You didn’t care what they thought. Each night after supper, you’d kneel by your bed and fold your arms in prayer, knowing that it was only a matter of days until your knight came to sweep you off your feet. For you have been good, always the first to finish your chores and never missing a sermon. And you will be good for him.

The thought was enough to make your heart flutter.

The days bled into weeks and the weeks into months. The day you came of age was the day they announced that the war was lost. But it meant that the men were coming home, and they would be looking for land and a wife to soothe their weary bones. Your father was a farmer who had promised his share of land to a baron, and when he told you his son was a knight, you knew the time had come.

But maybe your friends were right. Maybe kindness died in Jerusalem, and now all the men that returned have been stripped of it. When you saw the first few soldiers arrive through the gates, eyes bloodshot and sharp with violence, you had begun to doubt the arrangement of your marriage. But there was no turning back. Even if you had said no, it wouldn’t have made a difference. The contract had promised the baron’s son a fief and a wife. And after years of enduring such an arduous pilgrimage, he expects his reward. He expects you.

Which is how you find yourself alone in a strange town filled with strange people, sitting across a vanity, surrounded by maidservants, who all worked in silence as they bathed and dressed you for your wedding. The room was sombre, dimly lit with the only sound of rustling fabric as company. Doubt sank in your stomach like stone on water.

The women sometimes whisper amongst themselves, speaking in a dialect that you weren’t accustomed to, but could decipher little by little.

“They are sending this poor lamb for slaughter.”

“Aye, if he is as wide as they say he is, poor thing will be in pain.”

“Bah ! The Baron's son is a tyrant. A conqueror. It will hurt.”

Bile rose to your throat, but you kept yourself composed, clinging to the sliver of hope in your heart. But hope began to thin as the hour drew closer, for his reputation precedes him, and even if you have not laid eyes upon your groom, you could already hear his voice from the other room. Deep and coarse like the first roll of thunder before a storm, commanding everyone who heard him to silence. Even you.

When you finally met him across the altar, you had to crane your neck to properly look at him. And the servants were right. He was a wolf — sharp, blue eyes boring down on you. The words of the priest were lost to you.

You couldn’t hide your shivering, and when your groom saw this, there was a flicker of emotion in his pupils as it darkened. Reminding you of the barn cat when it finally caught the mouse it's been chasing. Something like satisfaction. Like hunger.

He spoke his vows loud and clear, and it took you everything in your willpower not to stumble over yours. There was no laughter or clapping when he placed the ring on your finger. The air, grim and tight, with people bowing their heads as if this were your funeral. You could hardly believe that you were now his wife, and he, your husband.

As you were ushered to your carriage, you overheard a conversation between him and his soldiers. The men, unaware that you were just down the opposite hallway, backs turned to you.

“What a sweet little lamb you’ve got for yourself, Raymond.” Congratulated one man.

“Lambs are no fun. They cry when you’re too rough.” Another had tsk-ed.

You had held your breath, waiting to hear what your husband would say.

Your blood turned cold as he chuckled in response.

“She will take what I give her. I will make sure of that.”

Tears stung your eyes, and the maids who were tasked to undress you had patted your head and combed your hair in an attempt to soothe you. But it was no use, you were already frightened, tears soaking the front of your nightgown.

The minute the maids left, you went for the window, unlocking the latch with trembling hands. The sound of your ragged breathing had droned out his footsteps, and just as you had one leg out of the window, a pair of arms wrapped themselves around your middle — hauling you into the air.

You squealed, banging your fists against his back as he threw you over his shoulder. He went to lock the door with one hand, using the other to toss you atop the bed.

Raymond crossed the distance and grabbed your wrist before you could make for the window again, eyes wide with anger.

“And what did you think you’re doing?” He asked slowly, bending down so your faces were only inches apart. You could feel his beard graze the skin of your cheek, the heat from his body, swallowing you whole.

You turned your face away.

The grip around your wrist tightened. “I asked you a question.”

You let out a sob, “Please don’t hurt me, my lord.”

The hand on your wrist moved to pinch your jaw, forcing you to face him. “Have I scared you, little lamb?”

More tears fell at his mocking tone. You squeezed your eyes shut.

“T-the maids said that i-it’ll hurt.”

“Address me properly, wife.” He ordered.

“T-he maids said i-it’ll hurt, my lord.”

There was a moment where you thought he’d let go of you. But instead, he bore his weight down, inching you backwards so that you were trapped between him and the bed. He placed his mouth against your ear, “You just have to take it when I fuck you.”

He saw the confusion on your face. The laughter that barked out of his mouth was almost cruel. “What did you think would happen between husband and wife during their wedding night? Tell me, lamb.”

“I…”You faltered, “I was told that they would kiss, my lord.”

He pressed you deeper against the bed, “And you think you could satisfy me with a kiss?”

“I-I can give you more, my lord.” You pleaded, “As many kisses as you’d like!”

He clenched his jaw, eyes fluttering shut as he groaned. You thought you had angered him with your answer, but then you felt something stir between your bodies — where his thigh pressed against yours.

He whispered, voice low, “What else have they told you?”

“That to make a baby, a husband and wife will m-make love to each other, m-my lord. And there is pain for the wife, but if the husband is gentle, then all shall be well.”

He lifted your arms above your head, pinning them there with a hand.

“There is one thing you should know about me, wife.” He rasped, ghosting his nose over your cheek, down your neck. You were still afraid, yet a strange sensation fluttered in your stomach as his lips grazed the skin. “I am not a gentle man, nor am I a man who makes love.”

You yelped when he sank his teeth, writhing. The bulge in his pants grazed the most intimate part between your legs, and heat colored your cheeks when it sent a jolt through your body.

“And there will be pain.” He said, cockily adding, “But it shall not be unpleasant for you.”

With that, he pushed himself against your lips for a searing kiss.

You had always imagined your first kiss to be sweet. You had a soft spot for the stableboy that lived down the street, he had light hair and freckled cheeks, and was always so polite when he greets you. You had grown up thinking that you’d be married to someone such as him, someone who would cradle your face gently, and kiss you the way dawn kisses the earth.

You never imagined it was possible to be kissed this way, roughly, deeply — with teeth and tongue and a ferocity that feels like a thousand burning suns.

And to like it.

When you pulled away from the air, you inhaled the heavy scent of pine wafting off him, head spinning even more. Now, when you were chest to chest, you couldn’t ignore how your husband is obviously older, stronger, with wide shoulders unlike any you’ve seen caging you down. The fear has turned into something liquid molten, collecting in your belly.

In one fluid motion, he ripped your gown with his fingers and took a nipple in his mouth. You bucked, assaulted by a sharp sensation as he suckled on it. His teeth caught the skin.

“M-my lord!” You whined, trying to get away. It was too much, especially now that he had used a finger to toy with your other breast.

But he didn’t budge; instead, he gave your breast a squeeze, ripping an embarrassing noise out of your throat.

“You like that, little lamb?” He chuckled, “Tell me, have you touched yourself?”

You shook your head.

He pinched the side of your thigh, “Liar.”

You thought of the nights where you couldn’t sleep, where a strange heat had taken over your body and made you restless. Out of curiosity, your finger had drifted down between your legs. Rubbing, feeling. But you had never quite dared go through with it, always withdrawing in guilt.

“Only o-once, my lord.”

He trailed a hand over your leg, inching closer to your thigh. “And does it feel good?”

You swallowed, “I-I don’t know, my lord.”

He bent your right knee upwards, parting them. “You enjoyed it, didn’t you?”

“No!” You rebutted, “I wanted to save myself. For my husband. For you.”

He bit back a growl, crashing his mouth against yours and shoving a finger inside your heat. You mewled, writhing as he began to move it.

“You little wench. Already so wet for me, and we have not even started.”

He added another, curling them and making you sob. His fingers were calloused, rough as they stretched your tight walls. Yet you could feel your own wetness dripping, staining your thighs as you tried to clench them shut. He kept them open with a firm hand, spreading you wide for his eyes to drink.

Tears collected in your eyes when he added the third and began pumping. In, out, in, out.

“My lord,” you whined, “I c-cannot take it.”

There was a tautness in your belly. The slow rising had reached its peak, waiting to burst. He watched your expression, as if drunk on the sight, before curling all three digits and making you peak. Pleasure rolling off your muscles as spasms.

Your head lolled to the side as he began to undress.

You had never seen a man naked, yet you had heard stories of what is between their legs. One of the maidens she used to walk home with used to whisper naughtily about how she would want to marry a man who was endowed, for it was his size and width that gave a woman pleasure.

But now, faced with the size of it, you had balked in horror, trying to inch away against the headboard. Yet he still had a hand across your wrist, and he used his free hand to grab you by the ankle, pulling your waist back under him. With force, he spread your thigh open and pushed his manhood inside you with one fluid motion.

You yelped as pain pricked you, tears streaming down your cheeks.

“Ease yourself.” He instructed, voice like gravel. “Do not resist.”

Slowly, you began to relax, and for a second, you tasted the sweetness you had been looking for in the way he kissed you. He pulled away with a nip of your bottom lip and began to move his hips.

You shuddered, feeling your stomach bulge, his cock pulsing inside. He propped himself on both arms, and your heart warmed, thinking the act was so that he would not crush you. But you see quickly that he was giving himself a better angle to lift your thigh so he could ram into you. He did not lie. There was a wicked pleasure to this. Rising quicker this time.

A sharp moan left your lips, body coiled tight. The pleasure grew so intense it became painful, tears now running down your neck, which only seemed to drive him even more. For he placed his hand around your neck, the size, enough to encircle your windpipe. He angled you so that you couldn’t hide your face against your shoulder.

His body curved and bowed, hips ploughing hard against you; obscene sounds echoing around the room.

“Ah, ah, ah!”

You couldn’t help the sounds escaping you, and he took delight in seeing you this way, helpless and at his mercy, nowhere to run or hide as he continued to take, and take, and take —

You reached another peak, this time, the pleasure slammed into you so hard you screamed. Once it subdued, your body turned limp, bones sinking into the damp mattress. Yet he continued with his ruthless pace, searching for his own release. When he came, you felt his heat inside of you, coming in hot spurts as he began to slow.

With your hair fanned out, you wondered how you must look with bite marks littering your chest, love marks blooming against your skin ; you must look disheveled, devoured.

Maybe they were right. Maybe your naivety had led you to the wolves. And this wolf is still hungry, already stirring, appetite still raging as he began to turn you to your stomach and lift you on your knees. So you do what all good, little lambs do.

You bare your neck and give in.

You swear you don’t mean to start the night like this.

You mean to be good. To let him sleep the way he always tells you he needs to—old man hours, lights out by eight, boots off by the door and his back cream rubbed in before he groans and settles. He was yawning at dinner, eyes going soft the second you scraped your fork across the empty plate. By the time you finished washing up, he was already in the bedroom, one thigh on the mattress and the other knee cracking when he climbed the rest of the way in.

He still kissed your forehead, gruff and warm. “G’night, honey. Dawn patrol. I’m out.”

“You’re such an old man,” you’d teased.

He’d smirked, that half-shy, half-wicked thing he does. “Old man who can still put you through the mattress, so watch your mouth.”

And then, because he knows you, because he’s been reading you in the dark like braille since the first night you let him, he’d tugged you close by the hips and murmured against your ear, “If you wake up with an ache—wake me up so you can take what you need, sweetheart. You don’t gotta ask.”

You’d laughed then, rolled your eyes, promised you’d be good.

Now you’re on your back staring at the ceiling while he snores, and “good” feels impossible.

Joel’s out cold like he always is, sleep hitting him in one clean drop. It’s barely past eight-thirty, the last ribbon of evening leaking thinly under the curtains, and he’s already gone to that heavy, immovable place. The low rumble in his chest is steady, comfortingly human. His mouth is open the slightest bit, beard flattening into the pillow, one arm crooked behind his head so you can see the gray in his armpit hair and the soft fold of skin at his elbow. The other arm rests over his stomach, hand relaxed, fingers curled like he fell asleep holding a wrench. He smells faintly like your soap and menthol from the cream you rubbed into his lower back. His reading glasses glint from the nightstand; he left the book open facedown on his chest until you slid it away and clicked off the bedside lamp.

You turn. Then turn again. Every rustle of the sheet makes heat pool low in your belly, the restless kind that only grows louder when you try to ignore it. The outline in his sweats doesn’t help—thick where the cotton tents over him. Joel’s body is a constant, a gravity you never escape: the spread of his chest hair; the wide plane of his ribs; the soft give of his stomach under that old T-shirt; the deep dents at his hips that fit your hands like they were carved by you.

“Go to sleep,” you whisper to yourself, as if your pulse will listen. It doesn’t. You breathe and count and try to catalog the day—the fence he fixed, the way his wrists rolled the wire, the veins rising on the back of his hands when he tightened the nails, the little grunt in his throat when he stood up too fast and his knee barked at him.

That grunt echoes in your ear now. You feel it all the way between your legs.

It would be so easy. He said it. You don’t gotta ask.

For a long minute, you wrestle with the thought, chewing the inside of your cheek, eyes glued to the shadowed column of his throat. Joel exhales a deeper snore, head tipping toward you. The corner of his mouth lifts like he’s smiling in some easy dream. You really don’t wanna wake him.

“Okay,” you whisper, the decision breaking free on a tremor. “Okay.”

You inch over him, careful, careful, palms flattening on the mattress on either side of his ribs. He doesn’t stir when you slide a knee across his waist and then the other, your cotton sleep shorts whispering over his T-shirt. You settle on his hips, hovering first, testing the weight. He’s so warm; heat rolls off him in waves. You feel the thick length of him pressed up along his thigh under the sweats, the way it shifts when your weight lands.

“Joel,” you breathe, just to taste his name in the dark. He doesn’t answer. A soft snore drifts from his chest.

You curl your fingers beneath the waistband, slow as a prayer, easing the fabric down just enough. He’s commando under there—Joel’s never had patience for extra layers at bedtime. His cock is heavy and warm against your palm as you free him, thick already, half there just from the heat of you sitting over him. You wrap your fingers around him and sigh, the sound small and ruined. He twitches once, a sleepy instinct, his abdomen tightening under the shirt, and then he settles again into that steady rhythm.

You push your sleep shorts to the side with a barely-there shift of your hips and slide your slick along his head. Your whole body jolts. You line him up and press down, slow, slow, until the head nudges inside, the stretch acute and dizzying, a gasp knocking out of you before you can swallow it.

Joel groans in his sleep, a low animal sound that vibrates through your bones. His hand twitches on his stomach. You freeze, breath held, listening. The snore returns, shallow for a second, and then deeper again.

You take more.

You sink inch by inch until you’re seated on him, stuffed full, the fullness taking the breath from your lungs. Your thighs shake. Heat licks at your spine. He fills you like no one else ever has, like he was built to take up space inside you, every ridge and vein a new line of poetry your body reads without eyes.

“Fuck,” you whisper, completely, helplessly lost. You brace your hands on his chest and feel the slow, even rise of his breathing beneath your palms. Hair tickles your fingertips. His heartbeat is unhurried and deep.

You rock.

Just a little at first, testing the angle, finding that precise place inside you where pressure tilts into pleasure and then drops off a cliff. You move again—shallow lift, slow drag back down—and the wet, obscene sound that rides up your spine makes you clamp a hand over your mouth. You roll your hips, circling, a careful grind that drags your clit along the base of him where you know it will catch.

He groans again, deeper, brows drawing together. The hand on his stomach slides—blind, instinctual—until the heel of his palm lands on your thigh. His fingers flex once, twice, a loose grasp like a man reaching for the last thought in a comfortable dream. Heat sparks low in your belly at the simple weight of it, at how big and sure his hand feels even asleep.

You move more. You ride him like you’re trying not to, like you want to be good but your hips have their own mind and his name is written all over it. Slow lifts. Lazy drops. Small circles that make your vision starburst behind your eyelids. Every slide builds him harder, thickening inside you, the stretch growing more urgent, your breath shorter.

You whisper to him, because he loves it (even though he can’t hear you)—nonsense, endearments, filth. “Good boy,” you murmur against his throat, and you don’t even know if you’re talking to him or to your own body. “You feel so good, baby. So big. That’s it. Give it to me.”

His brow furrows. His ribs expand under your hands. He mutters something unintelligible, the syllables rough and sticky with sleep. When you drop a little harder, chase the angle that makes your clit spark bright, his hips lift to meet you on a reflex—old man instincts, sure as a hammer hitting a nail, body finding pleasure with the efficiency of decades.

You almost come right then, the surprise of it, the depth, the way he meets you blind because even his bones know you now. You stifle the sound with your forearm and ride him harder, a little frantic, a little lost, the wet slap of your body on his body louder than you want it to be. You lift and drop and grind until you feel him throb inside you, until he’s fully hard and you’re shaking.

And then his eyes blink open.

It’s slow, the way he arrives. He squints first, lashes clumped together, brows pulled tight. His head tips and his gaze drags up your body like he’s wading through syrup—throat, chest, the way your tits bounce with every roll—and then lands on your face. Your mouth is open. Your breath is coming fast. One of your hands is on his chest and the other is glued to your own lips to keep yourself quiet.

His voice is a gravel drag. “The hell…?”

Your answer is not a word; it’s a whimper, high and guilty, as your hips betray you and rock again, slow, devastating.

Joel’s pupils swallow his eyes. The sleep haze clears with one long exhale that turns into a laugh, filthy and fond. His hand on your thigh tightens. His other arm slides out from behind his head and lands heavy on your hip.

“Jesus Christ, darlin’.” He sounds wrecked and amused at once. “You usin’ me in my sleep?”

You nod, shameless and shaking. “You told me—” Your voice is breathless, vowels melted. “—told me to take what I need.”

He huffs, a sound that’s half a groan when you drop down again. “Said you could wake me up, greedy thing. Not…Christ.” His head pushes back into the pillow. His mouth falls open. “Not mount me like a fuckin’ mare and ride me till I see God.”

You bite your lip and do exactly that—lift and sink, hips rolling so your clit grinds along the base of him. He watches you this time, fully present now, eyes heavy-lidded and hungry, the smile cut into one corner of his mouth like a secret. His thumbs dig into the soft dips above your hips and he guides you without taking over, indulgent, letting you use him, giving you the precise strength you need to keep your rhythm steady.

“Look at you,” he murmurs, voice low and ruined. “Couldn’t wait, huh? Old man falls asleep and you climb on and fuck yourself silly on my cock.”

You choke on a laugh and then on a moan. “You were snoring.”

“Old men snore,” he says deadpan, and then his grin tilts mean. “Old men also last, sweetheart. Pace yourself if you don’t wanna pass out on me.”

You don’t pace yourself. You chase. The room narrows to the sight of him under you, the feel of his hands, the obscene sound of you taking him. Heat pours through you like warm liquor; your eyes sting at the corners; your thighs tremble. When your rhythm falters, he sits up with a wince and a chuckle—“hip’s fine, don’t fuss”—and wraps an arm around your back. The other hand slides between your bodies and finds your clit with an old man’s surety, no fumbling, no guesswork, just a precise rub that makes you keen.

“Joel,” you gasp, forehead thunking to his, sweat sticking your hair to your cheek. “God, you feel—”

“Yeah, I know what I feel like.” He kisses you slow and messy, tongue licking into your mouth, beard rasping your chin. He tastes like sleep and sex and the last of his evening tea. “Feel like the thing you can’t go without. That right?”

You nod against his mouth, frantic. “Yes. Yes.”

“Good.” His thumb presses tighter, circles smaller, and your hips stutter. “Then take it. Use me, baby. Use your old man. Milk me like you wanted.”

You break. You come hard, clamping down around him, a strangled sound ripping up your throat. Joel holds you through it, murmuring into your mouth, sweet little nonsense that doesn’t match the filth of his hand. “That’s it—there you go—there’s my sweet girl—yeah, you ride me just like that—fuck.”

You’re still shuddering when he laughs against your cheek and lies back, taking you with him so you’re draped over his chest while his cock is still buried to the hilt. He pets your spine, the path his palm takes more steady than your breath. The aftershocks are still popping in your calves when he slaps your ass lightly, a coaxing tap.

“All right,” he says, and his voice changes—still indulgent, but darker, awake now, the old man fully online. “Playtime’s over.”

You squeak when he moves. He flips you under him smooth as a card trick, the mattress dipping with his weight, his knees settling outside your hips. He pauses the second his back complains—you can feel it, the way his breath hitches—and then he breathes through it with a low chuckle. “Don’t worry. Back’s fine. Old, not broken.”

“Joel—” You’re breathless already. He looks huge above you, hair sticking up, T-shirt rucked to his ribcage, sweatpants a crumple around his thighs. Gray dusts his chest hair, silver strands catching moonlight where it sneaks around the curtain. His palm plants next to your face and the thick scar on his knuckle is close enough to kiss. You do, quick, an apology. He smiles like you just gave him a second youth.

“Listen.” His hand slips to your jaw, thumb dragging your lower lip. “You wake me like that again, you better be ready to be kept awake.”

“I am,” you gasp. “I’m ready, I’m—oh, God—”

He pushes into you in one deep, deliberate stroke, and your head knocks the pillow, back arching off the mattress. He bottoms out and stays there, pinning you with his cock and his weight and the look in his eyes that says he’s not just awake now; he’s present, the whole of him aimed right where you need him.

“Fuck,” he says to no one, reverent. “Listen to you.”

You don’t know what you’re saying; it’s all noise, pleading and gratitude and filth. He smiles like you’re his favorite song and then he starts to move.

He takes his time at first, rolling his hips, finding the same place you chased when you were on top, the place that makes you jerk and gasp. He likes it slow, Joel does; likes to feel it, to savor, to make you look him in the eye while he slides so deep you swear you can taste him behind your tongue. He braces one forearm by your head and the other hand goes to your belly, pressing down so he can feel himself moving inside you, so you can feel the push from both sides. You’re a live wire under him, twitching, eyes glazed, mouth open.

“That it?” His voice is hoarse, smug. “That where you wanted me? Greedy little thing—you gonna tell folks I went to bed at eight so you could do that to me?”

“I’d tell everyone,” you hiss, shameless, already close again from the slow grind and the thick stretch. “I’d tell ‘em how—how good you feel. How big. How—”

“Yeah.” He grins, wicked and pleased. “How your old man still has it.”

You groan. He laughs softly, then drives harder.

The tempo shifts—less mercy now, more heat. His breath shortens; sweat beads at his temple; his hair flops forward and you push it back with shaking fingers, because you want to see his face when he fucks you like this. He gives you everything you asked for in the dark: weight and depth and the rough rhythm that makes the headboard thud the wall in a steady beat. Your body answers him like it was designed for this conversation; every thrust slots into a yes.

“You’re gonna be sore,” he pants, almost apologetic, definitely not stopping. “Gonna be walkin’ around tomorrow with my backache and your knees tremblin’, people’ll think we’re both ancient.

“Don’t care,” you whimper. “Want it—want you—old man.”

His eyes flash. He curses, a sound rich and ruined, and then he grabs your ankles and folds you without warning, knees to your chest, opening you wider around him. Your breath leaves your lungs in a ragged sigh; your vision whites out; your hands claw at his shoulders and he groans at the scratch.

“Christ almighty.” He’s gone, too, into that place he only goes when he’s got you like this. “Look at you takin’ it. Gonna break your little back in half and carry you to the kitchen in the morning, put you on the counter and feed you like a goddamn invalid.” He’s muttering nonsense. That’s what the fuck you do to him. Make his brain fucking mush.

“Do it,” you manage, voice wrecked. “Feed me. Fuck me.”

“Oh, I’m doin’ both.” He laughs, breathless. “Old man’ll butter your toast and then put you back to bed.”

You’re not sure if you come because of the words so domestic, so Joel or because he angles his hips just so, pelvic bone pressing into your clit with brutal precision, but you break with a cry that sounds like a sob. It’s messy—your second one always is with him—and he rides it, talks you through it with a string of praises that makes your throat close.

“There you go. That’s it. Take it. Give it to me. That’s my girl. That’s my desperate baby who can’t wait till mornin’—God, look at you—”

You shake, hands slipping, palms slick on his shoulders. Your heels dig into his back. He mouths at your ankle tucked by his cheek, teeth scraping your skin, eyes on yours. He looks younger like this and older all at once—boyish grin cut deep in a man’s face, laugh lines carved by a life that didn’t give him many things to laugh about until you.

“Joel,” you plead, and he answers you with a rough, broken sound, hips stuttering, rhythm going ragged.

“Yeah,” he pants. “Yeah, sweet girl. I got you. I got you.”

He pushes deep once, twice, stays, groans, stays, stays—and then he spills inside you with a noise that’s almost a prayer. His face collapses into pleasure, mouth open, brows high. You hold him there with your legs, with your hands, with every greedy inch of you, because you want to feel all of it, every throb, every warm pulse.

He sags after, catching himself with a palm beside your head, body heavy over yours. He’s careful—always careful—shifting his weight so it blankets you but doesn’t crush you. His breath is hot at your ear. He kisses your temple without aiming, more reflex than thought.

Silence returns in pieces: the tick of the cooling baseboard; the whisper of the curtain; the slowed, satisfied hum of your blood in your ears. Joel’s cock softens inside you inch by slow inch. You feel possessive enough to keep him there forever.

He chuckles first, a small, disbelieving sound that shakes both of you. “Well. That was a wake-up.”

You grin against his cheek, boneless. “Old men sleep so early.”

“Old men have a bedtime so they can do that at midnight,” he corrects, smug, and then winces when he rolls his shoulder. “Ah, hell. Gimme a second—back’s talkin’.”

You’re instantly, foolishly guilty. “Did I—”

“Hey.” He taps your jaw, firm. “You didn’t do nothin’ but make me happy.” He pulls out slow and you wince at the loss. He makes a sympathetic noise, thumbs the place where your thigh meets your hip like he can press the ache into something gentler. “Stay put.”

He’s up and moving before you can protest, a little hobble in his left knee that he pretends doesn’t exist, sweatpants half-mast around his thighs. He yanks them up with a grunt, snags his T-shirt down, and pads to the kitchen. You listen to the soft clink of the cup, the glug of the water jug, the shuffle of a man who refuses to admit his joints complain after sex.

He returns with water for you and one for himself, the glasses sweating in his big hands. He holds the rim to your mouth until you drink and then wipes a stray drop from your chin with the side of his thumb. His other hand is already sliding a pillow under your hips, lifting you gently. You raise a brow; he shrugs, bashful. “Gravity. Old trick. Don’t argue with experience.”

“You trying to put a baby in me, Miller?” you tease, breathless still.

He sets the glass down, climbs back into bed with the smallest of groans, and spoons behind you, his chest a furnace against your back. “Tryin’ to put me in you for as long as possible,” he says into your hair. “Rest of me’ll creak outta place in a minute if I don’t lay still.”

You laugh, and his arm bands tight around your waist. His palm spreads over your lower belly, protective without thinking about it, possessive in that soft way of his that you feel more than see. He drags the sheet over both of you and uses the toe of one foot to hook the blanket higher; he’s a mess of tenderness and curses and muscle memory, every move both clumsy and practiced.

“Sorry I woke you,” you murmur, though you’re not sorry at all.

“Mm.” He nuzzles the place where your neck meets your shoulder, beard scratching, breath warm. “Best wake-up I ever had.” He kisses you there, a slow press. “You do that again and I ain’t complainin’. Might bitch for show, but I ain’t complainin’.”

You hum. Your eyelids are heavy now, the ache between your legs settling into a satisfied throb, the kind that promises soreness you’ll feel between chores tomorrow like a secret only you and he know. He shifts behind you, resetting his knee, grunting under his breath.

“You okay?” you ask, smiling.

“Peachy.” He gives your hip a squeeze. “Old man’s fine. Might need you to rub that cream in again before dawn, though.”

“I’ll do more than rub cream,” you say, wicked and sleepy.

He groans into your hair. “Christ, you’ll be the death of me. Bury me happy, at least.”

You reach back, find his thigh, squeeze the thick muscle there. “You’ll outlive all of us, grump.”

He doesn’t argue out loud, but you feel the smile against your neck. His breathing slows again, not the dead drop from earlier but the patient, satisfied kind, the one he falls into when he’s not worried about anything, when he’s got a hand on you and knows you aren’t going anywhere. The room goes quiet except for him, your favorite metronome.

You’re almost gone when he speaks, voice low and rough, the words dragging over your skin.

“Hey.”

“Mm?”

“Next time you wanna ride me while I’m sleepin’—” He pauses, mouth curving where you can’t see it. “—kiss me awake first, greedy girl. Let me watch.”

You smile into the pillow, a slow, wicked thing he can probably feel with his palms. “Yes, sir.”

He sifts his fingers lower over your belly, like he’s tucking the promise into you. “Good. And if you don’t—” He yawns, the sound huge and boyish. “—I’ll just have to keep you up all night again.”

“You say that like it’s a threat,” you murmur.

“Oh, it is,” he says, sleep swallowing his vowels. “Tomorrow’s gonna hurt.”

“Worth it,” you say.

He hums. His hand tightens once more at your waist, and then the old man who goes to bed at eight and still fucks you stupid at midnight lets the dark take him back, content now that you’ve spent yourself on him and come apart in his hands. You follow a heartbeat later—full of him, sore in the best way, the pillow under your hips a silly indulgence you’ll tease him for in the morning right up until he makes your knees shake all over again.

When dawn leaks gray around the curtain and his alarm buzzes, he’s the one who groans first, rolling onto his back with an exaggerated old-man complaint you don’t buy for a second. You’re tender and smug and slow to move, and he’s already reaching for you, palm finding your thigh, voice a rasping promise.

“Told ya,” he says, smiling even as he winces, “gonna need that cream.”

You kiss his chest, leave your mouth there long enough to feel his heartbeat answer. “Lie still,” you tell him, and it’s his turn to obey while your hands slide lower with all the patience in the world.

He didn’t talk much. Didn’t smile either. You’d never seen him dance, never seen him drunk, never even seen him laugh. Just watched him pass through town like he was only borrowing space. A shadow in flannel. A man-shaped warning sign.

You knew better than to want someone like that.

But that didn’t stop you from looking.

Not when you saw him fixing the east gate with Tommy, sleeves rolled up and veins flexing along his forearms. Not when you passed him in the cold storage shed and caught a whiff of sawdust and leather, the scent sticking to your clothes like it meant something. Not when you heard that voice—low, cracked, Southern-soft around the edges—muttering something in passing.

You’d tried to tell yourself it was nothing. Just a dry spell. Just curiosity. Just loneliness.

Until the dance.

You hadn’t planned to go. These things made you itchy—too many strangers pretending the world hadn’t ended. But you’d been convinced to show your face, put on something soft instead of tactical. You wore a dress that hugged your hips and sipped something sweet and flat, standing along the wall like an outsider at your own party.

And then you saw him.

Off to the side, where the light didn’t quite reach. Sitting on a bench with one leg cocked, elbow braced on his knee, a bottle of whiskey hanging loose in his grip. He watched the crowd with a face carved in stone—tired, unreadable. The kind of quiet that wasn’t asking to be filled.

His eyes lifted and caught you.

You should’ve looked away, pretended not to care, but his gaze held you, and before you could think better of it, your feet were moving.

He straightened a little when you stopped in front of him, like he wasn’t sure what to expect. His expression didn’t change much, but something behind his eyes flickered—surprise, maybe. Curiosity.

You sat beside him, close enough to feel the heat of him. The scent of whiskey and cedar and something darker.

“You always sit alone like this?”

His eyes dragged slowly over you, and when he spoke, his voice was like worn gravel. “Ain’t much of a dancer.”

You smiled faintly, looking back at the crowd. “Me neither.”

Silence settled again. Not awkward. Just thick.

He drank. You watched his throat move.

“You look nice,” he said, rough and quiet, like the words had been pulled from him.

You turned toward him. “You don’t look so bad yourself.”

He cut his eyes at you, cautious. “You flirtin’ with me?”

“Maybe,” you said. “Would that be a problem?”

He paused. Swallowed again.

“…No,” he said. “Don’t reckon it would.”

You shifted slightly on the bench, resting your forearms on your thighs, mimicking his posture. It felt easier that way. Like maybe he’d meet you in the middle if you didn’t ask him to come all the way.

His gaze stayed on the crowd, but you could tell he was aware of you. Aware of how close your knee was to his. How your voice sat low in your throat, casual but edged in something warmer.

“You here alone?” he asked, like it only just occurred to him to ask.

You shrugged. “Came with someone, but not like that. Friend thing.” You let the pause linger. “Left early.”

He nodded, once. He didn’t look at you, but he shifted just enough to make room for the possibility.

You looked over at him, taking your time. The faint glow from the dance hall lights caught in his hair, picking out the silver. He looked tired. More handsome for it, somehow.

“You?”

A flick of his eyebrows. “Me what?”

“Are you here alone?”

He made a soft noise in his chest, something close to a laugh. “Always.”

You liked the way he said that—dry and dismissive, like he didn’t want pity. Like he was just stating fact.

Another beat passed.

“Don’t usually see you at these things,” you said.

“Don’t usually come.”

“So what changed your mind?”

His lips twitched. He glanced your way, finally meeting your eyes. “Not sure yet.”

The corner of your mouth lifted. “Maybe I’m the reason.”

He exhaled slowly, long and steady. “That what you’re hopin’?”

You watched him. Watched the way his hands flexed against the neck of the bottle. How his jaw tensed under the beard.

“Wouldn’t be the worst thing,” you murmured. “You’ve been looking at me all night.”

His eyes narrowed slightly. “You that sure of yourself?”

You tilted your head. “You gonna deny it?”

Joel didn’t answer right away. He turned the bottle in his hands, watching the whiskey catch the light. When he finally spoke, his voice was rough around the edges.

“You lookin’ for something?”

It was an honest question. Guarded, yes, but not cold. Like he was trying to decide what you were made of. Whether you were playing a game he didn’t know the rules to.

You leaned back slightly, tilting your head to meet his gaze full-on.

“I think I’ve already found something,” you said. “Just trying to figure out what happens next.”

That got him. You saw it—the way he blinked, slow and deliberate, like your words had landed somewhere deeper than he meant to let you reach.

But he didn’t pull away.

He just looked at you for a long, long moment. Like he was reading something on your face that he didn’t expect to find.

“…I don’t do casual,” he said finally. Low and hoarse. “Not good at it. Not lookin’ to mess with anyone’s head.”

You gave him a small smile. “Good thing I’ve got my head on straight.”

“You sure?” he asked.

The question wasn’t teasing. Not even a little. It came out quiet, weighted. Like it mattered to him. Like he wanted the answer to be yes, but couldn’t quite trust it.

You didn’t look away. “Yeah. I’m sure.”

His eyes searched your face, not hungrily—just carefully. Like he was still trying to work out what kind of person you were. Whether you’d flinch if he showed his teeth. Whether you were real.

“I’m not young,” he said eventually, voice low and gruff. “Not soft. Don’t say things I don’t mean.”

“Good,” you said. “I’m not interested in soft.”

His mouth tugged to the side, like he almost smiled. Then he looked down at his hands again. Big hands. Veined. Strong. He turned the bottle in slow circles against his knee.

“You don’t know me.”

You shrugged gently. “I know you kill chickens in one blow. I know you say thank you when people hand you tools. I know you bring Ellie snacks from the stockroom and pretend it wasn’t you.”

He blinked, like that caught him off guard.

“I’ve been watching,” you said, softer now. “Same way you’ve been watching me.”

Joel exhaled, slow and steady. A breeze passed through the open door, lifting the edge of your dress. You smoothed it down absently, aware of his eyes there now too.

“Doesn’t mean I’m a good idea.”

You gave a quiet laugh. “I’m not lookin’ for a good idea. I’m looking for something that feels like it matters.”

His gaze sharpened. That hit somewhere. You could see it.

“Just want honesty,” you added, your voice slower now, almost shy. “And maybe a reason to stop pretending I don’t notice how you look at me.”

That silence again. Full of static.

He looked at you then. Really looked. Not just at your mouth or your legs or the line of your dress—but at you.

“I look at you,” he said finally, barely more than a rasp. “Because I can’t help it.”

Your breath caught a little, and he must’ve heard it. You watched his throat work around a swallow, his eyes flicking to your lips for just a second too long.

“But I don’t want to break anything,” he murmured. “Don’t want to ruin what’s good.”

You nodded. “Neither do I.”

More silence. Only now it didn’t feel like waiting—it felt like something opening.

“I should take you home,” he said.

Your pulse stuttered. “Are you offering?”

“I’m askin’,” he said. Then, quieter: “Can I walk you?”

You stood up slowly. Smoothed your dress. Looked down at him with a curl in your lips.

“You can.”

He rose beside you, slow and solid, and didn’t touch you—didn’t even reach for you. But he walked beside you all the way home, like you were something worth guarding.

You walked beside him in silence.

Not awkward. Not stiff. Just… aware. Every step in sync. Every brush of fabric had sparks.

You could hear the thud of your boots on the dirt path, the crunch of his heavier steps. Jackson was quiet at this hour—music still fading from the dance hall, chatter thinning behind you.

The wind was cool. You felt it on your skin where your dress dipped low. You wondered if he noticed. Wondered if it was driving him as crazy as it was you.

He didn’t speak until you reached the edge of your street. Then, he cleared his throat.

“I’m older than you,” he said.

You didn’t answer right away.

You turned to look at him—really look. The hard lines of his jaw. The streaks of gray in his beard. The way his eyes stayed on the ground as he said it, like he expected that to end things right there.

“I figured,” you said, voice soft. “What gave it away—the knees or the grumbling?”

He huffed, almost smiled. Almost. “Most people don’t take kindly to bein’ reminded of death.”

“Maybe,” you said. “But you don’t remind me of death.”

He looked up at that.

You stopped walking.

“You remind me of something that lasts,” you said. “Something that’s still here. Still kicking.”

His eyes searched your face again, same way he had back on the bench. Only now you saw something else flicker in them—something unguarded.

“You’re not a warning sign, Joel. You’re a goddamn billboard.”

That almost made him laugh. You could feel the breath of it when he shook his head.

“You think I’m kidding,” you added, stepping a little closer. “But truth is… I didn’t realize it did it for me until I got here.”

“What’s that?” he asked.

“Men like you,” you said. “Strong. Scarred. Quiet. Stubborn as hell. Built like a brick wall. Bit of a temper. Walk around like they’ve got nothing left to give but still show up when it counts.”

He blinked.

You smiled, just a little. “You’re exactly my type.”

Joel looked like he didn’t know what the fuck to do with that. His mouth opened, then closed again. His brows pulled together, like he was trying to decide whether you were fucking with him.

You reached for the doorknob behind you. The porch creaked beneath your feet.

“I don’t invite just anybody inside,” you said.

Joel hesitated. Then stepped closer, onto the first stair. He looked up at you from beneath the brim of his brows.

“You sure about this?”

You held his gaze. “Yeah,” you said. “I’ve been sure.”

You opened the door. Stepped back.

He walked past you slowly, and still didn’t touch you. But when you shut the door behind him and the latch clicked into place—

The air between you changed.

You hadn't even made it three steps inside before he turned to face you.

No words. No rush. Just a long, steady look.

You stood still under it. Let it warm you from the chest out. The door was shut, the night locked away behind it. The only light came from the little lamp on the counter, casting everything in a low, amber haze.

Then he reached for you.

Not all at once—he didn’t grab or push. Just lifted his hand, slow and deliberate, and wrapped his fingers around yours.

The calluses rasped over your knuckles, thick and dry and warm. He held you like he was holding something breakable, but still his. Then, without a word, he turned your hand over in his. Examined it.

Ran his thumb down the line of your lifeline. Touched the pads of your fingers.

You swallowed. “What are you doing?”

He looked up at you through those thick lashes, quiet.

“Just tryin’ to remember how this feels.”

Your breath caught. You didn’t know what to say to that.

So you tried to break the tension. “I could make us coffee,” you said, voice soft and a little shaky. “If you want.”

He let out a low breath. Not quite a laugh. Not quite a sigh.

“I don’t want coffee.”

You waited.

“I wanna fuck you.”

The words hit you like a wave. No hesitation. No build-up. Just a raw, unvarnished truth in that voice of his, deep and hoarse and thick with restraint.

Heat surged low in your belly. Your fingers flexed in his.

“That so?” you asked.

“Yeah,” he said. “It is.”

That was all it took.

You stepped in and kissed him, hard. Fisted your free hand in the front of his shirt, rising up on your toes to press your mouth against his. He kissed you back immediately—hungry, rough, like he’d been holding himself back for too long.

His hand moved to your waist, fingers curling tight around the curve of it. You could feel the tension in his shoulders, the heat of his body crowding into yours.

Your lips parted and he groaned into your mouth, pulling you closer. He kissed you like he needed to taste you before he could believe you were real.

There was nothing polite about it. No careful step-by-step. Just tongues, teeth, gasps—your bodies locking together like you’d already dreamed this a hundred times over.

He kissed like a man with history. Like someone who’d been starved of touch.

And you kissed him like you wanted to make up for all the years he’d gone without.

When you finally pulled back for breath, your forehead leaned into his.

“I meant it,” you whispered.

“So did I,” he said, voice rough. “Still do.”

Your lips were still damp from the kiss when you whispered it, breath warm against his cheek.

“What do you need?”

Joel’s hand flexed on your waist. His breath hitched.

You shifted back just enough to look at him—really look. His eyes were dark, clouded with heat, but underneath that was something deeper. Something tired and aching and full of hunger that had nothing to do with sex and everything to do with being wanted.

You lifted your hand, brushing it along the seam of his jaw, your thumb grazing the grayed hair just beneath his ear. “How do you want me?”

He didn’t speak for a long moment. You saw his throat work. Felt the tremble in his fingers where they still clutched your waist.

When he answered, it was barely a voice at all.

“Close.”

That was all. Just one word. But it broke something open in you.

You pressed into him again, your chest against his, your thighs brushing his jeans. You brought both your hands up to cup his face and kissed him slow this time, not soft, not gentle, just slow—like you had time.

He let you. Let you guide him. His mouth opened under yours, patient and hungry, letting you taste him. Letting you feel how much he wanted this—wanted you.

Then he pulled back, just enough to whisper: “Turn around.”

Your pulse fluttered, sharp and bright.

“Yeah?” you breathed.

He nodded. “Want to see you. All of you. Take it slow.”

Your hands slipped from his shirt. You turned without a word, facing the nearest wall—just a few feet from the kitchen table, the old floorboards creaking faintly under your feet.

You heard him step behind you. Felt the heat of his body close. He didn’t touch you yet. Just looked.

Then—fingers light at first—he ran one hand up your spine, tracing the zipper of your dress. He caught it and tugged, slow, inch by inch, the metal teeth parting with the softest sound in the room.

You didn’t look back. You didn’t need to.

You let the straps fall from your shoulders. Let the fabric slip down your body, pooling at your feet.

A sound came from behind you—low, broken. Joel breathing through his nose, holding himself in place.

You stood there in nothing but your underwear, hands resting at your sides, the soft glow from the kitchen lamp warming your bare skin.

“Is this close enough?” you asked, voice like smoke.

Behind you, his hands finally touched your hips. Firm. Unshaking.

“Not even close,” he said.

He kissed the back of your neck—just once, hot and open-mouthed—and pressed the weight of himself along your spine—slow, firm, steady.

You felt it instantly. Hard against your ass, hot even through the denim.

You choked out a laugh before you could stop yourself.

“Jesus Christ,” you said, head tipping forward against the wall. “You’re hard.”

Behind you, Joel let out a low groan that almost sounded like a laugh too, if he weren’t so clearly straining to hold himself together.

“Yeah,” he muttered. “That part, uh… definitely still works.”

You laughed harder, breathless now, grinning even as your skin flushed. “No shit.”

He leaned into you then, arms bracketing your waist. You could feel the rumble of his chest against your back.

“You tryin’ to kill me?” he asked, voice pitched low beside your ear. “Laughin’ while I’m like this?”

You wriggled back against him just enough to feel him pulse in his jeans. “You think this is funny?”

His mouth brushed your shoulder, his breath hot. “No. Think it’s fuckin’ torture.”

“Want me to stop?”

His hands gripped your hips hard enough to bruise. “Don’t you dare.”

You smiled again, slower now, biting your lip. Then you reached behind yourself and slipped your fingers along the waistband of his jeans. “Then maybe you should do something about it.”

Joel’s breath caught. His lips ghosted along the back of your neck.

He didn’t say anything. He didn’t need to.

You felt him move—rough fingers sliding down to unbutton his jeans, the rasp of denim and zipper filling the space between your shallow breaths. Then his hand was back on you, under your panties, squeezing the curve of your ass like he needed to feel you, full-palmed, skin on skin.

You arched into him with a soft gasp.

“I’ve wanted this,” he said into your shoulder. “Since the first time I saw you.”

You swallowed. “And now?”

He kissed your spine. Once. Twice.

“Now I’m gonna take my time.”

He let go of you just long enough to step back, the heat of his body peeling away like sun slipping behind clouds. You almost whined at the loss.

You turned to face him.

Joel stood in the amber glow of your kitchen lamp, jeans hanging low on his hips, shirt wrinkled and half untucked. His hair was mussed, jaw shadowed thick, and there was something raw in his eyes—like this wasn’t just lust, not just a need. Like this was something he hadn’t let himself want in a long time.

You stepped closer.

He met you there, hands returning to your waist, calloused palms skimming the sides of your thighs. His touch was firm but slow, reverent even. When he slid your panties down your legs, he knelt to follow them. His fingers dragged down the backs of your thighs, and he stayed crouched for a beat longer, just looking up at you.

“You’re beautiful,” he said. Quiet.

Your chest tightened.

“Stand up,” you said, voice gentler now.

He did, and you tugged at the hem of his shirt. He let you undress him, arms lifting as you peeled the fabric over his head. Beneath it, he was all muscle and scars—hard-won strength etched into skin that had seen too much. You smoothed your palms over his chest, drinking in every inch.

He reached for his waistband next, pushing jeans and briefs down in one motion. His cock was thick, flushed, already glistening at the tip.

You licked your lips before you could help it.

He didn’t move toward you. Just stood there, letting you look. Letting you want.

You reached for his hand instead.

He blinked, surprised, and let you take it.

You brought his fingers to your lips, kissed the tips, then slipped two into your mouth.

The growl he let out was sharp and quiet, barely audible, like it scraped against the inside of his throat.

“Jesus,” he breathed.

You sucked gently, tongue gliding over rough pads and calloused edges, slow and warm and dirty just for him. You wanted him to feel it—to see what it’d be like to have you wrapped around more than just his hand.

He was breathing harder now. Cock twitching between you. You pulled off with a soft pop and met his gaze.

“You want me to stop?” you teased.

Joel swallowed hard. “No,” he said. Then, rougher: “Where’s your bedroom?”

You didn’t answer right away. Just reached for his other hand, curling your fingers through his.

“Come on,” you said.

And led him down the dark hallway, step by step, until the two of you crossed that threshold together.

The bedroom was dark, the door clicking shut behind you with a quiet finality.

You didn’t bother turning on the light. The glow from the hallway was enough to see the outline of him—bare-chested, cock hanging hard and heavy, eyes still fixed on you like you might vanish if he blinked.

He didn’t expect what you did next.

You dropped to your knees.

“Wait—” he said, voice gone gravel-thick with surprise, but your hands were already curling around his thighs, steady and sure.

“Let me,” you said softly. “I want to.”

He stopped breathing.

Your hands slid up the backs of his legs, slow and deliberate, and then you took him in hand—felt the heat of him, the weight, the way he twitched under your palm. You leaned in and pressed your lips to the tip, just a kiss. Then your tongue flicked out, tasting him, teasing.

Joel’s breath shuddered out of him. One hand hit the wall behind you. The other found your shoulder, holding—not pushing, not guiding, just holding.

“Goddamn,” he rasped. “Jesus, sweetheart…”

You took him into your mouth, slow and steady, your lips stretching around him, your jaw aching in the best way. You felt the tremble in his thighs, heard the low groan he tried to swallow down.

“Fuck, you’re good at that,” he murmured, voice hoarse. “That mouth… shit.”

He was big. Thick enough to make your eyes water, and you loved it—loved the weight, the stretch, the way he pulsed against your tongue.

But before you could take him all the way, he pulled back—gently, firmly, both hands cupping your face as he looked down at you.

“Enough,” he said. Not harsh. Not breathless. Just… solid.

You blinked up at him. “You didn’t like it?”

“I fuckin’ loved it,” he said. “Which is why I need you on the bed. Now.”

He hauled you up with a strength that made your knees weak, hands big and sure on your waist as he backed you toward the mattress. You fell back onto it, breathless and grinning, and he followed—settling between your thighs like it was the only place he’d ever wanted to be.

He kissed the inside of your knee first. Then your thigh. Then the other. He took his time, lips dragging over your skin like he wanted to learn every inch.

By the time his mouth reached you, you were already slick and aching.

He groaned when he tasted you. “Fuck...”

He set to work. Languid. Unrushed. His mouth was patient, lips parting you, tongue stroking soft and deep. He sucked your clit only when you were already close, never too soon, never too sharp.

He held your thighs open, kissed you through the first orgasm, coaxed you through the second—his voice murmuring praise against your skin.

“Good girl. That’s it. Let me have it, baby.”

And only when your thighs were shaking, your breath stuttering, did he finally lift his head.

“Now,” he said, voice dark and thick, “I’m gonna fuck you.”

You were still catching your breath when he moved—rising from between your legs, mouth shining, beard damp with you.

You reached for him, half-dazed. Ready to feel him above you, finally heavy and full inside, pinning you down. But instead of climbing over you, Joel sat back on the bed, broad legs spread and shoulders slack. He reached for you.

“C’mere.”

You blinked, dazed. “What?”

He nodded toward his lap, voice low and steady. “Come sit on it, baby.”

You flushed all over. The raw want in his tone made you ache. You crawled forward and climbed onto him, knees bracketing his hips, your thighs still trembling.

The head of his cock dragged between your folds, hot and slick and perfect. You rocked instinctively and gasped when the tip caught on your entrance.

Joel growled softly. “You feel that?”

You nodded, dazed.

He leaned back slightly, watching you like it was killing him to keep still. “Take it slow. Sink down on me, sweetheart. Let me feel you.”

You reached between your bodies and held him steady, your hand small against the thickness of him. And then, slowly, you lowered yourself onto his cock.

You both moaned—his hands gripping your hips hard, your mouth falling open as he stretched you, inch by inch.

“Fuck,” you whispered. “You’re—Jesus, Joel—”

“Shh,” he rasped, panting through his nose. “You’re takin’ me so good.”

You rocked once you had him buried to the hilt, hips shifting instinctively. The fullness made your whole body tense. Your muscles clenched around him and he groaned.

“That’s it,” he said. “Ride me. Show me how bad you needed this.”

You moved slowly at first, lifting and sinking onto him, but it didn’t stay slow for long. He met you halfway with every thrust, hips punching up into yours. His hands guided your rhythm—one wrapped around your waist, the other gripping your ass, fingers digging in like he needed to anchor himself.

It wasn’t graceful. It wasn’t sweet. It was rough, a push and pull that felt like it could tear you open and still wouldn’t be enough.

You kissed him like you couldn’t breathe without it—messy and open-mouthed, tongues dragging, teeth clacking. Your fingers dug into his hair, gripping tight, and he tilted his head to deepen the kiss, moaning into your mouth.

You broke the kiss with a gasp, forehead pressed to his. “You feel so fucking good—”

“Yeah?” Joel grunted, slamming up into you. “You love ridin’ this old man’s cock?”

You whimpered. “Yes, Joel, fuck, I love it—”

He shifted under you, pulling you forward, closer—until your chest was pressed to his, sweat-slick skin against skin. One arm wrapped tight around your waist, the other braced between your shoulder blades, holding you steady as he fucked up into you, deep and relentless.

You clung to him—arms looped around his shoulders, your mouth pressed to the side of his neck. You felt him everywhere now. Inside you. Against you. Beneath you. Around you.

The thrusts weren’t graceful anymore. They were desperate. Messy. Wet sounds filled the room—your soaked cunt taking him over and over, your bodies slapping together. Every time he slammed up, you gasped, your breath catching hard in your throat.

You could feel the way his muscles bunched under your hands. Could hear his breath ragged in your ear, the low, broken sounds he made when your pussy clenched around him.

“Fuck—baby—you’re so tight,” he groaned, voice torn and breathless. “You’re gonna make me come—”

You kissed him blindly, teeth clashing, and moaned into his mouth. Your hips rocked erratically, your thighs burning, and all of it—his cock, his mouth, the way he held you like he needed to fuse your bodies together—was pushing you right to the edge.

Joel felt it. He could feel the way you started to tremble. He leaned in, lips at your ear now. “That’s it,” he rasped. “Give it to me. I want to feel it.”

You shook your head, like it was too much. You were too full, too stretched, too fucked to handle one more second of it.

But then he fucked up hard—once, twice—and wrapped both arms tight around your body, burying his face in your neck.

You shattered.

It hit like a wave slamming into a seawall—violent, unstoppable. You came with a sharp cry, back arched, nails clawing into his shoulders as you convulsed around him.

Joel held on. Fucked you through it, groaning into your throat.

“Jesus, fuck—there you go, baby, there you go—”

You came hard, loud, legs shaking in his lap, mouth falling open in a raw yell that cracked at the edges.

Joel didn’t stop. Not until you collapsed against him, trembling, soaking, gasping for air.

Only then did he slow down. Pulling you tighter against him, one big hand smoothing along your spine.

“Shhh,” he whispered. “You’re alright. I’ve got you.”

You nodded into his neck. Still wrapped around him. Still full of him. Still pulsing with aftershocks.

You didn’t want to move. Didn’t want him to, either.

So he stayed there—cock still buried inside you, heart pounding against yours—and let you breathe together.

Joel shifted under you with a quiet grunt. One hand splayed across your back, the other gripping your hip as he rolled you both onto your sides. You landed with your face buried in his neck, your legs tangled with his, his cock still hard and still buried deep inside you.

You gasped at the movement—still sensitive, still twitching from the last wave of pleasure. His hands gentled instantly, rubbing soft circles into your spine.

“You okay?” he murmured, lips brushing your hair.

You nodded, breath catching as his hips rolled, just slightly, nudging deeper. “Too good.”

He huffed a quiet laugh, his breath warm on your cheek.

But he was still inside you. Still thick and pulsing.

You felt it now—the way he was holding himself back. The strain in his arms, the tightness in his jaw. His body was shuddering with restraint, his cock twitching inside you every time you clenched around him.

“You haven’t come,” you whispered.

Joel’s jaw flexed. He didn’t deny it.

You lifted your head, lips brushing his. “Why’re you holding back?”

His voice came out ragged. “You came so hard, baby. Felt you shake all over me. Just… wanted to make sure you were alright.”

Your heart fluttered, warm and aching. But you weren’t finished with him. Not like this.

You rolled your hips, slow, grinding your slick heat down over his cock. He hissed through his teeth.

“I’m not glass, Joel,” you whispered. “Don’t hold back.”

He groaned—low and wrecked—and kissed you.

It was slower this time, but no less intense. His mouth claimed yours in long, deep drags, tongue sliding against yours, hands gripping your waist as he started to move again.

You moaned into his mouth as he thrust. Still tight from your orgasm, your cunt clung to him with each stroke, slick and hot and perfect.

He fucked you slow, chest to chest, breath mingling, bodies sliding together in the dark.

“Christ,” he muttered. “You’re still squeezin’ me like that.”

Your arms curled around his shoulders. “I want you to come,” you said against his mouth. “Want to feel it.”

His hips snapped harder, rhythm faltering, every thrust heavier now. You kissed his jaw, his throat, anything you could reach.

Joel buried his face in your neck and groaned—loud, raw, the sound of a man losing his grip.

And then he was there.

He growled your name like a prayer and shoved in deep, holding you flush as he came—hot and thick, pulsing inside you with a low, broken moan.

You held him through it, stroking his back, whispering, “There you go. That’s it.”

He trembled. He kissed you again, slower now, panting between breaths.

When he finally stopped moving, both of you a tangle of sweat and skin and breath, he stayed right where he was—inside you, heart pounding against yours.

Joel didn’t move at first.

He stayed deep inside you, chest to chest, limbs tangled up like ivy. Your legs around his hips, your arms looped around his shoulders. His breathing was still rough in your ear, his cock twitching in the slick heat of you—spent but still buried, still wanting to stay where it was warm and safe.

You could feel the thump of his heartbeat, steadying slowly against yours. His fingers brushed up and down your spine, more of a reflex now than anything else. Like he needed the contact to remind himself this wasn’t a dream.

Neither of you spoke. There wasn’t a need.

Eventually—eventually—Joel groaned low in his throat, the sound lazy and half-exhausted. He kissed your jaw, your temple, then finally lifted himself just enough to look at you.

“Alright?” he murmured.

You nodded, eyes still half-lidded. “Better than.”

He leaned in and kissed you one more time—soft and lingering—before his hips eased back.

He pulled out slowly. You both gasped at the drag, the loss of warmth. A wet heat followed immediately, thick and unmistakable, sliding down your thighs.

The air shifted. Joel caught sight of the mess soaking the sheets beneath you—your combined slick, his come leaking from where you’d been joined.

“Oh, sweetheart,” he breathed.

Something about his voice—gravel and reverence, wrapped in that low Southern drawl—made you smile.

You rolled onto your stomach without thinking, cheek pressed to the pillow, your back arched in a long, lazy stretch. Limbs limp. Skin damp. Sated.

You exhaled softly, content and open, your bare ass high and warm in the soft light. The wet patch cooled beneath your belly, sticky and raw, but you didn’t care.

Joel let out another quiet groan behind you—half appreciation, half disbelief.

“Goddamn,” he muttered. “Look at you.”

You wriggled your hips playfully, just enough to hear the low curse that followed.

“You’re tryin’ to kill me,” he said.

“Mm,” you hummed, voice thick with sleep. “Don’t blame me. You’re the one who did all the damage.”

You felt the bed dip as he knelt beside you, large hands smoothing along the back of your thigh, then your lower back. Gentle, slow touches, not for arousal—just touch.

His fingers paused where your legs were still slick, and you felt him rub his thumb through the mess there, slow and soft.

“You want me to clean you up?” he asked.

Your eyes stayed closed. “Not yet.”

He kissed the small of your back, breath warm. “Okay.”

Then he lay down beside you, pulling you close, wrapping one arm around your waist from behind, his chest to your spine. You stayed there together in the dark, the air warm with sweat and sex and something deeper neither of you dared name just yet.

The night was cold. Laughter spilled from the farmhouse, rolling out into the dark like smoke from a chimney as people began to disperse and return to their homes. Jackson’s end-of-the-year party was always a hit. Couples swayed lazily to music, friends drank and hollered, and for just one night, the world beyond the walls felt distant, like a half-forgotten nightmare. No outbreak. No fear.

You were tired.

The warmth of the alcohol glowed in your veins, but the idea of making it to midnight had never really been part of your plan. Just the drinking.

Joel took notice of your departure immediately.

Joel always saw you.

Always you.

Since the moment you arrived in Jackson.

After saying your goodbyes, you stepped outside and there he was, waiting as if he’d been keeping his eyes on you the whole evening. Without hesitation, he offered you his arm, a solid presence against the bite of the night air.

“Want me to walk ya’?” he asked, wiggling his bent elbow up and down.

You were happy to accept, giving him a tender smile and slow courtesy nod. Joel was kind in a quiet, patient way. He carried a weariness in his eyes, an old sadness, but under it all, he was gentle. Rugged, but gentle. A rarity in this new world where softness had become a luxury and pain was all too familiar.

The walk home was short. Your house was only a few blocks away. The two of you drifted through the empty streets, your steps echoing against the darkened houses. A few words were exchanged between you, each one small and careful, before you came to a stop at the edge of your steps leading up to your porch.

Before saying your “goodnights” you and Joel embraced. The hug you shared felt like it stretched on forever, as though neither of you wanted to let go. When you finally pulled back, your eyes lingered on his and his on yours, and something unspoken thrummed in the quiet space between your bodies, between your lips…

Neither of you dared to name it.

You tapped your fingers against his beard, teasing, “Time for a shave,” before slipping into the safety of your home, leaving him standing in the cold, a statue frozen in thought. Disbelief.

Joel watched you close the door, his mind looping that final touch like a needle stuck on a record. He let out a shaky breath, shook his head as if to scatter the thoughts, and started the slow walk back to his own home.

Every step felt heavy. The memory of your fingers, the warmth of your skin, it clung to him. He told himself it was nothing. Just a friendly moment, a playful tease — but his body knew better.

By the time he stepped inside and locked the door behind him, the house felt emptier than usual. With Ellie staying in the garage, there was no one to overhear, no one to catch him in a moment of weakness. He was almost thankful.

He moved through his house on autopilot. Taking his boots off, then tossing his jacket aside, each movement more restless than the last. He kept seeing your eyes, feeling the phantom scrape of your nails against his beard. Goose skin plagued his arms.

As he finally made his way upstairs and into his bedroom, he could only but drop onto the edge of his bed. He ran a hand through his tousled hair, as if trying to ground himself, but the ache inside him was impossible to ignore.

Lying back, he stared at the ceiling, trying to block out his thoughts. The room felt too big, too quiet. He exhaled, long and unsteady, your image playing behind his eyelids.

Your touch haunted him — the softness of your skin, the subtle warmth that still seemed to glow on his face. It felt like he was under a spell… no, not a spell… something else.

Then came the slow, hot pulse of realization.

He groaned, shifting as the tension gathered between his legs, raw and undeniable. His breath quickened, his heart thudding against his ribs like a trapped bird trying to escape its impending doom.

Why you? Why now?

He sat up, mumbling under his breath, trying desperately to clear his mind but the ache only sharpened, demanding relief. He stood up, pacing, each step echoing his frustration.

A fool. He felt like a damn fool.

Joel knew how long it had been. He was older. Alone. He had needs. Wants…

He stumbled into his bathroom and rushed to turn the tap on as he recklessly splashed cold water on his face, but it only made his skin tighten and the ache more acute. He could almost smell you — that gentle, familiar scent, the way your hair had danced in the cold night breeze.

His gaze flicked up to the mirror. His reflection looked back, wild-eyed and pinned, chest rising and falling in quick waves. His hand twitched at the waistband of his jeans. He hesitated, a heartbeat and then gave in. Unbuttoning his jeans with trembling fingers, then sliding the zipper down. His breath hitched as he lowered his briefs, bringing them scrunched just below his knees with his jeans.

Joel braced himself against the countertop of the sink, his head dropping forward, staring down at his weeping tip. Pre cum oozing from him like a river. His hand moved to his aching cock, rough and impatient around his shaft. The contrast of his palm — your tender touch versus his own calloused grip made him shudder.

Your image refused to leave his mind like a diseased lesion. Growing and becoming septic. Your lips, your soft laugh, the way your eyes had stared into his.

He groaned low in his throat as his hand picked up pace, his other gripping the counter hard enough to blanch his knuckles. His hips stuttered forward, chasing the friction like a man starved. When was the last time he was touched like this? He couldn’t remember.

The thoughts of your mouth on him, your breath ghosting over his skin, your warmth enveloping him. Each one sent jolts of pleasure flooding through him, guilt and need tangled in a tight knot, coiling at the base of his spine.

He wondered if you thought of him tonight too, just like this. If your mind had drifted to him the way his did to you.

Joel’s eyes cracked open, locking on his reflection in the mirror as his shoulders tensed, his body shuttering. Sweat trickled down his temple, his brows furrowed in agonized bliss.

He bit back a broken moan as he imagined your body beneath his, imagined the sounds you might make, the way you’d cling to him as he fucked you. His hand moved faster, sloppier, until the thoughts blurred together into a white-hot rush.

With a final shudder and a strangled cry, Joel came hard into the sink, panting as his eyes locked on the man in the mirror — a man he barely recognized.

After a moment, he averted his gaze while he rinsed away the evidence, his chest still heaving. Joel pulled up his jeans and briefs and then out of habit, he brushed his teeth like normal, each motion automatic as though he could scrub away the ache, the guilt.

Switching off the bathroom light. He exited from the bathroom and returned to the comfort of his bedroom. Finally, he collapsed into bed, face buried in his pillow, the room echoing with the sound of rain tapping against the window pane. The night air roared with the on coming of a thunderstorm.

The moonlight spilled across his tired face as he blinked, dazed, replaying every electric moment from the night.

His eyes grew heavy, and as sleep finally began to claim him, one last thought pulsed through the haze — you.

Always you.

♡ ♡ ♡

Thanks again for taking the time to read. I love doing these smaller fics, allows me time to put out as many as I possibly can. Remember that my inbox is always open for requests.

Something twists in his chest at the sight of you taking a drink out of his coffee cup, barefoot in his kitchen wearing only a robe. For so long, he's been trying to sort through the feelings he holds for you. It’s deeper than desire, deeper than gratitude. It doesn’t scare him. It feels right. It feels like this IS something he’d like to feel for forever. 

Breakfast is quiet and comfortable, even after what the two of you shared last night. There’s no awkwardness, no regret. Just the two of you together, sharing his home—as if you’ve been doing it for years. Your foot brushes against his good leg under the table, before you rest it on his lap. He grabs your ankle with his hand, rubbing his thumb across it as he eats.

He never expected to find peace in such ordinary moments like these. After Sarah, after all the years of just surviving, after Tess and Boston and Ellie and everything that followed. After dying, even. He never expected to sit across from someone at breakfast and feel right, like you’ve always belonged with him, like fate dealt him a bad hand and you still made him a winner.

You finish your tea and stand, gathering your plate and his. "I'm going to take a shower."

Joel nods, reaching for his coffee.

You pause behind his chair, leaning down close to his ear. "Do you want to join me?"

His coffee cup freezes halfway to his lips, his entire body tenses at the invitation. Your wet skin, your hands on him, the hot water against his and your body. He sets the mug down and sits there silent and overwhelmed by your offer.

"Joel?"

His chair scrapes against the floor as he abruptly stands. The plates can wait. Everything else can wait.

—-

Joel grunts quietly when he bends over and turns the shower on. You don’t know what caused your boldness in asking him to join you… maybe to have an excuse to touch him again, or to finally see all of him in the bright light shining in through the small window above the shower.

You step toward him, reaching for the hem of his shirt, drawing it up and over his head. He’s so gorgeous, you can hardly believe it. Scars of different sizes lay across his golden skin, mapping his survival across his broad chest and soft belly. Resilient and strong yet soft beneath your touch.

Joel’s eyes focus on his fingers slowly untying the simple knot of your robe loose. The robe falls open, revealing your body inch by inch, pooling at your feet. He exhales a shaky breath when he sees your naked body in the daylight for the first time.

You step closer and reach for the waistband of his pajama pants before you work them down his hips and then down to the floor. He kicks them aside, now as naked as you are.

Broad shoulders taper to strong arms, you know the weight that they have carried. Dark hair peppers his chest, your eyes chart the path down to the thin trail of hair leading to the nest of curls where his cock sits half-hard. His thick thighs are dusted with the same dark hair, that you now know the feel of against your palms. There’s a certain vulnerability in the way he stands, slightly favoring his good leg, his hands hesitate at his sides, as if unsure where they belong.

You admire him as he admires you. Both of your bodies bare, lit by the window and the bright lights that hang over the bathroom mirror.

But, water is precious in Jackson, especially hot water, so you press a brief kiss to his lips before turning to step into the shower, Joel watches your every move as he stalks towards you.

You hold your hand out, he takes it, grunting softly as he lifts his injured leg over the edge of the tub. The sound reminds you of his limitations, the healing that's still happening beneath the surface.

Water cascades over both of you. Joel pulls you against him, your back to his chest, his arms encircling your waist. The feel of his naked body pressed against yours warms you more than anything. He places soft kisses along the sensitive skin of your neck, while his hands begin to explore the wet planes of your body.

You can feel his cock pressing against your ass cheek but he doesn't push for more. There's a restraint in his touch that tells you he's mindful of his healing body, of the shower's slippery floor, of the risk of re-injury.

You turn in his arms, reaching for the shampoo bar. "Let me wash your hair.”

Surprise flickers across his face.

"Alright," he quietly agrees, his eyes full of something you’re beginning to recognize.

He bends his head forward to make it easier for you to reach. You lather the bar into your palm then work it into his dark waves. You massage his scalp in slow circles, Joel's eyes close, a low, contented sound escapes him. A sound of trust. This is so different from the sponge baths you once gave him when he was too weak to stand, too injured to care for himself. Then, your touch was careful, clinical, professional. Now, those boundaries have dissolved completely. There’s now a constant slow burn of desire that's built between you over months of healing, of living together, of gradually crossing one line after another. Your hands move from his hair to his shoulders, soap trailing down his chest in rivulets. He opens his eyes, watching your face as you wash him, the trust in his gaze makes your heart ache.

Joel takes the soap from your hands. He lathers it between his palms, before he places them on your shoulders, massaging the soap in so tenderly it makes your body ache for him. When his hands slide lower to cup your breasts, you can hear the catch in his breath over the water. His eyes darken as he watches his own hands move across your skin, his thumbs circling your nipples, drawing them to tight peaks. Joel doesn’t continue his way down, his hands stay on your breasts, his palms kneading them, his eyes never leaving your chest.

You chuckle softly after a while. “I think they’re clean,” you tease.

His cheeks turn pink and he clears his throat. “Right,” he says, a shy, guilty smile pulling a corner of his lips up.

The water turns cold from your shared shower which takes much longer than expected. You both get out, your bodies clean, wet, and thrumming with the need for each other.

Joel grabs a towel and, instead of drying himself, he wraps it around you before he pulls you against him. You both stand before the cracked bathroom mirror, studying your reflection. His still naked and broad frame behind yours, his chin resting on your shoulder.

You can see it so clearly in the foggy glass, you both look like you’re in love.

—-

Joel now smiles as he washes the dishes. The dishes. A simple, boring chore, but now as he rinses your mug out, he thinks to himself he likes doing the dishes, because now, even mundane things feel different.

His hair is still damp from your shared shower, the image of your naked body against the white tile that he once dreamed of seeing, your hands washing him, your tender touch as you massaged the soap through his hair, all of it burns inside his brain—and his heart.

You walk into the kitchen, dressed for work in your jeans and a plain, black shirt.

“You have lunch for today?” he asks.

“Dr. V said he’s bringing in some sandwiches from the Bison so we can go over our trip plans before we meet with Tommy next week.”

“Right,” he nods, a bit of sadness that he can’t be there for you during your trip. You’ll be outside the walls from sunrise to sunset, and he can’t be the one to protect you.

“Want me to save you one? I can bring it back to you after work.”

He smiles at your thoughtfulness, how sweet and caring you are, always calming the storm of doubt inside him.

“No,” he shakes his head. “I'm good.”

You glance at the clock. “I gotta get going.” His heart always drops at those four words. “C’mere,” he reaches his arms out, opening them for you to step into.

Your body meets his and he wraps his arms around you. “Have a good day,” he says before he kisses your forehead.

“I will,” you say. He feels you nuzzle close into his chest, and he wonders if you can hear the rapid beat of his heart.

You lean back, staring into his eyes. He stays there, looking down at your pretty face before he angles his head down and kisses you.

“I’ll miss you,” he admits, feeling slightly embarrassed at his revelation.

A grin lifts your lips. “I’ll miss you too.”

He unwraps his arms from around you, the ache in his chest grows stronger and stronger as he watches you leave.

—-

Dina and a small group setting up a projector in the middle of Main Street catches your eye as you walk home from a slow day at the clinic.

“Hey,” you greet her.

“Hey!” she smiles.

“What’s this all about?” you ask, eyeing the thick, white sheet being unfurled between two poles.

“Movie night,” she says, her hands on her hips. “Some old black and white movie Maria loves. Mr. Smith In Washington?”

“Mr. Smith Goes To Washington,” you correct.

“That’s it. Anyway, the weather’s been so nice we’re doing a movie night outside. You and Joel coming?”

Your heart stutters at the sound of you and Joel. An innocent question put forth by Dina, but it means so much more - people putting the two of you together.

“We just might,” you answer.

“I hope so. Ellie and I will save you a seat.”

You want to raise your eyebrow at Ellie and I. You saw the way they danced together at her birthday party. You’ve seen Dina sneaking out of Ellie’s some early mornings. But, you don’t say a thing, you figure it‘s very similar to yours and Joel’s situation. Instead, you say goodbye and turn to head to Joel’s, your steps getting quicker the closer you get to his home.

When you walk in, he’s sitting at the dining room table, his glasses perched on the end of his nose, working on fixing a pile of breakers Tommy brought over.

“Hey,” he greets, placing a breaker down, and stretching his tired hand out.

“Hi,” you say, walking over to look at his hand. “Your hand okay?”

“S’fine, just sore. Your day good?”

“Yeah, the clinic wasn’t too bad.”

“Good,” he says, scooting his chair back.

“I ran into Dina on the way home. They’re doing a movie night in the middle of Main Street. Mr. Smith Goes To Washington is playing. You want to go?”

He takes his glasses off, a shy smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. "Reckon I should be the one to ask you on a date.”

"Oh?" You raise an eyebrow, moving to stand in between his legs. "You think I'm not perfectly capable of asking someone out?" you tease, looking down at him.

"Never said that," he chuckles, wrapping his arms around your waist. "I’m just old-fashioned, I guess."

"Well, lucky for you, I'm not.” You wink, running your hand through his wavy hair. “So? Is that a yes?"

Yes," he says simply.

“Great!” you say, bending down to kiss him on the lips, excited for your first date with Joel Miller.

—-

This movie isn’t his type of movie. Not enough ninjas, gun battles, Curtis, or Viper. His thigh is pressed against yours, sometimes you place your hand atop his leg as you adjust in the chair, that’s his favorite part of the movie. He wants so badly to rest his arm on the back of your chair, but he’s not ready to be even more of a part of the town gossip.

Ellie sits next to him, sometimes she leans across to tell you something or ask you a question. It’s like she knows this black-and-white film about a newly elected senator isn’t his cup of tea. He likes the warm, familiar smile you give Ellie, how you always softly answer her questions, how you can make her giggle. How much Ellie likes you.

Everyone adores you.

He can’t stop stealing glances at you, your face is lit by the black and white film flickering across your features. He forces himself to look back at the screen, but again, his eyes wander to you only moments later.

You reach into your bag and pull out a peach. “Want some?” you offer, holding it towards him.

He nods, reaching for it, and takes a bite. It’s sweet and juicy, perfectly ripe. He hands it back to you, and you take a bite right underneath where his mouth was. A small drop of juice escapes and runs down your chin. You catch it with your finger, bringing the droplet to your mouth.

His whole body goes tense. His eyes haven’t left your face, he watches you take another bite. The movie continues, but he’s completely forgotten about Jimmy Stewart and Washington politics. All he can see is you, the way your tongue darts out to catch another drop of juice, how your teeth sink into the fruit.

You glance over when you hand the peach back to him, catching his stare. You smile, a drop of peach juice glistening on your lower lip.

“It’s all yours,” you whisper before you wink at him.

He inhales at the sight of your teasing smirk, he brings the peach up to his mouth and takes a bite, savoring the taste of the fruit and your mouth as you watch him, your eyes wide with want and need.

He thinks to himself that maybe this movie is his type of movie.

—-

After the credits roll, you head home with Joel by your side. He holds his cane in one hand, and when your hand brushes against his other hand, he grabs it. There’s a slight falter in your steps before you squeeze his hand back.

You're a street away from his home, walking past a row of houses when a friendly “hey!” catches your attention, you and Joel quickly let go of each other’s hands and look over. Amy and Jacqui have a blanket on their porch, where their cat is lying with four fuzzy kittens.

You stop in your tracks. "Are those kittens?"

“They are!” Jacqui answers. “You want to meet them?"

You look to Joel, uncertain if you should interrupt your walk home. He looks at you with a gentle smile, whispering, "Go ahead."

You join them on the porch, taking a seat on the step, your eyes wide as you look over the kittens nestled against their mother. A black and white kitten stretches as it sleeps peacefully. You reach out to pet it, feeling its soft fur.

"You want to hold him?" Amy asks.

You nod eagerly, carefully picking up the small kitten. He instantly nuzzles into you when you bring him up to your chest. The kitten purrs softly, and your heart swells.

Joel stands behind you, looking down at you and the cat. When you look up at him, he wears a soft, adoring smile across his lips.

"Oh god," you say, "I had a black and white cat just like this when I was a kid. His name was Felix, he was my best friend."

"They're only six weeks old,” Jacqui says, “but we're looking for new homes for them if you and Joel are interested. They’d be ready to go home in a month."

You freeze, looking up at him. How could you ask him to have a pet when it's not even technically your house? You've been living together, sharing his bed, but you've never discussed making your arrangement permanent. A pet would be a commitment.

Joel watches your hesitation, before he simply says, "We'll take him."

Happiness floods through you. "Really?" you ask, amazed at how concrete this feels. Like Jackson really is your home, and you're safe enough to care for another being.

"Course," he says with that small smile that makes your heart flutter.

“Wonderful," Amy says. "Come over and visit him any time you'd like, he'll be ready in a few weeks."

You reluctantly hand the kitten back, already missing him. As you and Joel continue your walk home, your mind races with thoughts of everything you’ll need. At least you have yarn.

"You sure about this?" you ask Joel once you're out of earshot of Amy and Jacqui's house.

"About the cat?" Joel asks, his hand reaching out to hold yours again. "Yeah, I'm sure."

"It's a commitment.”

“It’s a good commitment,” he answers, tightening his hold on your hand.

—-

Joel can feel your excitement and happiness, he wants to always make you feel this way. The smile hasn’t left your face since Joel said the three simple words “We’ll take it.” Of course, he never planned on getting a cat. A pet in the apocalypse still seems crazy to him. But, he’s comfortable and safe in Jackson. He’s put his roots down here. He just couldn’t say no when he saw the way your face lit up.

He leads you up the steps to his home and opens the front door. As soon as it closes behind him, you hug him, pressing yourself against him, your face buried in his chest.

“Thank you,” you whisper against his shirt.

He wraps his arms around you, resting his chin on top of your head. The realization of what he’s just done settles in his heart, but it doesn’t feel heavy. It settles over him like a warm blanket, like the one you knitted him, the one that now sits folded on the edge of the bed that he shares with you. He didn’t even think about it, he just said yes because he knew it would make you happy. And that’s when it hits him…

He’s in love with you.

You yawn, pulling away and leaning up to leave a sweet kiss against his lips.

“I’m tired, bed?” you ask.

He nods. “Bed.”

Two glasses of water on the bedside tables, two robes, and two slippers. His bedroom is now yours. Joel watches as you pull your shirt over your head and slide your shorts down your legs. You don’t even bother with wearing pajamas tonight, you get into bed all naked and beautiful, just for him.

He can hardly believe this is his life now. That you choose to be here with him, in his home, in his bed. That you’re making plans for the future.

He takes off his clothes, foregoing his pajamas as well, and climbs into bed next to you. Your body immediately curls against him, your head resting on his chest, his arm slipping around you. He’s never felt this warm and complete before.

“So,” you say, your fingers tracing patterns on his chest, “what do we name the cat?”

Joel softly chuckles. "Reckon I like the name Jefferson Smith."

You push yourself up onto your elbow, looking down at him with wide, surprised eyes. "Like the movie?"

He nods.

You kiss him, before pulling away with a wide smile on your face.

“I love it,” you say, your head finding the same place on his chest. “I love it so much.”

He looks at you, his eyes filled with adoration, fighting the urge to say, "And I love you."

Instead, he just tightens his arm around you and sighs happily.

—-

You add another routine with Joel to your day. Since your first shared shower a week ago, you both shower together every morning after breakfast. Starting your day with Joel Miller making you breakfast and rubbing soap along your body as you watch trails of water fall down his broad, golden body makes every day better.

Now, you begin your walk to the clinic as happy as can be, still feeling Joel’s lips against yours. On some mornings, he’ll walk with you to the edge of the street, and give you a quick hug, both of you unsure how much you want your fellow neighbors to know about your relationship.

With your trip outside the gates coming up tomorrow, a meeting at the clinic has been called with you, Tommy, Jesse, Dr. V, and Steven.

Steven spreads the map across the table.

“It’s the same route we always take,” Steven states. “The expedition route is marked in red, north from the walls toward the meadow.”

"It's about a two-hour ride on horseback," Tommy explains. "The terrain is mostly gentle hills and one small creek crossing here." He taps a blue line on the map. "We'll follow the old hiking trail most of the way."

Jesse leans forward, studying the route. "Patrol swept the area three days ago. It's clear of infected for now, but that can always change." His eyes flick to you, assessing. "You've handled infected before?"

You nod, memories flickering in your mind—running through darkened streets, the sound of clicking in abandoned buildings, the sharp smell of decay and fungus.

“I can handle myself."

Dr. V adjusts his glasses, his weathered face creasing with concern. "The plants are the priority, but don't take unnecessary risks. We need you back in one piece."

It's not the infected you're worried about, or even the journey itself. It's the thought of leaving Jackson and, most of all, leaving Joel.

"We'll have three patrol escorts," Tommy adds. "Two in front, one bringing up the rear. Jesse and I will join you, along with Sean.”

“Three people?” Steven asks. “It’s usually only two.”

“Right,” Tommy nods, his hands on his hips. “Insistence from uh—someone… means we went with three.”

Nobody responds, but you’re sure everyone’s thinking the same thing. That someone was Joel.

"Steven says the meadow should be at peak bloom this time of year," Dr. V finally breaks the silence. "Echinacea, bee balm, yarrow—all the essentials we're running low on."

Steven's eyes find yours across the table, a small smile lifting his lips. "Worth the trip, I promise. You won't believe how beautiful it is up there."

Tommy rolls the map up, signaling the end of the meeting. "I'll make sure Joel knows the details," he says to you quietly as everyone begins to disperse. The knowing look in his eyes makes you wonder just how much he knows about your relationship with his brother.

"Thank you,” you reply.

He gives you the customary Miller brother nod before he leaves.

—-

Tommy hardly ever waits until after he knocks to open Joel’s front door. It’s usually three quick raps against the door and the door opens wide. Nobody really locks their doors here and Joel’s actually fine with it. After years of being cautious and protective, it’s nice to allow himself to breathe and be okay.

He smiles to himself when he hears the three knocks and the squeak of the hinges when the front door opens. 

“Hey brother,” Tommy greets, kicking his feet against the doormat.

Joel looks up from his chair, a knife and a block of wood in each hand. He had just gotten done ticking the cut marks with a pencil against the wood.

“Afternoon,” Joel greets, looking up from his glasses perched on the edge of his nose. “What brings you here?”

“Wanted to talk about your girl and her trip.”

Joel tightens at the mention of your trip, placing the knife and the wood on the table beside him. “What do you mean?” he asks, his voice gruffer than expected. 

“Calm down, just figured you wanted to see the route and know what we’re plannin’,” Tommy says, settling on the edge of the sofa and grabbing the map from his bag.

Tommy spreads the map out on the table, Joel leans forward, his finger tracing the line.

“It’s a simple trip,” Tommy says. “Kat’s people were just out there a few days ago, and cleared any infected in the area.”

“How many?” Joel asks.

“How many what?”

“Infected.”

“Think they said around fifteen.”

“Seems like too many.” Joel’s jaw ticks. The thought of you being out there, not being protected by him digs a pit in his stomach. He knows it’s useless, he knows he can’t go. His eyes drift to his cane, he’s always going to be held back.

Tommy’s eyes watch his brother, reading the tightness in his shoulders, the way his hand taps nervously against the armrest.

“I’ll take care of her Joel,” Tommy says. “As if she were my own.”

Joel looks up, into brown eyes that often match his, but lighter, less weighed down by life. “I know,” he sighs. “I know you will, I just—”

“I know,” Tommy responds.”You’re worried.”

Joel nods. “She’s capable. I know that. But… I never thought I’d be on this side of things. Waiting. Worrying.”

“Ain’t easy… but it’s worth it.” Worth it. You are worth it. These feelings he holds for you are worth every single fear and worry he has. Good or bad. You’re worth it.

“Can I use a radio?” Joel asks. He’s been thinking about the possibility, the chance to check in, to make sure you’re okay. “You’ll be close enough for a portable pair, right?”

Tommy thinks, scratching his beard. “We’ll be close enough. I’m sure I can arrange it. Will have to check with Amy and Chuck beforehand.”

A bit of anxiety evaporates at the prospect of being able to hear your voice.

“I’d appreciate it,” Joel says.

“She’s going to be safe and protected. Jesse, Mike ‘n I will take good care of her.”

“And Steven,” Joel bitterly adds.

“Yes, and Steven,” Tommy responds, clueless to the ire Joel holds for your coworker. “Don’t worry ‘bout him. He assured me he wouldn’t have included her if he didn’t think she could do it. He’s a good guy, I trust him.”

Joel grunts in response. Everybody loves you. Everybody loves Steven. And as for himself? A lot of people avoid him. What are you doing with someone like him? Old, grumpy, and injured.

Tommy notices the shift in his brother’s demeanor, the way Joel’s eyes have gone distant. “She’ll be safe, Joel.”

"I know," Joel responds, thankful Tommy doesn’t sense the jealousy seething inside him. He folds the map and hands it back to Tommy. "Just make sure she's never alone out there."

“I’ll be with her the whole time,” Tommy promises. “She’s why I’m going.”

Joel’s jaw is tight, a thankful nod is sent to Tommy. “I appreciate it.”

“Course brother,” Tommy says, putting the map in his bag. “What were you workin’ on?”

Joel follows Tommy’s eyes to the chunk of wood sitting on his table.

“Oh, uh, just a cat.”

“A cat?” Tommy asks surprised.

“Uh, yeah, it’s for uh—” he hesitates before he says your name. “She’s getting a cat. We’re getting a cat.”

“A cat? We’re?” Tommy’s smile is wide, an understanding glint in his eyes.

"Yeah, she… and I... we're getting a kitten. A black and white one from Amy and Jacqui."

“Well, I’ll be damned,” Tommy chuckles. “Never thought of you as a cat man. A cat, huh? You two are getting a cat together?”

Joel stays silent, feeling oddly vulnerable, admitting this new, quite domestic, decision between you two.

“And here I thought the two of you were just playin’ house together.”

Joel readies himself for more of Tommy’s teasing words, but they don’t come, just a soft grin and an odd sparkle in his brown eyes.

“I’m happy for you,” Tommy says, a bit gruff. “You deserve it.”

Tommy stands and grabs his bag.

“I’ll leave you to it.”

“Thanks, Tommy,” Joel says quietly.

The vulnerable bit of himself he just shared opens even wider. You’ve made him softer, easier to open to love and care.

Tommy pauses at the threshold before leaving. “You have my word, I will protect her like she’s one of my own.”

Joel nods. “Thanks.”

Tommy leaves and Joel picks up the wooden block along with his knife. He eyes the marks on the wood, places his knife against it, and makes his first cut of what soon will be a little wooden Jefferson Smith just for you.

—-

As the sun begins to set, the clinic begins to empty. The rest of the office heads home, leaving only you and Steven in the clinic, both of you hunched over a table covered with botanical texts and notebooks, finalizing the list of plants to gather.

"Valerian root?” you ask. “That’s on the list right?”

Steven checks the list. “Yeah, right above wild bergamot.”

You both work together side by side for a couple of hours, both of you sharing the same dedication to healing and medicine. 

"So," he says, leaning back in his chair, his dark eyes focused on you. "How are you feeling about the trip? Nervous?"

"I am nervous… but excited," you admit. "I’m looking forward to it.”

"That's great," Steven replies. "I'm glad you're going with me."

The way he looks at you then, all soft-eyed, reminds you of how Joel looks at you… as if you're the only person in the world.

In another life, Steven might have been perfect for you. He's kind, intelligent, dedicated to the same work that drives you. In a world where you hadn't saved Joel’s life, hadn't spent months healing his broken body, hadn't fallen asleep in his arms night after night… maybe in that world Steven would have been the one.

But that world doesn't exist.

You scan the final list, satisfied with the plants you’ve identified. “I think we’re ready,” you say, gathering your notes into a neat pile and closing your book.

“I think we are, it’s nice to have some help with this. I think we make a pretty damn good team if I do say so myself,” Steven says. He really does look at you in a familiar way, the same way Joel looks at you… like you’re the only person in the world.

You choose your words wisely, trying to keep your voice deliberate and professional. “Yeah, it’s nice working with someone who shares the same passion for medicine.”

He nods and smiles. “We’re lucky to have you here.”

His eyes linger for too long on yours, searching for something you can’t give him.

"Thank you," you reply, standing to gather your things. "I should get going. Joel will be wondering where I am."

Something shifts in Steven's expression at the mention of Joel's name, a flicker of disappointment he tries to hide behind a quick smile. "Well, I’ll see you tomorrow then.”

You wave goodbye before leaving the clinic and heading towards Joel’s home because, after a long day at work, Joel Miller is the only person you want to see.

—-

You’ve barely stopped talking since you got home. You chat animatedly about the plants you now know, what benefits they offer, and how excited you are to put all of your new knowledge to use. Over dinner you describe the benefits of a list of plants Joel can hardly remember. As you knit on the couch, you tell him what ingredients are used for various salves and balms. As you get ready for bed, you tell him how excited you are for your trip.

He’s so proud of you. He used to view the clinic as competition, like he was warring with your natural inclination to care for others, but as he’s fallen more in love with you, he’s happy at how much joy your job brings you. It reminds him there’s still passion and purpose in this world beyond just surviving.

You get into bed, your back resting against the headboard, he loves seeing you in his room, under the blankets that once only kept him warm.

He grabs the little wooden figure from his bedside table drawer, closing his hand around it to hide it from your view. He worked on it all day, his hand’s a little tired from holding on to the the knife for so long. It’s not perfect. His hands aren’t as steady as they once were since the attack. He clears his throat after he gets into bed, settling next to you.

“I, uh, made ya’ something,” he says, feeling oddly nervous.

You turn to look at him, your eyes bright with surprise. “Made me something?” you ask, moving to face him fully.

He nods, his weathered hand still closed around the small wooden figure. “S’not much, but… I wanted you to take something small with you on your trip to remember me— and Jefferson.”

Your mouth drops in surprise, and your eyes widen.

His heart races as he slowly opens his palm, revealing a small wooden cat sitting with its tail curled around its body.

You gasp, and his heart shatters against his chest, until he looks up, your eyes shining as you gently take the wooden figure from his palm. He watches you trace the details, your fingers pressing into the pointed ears.

“Joel,” you whisper. You bring the little cat closer to your face, studying the figurine. “You made this for me?”

“I did,” he says quietly.

You look over at him, unshed tears welling in your eyes. “He’s perfect.”

“Just wanted something to keep you company when you’re out there.”

You lean over and kiss him softly, your lips lingering against his before you pull back, smiling through tears that have started to fall.

"I love him," you say. "I love that you made this for me."

Joel reaches up to wipe away a tear from your cheek with his thumb. "Didn't mean to make you cry."

“They’re good tears,” you assure him. "I can't believe you made this. It's beautiful."

"Took me most of the day," he admits. "Hands ain't what they used to be."

You place the cat down on your bedside table and grab a scoop of salve from the jar that you keep there. You shuffle closer to him, taking his hand in yours, slowly beginning to rub it, somehow finding all of the spots that have been bothering him the past week.

“You probably have some inflammation from overuse,” you quietly note.

Joel watches your gentle movements, the way you care for him so naturally. It takes him back to those first few months when he wasn’t able to do anything for himself besides heal—how your hands would check his pulse, change his bandages, feed him broth.

“Better?” you ask.

“Much,” he murmurs.

You hold his hand in yours as you look over at the cat figure. “I’ll keep him safe. Both of them - this one and the real Jefferson.”

He nods, pulling you closer until your head rests against his shoulder. He lowers himself against the pillows, bringing you with him "Promise me something," he says into your hair.

"Anything.”

"Promise me you'll be careful,” he swallows the emotion down his throat. “I know you're capable, but the world out there—"

"I promise, Joel." You squeeze his hand. "I've survived out there before, and now I have even more reason to come home safe.”

Tomorrow evening, he decides. Tomorrow evening, he’ll tell you he loves you. 

—-

A/N: My taglist has grown too large. Please follow @whocaresposted and turn on notifications to be alerted about new chapters!

Your vision is blurry, but you can still see the space around you. Two people hold you up while others around you have stopped to watch the scene. You can smell fresh bread baking from somewhere, more horses, and…

Children.

Tommy told you when he first spoke about Jackson that the place had children of all ages, and that it would be a safe place for your little girl.

Part of you believed it, but a much bigger part still thought it was too good to be true.

But it’s true. You see it now, hearing laughter and overlapping conversations that make this place really feel like a world apart.

A woman approaches with a kind smile, asking permission and reaching out her hands to take your daughter.

“No!” you cry, outraged. Who does she think she is, trying to take your baby from your arms?!

“Sweetheart, she’s one of our nurses. They’re going to take care of her,” Tommy assures you.

You haven’t known him long. Actually, the opposite. He found you the night before, about to give birth. He helped with the delivery. Stayed by your side. Even though you hated the idea of having a complete stranger near you, touching you in one of the hardest moments of your life, he stayed. He spoke words of encouragement when you felt like you were one breath from death. He wrapped your daughter in a blanket and balanced her in one arm while tending to you, like he’d held a newborn a million times before.

That’s why you trust him. You probably trust him even when you don’t want to—because you owe him.

He gives a reassuring smile when you relent, handing your baby—your most precious treasure—to the woman in white.

“What’s her name?” the nurse asks, adjusting the blanket around the tiny girl.

You need to moisten your dry lips and summon a strength that no longer seems to exist inside you to make the words come out.

But they don’t leave your mouth.

Then, everything goes dark.

And you faint.

⋆⭒˚.⋆

You wake up in the hospital. It’s warm, mostly thanks to the blankets covering your body.

Ah, damn. Your body. It hurts.

You’re not surprised to be in such rough shape. You hadn’t eaten in days and had just a little water when Tommy found you in an abandoned house, trying to escape the intense cold while your body gave every sign that your baby was coming at any moment.

He gave you food, yes. But it wasn’t enough to undo the damage of days starving.

You look to the side, seeing your little girl… in a crib. Sleeping.

“She’s quieter than most newborns.”

The male voice startles you, and you turn your head to see a man standing in the doorway. Dressed in winter clothes, arms crossed as if he still needed warmth. There’s snow on his shoes.

“I didn’t mean to scare you. Tommy sent me to check on you—he’s my brother.” He takes a step closer into the room. His eyes are fixed on your daughter, as if the sight of her is something beautiful to him too. “Are you both okay?”

“As much as we can be.”

“You don’t have to keep worrying about survival all the time here in Jackson. I imagine Tommy already told you that.”

He did.

And you still aren’t sure if you believe it.

Well, at this point, you don’t have much choice but to believe it.

“Thank you,” you say, unsure what else to say.

Joel comes closer, placing a package on the little table beside your bed.

“Tommy sent sandwiches. Don’t let the nurses see them or they’ll swap it for more soup.” He smiles. Or at least, it’s an attempt at a smile. Joel definitely doesn’t look like the smiling type.

You try to smile too. It must be the first time in a long while that a smile crosses your face.

The past few hours have been… far too tense for smiling.

“Thank you,” you say again.

“What’s her name?” Joel keeps his hands behind his back, as if trying to make you feel safer as he steps closer to the crib. “Tommy said you hadn’t decided yet.”

You shake your head.

That’s a lie. You’ve known what name you’d choose for your daughter since the moment you found out you were pregnant.

You told Tommy, and you can’t see a reason why he’d lie to anyone about it.

“Sarah,” you say, finally.

The faint smile on Miller’s face vanishes.

His brows furrow.

Joel steps back a few paces, his eyes fixed on Sarah like he physically can’t stop staring.

Suddenly, you’re not so sure you want him to stay in the room. Your protective mother instinct knows something is wrong.

“Is something wrong?” you ask anyways, suppressing the urge to get out of bed and stand between Joel and your daughter.

Joel doesn’t answer this time.

He looks at you, but you can’t decipher what’s in his eyes. Fear, anger, confusion? Impossible to tell.

Before you can say anything else… Joel leaves the room. In silence and with quick steps.