby resting on the monitor, you knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that he was right.

The worst was finally behind you.

4 months later.

"Mmm. A little more to the left, looks a bit crooked from here."

Nora shifted the frame a few millimeters against the exposed brick wall and immediately glanced back over her shoulder at you. "Like this?"

"Yeah, yeah," you raised a thumb with a smile. "Perfect."

She grinned, pleased with her work, and tilted her chin up. "Always a pleasure, ma'am."

In the frame, a woman from the Old West was looking forward with her hand raised, dressed as an outlaw, while holding a water gun. Beside her, a speech bubble said, 'Do it, cowboy!'

You watched her step down nimbly from the wooden stool she’d been perched on.

"By the way," Nora said, dusting off her hands against her work apron, "Crane called early. Giuliano’s swingin' by at two this afternoon to pick up the bookshelf for the delivery."

You nodded. Giuliano had joined the workshop full-time two months back to help out with logistics and the heavier hauls; an addition that had lifted an enormous weight off both your shoulders.

"Awesome. It’s all wrapped up and ready in the back," you said, leaning back against the workbench. "So... you gonna spill the tea on how last night went, or are you gonna keep playin' mysterious?"

Nora let out a choked laugh, a bright flush instantly staining her cheeks.

The whole thing with Mr. Harrison had started in the most unexpected way: two weeks ago, he’d ordered a custom desk purely as an excuse to get close to her, confessing the truth the second it was delivered. Sure, he’d actually needed the furniture at first, but he’d fallen for Nora, too.

Ha, told ya!

Even though Nora had been "caught off guard" at first and hesitated to say yes, she had finally caved and agreed to a first date.

"It was... incredible," Nora confessed, sinking into one of the shop chairs with a dramatic sigh and a bright sparkle in her eyes. "Honest to God. He took me to that Italian place by the lake I've been dyin' to try, but the food wasn't even the best part. He's charming, attentive, funny as hell... We talked for four straight hours without stoppin'. Swear I haven't felt this good about someone in years. It ain't weird, is it?"

You laughed out loud, loving how giddy she looked. "Why on earth would it be weird? It's awesome."

"Ehh, I don't know, you know... he's older, and I just—"

"Doesn't matter one bit," you waved a hand dismissively. "Besides, works out great for us if things go well between you two. That way he'll keep buyin' furniture from us."

Nora cracked up. "Look at you, such an opportunist! You're right, though."

Before you could say anything else, the shop door chime chimed, announcing a visitor.

Spring had rolled into Austin a month ago, painting the city green, flooding the streets with warm breezes and golden sunlight. Everything looked infinitely prettier this season... and your boyfriend was no exception.

Joel pushed the door open and stepped inside the workshop, looking ridiculously handsome.

He wore a soft white button-down tailored neatly at the shoulders with the top few buttons undone, paired with black trousers and black shoes. His hair had grown out a bit more over these past few months, just enough for a few unruly strands to tuck loosely behind his ears.

"Afternoon, ladies," Joel greeted, stepping up to Nora first and planting a warm kiss on her cheek. "Nora."

"Joel. Look at you, right on time," she teased with a grin.

"Am I? How's Mr. Harrison treatin' you?"

Nora let out a theatrical sigh. "I'm tellin' you all about it later!"

Laughing, Joel walked straight to you.

Without a second thought, he slid a hand gently around your waist, leaned down, and pressed a kiss to your lips that stole your breath for a beat.

"Look at you, darlin'," he murmured, pulling back just an inch or two. His palm slid down right away to rest against your stomach, seeking the warmth of your skin.

At five months along, your bump was still small but undeniably visible, highlighted by your outfit: a skirt sweeping down from your hips to your ankles with a slight slit on the side, and a white crop top that left just a small glimpse of your belly bare and uncovered.

Joel traced the curve of your bump with his thumb, his face softening with that tender warmth that was all yours now.

"You ready?" he asked.

"More than ready," you smiled, giving his hand one last squeeze.

You turned back to your partner, who was watching the two of you with a sweet expression.

"I'm outta here, Nor. See you tomorrow."

"Go on, have fun," Nora waved you off. "I'll lock up."

You laced your fingers through Joel's, letting him lead you toward the exit you knew by heart.

It had become a ritual. Every Friday for months, Joel would pick you up at the shop just before closing for date night. There was no need for elaborate planning; the routine you had built was perfect, centered around a few favorite local spots.

Some nights, you managed to snag a table in a quiet corner of Genoveva's for a delicious meal. Other times, you would stroll leisurely down South Congress, enjoying the glow of the streetlights, sharing ice cream, browsing through antique shops, and grabbing a bite from the food trucks along the avenue. On simpler evenings, you would just pick up takeout tacos and sit near the lake, watching the evening fade over the Austin water.

It was the perfect way to close out the week and ease into the weekend, which almost always found you both at home, cooking together and setting the table to host Sunday dinners, as though no time had passed at all.

That you and Joel had gotten back together didn't surprise anyone because it was outrageous, but rather because of how sudden it had all been. The change in him was immediate, and the person most thrilled by the news was, without a doubt, Tommy.

To him, his brother had spent years living as a shadow of himself, and he never missed an opportunity to remind you, or anyone else willing to listen.

"I told him, didn't I?" Tommy said one afternoon, popping the cap off an ice-cold beer as you hung out in his sunny backyard. "I kept tellin' him to quit messin' around and go get you back once and for all."

Tommy was a completely different man from the boy you had first met. You had watched him grow over fifteen, almost sixteen years; from a rebellious teenager into the man he was today.

You were family, plain and simple. Tommy had always been there to witness every major chapter of your life, and this new stage was no exception: he was right by your side when you finally reached the three-month pregnancy mark.

The pregnancy was proving to be a strangely beautiful experience. You barely had any symptoms; nausea was minimal, and against all odds, your body felt stronger, healthier, and more full of life than ever.

Even so, with all the good news on your side, you and Joel had decided to keep the secret and wait patiently to hit the first-trimester mark before sharing the news with family.

During the last ultrasound, the obstetrician confirmed that the baby was perfectly healthy and growing strong. When she asked if you wanted to know the gender, you decided to wait until the birth.

Time to tell everyone; when you finally told them, it felt as though the world around you settled right into place.

Tommy was overjoyed. But your mom's reaction was no less intense: the very day after learning you were back with Joel, she had caught a bus from San Antonio to Austin just to wrap her arms around you. And the moment she found out a grandkid was on the way, she didn't hesitate for a second and began packing up her life to move to the city for good.

"I ain't gonna make the mistake of bein' far away, not like last time. I'd never forgive myself," she told you, her voice breaking as she squeezed your hands tight.

You knew all too well the weight she carried in her chest for not having been there the night everything crumbled. But you had never blamed her. How could she have known? Nobody knew.

Life, however, seemed ready to offer everyone a fresh start, and this new beginning with Joel felt warmer, brighter, and more hopeful than anything you could have imagined.

A healthy baby on the way, a peaceful pregnancy, and the man you had loved since you were nothing more than a girl, back by your side.

The car glided smoothly through the streets as Billy Joel played softly over the speakers. You had the window rolled down, letting the warm spring air rush in, carrying the delicious scent from this time of year: a sweet blend of damp earth, oak trees, and the first blossoms of the season opening under the sun.

Joel kept one hand on the wheel while the other rested comfortably near the gear shift. You had asked him at least three times where you were going, but all you got in return was a sly smirk and the exact same evasive answer.

According to him, it was a surprise, and he had no intention of spilling the beans no matter how much you begged. He knew your curiosity was bottomless, and he seemed to enjoy every second of your mild frustration.

As you drove further, the city landscape began to blur away. The massive downtown structures, heavy traffic, and towering buildings faded into the distance, giving way to broader streets lined with one-story homes, lush lawns, and a far more tranquil suburban stretch.

"Where are you takin' me?" you asked again, letting out a soft laugh and leaning slightly toward his side to try and read his face.

Joel clicked his tongue without taking his eyes off the road, though the corner of his lips tugged upward.

"You'll find out soon enough, don't be impatient," he murmured, reaching out with his free hand just to give your knee an affectionate squeeze before settling back into place.

You turned back to look out the window, crossing your arms as you scrutinized every passing corner. You tried to get your bearings, guessing the name of some hidden restaurant, a park, or any familiar spot. The route felt vaguely recognizable; you knew you’d been around this area years ago. Yet no matter how much you mapped it out in your head, you couldn't quite connect the dots on what Joel might have planned this time.

The car kept rolling for a few more minutes, heading down a street shaded by a massive canopy of trees, until Joel flipped on the blinker and came to a smooth stop by the curb.

The moment the engine cut off, you looked up.

Standing before you was a warm fronted café and resto-bar, complete with string lights glowing on the porch and a handful of small tables scattered outside. The original structure was still there, but the place looked completely different from how you remembered it. Even so, muscle memory kicked in, and you recognized the corner in a heartbeat.

You froze for a second. Then you turned to look at him, your heart doing a sudden flip in your chest as an inevitable smile spread across your face.

Fifteen years ago.

The memory rushed back instantly. You remembered a younger version of yourself, lying in bed, exhausted and crushed under a cloud of bad mood after a miserable week at a dead-end job that drained your life away and kept you from focusing on your studies. One of your best friends back then, and still today (your precious Kat) had practically forced you to get dressed and leave the house to clear your head.

She had brought you right to this very place: a simple, noisy, cozy neighborhood bar that was always packed with college students.

You remembered sitting at a low table, drinking cheap beer and eating bacon fries, trying to drown out your frustration while your friends talked. But the beer wasn't enough; you needed something stronger to turn off the noise in your head.

You got up, walked to the wooden bar, ordered a stiff drink, and stood there waiting; staring into space with a furrowed brow, wondering what the hell you were supposed to do with your life. You weren't feeling particularly optimistic.

That was when he showed up.

You saw him first: a young stranger with a gentle face, a slightly lanky posture, and the most intense, expressive eyes you had ever seen. He walked right up beside you and, without pretense or hesitation, looked you dead in the eye.

"You alright?"

"Yeah, I'm fine," you replied, dropping your head with an awkward slightly embarrassed smile for being so transparent in your misery.

But Joel, even as little more than a boy, had that innate ability to read you like an open book, even without knowing you. He hadn't bought your answer for a single second.

"Tell me what happened," he said.

And just like that, without you even realizing it, the entire night slipped through your fingers. What began as a cautious conversation with a total stranger turned into hours of laughter, whispers, and knowing glances across the bar.

By the time the sun started peeking over the horizon, that stranger had already claimed a piece of your life.

Today, the noisy weathered bar of your youth was gone; in its place stood this warm, renovated restaurant. But the corner was the exact same.

Joel got out of the car, rounded the hood, and opened the door, extending a hand to you. He helped you out gently and, without letting go, guided you toward the entrance.

As he pushed open the heavy wooden door, the faint chime above the entrance announced your arrival, but the Friday evening bustle you expected was nowhere to be found. The space was completely empty, just for the two of you.

A peaceful quiet enveloped the space, where the only sound was soft music drifting from small speakers hidden somewhere out of sight. There were no patrons at the bar, no murmur of background chatter; it was just the two of you, along with two impeccably dressed servers standing in a welcoming posture beside a small table prepared in the middle of the room.

The lighting throughout the space was gorgeous: dozens of tiny warm lights, strung together like delicate garland alongside exposed filament bulbs, hung from dark wooden beams, bathing everything in a golden glow. The tables shimmered beneath that radiance, and at the exact center of the room, the table set for you was covered in a linen cloth, two crystal glasses catching the light, a simple floral arrangement, and a single candle whose flame flickered softly.

You turned completely toward him, a smile spreading across your face as a deep warmth filled your chest.

"Joel, what is all this?"

Without waiting for an answer, you raised your hands to cup his face, feeling the rough texture of his beard against your palms, and leaned in to kiss him. Joel didn't hesitate for a second: his arms wrapped firmly around your waist, pulling you in gently as he deepened the kiss.

"This is where we met," you murmured against his lips, pulling back just a fraction of an inch, feeling his warm breath mingling with yours.

"Bar's gone," he said, gesturing with a slight nod toward a corner of the room where a row of tall windows now stood, "but it was right there. You remember?"

"Of course I remember. How could I ever forget?"

You looked around once more, taking in every single detail. Meeting the eyes of the servers, you offered them a grateful smile; they returned the gesture with polite nods and, sensing the intimacy of the moment, quietly slipped into an adjoining room.

Then Joel took both of your hands in his, lacing his fingers through yours, and guided you toward the center of the room, right beside the candlelit table.

He stopped in front of you, looking down at your joined hands for a moment before lifting his eyes back to yours. A faintly shy smile curved his lips as he shook his head.

"I was gonna wait till we finished dinner," he confessed, letting out a small, nervous chuckle. "But I can't. I truly can't wait no longer."

You said nothing; you simply met his gaze, letting the smile spreading across your lips speak for you.

Joel’s expression shifted. His face turned serious for a fleeting moment, weighted with a almost childish nervousness that sparked a swell of tenderness in your chest. It instantly brought back the Joel from your first dates; the jovial yet clumsy man who adjusted his shirt every few seconds and weighed every single word because he was terrified of messing up. Of course you noticed.

"These past few months with you... baby, you got no idea how happy I've been," he broke the silence. "Just as happy as I was before, maybe even more so. I know I say it all the time, but you truly ain't got a clue how much I love you."

Your smile widened as you raised a hand, tracing your fingertips along the warm skin of his cheek.

"I love you so much too, Joel. More than you know."

He caught your hand in his, tilting his head to press a soft, lingering kiss right in the middle of your palm.

"You're the love of my life. And being without you all that time... it was a nightmare, you know that?"

Of course you knew.

Joel’s words brought a wave of unearthed memories crashing over you; you remembered the endless nights when your subconscious betrayed you, bringing dreams of the warmth of his embrace, the sound of his laughter, or the familiar weight of his arm over your waist, only to wake in the dead of night to the icy emptiness of a lonely bed. You remembered that bitter ache, the heavy tightness in your chest upon realizing you were no longer together, that the "us" had broken.

Above all, you remembered the painstaking discipline it had taken not to pick up the phone and dial his number at three in the morning.

"I ain't ever gonna be able to erase what happened," he continued, lowering his voice. "Gonna carry the fact that I let you go once like a fool. But I think I'm the luckiest man alive, 'cause despite my mistakes, life went ahead and brought you right back to me."

He took another step closer, closing the tiny distance remaining between you.

"And I know it was messy, troublesome, and downright questionable dependin' on who you ask... but I'd do it a thousand times over if I had to. Do things a hundred times worse, just to keep you right here with me," Joel raised his brows. "And I know that makes me sound a little bit crazy."

You let out a soft laugh, keeping your eyes locked on his.

"It's the honest truth, though," he added.

Still smiling, you slid your hands up the fabric of his shirt, moving up his firm chest until your fingers laced together behind his neck.

You tilted your head. "Yeah... truth is, you do sound a little crazy sometimes."

Joel offered a lopsided smile his that crinkled the corners of his eyes. "I know, what're you gonna do about it?"

You shrugged lightly. "I don't know, Miller... what are you gonna do about it?"

Bringing his face close enough to steal the air between you, Joel rested his forehead against yours.

"I'm gonna get my Mrs. Miller back."

With his eyes locked on yours, Joel began to step back. His hands glided down your arms until he let go, and with a measured movement, he bent one leg and rested a knee upon the floor.

A lighthearted laugh escaped your lips. You immediately brought your fingers to your mouth to muffle it, feeling a warm moisture pooling in your eyes that threatened to overflow at any second.

Joel spoke your name. From his pocket, he pulled out a small pink velvet box, opening it on the palm of his hand as he held it out to you. In the center, set against the pale cushion, a breathtaking ring caught every ray of light in the room: a gorgeous, big, elegant oval-cut center diamond, flanked by a delicate band paved from end to end with tiny sparkling crystals that shimmered at the slightest tilt.

Joel looked up at you. A faint twitch flitted across his brow, betraying the nerves that the solid strength of his words tried to hide.

"Baby, you've been makin' me the happiest man alive since the very first night we met, right here, fifteen years ago. I couldn't ask for a single thing more from life than what it's already given me. But you... you..." He swallowed hard, seeking your gaze behind the veil of tears clouding your eyes. "Will you marry me?" He paused briefly, a flash of mischief peeking through the vulnerability on his face. "... Again?"

You began nodding frantically, a breathless laugh wiping away any other expression as tears finally spilled down your cheeks.

"Yes. Yes, Joel, of course I'll marry you... again!"

Before he could react or even push himself up, you threw yourself into his arms, wrapping your hands tightly around his neck.

Joel reacted with his usual reflexes: he caught you mid air, gripping your hips and back firmly to cushion the impact and make sure you didn't get hurt in the slightest.

With a shaky sigh of relief that rumbled in his chest, he pressed you close against his body and, using the strength of his legs, stood up while holding you in his arms.

The moment his feet planted on the floor, you gave him no quarter. You kissed him; desperate, hungry kisses overflowing with a happiness so pure it set your skin ablaze. Your right hand buried itself in the back of his neck, tangling your fingers in the soft texture of his hair, while the other stroked his cheek, tracing the line of his jaw and moving down toward the warmth of his neck.

When you finally pulled apart, breathless and with your foreheads still pressed together, you offered your left hand to him, your fingers trembling slightly.

Taking your hand, he began sliding the sparkling oval diamond down your finger. But right before settling it completely in place, he paused;

"Got somethin' that belongs to you."

With his free hand, he reached into his pants pocket and pulled out another small box. He opened it carefully and held it out for you to see.

Your smile softened into a look of absolute awe.

"My rings..."

There, resting against the velvet, was that first delicate ring with the tiny diamond in the center. Your absolute favorite. The very first ring he’d ever given you; the one he’d used to propose in the middle of the living room of his cramped apartment on a rainy night thirteen years ago, back when neither of you had anything to offer but promises. And right behind it lay the second one: larger, more striking, the piece he’d gifted you three years later, born from years of hard work and sacrifice.

"You had them this whole time?"

Joel let out a shaky breath. "They're yours. Always been yours."

Your lips trembled into an inevitable pout. You threw yourself into his arms once more, smothering a sob against his mouth, kissing him, and framed his face with both hands, pressing desperate kisses to his lips, his cheeks, the corners of his mouth, his chin. You kissed him again and again, feeling as though no amount of kisses would ever be enough.

Smiling through the blur of your tears, you pulled back just enough to look at him. Joel took your hand again and, with a playful glint in his eyes, began sliding the other two rings onto your finger, fitting them right alongside the gleaming new diamond.

You burst into a laugh at the sight of the stack of jewelry piled up against your knuckle.

"I don't think this looks very good."

Joel huffed, shrugging with a smirk. "Well, you get to choose. They say third time's the charm, don't they?"

You let out a laugh and leaned in to kiss him again, but right as your lips brushed his—

"Oh."

Your head snapped down. Your left hand flew instinctively to your stomach, pressing gently against the fabric of your clothes. You felt a small flutter right there.

"What? What is it?" Joel’s face shifted instantly, alertness flaring in his eyes.

You looked up at him, and the smile that broke across your face was so radiant it lit up Joel’s entire expression.

"The baby just kicked... They just kicked, Joel! Look."

You took his broad warm hand and pressed it firmly against your belly.

Silence fell over the two of you. Joel didn't even breathe; his eyes were glued to the exact spot where his palm touched your skin, his jaw set with anticipation.

And then... Bump!

A small but firm little nudge hit from within, pressing right against Joel’s hand.

"There it is. Did you feel that?" you asked, smothering a giggle.

Joel let out a soft laugh, his eyes suddenly bright with unshed tears.

"Yeah... yeah, I felt it. Good Lord... what're the odds?"

"I don't know," you covered his hand with yours.

Joel kept his palm pinned to your stomach, unmoving, waiting patiently for another little kick, another quiet sign that the baby was not only awake, but completely on board with this latest family decision.

"Think they're tellin' us we gotta go buy a house as soon as possible," he said, breaking the spell with a lopsided smile.

You chuckled softly. "With a big yard."

"And a pool."

"And big windows."

Joel huffed. "Course with big windows."

You fell quiet, watching his face illuminated by the lights of the room, tracing every line on his face, taking in every detail of the man standing right in front of you. Yes. Seeing his hand resting over your belly and feeling the weight of all three rings on your finger, you knew there was no doubt left in your mind.

You would do it all over again, too.

The end!

I might add an epilogue if you guys want, may be nice to know how Joel and reader are doing after a while. Hope you enjoyed this <3

tag list: @vanishintoyoubby @mandolauren @themoviefangirl-blog @sesdeuxyeux @pascalgold @cuteanimalmama @menshipsandthesea @onlythehobi @billionairecowgirl @comicsandfanfics @kellybelly1978 @chewie-bars @matildagirl1 @sunnytuliptime @justafangirl-123 @maladptivedaydreaming @hotforpedro @tonksbru @cam2732 @taniamiller @staywildflowahchild @person-005 @jaymee-draws @cutiemermaidsalma @missmoonpie @lambe-rt @correapunk @pedritosgfreal @koshkaj-blog @rosharanfiction @ivoryandflame

You responded – he knows you did. He saw it in your eyes, felt in on your breath, recognised it in the way your body tried to move closer to his.

And your words – I feel something – couldn’t have been clearer if you’d yelled them in his face rather than whispered them on a breath of air.

He keeps his eyes closed and exhales raggedly, the hesitation in immediately returning to the warmth of the hall borne from the undeniable need to touch you again. He can still feel the heat of your cheek against his palm, feel it burn the way his finger burned from the night in the jeep, and he wants other parts of his body to burn the same way.

He knows it’s not gentlemanly to have such thoughts about a woman he barely knows, but he wants to feel you, pressed tightly against him, wants to feel the heat of your mouth, your hands, your thighs…

He said he would do what you asked because in the darkness, with the tears coming down your face there was nothing else he could say. The saying of any other thing would have been cruel and the last thing Frankie ever wants to be towards you is cruel.

So, he said he would do what you asked, but he hadn’t, in the small, honest part of him, meant it, and if he was any lesser a man he would go back through the door again and drag you into his arms.

Instead, he opens his eyes, straightens his shoulders and walks the length of the passage out into the hall, arranging his face into an expression that won’t be questioned by others when he emerges back into the music and the dancing and the socialising.

The first person he sees, when he steps back inside the hall, is Santi, watching the door. He puts his cup of tea down on the shelf at the side near the urn, and crosses the floor to meet him, putting his hand on Frankie's elbow.

“Fish…walk with me."

"I’m not…"

"Walk with me. Smile at Mrs Robertson and come out the front, now."

He lets Santi steer him by the elbow across the front of the hall past the line of coats, and past Mrs Robertson at the door who, of course, asks if everything is alright.

“Everything’s fine, thank you,” Santi replies with a broad smile. “We’re just taking some air.”

Fortunately, she doesn’t ask any further questions or seem in any way intrigued and Santi keeps his hand on his elbow until they’re fully outside in the street in front of the hall, lit only by the small, thin moon from above.

“What the fuck?” Santi says, dropping his hand. “You danced with her, then she went out the back door, and you followed her and…please…please don’t tell me you did anything.”

“Jesus, like what?”

“I don’t know – like, fuck her?”

“Pope!”

“What?” Santi stares at him. “The way you’ve been acting lately, I wouldn’t be surprised.”

“I did not fuck her!” Frankie replies, indignant. “I just…we talked, that’s all.”

“About what? What did she say?”

Frankie looks down at his feet for a long moment, watching the moon reflect off the sheen of his boot as he tries to assemble his thoughts.

"She said to stay away from her."

"Okay,” Santi lets out a breath of relief.

"And I told her I would."

"Good."

"But I'm not going to."

Santi doesn’t say anything for a long moment. The moon shifts behind a cloud whilst somewhere in the hall behind them, Mrs Cook starts up another quickstep on the piano, and he folds his arms across his chest, his expression tightening.

"Say that again?"

"I'm not going to do what she said."

"Frankie..."

"What?”

"Look at me."

Frankie lifts his face from his boots and looks at his friend, knowing without needing to see for himself, that the look he’s giving him is quiet and settled – the face of a man who’s made a decision in the dark, and isn’t going to be talked out of it, not even by his closest friend.

"Frankie, no."

“I don’t care what you…”

"Listen to me."

"I'm listening, Pope, because I always listen to you. I listened to you in the hut when you talked about Pilar and I understood, okay? I understood what you were telling me and why and I get it, I do. You did the right thing for you and the right thing for Pilar and good for you. Way to fucking go. But what you did isn’t the right thing for me, or her.”

"I’m just…”

"She feels something, Pope, okay? She told me she feels something and I had one hand on her cheek and the other on her waist and..."

Santi groans.

“…and she told me to stay away from her, and the way she said it…it wasn’t…she wasn’t…she wasn’t actually saying that she wanted me to stay away from her. She was saying she was afraid of what would happen if I didn't."

Santi shakes his head, “That’s the same damn thing.”

"No, it isn’t.”

"Frankie, it’s the same damn thing! A girl who tells you to stay away because she’s afraid of what will happen if you don't, is a girl telling you to stay away. The fear is the reason. You don’t get to decide what she means and what she doesn’t – that’s on her.”

"She said it doesn't matter. She said it can’t matter. She said he’s going to ask me to marry him. She said all of those things whilst she was crying and…and she was saying them to herself, Santi, not to me. She was saying them out loud because saying them out loud was the only way she had to make them be true, and…”

Santi steps closer to him. “Frankie, you’re doing the thing a man does when he wants the thing to be the thing he wants it to be. You’re listening to what she said and hearing what you want to hear and calling what you want to hear the truth of what she said, and that it is only going to make things worse!”

Frankie pauses, holding eye contact with his friend, before nodding. “Maybe.”

"Maybe?"

"Maybe I am doing that, okay? Maybe I am. But the truth is, I don't know, not for sure. I don't know if I'm hearing what I want to hear or if I'm hearing what's there. And I am telling you that not knowing is not a reason to stay away. Not knowing is a reason to find out."

"But it’s not your finding out to do, it’s hers!”

Santi sighs heavily and rubs a hand over his face.

"Frankie, the finding out is hers. She has to decide what she wants, not you, and if you don’t leave her alone, you’re not helping her find out. You’re taking the finding out away from her."

Frankie shakes his head. "Pope, if I stay away, she doesn't find out and she marries her boyfriend and..."

"Then that is her finding out and making a choice.”

"No, that’s her doing the thing she’s already doing. That’s her staying in the place she’s always been because it’s the easy place and the easy place is the place where I’m not, and her staying in the easy place because I’m in it is not her finding out anything. That’s her being left alone.”

He lets out a ragged breath.

“That’s her being left alone in this village in the middle of this fucking war and never knowing what…what she could have.”

Santi says nothing for a long moment, the only sound coming from the whisper of the evening wind and the piano from inside the hall. Somewhere in the distance, a dog begins to bark and then stops, the village settling once more, ignorant of the turmoil.

"Frankie, I told you about Pilar so you wouldn’t do this."

"I know.”

"But apparently you’re going to do it anyway."

"Yes.”

"Jesus…” Santi shakes his head. “You’re a goddamn fool, you know that?”

"Santi, you told me that you’ve asked yourself every day since you last saw Pilar whether saying how you really felt would have made it better or worse, and you told me that the answer every day is worse. And I believe you. But you almost said it, and the almost is the thing you have to carry, because you almost said it and you didn't."

Santi blinks.

"She’s not married yet, not even engaged – not properly. He’s just some boy she’s known all her life and…and if I stay away from her now, if I do what she said and what you’re saying and she marries him, then I’m going to be you. I’m going to be carrying the almost for the rest of whatever piece of life I get after this tour, and I’m not going to be you. Respectfully.”

“Glad you added that, you asshole.”

"I’m saying it because it’s true and because you’re the only man I can say it to, and I would rather say it to you than say it to myself in the dark."

Santi looks at him for a long moment before making a noise that might be a laugh and might be something else.

"Alright, Fish. I’m not going to talk you out of it because I’ve tried and you’ve thrown everything back at me, so – alright. But you need to be smart about this, and you need to be careful. You need to be careful that the thing you do is the thing you can live with.”

"I don't know what I'm going to do yet. I came out from behind the side door of the hall ten minutes ago having decided that I wasn’t going to do what she said, and that’s all the deciding I’ve done.” Frankie pauses. “I might wait. I might wait a long time. I might…I might never do anything."

Santi snorts. “You will. I don't know when or how, but you’ll do something because you’re not the kind of man who decides that he’s not going to do what a girl’s asked him to do and then doesn’t do something. So…you’ll do it. And all I’m saying is, when you do, be careful.”

Frankie nods. “Okay, thanks.”

“Don’t thank me,” Santi sighs. “If this all goes wrong…”

“You’ll be there.”

He huffs another laugh. “Yeah, guess I will be.”

They stand for one more long second in the dark, then Santi inclines his head back to the door. “Come on, let’s go back inside.”

“Pope, you…” Frankie takes hold of his friend’s sleeve. “You won’t…say anything to anyone else, will you? To Will or Benny or Tom…”

“I won’t say a goddamn word,” Santi replies. “But I’m guessing I’m not the only one who saw what happened after you finished dancing with her, so don’t blame me if the others ask you about it.”

“That’s fair. I guess I could’ve been less obvious when I followed her out.”

“Long as she hasn’t come back in crying, you’re fine.”

They cross to the door together and once back amongst the warmth and the music and the dancing, Frankie heads straight to the trestle and takes a cup of tea from Mrs Robertson and doesn’t look across the floor. He doesn’t have to, because he knows that you’re at the other side of the room with Margery, your back angled very slightly to him, drinking your own tea slowly and carefully, not looking across the floor at him either.

Mrs Cook brings the latest dance to a finish with a flourish, and the floor stands and claps and breaks up, bodies moving in different directions, a low murmur filling the air.

Out of the corner of his eye, Frankie can see Will flirting with the girl serving the teas, while Tom and Benny are in conversation with Mr Robertson, the younger airmen’s expression screaming to be saved somehow from the drudgery of small, English village talk.

“Oh Lieutenant Morales,” Mrs Hadley clucks as she approaches from his left side. “I hope you won’t think me presumptuous in hoping you might have a dance free before the end of the evening?”

“I don’t think you presumptuous at all,” he smiles at her, still refraining from looking across the floor. “I’d be honoured.”

****

On the other side of the hall you, meanwhile, are drinking your tea slowly and carefully, trying to stop your hands from shaking whilst attempting to field Margery’s questions as best you can.

When you’d come back inside, she had immediately pounced and subtly redirected you, having seen you leave after your dance with Frankie and him follow you outside almost immediately.

“And then…?” she asks, eyes as big as saucers as you recount him coming upon you in the dark.

“He asked if I felt something and then…then he moved closer and…he put one hand on my cheek and the other on my waist and I thought…. oh Lord Margery, I thought he was going to…to kiss me and I wanted him to but then I…I told him he had to stay away from me.”

A sound leaves Margery’s throat that resembles a half snort, half cry and you realise that, for all intents and purposes, you’ve spoiled what she’s been hoping was going to come next. But she instantly catches it, turns it into a cough and takes another mouthful of tea, smiling at Florrie Bates as she floats past in the arms of one of the other Americans whose name, at this precise moment, you’ve forgotten.

“And what did he say?”

“He said he’d do it. But then he said he’s been thinking about me, and I told him that I had Henry and that I couldn’t do anything about it but…” you inhale raggedly, the teacup shaking in your hand. “But I want to, Margery. I want to, more than anything and that makes me a terrible person and…”

“Hush, old girl, of course it doesn’t!” Margery says fiercely. “It makes you human, that’s all. It makes you a woman who’s attracted to a man who’s attracted to you and that’s the natural order of things. And I told you before that you should be exploring your feelings and not worrying about boring old Henry…”

“Margery!”

“I’m serious, old girl. Things have happened now and you’d be a fool to ignore them.” She looks at you squarely. “You’re not a bad person, I know that. So, you’ll have to end things with Henry before you do anything with Frankie.”

“I didn’t say I was going to do anything with Frankie,” you hiss.

“Yes, you are – you know you are. And doing something whilst Henry sits in the background is a recipe for disaster, I’m telling you that now. I mean, look at Annie Taylor – flighty piece that she is. Talk of the village walking out with that airman whilst Barry’s away with the navy and you don’t want to be talked about like her, do you? You want to be talked about as a woman who was decent enough to let her old boyfriend down gently before taking up with a new one.”

You drain the rest of your cup and turn it around in your hands, shaking your head in the process. “I can’t because…because I told him to stay away and he said he would…”

“That’s why he’s trying his hardest, once again, not to look over here at you,” Margery says, glancing over your shoulder. “That man has no intention of staying away from you, old girl. He doesn’t know how long he might have left in this world and, believe me, he’s not going to waste a chance like this just because you’re too proud to tell Henry you don’t love him.”

Your head flies up and you meet Margery’s gaze again, mouth open and ready to defend your relationship. Only, you can’t. She raises an eyebrow, almost daring you to disagree, and all you can do is duck your gaze away again.

“If you don’t intend to do anything about your feelings for Frankie, then look at him,” Margery says after a few beats of silence. “Look at him right now.”

“Margery…”

“I’m serious, old girl, look at him.” She puts her cup down on the side and rests her hands gently on your shoulders, appearing for all the world like a simple, friendly gesture. “Just turn and look. He’s over by the trestle – you can’t miss him. He’s not looking at you anyway so there’s no harm done. nothing wrong with looking, is there? It’s not as though you haven’t done it before.”

She exerts gentle pressure on your shoulders and you feel yourself turning incrementally, a half turn at first, your gaze sweeping across the room – to where Florrie’s aunt and Mrs Robertson are chatting in the corner, where Mrs Cook is rifling through her sheet music, her tongue stuck between her teeth – and coming to rest finally at the trestle where Frankie’s standing with Santi, his gaze on Mrs Hadley, whose hand is on his arm.

Almost immediately, you feel your entire body start to shake again at the memory of what transpired. His hand on your cheek, his hand on your waist, his breath ghosting over your face…what you might have been prepared to do if things were different…

Margery’s wrong – there’s something very wrong with looking. Because right at that moment, Frankie’s eyes move from Mrs Hadley, just a fraction of an inch, and meet yours, like they have done before, but this time you find that you have to physically stop yourself from crossing the floor towards him. Your right hand snakes backwards and grasps blindly for Margery’s, squeezing it tightly in yours, pulling her close to you in ungainly fashion.

“Steady on, old girl,” she hisses as she bumps into your back. “You’re making it…”

“I…I need to go,” you mumble faintly, gaze still locked on Frankie who’s looking at you now with a mixture of concern and confusion. “I need to leave, now.”

“But…”

You cross the floor before she’s finished speaking and don’t wait for her, keeping your eyes on the door in front of you, your hand reaching for your coat where it waits for you on the peg without ever glancing in Frankie’s direction.

“You alright my love?” Florrie’s aunt asks as you move past her.

“Yes, I’m fine. I just…need some air.”

You don’t wait to hear her response or consider whether she finds your demeanour and actions strange or concerning. You simply pull your coat on quickly, but carefully, pull open the door and step out into the night air.

You start to walk, quickly, back in the direction of home with your coat unbuttoned and, behind you, you can hear Margery call your name and the sounds of her shoes as she hurries to catch up with you.

“Slow down, old girl…"

"I can't, Margery."

You keep going, with Margery behind you, and suddenly you hear the sound of the hall door opening and closing again, followed by the sound of boots coming down the steps.

You don’t look back because you know whose boots they are.

You hear Margery stop and say in a voice that isn’t particularly loud or particularly quiet but said at a volume that she knows you’ll hear, "Lieutenant."

"Miss Cole."

You keep walking because you know that if you stop and turn now, anyone coming out of the door of the hall behind you or coming down the lane from the direction of the cottages is going to see the two of you.

His boots come up behind you – twenty feet, ten feet, five feet – and you feel his hand take your arm above the elbow through the sleeve of your unbuttoned coat. And whilst it doesn’t stop you walking, it turns you sideways off the lane behind the old hawthorn where the lane turns a small bend before the row of cottages starts.

The hawthorn is thick and wide and tall enough for the two of you to stand behind it without any part of you showing to the lane, and before you can so much as draw breath, or ask him why he’s following you or not doing as you pleaded with him to, your hands go up to the front of his tunic under his coat and close on the wool between the two brass buttons, and his mouth comes down on yours.

In that moment, everything breaks – everything.

➰➰➰➰➰➰➰➰🇺🇸➰➰➰➰➰➰➰➰

Taglist: @mcthsman @ritchmoor @fatima-marisa @jessthebaker @the-heart-is-an-organ-of-fire @ashleyfilm @vickie5446 @originals23 @izzykinzz678 @hanahleahs @eviispunk

Outside the viewport, hyperspace streaks itself into long blue threads, ribboning past in their hypnotic slow-motion lunge. Your boots are up on the console and one hand rests on the swell of your belly because lately your hand finds its way there on its own, like it's been reassigned without asking.

Six months and you still catch yourself startled by the shape of you. By the way you have to lean back a little further in chairs now and the way your centre of gravity has wandered off somewhere ahead of you, like a small impatient scout. By the way Din looks at you when he thinks you can't tell he's looking, which – honestly – is most of the time, because he’s wearing a helmet, and you can never tell where his eyes are, he knows it, and he uses it shamelessly.

You can feel him looking now.

He's in the pilot's seat beside you, gloves off, the instruments murmuring to themselves. The nav display blinks its slow blue pulse and somewhere behind you, in the hold, something settles with a small metallic clink, which you decide not to think about because you don’t have the energy to go and investigate.

"You're quiet," you say.

"Mm."

"That's quieter."

The modulator carries a breath that might be a laugh.

"I was thinking about the bunk," he says.

"Romantic."

"About the bunk," he repeats, patient, "and where the cradle goes."

You smile, because you’re glad he’s at least on board for that. Again, not that you haven’t accepted that, practically, the cabin will be your baby’s primary home, but you can’t help the slight thrill that runs through you at the thought of your little family roaming the galaxy together.

He's been sketching one for a week, lines and angles, beskar reinforcement at the corners because of course if there is any problem in this galaxy Din Djarin does not believe can be solved by the application of beskar, you’ve yet to find it. You've watched him erase the same curve four times trying to get it right – the slope of the inner wall, where a tiny shoulder might rest. He thought you were asleep at the time, but you weren't.

"There's room by the ladder," you offer. "If we move the crate of detonators. Which, incidentally, we should probably move regardless of the baby."

"Mm." The blue light slides across his visor in a long, unbroken stripe. "I was thinking closer to the bulkhead. It’ll be warmer there and when she’s old enough to stand, the rungs will be in reach."

"Old enough to stand and climb a ladder on a gunship. I mean, that sounds..."

"She’ll need to learn the ship."

"She’ll need to learn not to fall out of the ship."

He tilts his head – that small Din gesture that on anyone else would be a shrug. "Both."

You let your hand drift in a slow circle over your belly. The baby's been still for an hour, which always feels longer than an hour. Any minute now she’ll wake up and start kicking your bladder like it personally insulted her, and you're almost looking forward to it. You like the moving better than the not-moving because the not-moving makes you hold your breath and think about scenarios you’d rather not think about.

"We could put the chest under the bulkhead bunk," he goes on, thinking out loud, which is rare for him. It means he's been thinking for days and the thinking has overflowed as the time when the thinking requires to crystallise comes closer. "We can move the spare ration crates to the lower hold. The vibration is less near the bulkhead so she’ll sleep better."

"You've thought about this a lot."

"Yes," he replies, as though not thinking about it would be farcical.

You laugh, and the laugh catches in the soft fullness of your ribs and turns into a hiccup. His hand twitches toward you on the armrest, is she alright, is she alright, is she alright, the muscle reflex of a man who’s spent the last few months unsure whether you breaking would be something he could fix. You take his hand before he can decide whether to extend it, and put it on your knee, because his hand on you anywhere calms him, and tonight you want him calm.

"Tell me more," you say. "About the bunk and the cradle. Tell me what you're picturing."

He doesn't answer fast, turning questions over the way he turns a blaster over before he cleans it. You used to find that maddening, but as the months have gone on, you find it tender.

"I picture her small first," he says. "Small enough for me to carry against the chestplate. I’ll need to pad it, on the left side, where the seam’s rough, but I have an idea for a liner.”

"You've already designed a liner?"

"Yes.” He pauses on your look. "You asked."

"I did, so keep going."

"I picture her learning the sound of the engines the way I learned them as a foundling. The Tribe ship was bigger, but the principle’s the same. A child should know the sound of their home well enough that they wake when it changes. And I picture her learning the tools next, when she’s four, perhaps. She’ll know the names – the difference between a hydrospanner and a fusion cutter. She’ll know not to touch the carbonite controls and by six, she should be able to strip a blaster and reassemble it. Slowly, with help."

"Okay."

"By eight she’ll begin the resol'nare…"

At that, you go still.

It's a tiny stillness, the kind he probably doesn't catch through the wall of the beskar. Your hand stops moving on your belly, the hum of the Crest seeming louder all of a sudden, filling the cockpit like water filling a cup. Like the sound has nowhere else to go and so it goes into you.

"The resol'nare," you repeat carefully.

"The Six Actions."

He says it like he's reciting something he learned before he could read, because he is, and he did and seems excited at the prospect.

"Language. Armour. Defence of self and clan. Raising children in the Way. Contributing to the welfare of the clan. Rallying to the Mand'alor when called."

He pauses.

"The first two come earliest. It’s best to start with Mando'a in the home from infancy. Her first words should be ours. I've been…I've been practicing so I don't fumble the lullabies."

Something in your chest does a slow, awful tilt – half a melt, half a stagger.

The melt is for the image of him alone in some quiet corner of the ship, mouth shaping syllables behind beskar, getting the cadence right for a baby that doesn't exist yet.

The stagger is for the rest of it.

"Din."

"She’ll have a small set first. Soft pieces, foundling-grade, until the bones thicken."

He's still talking, and you realise with a kind of slow horror that he's not pitching this to you, he’s sharing it. The way you share a plan with a partner you assume is already inside the plan with you. The way you talk about repainting a room you both already agreed to repaint.

The way he did when he made the lists.

"The helmet comes later and not until she asks for it. The Armorer was clear with me about that. It's not the same for a biological child as it was for me. There's a…a ceremony. I've already spoken to her about…"

"Din."

The second time stops him. He turns his head, the visor finding you, and you take your boots off the console and slowly set them on the deck. You sit up, as much as a six-months-pregnant body sits up, which is to say you list forward like a cargo ship adjusting its load, and look at him.

"When did we decide that?"

There’s a long pause and you can almost hear him reviewing the conversation, looking for the moment he might have missed it.

"Decide what?"

"That our child is being raised Mandalorian."

The cockpit goes very quiet. Even the hum seems to hold its breath, though that's probably your imagination.

"I…" He stops and starts again. "I’m Mandalorian. My child is Mandalorian."

"Our child."

"Our child is Mandalorian."

"Din, we’ve never had this conversation."

"We’re having it now."

"No, we’re having a fight now, because you skipped the conversation."

His hands have gone still on the armrests and you know him well enough to know that means he's recalibrating something deep. Something he didn't know needed to be recalibrated until just now.

"I assumed," he says finally.

"Yeah."

"I…" He shakes his head. "I didn’t realise there was an assumption to make."

"That's the problem."

"Cyar'ika…"

"No, don't cyar'ika me into agreeing with you. I'm not…Din, I'm not saying no. I'm saying I never said yes. There's a difference and it's a big one and you don't get to skip over it because you've already picked out the lullabies."

You sigh heavily.

“We’ve been here before, with your assumptions.”

"You don't want the child to be Mandalorian,” he says, flatly.

"I didn't say that either."

"Then what are you saying?"

You exhale and feel the breath all the way down in your back, somewhere beneath the place where your spine has been protesting for two weeks. The baby chooses this exact moment to wake up and roll, a long slow somersault that punches a knee into your ribs, and you make a small involuntary sound and press your palm flat against the curve.

Din's hand twitches toward you and then stops, hovering, uncertain whether comfort is allowed mid-argument. Uncertain whether he's still allowed to touch what he might have just lost a little ground with.

You take his hand and put it on your belly. Because that part, at least, isn't in dispute, and you would never let him think it was.

"I'm saying," you tell him, quietly, "that this baby is half me. And you have a whole Creed, Din. You have a whole…a whole world you want to hand her. Language and armour and a clan and a Way. And I love that you want that. I love that you've been practicing lullabies, don’t get me wrong…”

"I didn’t…"

"I love that you want to give her what saved you,” you barrel on. “I love that you have a tribe that would catch her if anything ever happened to us. I love that you've thought about the padding on your chestplate. Do you understand how soft my whole body went when you said that? Don't answer, I'll tell you. Very soft, embarrassingly soft."

"Cyar'ika… "

"But I have things too. I have where I came from. I have stories my mother told me at night that I want to tell our child – stories that are not in Mando'a and don't have any armour in them. I have a name I want to give her that isn't Mando'a. I have…”

And this is perhaps the biggest part of what you need to say.

“Din, I have a face. I want to be able to nurse our baby without taking a vow first. I want to look at her while I'm feeding her in the middle of the night, and I want her to look at me. I want her to see my face when I sing to her. I want to know what her face looks like when she smiles at me. And I don't know if any of that fits inside the Way you're describing, and I need you to not assume.”

His hand is still on your belly. The baby kicks against it, you both feel it at the same time, and his fingers twitch – that small involuntary marvel he can't help, even six months in, that small oh of a man who keeps relearning that there is a person in there, an actual person, who will one day have opinions and preferences and possibly bad taste in music.

You watch his thumb stroke once against the cloth, slow, like he's apologising to the baby for the volume of the adults around her.

"I don’t… " he starts, and stops, choosing words like he's choosing stones to cross a river, testing each one for whether it will hold his weight. "I haven’t raised a child before."

"Neither have I."

"I was raised by the Tribe."

His voice through the modulator has gone lower, the way it does when something costs him to say.

"I don’t know another way. When I imagine our child, I imagine…I imagine teaching her what I was taught because it’s what saved me. There was a moment, when I was placed in that bunker by my parents when I thought no one was coming. I remember it. I remember the sound…the sound of monsters coming to take me. And then they came. And after that, I was never alone again. I don’t know how to give our child less than what saved me from that. I wouldn’t know how to look at her and know I had withheld it."

You hear yourself make a small sound that isn't quite a word and put your other hand over his, on your belly, so both of yours are wrapped around his one. His fingers shift, just a little, threading through yours, and you can feel the slight tremor in them.

"That's not less," you say softly. "What you want to give them isn't less. I'm not asking you to give them less. I'm not asking you to leave any of that out. I'm asking you to make room. For me and mine. So our child gets both of us, not just the louder one."

"You think I’m the louder one?"

"You're the one with the helmet. The acoustics alone…"

He laughs properly this time and the hand under yours flexes once in acknowledgment.

"I don’t know how to do this," he says, looking down now, the visor angled toward your joined hands. "I don’t know how to raise a child in two ways. The Creed is…it’s not a thing you do halfway. The resol'nare is six actions, not three. I can’t teach her to defend the clan only on the weekdays. I don’t know what it looks like to…to share this. To make the Way one ingredient in a larger meal. I don’t know if it’s even possible. The Armorer would say it’s not..."

"What would you say?"

"I would say," he says slowly, "that I don’t want to lose either of you. Not to a question I refused to ask."

You feel the heat rise behind your eyes and blink it back. You’re determined not to start crying in the middle of this conversation because you have a thread to hold and you mean to hold it.

"Okay," you say. "Then we start there. Not with the answer, but with the question. With the willingness to ask it out loud, with words. Probably more than once. Probably a lot of times, between now and when this child is old enough to strip a blaster."

"I should’ve asked."

"Yeah."

"I’m asking now."

"I know."

"I just…don’t have an answer to give you tonight.”

"I'm not asking for one tonight."

He's quiet and the Crest continues its comforting hum. The blue threads streak past and somewhere behind you, you hear another clink of metal and make a mental note to investigate once this conversation is over.

"What are you asking for tonight?" he says finally.

You look at the visor and the long blue threads beyond it. You think about the cradle he's sketched four times, trying to get the curve of it right and the padding he's designed for the chestplate. You think about the lullabies he's been practicing in private so he wouldn't fumble them, alone in some quiet corner of the ship, for a person who doesn't exist yet but who he’s already preparing to love out loud.

You think about the boy who remembers the sound of the monsters.

"Tonight I want us to sit here with your hand on my belly until she goes back to sleep and you to lean your helmet against my forehead. And I want you to know that we're going to figure this out, you and me, because we have three more months and then the rest of our lives, and I’m not doing the rest of my life with someone who decides things about our family without me. And you’re not doing the rest of your life with someone who decides things about our family without you. That part goes both ways, I promise."

"You promise?"

"I do."

Slowly, the way he does everything that matters, he leans forward. The beskar catches the blue light in a slow-moving stripe as he lowers his head. You lift your chin to meet him, and the smooth cool curve of the helmet's brow comes to rest against your forehead. One hand stays on your belly and the other reaches up and cups the back of your neck under your hair, thumb settling against the small hollow behind your ear where he knows – because he’s learned you the way he learned the Crest, sound by sound – you like to be held.

You close your eyes.

His breath through the modulator is a soft, even rasp. The beskar between your foreheads is a small held boundary, and somehow, tonight, it doesn't feel like a wall – it feels like a promise he’s keeping, a thing he hasn’t asked you to be part of but hasn’t asked you to give up, either. He’s here. All of him he can give tonight, he’s giving. The parts of him that are yours are yours, and the parts that are the Creed's are the Creed's, and tonight, sitting here in the blue hum, that division doesn’t feel like a wound. It feels like the shape of the man you chose.

You breathe it in, your hand tightening on his over your belly.

The baby chooses that moment – because your baby has, apparently, a sense of theatre already – to give a slow luxurious roll under both your palms. Din's fingers twitch, he tilts his helmet down and his voice through the modulator goes softer than you’ve ever heard it, softer than the static should allow, softer than any machine ought to be able to make a voice.

"Su'cuy, ad'ika," he says. “Hello, little one.”

His mouth shapes the word behind the beskar, careful and unhurried, like he's been practicing this too.

"Buir and buir are here. We’re talking about you. About what to give you. It’s a long conversation that we’ll have many times. But don’t worry, you’ll know us both – know both our voices."

Buir and buir. Both parents. He says it out loud, puts you in the same word he uses for himself, and it lands in you like a small warm stone at the bottom of a well.

"Buir," you echo softly, trying the shape of it. "That's me too?"

"That’s you too." The visor lifts, finds your face again, and even through the black of it you can feel him looking. "If you want."

"I want."

His thumb strokes once across your belly whilst the other, at the back of your neck, curls into your hair.

Nothing is decided. Nothing is fixed. The conversation isn't over – there will be more of them, dozens, hundreds, a long quiet careful thread of them woven through the next three months and the rest of your lives, every one of them a small renegotiation between his Way and your stories and the small third person who will, eventually, have a Way and stories of her own to add to the pile.

But his forehead is against yours through the beskar, and his hand is on your belly and yours is on his, and he’s just called you buir through the vocoder with his voice cracked, and you have just called yourself the same. And somewhere between the two of you a third small heartbeat is doing its quiet competent work of becoming a person, untroubled by Creeds, untroubled by names, untroubled by anything except the warm dim sound of two voices it already knows, finally talking to each other instead of around.

"Stay like this a minute," you whisper.

"As long as you want, cyar'ika."

"A minute. And then another minute. And then… "

"And then another."

"Yes"

You don't move and neither does he. The beskar between your foreheads is warmed by the closeness of the man inside it. His breath through the modulator is a soft even rasp you match yours to, without meaning to, the way you’ve long since learned to match his. His hand is warm on your belly. His hand is warm on your neck. The baby is still.

Outside, the stars stretch on, blue and patient and uninterested in any of it, which is, somehow, exactly the right audience.

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Taglist: @thelittlebats @sassythejedi @millercontracting @porganas @lovely-kitsune-exe @themilkhasjustexpired @dream-alittlebiggerdarling @seikamuzu

Dividers by @/saradika-graphics

Di and you are lying down on a blanket, the remains of a picnic around you. The sun is setting, and there is a light breeze caressing the grass around you. It's a quiet spot, a little park Di found one day, a little ways away from both your places, but it's calm, not too crowded, and beautiful. Both of you are happy to enjoy this moment, a quiet bubble in your busy lives. With an arm thrown over your eyes, you feel sleep dragging you down its path when Diana breaks your near slumber.

"Why did you and Eric divorce?" She almost sounds like a child, asking a question that has been bugging her for some time, something she can't make out by herself and finally resolves to ask you.

"Huh?" Yet, for you, the question comes out of nowhere, and it takes you a moment to comprehend the words. Your arms fall off your face, and you blink in the diminishing sunlight, staring at her.

"I mean, I know what you told me, you just drifted apart, fell out of love, yadi-yadi- ya." She isn't looking at you, her face is still turned toward the sky. "It's just… You were such a perfect couple."

"Obviously not." You can't help your snicker. But she turns her head to look at you, and you see something more in her eyes, something almost like betrayal.

"You were my role model."

That stops whatever you were about to say, the way you tend to dismiss the conversation, deflecting with a joke. "Di, I… I don't know what to tell you."

"I mean, it always felt a little strange. One day you two were living together, happy and in love, after probably one of the best weddings I've ever been to, and the next day, you call me and tell me you are getting a divorce."

"It didn't happen in a day, it took longer than that." You frown, grasping an errant thought: that maybe you hadn't really told Diana everything. Not that you deliberately hid anything.

"But what happened? I mean… I always looked up to you both. I know you think I'm in my slut era, that's been lasting for decades," she laughs with something that sounds almost deprecative, and you want to interrupt, but she goes on, "I always felt like, one day I could have what you had. And now I don't know."

"Di, where is this coming from? It sounds so sudden." You sit up, and she mimics you, both sitting with crossed legs, facing each other.

"Benny and I had a fight." Her eyes drop to the ground, and she quickly adds, "Don't worry, it's all good now, but it made me realize how much I care about him, and I don't know… Is it all worth it?" Her eyes look up to you, and you see that child all over again.

"What did you fight about?" You can't help but worry. Diana just shakes her hand, a way of saying it's not important.

"Oh, it's silly; we both kinda got in our heads, because we haven't really been official, you know. And it escalated until we both realized we really just want to be a couple." Her smile betrays her happiness at saying the word out loud.

"Wait, does that mean I'm finally going to meet him?"

"Yeah… maybe." You throw an empty bag of chips at her.

"OK fine! We are thinking of doing it soon. Try to organize something where he could bring his brother and friends, and I could bring you. That way we could all meet each other."

"When were you going to tell me?"

"I'm telling you now!"

A moment of silence follows, while you both share a smile. You know you owe her a better explanation, because you want her to understand, and you also want her to be happy. You take a big breath and start.

"It's true, we did fall out of love. But we also still love each other, just not romantically."

"I don't get it."

"We still have a lot of respect for each other. And you can't erase a decade of being together, of being in love for most of it."

"But that's the thing, you were together for so long, why didn't you... I don't know, try harder?" She looks apologetic as she says this, not wanting you to feel hurt by her words, but also really wanting to understand.

"I know, but we met young and grew apart. It's true!" You exclaim when you see Di roll her eyes, "We just didn't really realize it until it was too late. And we did try, but… but I don't know what to tell you. We became roommates, not lovers anymore. We didn't have the same interests, we didn't want the same things. It was fun when we were younger, but as we grew older, we grew apart. And I think we just didn't notice until one day he mentioned wanting to move to another place, sell the apartment, and buy a house. And I didn't. That started a conversation, one which made us realize how different we wanted our future to be. And that's that. There was no big fight, no cheating, just a slow realization that we weren't in love anymore, and that we didn't really want to fall back in."

"That feels so sad."

"It is, but also, it's not? We were together for more than 10 years, and most of our time together was wonderful. I have so many fond memories of him, and I'll always want the best for him, and him for me. There is no regret, I don't think I wasted years of my life with him." You reflect on what you said, trying to see if there is a better way to explain things, but there isn't. That is exactly what happened. "I maybe wish we had realized a little earlier, and I wouldn't have gone so long without sex." You can't help but add a little joke to diffuse the small tension.

"Really! How long has it been?"

"Well, now it's fine. I did go on a few dates before moving here, at least I scratched that itch." You hear Diana whisper "slut" under her breath, and you laugh before continuing.

"Before that, I don't know, it's like we didn't want to, didn't even think about it. We maybe had sex 2 or 3 times a year."

You sigh. "I don't know what else to tell you, it just happened. What was harder was when I noticed most of my life had evolved around him. And that's partly on me, because I was fine with not having too many friends. And I did make my own and still keep in touch. But I wanted to find myself again."

"And you aren't mad he's with someone again, so soon?"

"We divorced almost a year ago, I'm fine. He met her while we were figuring things out, and he told me right away he was starting to feel something for someone else. Was I thrilled at the time? No. But angry? Never. And she's really great. Not my type, we won't become friends, but she is perfect for him, for who he is now."

"You act so wise, it just feels impossible to be in love and then not be anymore." Her voice is still laced with regret and a little bit of uneasiness. You want to reassure her, want her to understand that it was worth it, whatever the outcome was.

"Diana, while we were together, we were good, happy. We can still be your model. I actually think the way we broke up is also great. And I still believe in love."

"With Frankie?" Her sly smile makes you feel flushed.

"Shush, I don't know. He's fine." You wave your hand, trying to chase the subject away.

"He's fine," Di repeats, mocking you. "So fine that you lent him a book, and are what, texting now?"

"I already admitted to liking him. I just don't know if he likes me. We're just friends."

"Friends, fuck this! The guy is flirting, and you know it." She throws the bag of chips back at you.

"Maybe… But I think I like this part. I'm enjoying the status quo, not really knowing, for the moment. It's like a shy flirt. And if it doesn't go further than this, then it's fine, really. I'm not pursuing him for my next love story, I'm just happy being friends with him, and maybe more."

"Don't you want to fuck him?"

"Of course I want to! Girl! I saw him piloting a helicopter! Can you imagine what it's done to me?" You groan, lying back dramatically and then sigh, "He was so hot, being so competent and all."

Di lies back again and sighs, "I want to see Benny train people, and watch him work out. I would climb him like a tree."

"You are already fucking him."

"Yeah. But not enough." You both giggle like teenagers talking about their crushes.

"¡Holà pendejo![Hello, asshole!]" Frankie exclaims loudly when he sees Santiago coming through the sliding doors after customs. He and Mia went to greet him at the airport, and have been waiting a little out of the way, Mia in his arms, holding a sign they made together displaying "Bienvenido, Tío Santi! [Welcome, uncle Santi!]"

"Frankie, it's so good to see you! Mia, ¡princesa! ¡Has crecido un montón desde la última vez que te vi!"[Princess! You’ve grown a lot since I last saw you]

But Mia is a little shy, she hasn't seen her uncle in 6 months, and even if she remembers him and has talked with him on FaceTime many times, she still feels a little apprehensive.

"Muñequita, ¿puedes decir hola a tu tío? [Sweetie, can you say hi to your uncle?]" Frankie murmurs in her ear when he senses her discomfort, her head buried in the crook of his neck. She starts by shaking her head, but Frankie gently rubs her back to comfort her, and she eventually turns her head to look at the adult standing in front of her with a kind smile and manages a timid "Holà tío."

"Did you make this pretty sign for me? Can I see it?" Santi asks kindly, reverting to English in case it helps the little girl. She hands him the sign, which is now all crumbled from the motion she made to hide in her father's arms, and he compliments her, admiring the drawings she made around the words that Frankie wrote. "It's beautiful. Can I keep it?"

"Yes." Her shyness is slowly ebbing away from the kind words she received.

"I'm going to cherish it. Let me put it in my bag to keep it safe," Santi reverently folds the sign and puts it away.

Frankie can't help the fatherly pride he feels watching his daughter overcome her shyness. He wouldn't have pushed her, but he wants to make sure she is comfortable. And soon, as they walk toward the car, Mia is babbling away while Santi asks her questions, and the sound of their laughs combined makes Frankie's heart swell with content.

After arriving home and putting Mia to sleep for her afternoon nap, the two friends finally settle outside to catch up. They are sitting on the back porch, watching the water, coffee in hand, the sliding doors behind him open, in case Mia calls for him.

"Have you taken Mia on the boat yet?" Santi breaks the silence that until then was only disturbed by the distinctive song of a <type of bird>.

"No, I'm afraid she's too little. I don't think I can sail and watch out for her at the same time."

"What if we went together? Just a small trip on the bay to see if she enjoys it? That way you can finally put your sailing license to the test."

"I've sailed plenty, thank you very much. But yeah, that would be great." It puts Frankie at ease, knowing he can count on his friend for a few weeks. Not that he couldn't have asked Will, Benny, or Tom. But he knows how Will and Benny are busy, and he doesn't trust Tom on a boat yet. And having Santi at home, it's different, it's showing his daughter what true friendship is like, and also knowing she will be spoiled rotten by her tio. Of course, the best way he can show his appreciation is by saying, "So, when are you finally getting your own place?"

"I'm barely here, and you are already kicking me out?" Thankfully, his friend knows exactly what these words mean, especially when they are underlined by a squeeze on the shoulder.

"I have a few places I need to look at, see if the pictures are true." He trails a bit before adding, with something like awe in his voice, "Yovanna wants to go back to school. She started a nursing degree in Australia, and she wants to finish it here and eventually specialize to become a Midwife. She's already in touch with the school, so I'm here to look for a place close by." The smile on his face tells Frankie that his friend is finally letting himself be happy.

"How about the money?" They never really speak about that, and Frankie knows Santi isn't reckless, but he wants to make sure his friend is doing well, see if he can help in any way.

"I'm fine, don't worry. I took plenty of well-paid contracts and barely touched the money. I have plenty to get us a good place, even something for Yov's brother; he still hasn't decided if he wants to come. I have everything sorted immigration wise, so we should be good. "

"What about you? What are you going to do?"

"Honestly?" The sigh Santi lets out holds a lot: uncertainty, even some shame. "I don't know, whatever I can help with. I'm tired of moving around, chasing guys, but I don't know what else to do. Are you hiring?" Santi's eyes turn expectant.

Frankie laughs. "I don't really know what the hell you could do there. But I can look around if I hear about anything that could fit. Maybe ask Will and Benny, they might have an idea. And they know a lot more people than I do."

"Thanks, I need to find something. I can't stay idle, it'll kill me." The desperation in his words is palpable. All of them have had action ingrained in their habits for so long that even if they had the money to do nothing, none of them really could. Frankie was the perfect example.

"Believe me, I get it. It almost did for me." He will always feel shame for the few months when they got back from Colombia, the moment that changed everything, his own life being at the forefront of the list of things he could have lost.

"Mi llave [my friend], I think you were a warning for all of us." Santi squeezes Frankie's shoulder. "But you are also the strongest, Frankie. And I hope you never forget it."

Frankie snorts dismissively. Yeah right, none of you are addicts." But Santi shakes his head, his hand still on Frankie's shoulder, not letting go.

"We all carry something from our years of service, and we all have our own form of addiction. Do you think me running around the world, trying to set things right, was healthy? You and Will are the ones who showed us the way. Showed us there is a life outside of our own trauma. Look at Benny with his fighting. And now his training, he seems to need the adrenaline of the fight. And Tom with his ventures–"

"And his drinking." Frankie cuts in; at one point the guys need to see it's a problem.

"That bad?"

"He says he stopped, but doesn't want to get any help. So I'm not very sure."

"Shit…" Santi shakes his head, but isn't deterred from his speech. "Well anyway, what you overcome is more than any of us could have done. And we all looked up to you when we saw you struggling and succeeding. I know I did. I always will."

Frankie feels his throat constrict, emotions swelling his heart, he's about to deny it, try to say something, but Santi cuts him.

"Don't. It's just the way it is." Frankie nods, finally accepting it.

"So, tell me more about your pretty meteorologist. Have you gotten better at flirting?"

"Vete a la mierda [Fuck off]."

"No? Come on! Tell me!"

"It's just that I'm technically her boss, even if she doesn't know that. And even if I am just a coworker, it can still be an issue."

"Fuck that, don't try to find excuses!"

Thankfully, a loud"Daaaaaaaaad" saves Frankie from finding an answer.

Another week ends, and you are already at Joe's securing a table, waiting for your colleagues to unwind after a stressful few days, the last of the summer storms making everyone's work more difficult.

You know Frankie is flying and will join you soon. Alysha, being on vacation this week, picked up the sunset tour he usually forgoes in the weeks he has Mia, but he mentioned having a friend to help. Colin would join you later, from a meeting downtown. Joan had promised to arrive soon, she wanted to finish sorting out the archives room before leaving for the weekend.

As you are waiting with your drink, sitting at what you now think of as your favorite table, you get a text from Colin saying his meeting is running late and he won't be able to make it. Almost at the same time, Joan announces she has a personal emergency, a friend needing her support. Fred had declined, having already plans, which meant that you were about to end up alone with Frankie. Which makes you feel very nervous. Despite how cool you acted with Di, you are very flustered at the idea of being alone with him. Part of you is excited at the prospect, and part dreads it, wanting nothing more than to run away.

Before you can text him to let him know, wanting to give him the choice to cancel, Frankie shows up, a drink in his hand, and sits in front of you with a large smile. The water to his back, and the light from the setting sun, shines softly, highlighting the brown of his hair and his golden skin. Your heart flutters at the sight, and you are speechless for a second, admiring him in the glow of the evening. Until Frankie asks, "Where is everyone?"

"Oh, they just all texted to cancel. I was about to tell you in case you wanted to…" You let your voice trail, not knowing how to finish.

"Oh!" he seems a little caught off guard, but soon an easy smile spreads on his face. "Their loss, I'm happy to have a drink after the week we had."

"You mean the weather? Or is there something else?"

"My whole life! As I mentioned, I have a friend over for a few weeks. I love him, and it's great to have him over, but he spoils Mia and makes my life difficult." You can tell from his tone that he is, in fact, very happy and loves every moment.

"I'm sure you hate it." You tease, and he answers in the same tone.

"Yeah, it's really the worst." He grins at you and starts regaling you with tales of the latest mischief Mia and his friend, whom he calls alternatively Santi, Santiago, and Pope, until you have to ask him if it is indeed talking about the same person.

"Sorry, Pope is his call sign, from the army, his name is Santiago, Santi is what we usually call him."

"You have a call sign? What is it?"

"Catfish." He seems a little embarrassed, which prompts you to ask more questions.

"Why? Because you are a good swimmer? For the whiskers?" Each time he shakes his head, smiling, but refusing to give you any indication.

"It's a whole story, and maybe one day you'll earn it." Frankie finally relents, but refuses to say more when you beg and even ask what you need to do to earn the privilege of hearing the story.

It feels like the best date you've had in years. Except it isn't one. It's just a drink between two colleagues who are maybe also friends, and who might both be attracted to each other.

You know your attraction is getting stronger, but on his side? It's still hard to know. You suspect there is, by the way he looks at you, something. But the conversation always stays on safe topics, such as work, books, movies, food, his daughter. Never about past relationships, never any innuendo that would be borderline flirting. Yet you can feel something in the air, it's almost tangible. There is attraction, you are almost sure. It makes you want to seek more, leave the status quo, and see if there is something and where it could lead you both.

But it's getting late, so tonight won't be the night. Tonight you enjoy the end of your drink, laughing and saying goodbye a little awkwardly by your cars, a hand wave, almost turning into a handshake, when it's clear both of you wanted to hug.

"Have you met up with the guys yet?" Frankie asks Santi over dinner.

"Not yet. I had both Benny and Will on the phone. Benny mentioned there was a fight next week, a guy he's been training for some time. He said we could all meet there."

"When will it be?"

"Saturday night, fight starts at 8 PM."

"Sounds good, I can make it. Mia will be with her mom that night."

"Great! Just like old times."

Frankie can't help but remember the last time they all went together to a fight, when Benny was still competing. The moment when Santi came to ask them for their help. And judging from Santi's face, he is also remembering that same moment. When asking for help for a recon mission turned into

And even if they are mostly all doing well, sometimes Frankie wonders if he had the chance, would he do it again? Is money worth what happened to them? The guilt, the way it broke the dynamic of their friendship? He doesn't have an answer.

"What are you doing next Saturday?" Di doesn't even say hello when you answer your phone, straight to business, as always.

"Eating pizza while I watch a movie probably. Why?"

"Do you want to see two men beat the shit out of each other?"

"That sounds very appealing."

"Yeah, I know, but think of the smell of sweat and stale beer!"

"You know the way to my heart."

"Benny will be there."

"Now you got me interested!"

"I told you he was training a guy, well, next Saturday is his first fight since he got into training. I know it's not really our scene, but his brother and his other friends will be there. I thought it could be a good opportunity for everyone to meet. Without the pressure of a dinner or a drink at the bar."

"Of course I'll come! I'm not letting you have all the fun alone. Plus I'm curious, I've never been to a fight. I don't know if I'm going to like it, but at least I'll have tried!"

"Great, I'll send you the details!"

Spanish translation: muñeca/muñequita: literally doll, sweetie Mi llave: my friend (literally my key), Colombian Vete a la mierda: Go to hell, Fuck off

From the back seat of the first, you watched the estate emerge through the trees—gray stone, climbing ivy, and tall windows catching the last pale light of the afternoon.

It had always looked peaceful from a distance.

Today, it looked like the kind of place where families gathered to hear something they would never forget.

Harry hadn't let go of your hand since Ron received the call. His fingers remained tightly threaded through yours, his thumb brushing slowly over your engagement ring and across your knuckles in a steady rhythm that was probably meant to calm you.

It wasn't working.

Not when his jaw had been locked for the past forty minutes.

Harry had walked out of a meeting without his coat, picked you up before you'd even had time to change, and ordered the driver toward Rhinebeck without waiting for another explanation.

Across from you, Ron sat unusually still, his phone dark in his hand. He'd already called the house twice.

Both times, Eloise's nurse had given him the same answer.

Mrs. Castillo had suffered a difficult morning. She wanted the family in Rhinebeck immediately.

Nothing more.

"Did she sound frightened?" you asked again.

Ron looked up. "The nurse?"

"Yes."

"She sounded controlled."

"That wasn't my question."

Ron hesitated a fraction too long. Harry's grip tightened around your hand. You turned toward him. "Maybe we should've gone straight to the hospital."

"If she needed a hospital, her nurse would've sent her to one," Harry said evenly. "She knows what she's doing." His voice was calm. Deliberately calm.

It might've convinced anyone else.

Not you.

Harry was terrified. He was simply doing everything he could to keep that fear from reaching you. "Eloise is probably fine," he continued, his thumb brushing over your hand again. "It could be exhaustion. A medication adjustment. Anything."

"You don't believe that."

His gaze met yours. "I believe worrying before we know anything won't help you or the babies."

"I'm all right." You leaned closer, covering his hand with yours. "Hey. She's the strongest woman I know. She's going to be okay."

Harry held your gaze for a long moment, as though he wanted to borrow your certainty but wasn't sure how. "She'd better be," he said quietly.

He lifted your hand to his lips, kissing your knuckles before lacing your fingers together once more.

Your free hand drifted instinctively to the gentle curve beneath your dress.

At five months, hiding the pregnancy was no longer possible—not with twins, and certainly not from a man who'd spent the past several weeks monitoring every meal, every yawn, and nearly every step you took.

Harry noticed immediately. "What is it?"

"Nothing."

"Was that a cramp?"

You smiled. "One of the babies."

"Which one?"

You waited until another tiny flutter danced beneath your palm. "The mischievous one."

Ron blinked. "You can already tell them apart?"

"Of course I can."

"They're identical twins."

"That doesn't mean they have identical personalities."

Another tiny kick answered for you.

You laughed softly. "This one waits until I'm trying to sleep. The other prefers interrupting my calls with Gerard."

Harry considered that. "The second one sounds strategic."

"Definitely a Castillo," Ron said with a smirk.

Harry slowly turned his head. Ron calmly redirected his attention to the window.

Before Harry could answer, the iron gates opened, and the car began its final climb toward the house.

A second car followed close behind.

Through the rear window, you caught a glimpse of your mother and Vivienne sitting side by side, both unnaturally rigid.

Lately, the two women had been spending an astonishing amount of time together.

Ever since you stopped speaking properly to Scarlet... and Harry had grown just as distant from Vivienne.

That, however, was another story.

Probably several.

A third black car turned through the gates.

You frowned. "That's Mikey's car."

Harry glanced over his shoulder.

Ron followed his gaze. "Michael was called as well."

"Of course he was," Harry muttered.

Ron's expression hinted there was more to say. He wisely chose continued employment instead.

The first car rolled to a stop beneath the portico.

Harry was out before the driver had fully opened the door. He rounded the car and offered you his hand. As you stepped out, his other hand instinctively rose above your head, shielding you from the doorframe.

You smiled. "I'm not quite big enough to need help getting out of a car."

"You're carrying our babies." His voice softened. "The least I can do is take care of my queen."

You slipped your hand into his. "You're supervising every limb I own."

Once both your feet were on the gravel, he rested an arm around your waist instead of letting go. He leaned down, pressing a lingering kiss beneath your ear. "I'm very attached to them," he murmured.

You laughed. "All of them?"

"Every single one."

Behind you, Scarlet and Vivienne climbed out of the second car.

Scarlet looked as though she'd abandoned her reading glasses somewhere along the drive. Vivienne, meanwhile, had lost every trace of color.

Your mother's eyes found yours first. Hope flickered across her face, fragile enough to disappear almost immediately.

She took the smallest step forward. At the same moment, Vivienne looked toward Harry with nearly the same uncertainty.

You felt Harry's arm tighten around your waist. Your fingers quietly found his hand.

No words were exchanged. None were needed. Together, the two of you turned toward the house. Scarlet stopped. Vivienne did too. Ron watched the mothers...

...then their children.

He let out the quietest sigh.

The third car pulled beneath the portico. Sienna stepped out first. Mikey emerged from the opposite side. For one suspended moment...

Neither of them moved. Sienna's hair was slightly less polished than usual. Mikey's tie was missing. The top two buttons of his shirt hung open beneath his coat. He looked exactly like a man who hadn't expected to arrive at his grandmother's estate with Harry Castillo's younger sister.

Harry noticed. Slowly... His attention shifted from Sienna...

...to Mikey.

Mikey straightened immediately. Sienna lifted her chin. Even Scarlet and Vivienne forgot their panic long enough to look between them.

"We ran into each other," Mikey said.

"At lunch," Sienna added a little too quickly.

"She needed a ride."

Vivienne frowned. "Weren't you supposed to be at the gallery all afternoon?"

"I was."

"Then how exactly did you run into Michael at lunch?"

Sienna opened her mouth. Nothing came out.

Mikey rescued her. "Manhattan becomes a very small place when two people are hungry."

Scarlet's eyes drifted over his missing tie...

...his open collar...

...and finally the restaurant bag still hanging from his hand.

"Apparently."

Ron glanced toward the company sedan assigned exclusively to Mikey.

"A fortunate coincidence."

Harry remained silent. Which, somehow, was much worse. You felt the exact moment suspicion began arranging itself inside his head.

Questions were coming.

Before the first one could leave his mouth, you caught the front of his coat and gave it a gentle tug.

He looked down.

You held his eyes for a beat.

Not now.

His brows drew together. Somehow...He knew you knew something. He also knew this wasn't the place to ask.

You pulled your coat tighter. "Can we go inside? I'm freezing."

Mikey disappeared from Harry's mind instantly.

His arm settled around your shoulders. "Come on."

Together, you headed for the front entrance.

The interrogation disappeared.

For now.

The front doors were already open.

Two members of staff stood inside the foyer, their expressions solemn. The housekeeper held her hands clasped tightly at her waist, while a young footman stared fixedly at the marble floor.

Something about them felt wrong. Not grief.

Performance.

The realization flickered through you and vanished before you could fully grasp it. Perhaps they had simply been instructed not to say anything. Perhaps your fear was making everything seem strange.

“Where is she?” Harry asked.

“Upstairs, sir,” the housekeeper replied softly. “Her nurse is waiting.”

Scarlet moved first.

Her heels struck sharply against the marble as she crossed the foyer, Vivienne close beside her. Sienna and Mikey followed without looking at each other.

Harry kept one hand at your back as you climbed the stairs.

Too slowly for everyone else. Too quickly for him.

His arm tightened every time you reached another step.

“Harry, ” you warned beneath your breath.

“I’m not carrying you.”

“You were thinking about it.”

A reluctant smile touched his mouth.

You would have answered, but Eloise’s nurse appeared at the top of the staircase. Her face was composed. Almost suspiciously composed. “Thank you for coming so quickly.”

Harry stopped in front of her. “What happened?”

Vivienne stepped beside him. “I was gone for two days. She was perfectly well when I left.”

“She’s resting.”

“That isn’t an answer,” Harry said.

“She asked me not to discuss anything until everyone was present.”

Vivienne looked around sharply. “We are present.”

The nurse’s gaze passed over the group, pausing briefly on Mikey and Sienna before returning to Vivienne.

“Yes,” she said. “You certainly are.”

She turned and led all of you down the corridor. The house had gone unnaturally quiet. No distant clatter from the kitchen. No music from one of the sitting rooms.

Only footsteps and the steady ticking of the old clock near the staircase.

At Eloise’s bedroom door, the nurse paused. “Please try not to upset her.”

Vivienne pressed one hand to her chest. “Oh, God.”

The nurse opened the door. The curtains had been drawn halfway, leaving the room washed in muted silver light. Eloise lay beneath a pale cashmere blanket, her head resting against a mountain of pillows.

Her eyes were closed.

For the first time since the call, Harry released your hand.

He crossed the room in three strides. “Abuela?”

Eloise did not respond.

Vivienne hurried to the other side of the bed. “Mama?”

The rest of you gathered near the footboard. Scarlet reached blindly for your hand, and despite everything that had passed between you, you let her take it.

Sienna stood stiffly beside her. Mikey’s usual restless energy had disappeared completely. Eloise’s nurse closed the door behind all of you.

A long moment passed.

Then Eloise took a faint breath. “Is everyone here?”

Her voice was weak enough to make Harry bend closer. “Yes,” he said immediately. “We’re all here.”

“Scarlet?”

“I’m here,” Scarlet whispered.

“Vivienne?”

“Here, Mama.”

“Sienna?”

“Yes, Abuela.”

“Mikey?”

Mikey blinked. “Uh… yes, ma’am.”

Eloise’s eyes remained closed. “Mi reina?”

You stepped closer, Harry’s hand finding yours again. “I’m here.”

From somewhere near the door, Ron cleared his throat. “For the record, I’m here as well.”

Eloise remained motionless. “Ah, Ronald,” she breathed. “I remembered you.”

Ron gave a small nod.

Eloise released a long, tired sigh. Then her eyes opened.

Clear. Sharp. Entirely alert.

“Bueno,” she said.

Before anyone could react, she pushed herself upright against the pillows with surprising ease, pulled the cashmere blanket neatly over her lap, and held out one hand.

Her nurse placed her reading glasses into it.

Eloise slipped them on and looked around the room, visibly pleased by the collection of pale, frightened faces before her. She clapped her hands together once, bright and decisive. “Everyone is here. Perfect. Then we will not waste Dr. Adler’s time.”

Silence.

The door to the adjoining sitting room opened.

A woman in a navy suit stepped through, carrying a leather notebook and wearing the professionally neutral expression of someone who had already been warned about the family waiting for her.

“Good evening,” she said. “I’m Dr. Vanessa Adler.”

No one moved.

Harry stared at his grandmother. “Abuela.”

Eloise adjusted her glasses. “What?”

“Did you fake a medical emergency?”

Her mouth fell open in theatrical offense. “Fake? Ay, por favor (please). I did no such thing.”

“Your nurse said you’d had a difficult morning.”

“I did. My eggs were cold, the coffee was weak, and none of you have answered a direct question in nearly a month. It was a terrible morning.”

Scarlet made an outraged sound. “We thought you were dying!”

“You frightened all of us,” you added. “We came here expecting the worst.”

“I left an entire boardroom without saying a word,” Harry said.

Sienna folded her arms. “That was cruel, Abuela.”

Mikey whined. “I abandoned my dessert.” Everyone looked at him. “What?” he said. “Grief affects people differently.”

Eloise waved one dismissive hand at all of you.

“Dios mío, look at these faces. At my age, death is always somewhere nearby. I never said it had entered the house.”

Vivienne turned toward the nurse. “You allowed us to believe something had happened to her.”

“I said Mrs. Castillo wished to see the family urgently,” the nurse replied calmly. “That was accurate.”

“You trapped us,” Sienna said.

Eloise looked at her over the rim of her glasses. “Had I said, ‘Come to Rhinebeck, niños, there is a therapist waiting to discuss your feelings,’ would you have come?” Sienna opened her mouth. Nothing emerged. “Exactly,” Eloise said. “Do not argue when you know I am right. It gives me a headache.”

Mikey looked between Eloise and Dr. Adler. “You used mortality as a scheduling tool.”

“And you arrived on time for the first time since I met you.”

Mikey considered that. “That’s incredibly manipulative.” Then a slow, appreciative grin appeared on his face. “I like it.”

You stepped closer to the bed. “Eloise, I’m five months pregnant with twins. You cannot summon me by implying that you may be dying. There are currently three heartbeats inside this body, and you frightened all of them.”

Eloise reached for your hand. “Come here, mi reina.”

You gave her a suspicious look but allowed her to take it.

She squeezed your fingers between both of hers, her expression softening. “I am sorry I frightened you, mi amor.”

“You don’t look very sorry.”

“No, because I am not sorry that it worked.”

“Eloise.”

“Ay, let me finish.” She patted your hand. “I would not have done any of this if all of you had not become completely impossible.”

A chorus of protests began.

Eloise lifted one finger. “¡Basta! (enough!)” The room fell silent. “At our last family dinner, Scarlet and mi reina spoke exclusively through the salt and pepper.”

You glanced toward your mother. Scarlet looked away with great dignity.

“Harry and Vivienne exchanged six words all evening,” Eloise continued. “Four of them concerned the rain.”

Vivienne folded her arms. Harry said nothing, which did very little to help his case.

“And now Vivienne is spending every free hour with Scarlet. Just like schoolgirls. Their son and daughter are sulking in separate corners, so naturally the mothers have abandoned them to whisper together.”

Scarlet’s expression became carefully blank.

Vivienne lifted her chin. “We are allowed to enjoy one another’s company.”

“Sí, of course.” Eloise looked between them over the rim of her glasses. “And I am supposed to believe the two of you have no secrets while you disappear for lunches, lower your voices when I enter a room, and suddenly stop speaking whenever one of your children appears.”

Neither woman answered.

Eloise gave a satisfied nod.

“You may fool your children. You may fool one another. But you will not fool this old woman. Whatever you are hiding, whatever ridiculous problem has driven you into one another’s arms, you will solve it.”

Scarlet’s expression remained perfectly composed.

Which, in your experience, generally meant Eloise was right. Sienna lowered her head, hiding a smile. Then Eloise turned toward her.

“And you.”

Sienna blinked. “What about me?”

Eloise narrowed her eyes. “You have been happy.”

Sienna stared at her. “I’m sorry?”

“Too happy,” Eloise said. “Smiling at your telephone. Disappearing for lunch. Wearing perfume in the afternoon.”

“That doesn’t mean anything.”

“Sí, sí. And I am a foolish old woman who has never seen a girl hide a man.”

Mikey coughed. Eloise’s head turned toward him immediately.

“And there he is.”

Mikey straightened. “Why am I suddenly involved?”

Eloise looked from him to Sienna and back again.

“I may be eighty-six, cariño, but when it comes to romance, deception, and badly concealed attraction, my mind is still sharper than most of yours.”

Sienna abruptly found the carpet fascinating. Mikey looked toward the window. “Come on, Eloise,” he said with an unconvincing laugh. “This is becoming wildly speculative.”

“Mm-hm.”

Harry’s eyes narrowed. “What exactly does that mean?”

Eloise waved one hand dismissively. “Nothing you need to worry about yet.”

“Abuela.”

“Do not ‘Abuela’ me. If there is something to know, I will know it before you do.”

From near the door, Ron murmured, “At least we now know where the Castillos inherited their observational skills.”

Eloise released your hand and settled back against her pillows, looking around at the family with the weary affection of a woman who had raised too many stubborn people and somehow acquired several more.

“So I have decided that all of you need therapy.”

“We do not all need therapy,” Vivienne said.

“Some people need boundaries,” you murmured.

Scarlet looked at you. “Some people need to communicate instead of freezing out their mothers.”

“Some people need to stop investigating other people’s private lives,” Vivienne added.

Harry’s jaw tightened. “Some people need better judgment regarding men.”

“Ay, Dios mío.” Eloise struck the mattress lightly with her palm. “Listen to yourselves. You sound like children arguing over one toy.” No one answered. “As the eldest person in this family, I am asking for one afternoon without secrets, sulking, investigators, secret lunches, mysterious interviews, and whatever else you are all doing behind closed doors.”

She pointed toward Dr. Adler.

“You will speak to this nice woman. You will tell her the truth. Not the elegant version, not the corporate version, and not the version where you are all innocent little angels. You will solve your problems, or at the very least, you will learn to argue more quietly. I would like to enjoy the rest of my life.”

Dr. Adler cleared her throat and stepped forward.

“My plan is to begin with a few brief private conversations. Afterward, we’ll meet together to discuss the patterns affecting the family as a whole.” She glanced around at the collection of reluctant faces.

“Shall we begin?”

The private sitting room was smaller than Eloise's bedroom, warmer too, with tall windows overlooking the gardens and a low fire crackling beneath the marble mantel. A carafe of water sat on the table beside a box of tissues with the quiet menace of something fully expecting to be needed.

Dr. Adler was already seated in one of the armchairs, her notebook resting open across her lap. She gestured toward the sofa opposite. "Please. Make yourself comfortable."

You lowered yourself carefully onto the cushions, one hand supporting the underside of your stomach. "Comfortable stopped being an available position about three weeks ago."

A faint smile tugged at her lips. "Would another cushion help?"

"If you bring me another cushion, Harry will somehow sense it through the wall and order six more." That earned a soft laugh. You adjusted your skirt and glanced toward the closed door. "I still can't believe Eloise actually did that."

"I'm observing that her method was effective," Dr. Adler replied. "Everyone she asked to come arrived."

"Because we thought she was dying."

"Which says something rather lovely about how much she means to all of you."

You narrowed your eyes. "That sounds suspiciously like therapeutic manipulation."

"It sounds like an observation."

"You're going to fit into this family beautifully."

She smiled, letting the joke pass. Instead, her attention drifted briefly—not intrusively—to the curve of your stomach. "Before we discuss your family… how are you feeling? Is everything going well with the pregnancy?"

You rested your palm over the place where one of the babies had been moving throughout the drive. "I'm about as well as anyone five months pregnant with twins can be."

"Tired?"

"Constantly."

"Any pain today?"

"No. Just pressure, backache, occasional insomnia… and two tiny people with very strong opinions about where my internal organs should be."

She nodded. "And emotionally?"

You looked at her. "That feels like a much more expensive question."

"It usually is."

A comfortable silence settled between you.

Then she asked, "Where would you like to begin?"

You gave her a knowing look. "You already know where Eloise wants us to begin."

"She gave me a broad outline."

"And?"

"I'd rather hear your version."

You sighed. "Of course she did." Another quiet pause. "If we're actually doing this…" You drew a slow breath. "Everything started after I moved into Harry's house."

At the time, you had been barely three months pregnant. The babies were still easy enough to hide beneath tailored coats and structured dresses. The nausea wasn't. Neither was the exhaustion. But Queen Financial had only just begun recovering, and the last thing you wanted was for anyone walking into a boardroom to mistake pregnancy for weakness. For weeks, you carried ginger tea in coffee cups and smiled through mornings when simply remaining upright felt like an act of corporate defiance.

"And your mother knew?"

"Everything."

"Was she supportive?"

You let out a quiet, humorless laugh. "I thought she was."

When you told Scarlet, she'd cried. She'd held your face, kissed your forehead, and told you that after everything you'd survived, you deserved something beautiful. Then, less than twenty-four hours later…

…the conversation became strategy.

"Her first concern wasn't my health. It was the company."

Dr. Adler remained silent.

"Queen Financial was still fragile. Investors were watching everything I did. And she believed a public pregnancy would overshadow the recovery. She thought it would become the only thing people saw."

Scarlet's voice still echoed in your memory.

You cannot announce this yet, darling. Not until the company is stronger.

At first, you'd agreed. It seemed reasonable. Temporary. You'd wait until refinancing was complete. Then the board transition. Then quarterly earnings. There was always another milestone. Another reason to wait.

"How did that make you feel?"

You looked down at your hands. "Like I wasn't carrying two babies. Like I was carrying a liability."

Dr. Adler let the silence sit. "And the wedding?"

You leaned back carefully. "That was worse."

Scarlet had been thrilled when you and Harry found your way back to one another. She'd told you pride wasn't a substitute for love. That you'd regret letting fear choose your future. But once the ring was on your finger…

…and the pregnancy could no longer be hidden…

Everything came with conditions.

You cannot marry him while you're visibly pregnant.

"I honestly thought I'd misheard her."

"What was her reasoning?"

"That Manhattan would turn it into a circus."

Another memory surfaced.

They'll say Harry rescued you, rescued your company, got you pregnant, and rushed you down the aisle before anyone could ask questions.

"None of that was true."

"No," Dr. Adler said quietly. "It wasn't."

You gave a faint smile. "But she wasn't wrong about the headlines."

The smile faded. "She wanted us to wait until after the girls were born."

Twenty minutes later, Scarlet occupied the same sofa.

Her posture was immaculate, one elegant leg crossed over the other. Even now, she looked more like a woman preparing for a board meeting than a therapy session. Dr. Adler closed her notebook from the previous conversation and opened it to a fresh page.

"Tell me what changed from your perspective."

Scarlet folded her hands neatly in her lap. "She finally looked happy."

Dr. Adler waited.

"I had watched my daughter spend years carrying responsibilities that should never have belonged to her. Then she found her way back to Harry. She was expecting twins. She had a future." A faint smile touched Scarlet's lips. "I wanted to protect it."

"And what did protecting it look like to you?"

"Managing the circumstances around it."

"You mean the company."

"Among other things."

Scarlet glanced toward the window before continuing. "Queen Financial had only just survived the worst crisis in its history. Investors were watching everything. I believed one public pregnancy would eclipse everything she had accomplished."

"And the wedding?"

Scarlet didn't hesitate. "I wanted that to belong to them."

Dr. Adler tilted her head slightly. "Ms. Queen remembers it differently."

"I'm aware."

Scarlet let out a slow breath. "I told her she wasn't a spectacle. My concern wasn't the marriage. It was how the world would rewrite it. I wanted her achievements to remain her own."

Silence lingered for a moment. Then Dr. Adler asked quietly, "And what do you think Queen heard?"

Scarlet's brow furrowed.

"I…"

She stopped.

Dr. Adler didn't rescue her. Instead, she simply waited. Scarlet's shoulders lowered almost imperceptibly. "…That I cared more about appearances than about her."

Another pause. "Was she wrong?"

Scarlet didn't answer immediately. Finally… "No." She looked toward the floor. "Not entirely."

Dr. Adler turned back to you. “What happened after that conversation?”

"I stopped telling her things."

Scarlet's response came without hesitation.

"She punished me."

"I set a boundary."

"She excluded me from the pregnancy."

"She knew the babies were healthy."

"She wouldn't let me attend the next scan."

"She tried to relocate my obstetrician to Rhinebeck."

"I suggested an alternative arrangement."

"She had an examination room prepared in the house."

"It was discreet."

"It had a chandelier."

"The chandelier was already there."

Dr. Adler paused.

"And the flowers?"

Scarlet's eyes narrowed slightly. "Medical rooms are unnecessarily bleak."

Back in your session, you looked toward the ceiling. "Do you see what I'm dealing with?"

"I'm beginning to," Dr. Adler admitted.

"The second baby had already been identified as a girl," you continued. "The other refused to cooperate."

Despite yourself, a smile appeared.

"A few days ago… we finally found out."

Dr. Adler smiled back.

"And?"

"Another girl."

The words still warmed something inside you.

Two daughters.

Two tiny heartbeats.

Two entirely different futures already unfolding.

"And you haven't told your mother."

"No."

"Why?"

You looked down at your engagement ring before answering.

"Because I wanted one thing to belong to Harry and me before it became a theme, a luncheon, a guest list… and twelve thousand flowers."

That earned the smallest laugh.

Then Dr. Adler grew thoughtful.

"So withholding that information became a boundary."

"It did."

"And it remained one?"

"For a while."

"And after that?"

You hesitated.

"…Maybe it stopped being only a boundary."

"A little?"

You sighed.

"Moderately."

One corner of Dr. Adler's mouth lifted.

"Elegantly punitive."

Despite yourself…

You laughed.

"So Harry wasn't exaggerating."

"Oh?"

"He told me your sense of humor usually appears about twenty minutes after your honesty."

You smiled despite yourself.

"He's annoyingly perceptive."

"I've noticed."

Dr. Adler closed the notebook.

For a moment, neither of you spoke.

Finally, she said,

"I'd like to ask you one last question."

You nodded.

"When Scarlet said she was protecting you…"

"…did any part of you believe her?"

Silence. A long one. Eventually…

"Yes."

"And yet?"

"I didn't need protecting."

"You needed trusting."

Your voice had become barely more than a whisper. "I needed her to trust that I could live my own life."

Dr. Adler nodded once. "I think that's a very important distinction."

She stood, gathering her notebook. "I won't ask you to forgive her today." You looked up. "I don't think either of you is ready for that. But I do think you're both grieving the same relationship."

You frowned. "The same relationship?"

"The one each of you thought you had. And that's usually where healing begins."

By the time Harry took your place on the sofa, Dr. Adler had already filled several pages. She turned to a fresh one and poised her pen above it. “Mr. Castillo. Tell me about your mother.”

Harry settled back, resting one ankle over his knee. “My mother is seeing a man.”

Twenty minutes later, Vivienne answered the same question with visible irritation. “I had dinner with a perfectly respectable gentleman.”

“Four dinners,” Harry said in his own session.

“Three dinners and one lunch.”

“Two lunches.”

Vivienne sighed and looked toward the ceiling. “My son apparently keeps a ledger.”

“There was also a weekend in Connecticut.”

“There were twelve bedrooms in that house,” Vivienne protested.

“That doesn’t make the weekend less concerning.”

“It makes it considerably less intimate.”

“He sent her roses.”

“He is French.”

Harry looked directly at Dr. Adler. “That is not a defense.”

Dr. Adler rested the tip of her pen against the page. “Mr. Castillo, your mother is an autonomous adult.”

“I’m aware.”

“You had the man investigated.”

“Autonomy does not eliminate due diligence.”

"And did your mother ask for your protection?"

"No."

"Then why did you decide she needed it? What are you afraid will happen?"

“He could take advantage of her.”

“Financially?”

“Financially, socially or emotionally. Those things often overlap.”

“And did your mother ask for your protection?”

“No.”

“Then why did you decide she needed it?”

Harry’s fingers moved once against the arm of the sofa. “People rarely ask before something goes wrong.”

“That sounds less like an answer about this man and more like an answer about someone else.”

His eyes lifted to hers. “My father left.”

The words were flat and controlled. Dr. Adler did not immediately begin writing again.

“Your parents divorced?”

“No.”

She paused. “Your mother is still legally married to him?”

“Yes.”

“And yet he has not been part of her life for years.”

“No.”

Harry looked toward the window. “My mother never received an ending. He simply left her with the consequences.”

“And your grandmother?”

Harry’s expression tightened. “She doesn’t remember him.”

“Her own son?”

“Not anymore. We don’t remind her. The last time her condition worsened, the doctors told us to avoid anything that could trigger another episode.”

Dr. Adler regarded him quietly. “So your father’s absence is something the entire family is required to live around, but never fully discuss.”

“That isn’t why we’re here.”

“Perhaps not. But it may explain why another man entering your mother’s life feels less simple to you than it does to her.”

When Dr. Adler later asked Vivienne about Harry’s behavior after Eduardo left, her irritation softened. “He became efficient.”

“That sounds like an unusual response to grief.”

“It was Harry’s response. He dealt with the lawyers, the accounts and every practical problem Eduardo left behind. Sienna was nineteen and furious. Harry called her constantly until she threatened to block him.”

“And you?”

“I was still married to a man who had chosen not to be my husband.”

Vivienne looked down at her hands.

“Harry decided that if Eduardo had abandoned his responsibilities, he would assume all of them.”

“Did you ask him to?”

“No. Harry has never waited to be asked.”

Back in his own session, Dr. Adler said, “Has this new man given you any reason to believe he intends to hurt her?”

“Not yet.”

“So you’re preparing for a betrayal that has not occurred.”

“I’m being cautious.”

Dr. Adler lowered her pen. “Your mother’s marriage never formally ended, your father’s absence cannot be openly discussed around your grandmother, and you have spent years managing the consequences. It makes sense that you want this new relationship verified before you allow yourself to trust it.”

“Allow myself?”

“Yes. Because this is not only about whether your mother trusts him.”

Harry said nothing.

“It’s also about whether you can tolerate her beginning a new life when the old one was never properly closed.”

In Vivienne’s session, Dr. Adler asked, “Does being legally married to Eduardo affect how you feel about seeing someone else?”

Vivienne was silent for a moment. “Sometimes.”

“Guilt?”

“Not toward Eduardo.” Her answer came sharply. “He surrendered any right to ask for loyalty when he left.”

“Then what?”

Vivienne exhaled. “The strangeness of it. Beginning something new when part of my life is still sitting unfinished in a locked room.”

“And Harry knows that.”

“Harry knows everything.” A faint smile touched her mouth. “That is both his best quality and his most exhausting one.”

Later, when Dr. Adler brought them into the room together, Harry sat at one end of the sofa and Vivienne chose the other.

“Harry,” Dr. Adler began, “your mother understands that your actions come from love.”

“And arrogance,” Vivienne added.

“And arrogance,” Dr. Adler allowed. “But she is not asking you to erase the risk. She is asking you to trust her to decide whether it is worth taking.”

Harry looked at his mother. “Does he know you’re still legally married?”

“Yes.”

“Does he know why?”

“Yes.”

“Does he know about Abuela?”

“Only what he needs to know.”

“Has he asked for money?”

“No.”

“Professional introductions?”

“No.”

“Access to the family?”

“No.”

“Has he—”

“Harry.”

He stopped.

Vivienne’s voice softened. “I’m not replacing your father. I’m trying to stop living as though the life he abandoned is the only one I’m allowed to have.”

That silenced him.

After a moment, Harry nodded once. “If something feels wrong, you’ll tell me.”

“Yes.”

“Immediately?”

“Within a reasonable period.”

“Define reasonable.”

Dr. Adler lifted one hand. “No negotiations.”

Harry looked dissatisfied but relented. “Fine.”

“And you will not investigate him further,” Vivienne said.

“I won’t authorize any new investigation.”

“That isn’t the same sentence.”

“It’s the sentence I’m offering.”

“Harry.”

He sighed. “I will not investigate him further.”

“Or ask Ron.”

His silence lasted half a second too long.

Dr. Adler looked at him.  “Or Ron,” he added.

Vivienne’s shoulders eased. She reached over and touched his cheek. “My poor baby boy.”

Harry leaned away. “Mama.”

“You’ve always been so devoted to me.”

“I am forty-six years old.”

“And still my baby.” Vivienne smiled. “When you stop treating me like a helpless abandoned wife, I’ll stop treating you like a worried little boy.”

Harry looked toward Dr. Adler. “Is this therapeutically appropriate?”

She made one final note. “It appears to be working.”

Vivienne patted his cheek again. “My baby boy.”

Harry closed his eyes. “This was a mistake.”

Dr. Adler turned to a fresh page.

Across from her, Mikey settled into the armchair as though he had been waiting his entire life for an audience legally required to listen to him.

"Before we start," he said, leaning forward with a conspiratorial smile, "everything we say in here stays in here, right? I can tell you anything?"

"Within the boundaries I explained earlier, yes."

She regarded him over the top of her notebook.

"Although I was under the impression we would be discussing your problem."

"I don't have a problem."

"Are you certain? You and Miss Castillo appear to be concealing something from your families."

His smile faltered.

"Did Eloise tell you that?"

"She shared several suspicions."

"That woman missed her calling."

"What was her calling?"

"International espionage." He leaned back with a sigh. "Fine. It was a problem. Mostly."

Dr. Adler waited.

"I realized I liked Sienna." Another pause. "I then tried several strategies that failed spectacularly." She waited again. "And eventually everything worked because of my little sister."

That finally earned a smile. "You asked your sister for advice?"

"I did."

He leaned forward again, lowering his voice. "My little sister is the smartest woman I know. Smarter than my mother. If that sentence leaves this room, I'll deny it under oath."

The corner of Dr. Adler’s mouth curved. “And you asked your sister for advice about Sienna?”

“I did. She told me to stop trying so hard and just be myself.” He leaned back, satisfied. “She was right.”

Twenty minutes later, Sienna occupied the same chair. She looked considerably less pleased by Queen's advice. "I'd never thought of Mikey that way before," she admitted.

"He was funny. Different." A small smile appeared. "But whatever this is… it only started last week."

"What changed?"

"He came to an auction I'd curated." A pause. "Everything went downhill after that."

One Week Earlier

The Belcourt Auction House, Manhattan

The auction room was exactly what wealthy New Yorkers liked to imagine culture looked like—polished wood, quiet lighting, priceless objects behind glass, and enough restrained elegance to justify spending absurd amounts of money.

Mikey wandered through it wearing a burgundy velvet jacket, cropped black trousers, martini-print cashmere socks, tinted glasses, and the cream trilby Sienna would later describe as a personal attack against art.

A numbered paddle rested in one hand.

An open packet of gummy bears occupied the other.

He stopped in front of an abstract painting made up of three black lines.

A member of staff approached.

"A striking piece, isn't it, sir?"

Mikey tilted his head.

"Is it finished?"

"…Yes, sir."

"Good for him."

Then he saw Sienna.

She stood near the front beside the auctioneer, dressed in a sharply tailored dark suit that somehow made everyone around her look underprepared.

His grin appeared before he could stop it.

He had come for her. Entirely for her. Mostly for her. He lifted the paddle and waved. Sienna noticed immediately.

Her expression passed through surprise…

…disbelief…

…suspicion…

…and something softer that disappeared almost as quickly as it arrived.

She gave him the smallest wave in return. Unfortunately… So did the auctioneer.