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Lena's text had come halfway through his shift. He's having a rough pain day.

Jack is good at hiding it—too good most days—but by the time you arrived, he hadn't argued about who was driving home. He hadn't reached for the driver's door. He'd simply climbed into the passenger seat with a tired, resigned exhale. That alone had told you Lena hadn't been exaggerating

When you pull into the driveway, he reaches for the handle before you can get around the car. He gets one foot onto the pavement before you see the slight wobble. You slide an arm around his waist without making a fuss, offering just enough support to steady him.

He goes still for half a second, then he leans into you. Not much, but just enough to keep himself balanced.

Together, you make your way toward the front door. The moment it swings open, his gaze lands on the wheelchair waiting in the hallway. His shoulders drop. The relief that crosses his face is so fleeting that most people would never notice it. You catch it anyway.

"Come on, honey."

He huffs out a sound that's somewhere between a grumble and a laugh. "You've been conspiring."

"I plead the fifth."

"Lena," he accuses.

You smile but don't answer.

He lowers himself into the chair with a low groan he can't quite swallow back.

You crouch in front of him, slipping off your own shoes before reaching for his. He doesn't stop you. You untie the laces, ease off his shoe, then carefully unfasten the prosthetic. He handles the last strap himself, setting the leg aside before instinctively rubbing the end of his limb with slow circles.

"Did you take your meds?"

"Mm."

"When?"

"Before I left."

You nod, satisfied, and curl your hands around the wheelchair handles.

"I can wheel myself."

"I know." You keep walking anyway.

He looks over his shoulder at you for a beat, then gives the smallest shake of his head—the kind that says you're trouble without a single word. He still lets you push him.

The bathroom door is already open. The tub is full, steam curling lazily through the room. White bubbles drift across the surface of the water.

Jack's eyes widen just a fraction. "Sweetheart..." The word catches in his throat.

You lock the wheels before stepping around to his side. "Let's get you in. It'll help."

He nods once.

Without prompting, he peels off his scrub top and tosses it onto the hamper. His hands pause at the waistband of his trousers. He works them down himself, stubborn enough to keep that piece of his independence, and you busy yourself gathering his clothes instead of watching.

When he's finished, he settles back against the chair for a moment, rubbing the tender skin, his eyes slipping closed. Only when the worst of it passes does he brace his hands on the armrests to stand again.

When he's ready, you step close, slipping an arm around his waist while he grips the support handle bolted to the wall.

"I've got you."

He shifts his weight carefully, jaw clenched against the effort. You don't rush him. One slow movement at a time, he lowers himself into the bath. He grips the rail until the water reaches his hips, only then letting go.

The moment the warm water surrounds him, every muscle in his body seems to loosen.

A long breath escapes him. He closes his eyes for a second before looking back up at you. "Thank you."

You brush a curl off his forehead. "You don't have to thank me."

"I do." His voice is quiet. "I know I don't make this easy."

"No." You smile softly. "You don't."

A tired chuckle rumbles out of him.

"But you still let me," you point out.

His thumb finds your wrist, rubbing it absentmindedly. "Only because it's you."

Silence settles between you, warm and familiar. After a moment, he tilts his head toward the water. "Join me?"

You glance at the water, then back at him. "I don't want to bump your leg."

"You won't."

"You sure?"

He reaches out, his fingers finding yours. "Please."

The shower had been running long enough for you to read the same paragraph three times.

Joel had claimed the heat might help his hand, although the doctor had prescribed ice, elevation and several days without gripping anything. The X-ray had shown no fracture. Joel had treated that information like permission to ignore the rest, trying to open the truck door with his injured hand before you had even left urgent care. By dinner, the bruising had spread in deep violet shadows across his knuckles, and you had needed soap to ease his wedding band over the swelling.

That had bothered him more than the pain.

He had watched you work the ring slowly over his knuckle, his mouth set in a hard line, and when it finally slipped free into your palm, his thumb had rubbed once over the pale indentation it left behind.

“Only for a few days, honey,” you had told him.

“I know, I know.”

But he continued staring at his empty finger until you placed the band on the bedside table beside your own things, safely within view.

You opened his painkillers, replaced his bandage and left him to shower while you climbed into bed with your book. But the water continued to run and you had retained nothing from the page before you.

You closed the book.

“Joel?”

No answer.

You glanced at the clock, set the book aside and crossed the bedroom.

Steam rolled through the bathroom when you opened the door. His discarded bandage lay damp beside the sink, his clothes gathered in a careless heap near the hamper. The mirror had fogged completely, but through the glass of the shower you could make out the broad, blurred shape of him standing beneath the water.

“Joel?” you called again.

No answer came, though beneath the steady rush you heard the faint scrape of skin against tile, followed by a low curse that was unmistakably his.

You undressed and stepped inside quietly, drawing a breath when the hot water struck your shoulder.

Joel stood with his back to you.

He had his head bowed and his right arm braced against the wall from elbow to wrist, protecting the swollen hand from bearing his weight. Even in the softened light, you could see the mottled bruising across his knuckles, his fingers held stiff and slightly apart. His left palm rested lower on the tile. His broad shoulders were drawn tight, every muscle along his back rigid beneath the water as it streamed through the silver beginning to thread the dark curls at the nape of his neck. It followed the shallow groove of his spine, split around the soft fullness above his hips and disappeared between his legs.

For several seconds, you simply watched him.

His left arm moved, but the motion lacked the steady, practiced rhythm you knew, his fist travelling over his cock with an awkwardness that seemed to frustrate him more each time. He adjusted his grip, tried again and shifted his hips forward, chasing a sensation his other hand could not quite give him. His shoulders tightened. A harsher curse slipped from him when his injured fingers flexed instinctively against the tile.

The sight sent heat through you with such sudden force that your breath caught.

Joel touching himself would always affect you—the thick length of him flushed dark in his fist, water shining over the soft curve of his stomach and the wet hair beneath his navel—but it was the vulnerability of the moment that drew you closer. This was the man who noticed when your shoulders hurt before you complained, who left water on your bedside table every night because you always woke thirsty, who could read the smallest change in your breathing beneath his hands and know whether you needed more, less, faster, slower. He had spent years learning every language your body spoke.

Yet he stood alone beneath the water, unable to give himself what he needed, too proud to call for you and too stubborn to stop trying.

You stepped closer without speaking.

He was so absorbed in the effort that he did not hear the shower door close behind you. He did not notice the water shift when your body interrupted its path or the quiet whisper of your bare feet against the tile. It was only when you placed your mouth between his shoulder blades, lips pressing softly to the center of his wet back, that his entire body jolted.

“Jesus!”

His head turned sharply. Pain flashed across his face when his injured fingers contracted against the wall, and he forced them open again with a hiss.

“Didn’t hear you, darlin’.”

“I noticed, baby.”

Your lips moved over his back once more, slower this time. Water ran between your mouth and his skin, tasting faintly of soap. Up close, the heat of him felt different from the heat surrounding you, deeper and alive, held taut beneath skin that shivered when you kissed the raised ridge of an old scar near his shoulder.

“What’re you doin’ in here?” he asked.

“Checking on my handsome husband.”

You rested your chin against him and looked down the length of his body. His left hand had gone still, the grip around himself loosening now that he knew you were watching. Embarrassment was not something Joel wore easily; on him, it appeared as a stubborn tilt of his chin and a refusal to look directly at you.

“Looks like I was right to worry.”

“Ain’t anythin’ to worry about.”

“You’ve been in here twenty minutes.”

“Lost track.”

“That so?”

Your palms settled at his waist and moved around him, spreading over the curve of his belly. He had grown softer through the middle over the years, his body shaped by long workdays, evening beers and all the second helpings he accepted after insisting he was full. You loved the weight of him, the solid breadth of his chest, the coarse hair flattened beneath your fingers. You loved the familiar scars and the places age had begun touching him. You loved that you could stand behind him with your eyes closed and know precisely where your hands rested.

“Seems like you’re hurting yourself because you’d rather wrestle with the wrong hand than call your wife,” you murmured.

“Wasn’t hurtin’ myself, sweetheart.”

“No?”

Your nails travelled upward through the hair on his stomach before descending again, leaving pale trails across his flushed skin. Joel’s breath changed when your fingertips passed beneath his navel.

“That hand doesn’t seem to be accomplishing much either.”

His jaw tightened, but his hips shifted subtly into his fist.

You closed the remaining distance between you and pressed your naked body to his back. The instant your breasts touched him, his breath caught. Your mouth found the side of his neck while one hand remained spread over his stomach and the other followed the dark line beneath his navel.

“Couldn’t get it right?” you asked softly.

“Left hand don’t feel like mine.”

There was so much quiet frustration in the admission that your teasing softened.

“You could’ve called me.”

“Didn’t wanna bother you, baby.”

You lifted your head. “Joel Miller, I don’t care if I’m reading, sleeping or halfway through the best dream of my life. Asking me to touch you is never going to bother me.”

“Ain’t exactly somethin’ you should have to—”

“No.” You kissed the back of his shoulder as your hand slipped lower, fingertips barely grazing the coarse hair at the base of his cock. “You take care of me so often that half the time I don’t notice you’re doing it until it’s already done. So let me have my turn.”

The rigid set of his shoulders loosened by a fraction.

His left hand opened around himself, although surrendering even that unsatisfying contact made his hips follow your hovering fingers.

“Need a hand, don’t you, cowboy?” you teased, catching the edge of his ear gently between your teeth.

A strained breath left him, somewhere between a groan and a protest.

“You gonna help or keep makin’ fun of me?”

“I haven’t decided yet.” You clicked your tongue. “You do look awfully pretty struggling, baby.”

“Christ, woman.”

“Although…” Your hand settled over his left wrist and guided it away from his cock. He allowed you to place his palm on the tile, but his body remained tense, caught somewhere between wanting what you offered and resisting the act of receiving it. “I suppose I could lend my favorite cowboy a hand. If he asks nicely.”

Joel lowered his forehead to the wall.

Water slipped through the grey in his beard and fell from his jaw. Pride held him silent for another moment. You could almost feel the struggle taking place inside him—the same man who would carry too many grocery bags rather than make a second trip, who would work through a fever and insist he was only tired, who treated being needed as though it were the simplest form of love but had never learned how to need someone without apology.

You spread your palm over his bare ring finger.

The touch made him look down.

His gaze rested on your hand covering his, your wedding band shining through the water while his finger remained pale and empty beneath it. His thumb moved once against the tile, reaching for yours before remembering the awkward angle.

Then his weight shifted back into you.

“Need you,” he admitted quietly.

You waited with your lips resting against his shoulder, though the answer had already travelled through you. Joel asked for so little that sometimes you resented him for it. He would mention that his boots needed replacing only after the soles had begun admitting water, would say he was hungry once you had already placed a plate before him, would carry an ache for days until you noticed the careful way he avoided turning his neck. Even now, naked and hard between your arms, he had tried to make the request smaller than it was. Need you. Two words offered in place of everything his body had already confessed, as though wanting something from you was still harder than enduring without it.

His breath left him slowly. His empty ring finger shifted beneath your palm. When you still did not move, his hips pressed back against you before rolling forward, his cock brushing heavily against the hand you kept just beyond his reach.

“Please,” he said, whatever remained of his pride finally yielding to the need roughening his voice. “Put your hand on my cock. Stroke me. Been tryin’ to come for so goddamn long, and I can’t—I need you to do it for me.”

Joel had trusted you with his home, his daughter, the parts of his past he still struggled to name. He had stood before everyone you loved and placed a ring on your finger with hands that had trembled more than his voice. Yet this small surrender seemed to cost him something too.

You kissed the pale place where his wedding band belonged.

“Good boy.”

Joel went utterly still.

His breathing stopped for one suspended second, his stomach turning rigid beneath your forearm and his left palm pressing flat against the tile. His cock pulsed before you had even closed your fingers around him.

Slowly, he looked back at you.

Steam had gathered in his lashes. His dark eyes found yours over his shoulder, surprise exposed there before he could conceal it, followed by a heat so immediate that your thighs drew together behind him. A flush travelled higher along his throat. He appeared almost offended by the force of his own reaction, as though his body had answered you before his pride could intervene.

“What’d you call me?”

“You heard me, baby.”

His gaze dropped to your mouth. “Say it again.”

A smile touched your lips, but you did not laugh at him. There was something too open in his expression, too uncertain beneath the want.

“Later,” you promised. “Face the wall and lean back against me. Let your wife take care of you, big boy.”

Joel held your gaze for another moment before looking forward again. His forehead settled against the tile as his shoulders gradually loosened beneath your arms. He moved back until the curve of his ass pressed firmly against your lower stomach, giving you more of his weight than before.

You kissed the center of his back and slid your right hand down.

This time, you did not stop.

Your fingers curled around the base of his cock, and Joel’s entire body answered.

His abdomen contracted beneath your forearm. His left palm slipped before flattening against the wall again. A sound left him—low, involuntary, pulled from somewhere beneath the frustration he had carried into the shower—and the thick length of him hardened further in your grip.

You held him without moving at first, letting him feel the fit of your hand around him although your fingers could not quite meet. Heat pulsed beneath the slick skin, his heartbeat fast and heavy against your palm. You adjusted the showerhead until the strongest part of the spray struck his back rather than your joined hands, then tightened your grip. Another broken breath warmed your cheek.

“There,” you murmured. “Better?”

“Fuck, yes—”

“I thought so.” You stroked him slowly from base to tip, watching his stomach pull tight beneath your arm. “Next time you need my hand around your cock, come put it there.”

Joel’s hips followed your fist as it descended. “Knew you’d enjoy this.”

“You knew correctly.”

Your thumb swept over the broad head before your fist travelled down again. At the base, you loosened your grip and slipped your free hand beneath him. Joel groaned when your palm cupped his balls, the swollen, heavy weight of them filling your hand while the other continued moving slowly along his cock.

“Oh, baby...” You rolled them gently beneath your fingers, and his hips pressed forward as though even that small touch had reached somewhere deeper than he expected. “No wonder you were getting so frustrated. These are awfully full.”

“Don’t start.”

The words lacked any real warning. They came roughened by the careful twist of your wrist, Joel’s breath catching when you tightened your fist beneath the head. You smiled against his shoulder and gave him another long stroke, refusing the faster pace his body was beginning to seek.

“I’ve already started.” Your lips followed a rivulet of water toward the sensitive place behind his ear. “You should’ve seen yourself, hiding in here with all of this aching for relief.”

“Enjoyin’ yourself?”

“Very much.” You squeezed the weight in your palm once more, tender enough to make his thighs tense. “I’ve got my handsome husband naked in my arms, getting harder every time I tease him. I can feel how badly he needs to come, and he’s making the prettiest noises while I take my time giving him exactly what he asked for.” Your thumb gathered the slickness from the tip and spread it beneath the head. “What’s not to enjoy?”

“Mean woman.”

The complaint dissolved into a groan when your fingers tightened around him. His hips followed your hand instinctively, cock sliding through your wet fist while you maintained the slow rhythm already wearing away his restraint.

“Mm. And you love me.”

“Yeah.” His answer came without hesitation, broken slightly by the next stroke. “More than anythin’.”

The words entered you with the familiar weight of truth. Joel could spend ten uninterrupted minutes complaining about traffic, Tommy or the price of lumber, but anything that mattered was pared down until only its simplest form remained. More than anythin’ was extravagance from a man like him, offered with his forehead resting against the shower wall, his injured hand held carefully before him and his body surrounded by yours.

You kissed him behind the ear and released the heavy weight beneath his cock, bringing your free arm around his middle. Your palm spread over his stomach as you drew him more securely against you.

“Good,” you murmured. “Then be sweet and let me take my time with you.”

You kept the first strokes long and measured, your fist gliding over every thick inch before closing more firmly on the descent. Joel attempted to follow you, but impatience made his hips arrive too early. You adjusted without comment, refusing to hurry; the next time he thrust forward, you slowed near the head and held him snugly in your palm until a strained breath escaped through his teeth.

Water ran over his shoulders and divided around your arms, gathering briefly in the dark hair beneath his navel before disappearing between your joined bodies. The shower could not conceal the low sounds he made whenever your grip changed or the unconscious contraction of his stomach beneath your palm. You understood what he wanted—the shallow movement of his hips asking for more speed, his left hand spreading against the tile to brace for the pressure he preferred—but kept him at that patient rhythm a little longer. By the time you tightened your fist, frustration no longer held his shoulders rigid. He was waiting for you, and his cock pulsed heavily against your palm.

“That’s it,” you whispered, your mouth close to his ear. “You can move with me now.”

Joel released a deep, uneven breath and rolled his hips forward. You met him, your fist descending as he pushed into it and closing more firmly when he reached the base. On his retreat, you stroked upward, letting the swollen head drag through the circle of your fingers before guiding him into the next movement. He followed more carefully this time, the rhythm hesitant only for the first few strokes before pleasure taught him what you wanted.

“There you go, baby.”

“God—feels so damn good.”

You held him close and let the rhythm develop between you. Each thrust grew deeper, Joel’s ass pressing into your lower stomach when he drew back before he drove forward again. Your fist worked over him in time with the motion, no longer making him wait, though you retained enough control to keep his impatience from carrying him too quickly toward the edge.

The change reached his breathing first. Those deep, measured pulls of air began catching halfway into his lungs, his mouth opening against the tile to release the low sounds he had tried to suppress when you entered. Soon he no longer seemed aware of them. His attention had narrowed to your fingers around his cock, your palm against his stomach and the body supporting him from behind.

You kissed the wet slope of his shoulder.

Joel had touched you in darkness and sunlight, slowly and with desperate hunger, had learned your body so thoroughly that sometimes a single adjustment of his hand could make you fall apart. Yet this felt different from simply returning the pleasure he had given you over the years. Tonight, he could not reach back and distract you with your own need. He could not turn, gather you against him and assume the responsibility of taking care of both of you. All he could do was remain inside your embrace and trust that being wanted did not depend upon what he could offer in return.

Your grip tightened. Joel groaned and drove forward with enough force to push the air from your lungs. You widened your stance and continued meeting him as the movement grew rougher, each thrust dragging his cock rapidly through your closed fingers before your hand followed him back to the base. Wet skin moved against wet skin beneath the shower, punctuated by his heavier breathing and a broken curse whenever you changed the angle of your wrist.

You pressed your mouth beneath his ear.

“Take it, baby,” you murmured. “Use my hand exactly how you need.”

Joel stopped trying to follow each movement you gave him and began taking the friction for himself, thrusting through your fist with all the force he had been restraining. You let him, your hand closed and steady around him while your other arm held him against you—until his injured fingers curled instinctively against the tile. The hiss that left him cut through the pleasure. You caught his wrist at once and drew his arm away from the wall without slowing the motion between his legs.

“Give me this one.”

Joel allowed you to fold his arm across his chest. You tucked the bruised hand against his opposite shoulder and covered it with your own, your forearm securing it safely in place.

“Ain’t bad,” he managed.

“Shh.”

You kissed the uninjured edge of his wrist. Your fist continued working steadily over his cock as though caring for one hurting part of him required no sacrifice from the rest.

Joel’s chest rose beneath your arm. His bruised fingers gradually relaxed against his shoulder, and his left hand left the tile to cover yours where it held him. His thumb searched through the water until it found the smooth band around your finger and rested there.

You turned your face and kissed his cheek.

Joel leaned into it for a fleeting second before the next stroke pulled a groan from him. His thumb remained pressed over your wedding band as he settled farther back, giving you more of his weight without looking to see whether you could hold it. You planted your feet, tightened your arm around his chest and did.

He was letting you have all of his need now: his injured hand held safely beneath yours, his balance entrusted to your body, his pleasure naked in every sound he could no longer contain. When your fist moved faster, his hips answered immediately. The rhythm that had belonged to both of you began to unravel as he pushed forward too soon and retreated only far enough to thrust again, each movement shorter and rougher than the last.

You adapted without breaking pace, concentrating the friction where his body responded most strongly. A rough curse left him when you repeated it, his cock almost painfully rigid within your fist, the pulse against your palm heavier and more insistent. His thighs began to tremble as the measured roll of his hips disappeared altogether. He was no longer fucking your hand with any discernible rhythm; he was chasing it, moving on instinct whenever your grip reached the sensitive head.

Your own breathing quickened against his back. Heat gathered low in your stomach as you watched the man who could reduce you to pleading with the smallest movement lose himself in your arms. You pressed your thighs together, but every sound he made travelled directly through you, every desperate thrust sending another pulse of want between your legs. None of it made you want to turn his attention toward you. Tonight, his pleasure was enough.

Your mouth found the place beneath his ear that always made his shoulders rise.

“Look at you,” you whispered, affection wrapped around the teasing words. “You were so determined to handle this yourself, and now you can barely keep those legs steady.”

Joel tried to answer, but your fist tightened and the words collapsed into a hoarse moan. You smiled against his skin.

“No clever answer for me?”

“Hard to—” He broke off, thrusting roughly into your grip. “Hard to fuckin’ think.”

“That’s all right, baby. You don’t need to.”

You increased the pace until the movement became relentless, your slick fist closing around him as quickly as his hips could push forward. Joel’s forehead pressed against the tile, shoulders drawing tight as pleasure gathered beyond his control. His breathing fractured into rough, shallow pulls, each ending in a sound he no longer attempted to swallow.

His left hand abandoned yours and flattened against the wall, fingers splayed wide for purchase. Your wedding ring remained warm beneath the place his thumb had pressed it. He drove into your fist once, twice, then faltered, the next thrust arriving shorter as his cock throbbed heavily in your palm. You felt the approaching release before he spoke—in the sudden rigidity of his stomach, the way his thighs locked as if bracing might delay what your hand was already pulling from him, the helpless twitch that travelled through his cock whenever your grip reached the head.

“Baby—” His voice cracked around the word.

You kissed his jaw. “I know.”

“Close—”

The admission came through clenched teeth, barely louder than the water. You kept your fist moving at the same firm pace, refusing to startle his body with any sudden change.

“How close?”

“Real fuckin’—close.”

Joel attempted another thrust, but the rhythm had abandoned him entirely. His hips jerked into your hand and stopped, leaving you to carry the movement while he trembled within your arms. His weight tipped backward. You accepted all of it, your forearm held securely across his chest and his injured hand protected beneath yours.

“Please,” he rasped. “Don’t slow down—”

“I won’t, baby.”

Your fist travelled over him in fast, complete strokes, drawing the tension tighter with each pass. His cock pulsed violently against your palm, so close now that every movement seemed to pull a broken sound from the deepest part of his chest.

You caught his earlobe gently between your teeth.

“Every drop for me?”

“All yours.” The answer came instantly, stripped of breath and pride. His head dropped as his hips gave one final, desperate drive through your fist. “Every fuckin’ drop.”

A tender satisfaction spread beneath the heat in your chest. You tightened your embrace, lips brushing the shell of his ear while your hand gave him the exact rhythm his body had been seeking from the moment you entered the shower.

“That’s my good boy,” you whispered. “Give it to me.”

The praise undid him.

Joel came with a sound so raw it seemed torn from the center of him.

His entire body locked in your arms. His cock jerked hard in your fist, the first hot pulse spilling over your fingers before the shower could carry it away. His hips punched forward with the next one, wrenching a broken groan from his throat as another thick streak struck the tile beneath him.

You kept your hand moving, drawing every stroke from base to tip while release continued to pulse from him. Each one seized a different part of his body—his stomach clenching beneath your arm, his thighs jumping, his shoulders drawing taut beneath your mouth. You felt the force of it pass through him until there was nothing left with which he could hold himself upright.

His knees buckled.

You caught his full weight before either of you could fall.

Your chest pressed tightly to his back, your arm banded across his ribs and your palm protecting the swollen knuckles tucked against his shoulder. Joel trembled through every aftershock, forehead resting heavily against the wall. His cock gave one final, helpless pulse into your slowing hand.

“Fuck,” he choked. “Baby—”

“Easy. I’ve got you.”

You continued moving until the last throb softened beneath your palm. Only then did you loosen your fingers, careful of the sensitivity that made his hips flinch when your thumb grazed the head. The water washed your hand clean, carrying the evidence of his release toward the drain.

Joel remained folded against the wall, his breathing coming in ragged pulls. You kept him gathered within your arms, lips moving over his shoulder and along the nape of his neck while the final tremors passed through him.

“Take your time, baby,” you murmured. “I’m not going anywhere.”

His left hand covered your forearm where it crossed his chest. His thumb rubbed slowly over your skin, Joel still searching for some way to touch you even while you bore most of his weight.

Eventually, he lifted his head.

“Need to turn around.”

“You steady?”

“With you holdin’ me? Yeah.”

You helped him move carefully, keeping his injured hand against his chest until his back met the wall. The moment he faced you, his left arm came around your waist and pulled you against him.

Joel kissed you before you could speak.

The kiss held none of the frantic hunger that had taken him apart moments earlier. It was slow and open, his lips moving over yours with an exhausted tenderness that left you more exposed than anything he had said. His damp beard scraped gently across your chin as he kissed you again, lingering this time, breathing you in as though the release had stripped him down to the simplest things he knew.

Your hands settled against his chest.

He rested his forehead against yours.

“Thank you,” he whispered.

“You never have to thank me for touching you. Your needs are my needs too.”

“Ain’t only that.”

His hand moved slowly up your back, keeping you close.

“Been meanin’ everything else.”

You traced the wet line of his jaw with your thumb. “Joel…”

He watched you, something tired and unguarded in his eyes.

“You’d do the same for me,” you said.

“In a heartbeat.”

“Then quit acting like it only works one way, my love.”

The corner of his mouth lifted before he kissed you again. His hand travelled down your arm until his fingers found yours, and he raised your left hand between you. His thumb passed over your wedding band with quiet concentration.

“Feels strange not havin’ mine on.”

“I know.”

“Kept reachin’ for it all night.”

“I noticed that too.”

You guided his injured hand closer and pressed your lips to the bare place where his ring belonged.

“Still all mine without it.”

His eyes softened. “Always.”

You stayed beneath the water until his breathing settled, holding each other in the humid quiet. When you finally turned off the shower, Joel allowed you to dry him, although he complained when you knelt to run the towel down his legs.

“Can dry my own damn feet, darlin’.”

“With which hand?”

His mouth closed.

“That’s what I thought.”

You wrapped the towel around his waist and guided him into the bedroom with your palm resting at the base of his spine.

The wedding band remained exactly where you had left it.

Joel looked at it while you sat him on the edge of the mattress and knelt between his knees with fresh gauze. You worked carefully around each bruised knuckle, smoothing the bandage without pulling it too tightly. He watched your hands throughout, quiet and heavy-limbed, his left palm resting warmly against the back of your neck.

When you finished, you raised his injured hand and kissed the pale indentation once more.

His gaze moved from his bare finger to the ring on the table.

Then he reached for it with his left hand.

“Joel, you can’t put it back on yet.”

“I know, baby, but I was thinkin’…” He picked up the band and held it toward you. “You still got that chain in your jewelry box? The one you don’t wear?”

Your heart gave a small, painful pull.

“I do.”

You retrieved the thin chain and sat beside him. Joel placed the ring in your palm, trusting you with it as he had trusted you with everything else that night. You threaded the chain through the band before fastening it carefully around his neck.

The ring settled against the damp hair on his chest.

Joel looked down and touched it with two fingers. His thumb passed slowly over the familiar curve before he closed his hand around it, holding it against his sternum. The tension that had lingered in his face since you removed it finally eased; his shoulders dropped, and the breath he released sounded deeper than any he had taken since leaving urgent care.

“Better?” you asked.

“Yeah.” His eyes lifted to yours, tired and unmistakably relieved. He gave the ring another small squeeze but did not release it. “Much better.”

You covered his closed hand with yours. “You really hated having it off.”

Joel glanced down at the pale indentation around his finger. “Kept feelin’ for it.” His thumb rubbed over the empty place as though demonstrating a habit his body had not yet learned to abandon. “Every time I looked at my hand, somethin’ felt wrong. Like I’d left part of myself sittin’ on that table.”

The quiet confession tightened your throat. It was only a circle of gold, small enough to disappear inside his broad palm, but Joel had worn it through years of work, sleep, arguments, dinners and mornings when neither of you had anything more important to say than asking who had finished the coffee. He had grown so accustomed to carrying the visible proof of your life together that its absence had left his hand feeling unfamiliar to him.

You curled your fingers around his, pressing the ring gently against his chest. “It was never going anywhere.”

“Know that.” His gaze returned to yours. “Still didn’t like bein’ without it.”

You leaned forward and kissed the crease between his brows, lingering until it softened beneath your mouth.

“Come here,” you murmured, drawing back the covers. “Let me hold you, my love.”

He lay down without argument, his injured hand elevated safely on the pillow. When you settled beside him, Joel rested his head against your chest and curved his left arm around your waist. The ring lay cool between his skin and yours, warming slowly where your bodies met.

His thumb found your wedding band once more.

“Mine safe, sweetheart?” he asked, already half asleep.

You covered the ring resting over his heart.

“Right here, baby.”

Joel released one final, tired breath against your skin. His entire body softened into the mattress, giving you its full and familiar weight.

This time, when you held him, he did not try to hold you up in return.

volume I

volume II

volume III

epilogue

they were all stunned as the bouncer at the door pulled the velvet rope back, giving pope one of those bro handshakes before stepping to the side to let them in. "this is where you do security?" deran snickered, eyebrows raised as they made their way into the club. all he could do was shrug, making his way to one of the booths that was empty. he constantly found himself checking his watch, making sure that he wasn't too late to see you on stage. he had never done this before. never showed up on one of your nights off just to watch you dance. the fear that you would be freaked out by it was swirling in his mind, all thoughts telling him to leave but he was glued to his seat. one of the girls was quick to make their way around with a tray of shots, her eyes widening slightly at the sight of pope tucked into the back of the booth. "hi pope," she spoke, a knowing smirk on her face. all of them knew why he was here. for you. he simply nodded at her, eyes looking right past her at the stage. he didn't care for the other girls. sure, he liked to look at tits but not ones that didn't belong to you. "you fucking her?" craig laughed with his eyebrows raised, his laugh immediately dying from the scowl pope threw his way. "no, idiot," he spat, quickly downing the shot.

as if on cue, the lights dimmed and your song began to play. pope was quick to sit up in the booth, elbow resting on the table as he stared at the stage. the hot pink set with matching heels almost had him drooling, your hair all curled and done up. it looked lighter, like you had gotten highlights. "jesus christ," j mumbled beside him, all of the cody's eyes locked on you as you worked the pole. jealousy immediately began to boil inside of him, taking notice as to how all his brothers were now glued to you. his eyes were immediately focused back on you, bills being thrown at your feet. he was quick to notice how you didn't look throughout the crowd, you didn't hold eye contact with anyone, you looked like you just wanted it to be over with. he couldn't help but smirk a little, the thought of you not being into it because he wasn't there only made his ego grow. they all sat in silence as they watched the rest of your routine, pope's eyes never leaving the stage. "yeah, i want a room with her," craig laughed, downing another shot. he nearly choked as pope's arm shot forward to grab at his collar, pulling him to face him. "you aren't getting shit from her," he snarled, shoving craig right back into his seat. they all looked around at each other, almost a silent agreement that yeah he was fucking you.

"pope's here," one of the girls giggled to you once you had made it back stage, stuffing all the cash you received into a bag. you were quick to spin around to face her, eyebrows furrowed together. "no, he's off today," you spoke confused, shaking your head as you moved to put your lip gloss on, popping your lips in the mirror. "he's with some guys," she snickered, your posture immediately straightening. did he come just to see you? you were quick to wave her off, doing another once over at yourself in the mirror before you were rushing to grab a tray of drinks and begin your rounds around. your eyes were quick to scan the room, trying to spot him out of the crowd. it didn't take long either, it was like your body was trained to find him. he was looking right at you, a small smirk tugging at the corner of his lips when your eyes locked. you couldn't help but smile back, slowly making your way over to the table. "hi, andy," you cooed a little as you stood in front of the table, all of their eyes now locked on you. "andy?" baz mumbled with a raised eyebrow, pope quick to elbow his side. "you guys want a bottle?" you spoke with a raised eyebrow, manicured hand wrapped tightly around the one you held.

pope was quick to nod, pulling out his wallet immediately. "fuck yeah, drinks on pope," deran laughed, grabbing the bottle once you had set it down. pope only shot him a glare, reaching forward to place a couple hundred dollar bills in your hand. you knew he knew how much bottles were. why so much? "i'll be back with your change and glasses. gimme a minute, yeah?" you spoke, that sweet smile on your face only causing pope's jaw to clench tightly. he watched as you walked away, eyes never leaving your ass or legs. "jesus christ dude, you look like you're about to explode," craig mumbled to pope, the other man immediately standing to push his way out of the booth and follow after you. you had already made it up to the bar, your back to the crowd as you asked for some glasses. "don't want the change. keep it," pope's voice spoke next to you, making you jump a little as you turned to face him. "that's so much extra," you giggled, arms crossing over your chest tightly. he shrugged, grabbing some of the glasses for you so you didn't have to carry so many. "thank you, andy," you spoke softly, smiling at him. he didn't hide the fact that he was looking you up and down, his foot reaching forward to gently nudge to heel of your stiletto. "these are pretty. they new?" he mumbled, eyes finally making it back up to your face.

you could feel the blush burning your skin, the glasses clinking together quietly as you held them. "do you want a dance?" you blurted out, wanting to bite your tongue off at your eagerness. he just looked so good. you couldn't resist. he stared deadpanned at you, chewing at the inside of his cheek. you could never read him, never tell how he was going to react to things or what he was feeling. he glanced back at the table where his brothers sat, before he slowly turned back to you. "sure," he nodded, a smile tugging at your lips. you were quick to go back to their table to set the glasses down, pope next to you the whole time. "make sure you guys tip the girls good," you winked at the men, turning to grab pope's hand gently before leading him back. they all stared dumbfounded, pope turning back to look at them as he followed you with a shit eating smirk on his face. he felt like he was melting just from your hand holding his as you dragged him down the hallway. he could feel your heartbeat racing through your fingertips as you slowly pushed open the door to the room, leading him inside. he hesitated to let go of your hand, moving to sit on the large couch that was pushed against the wall. the hum of the music was completely drowned out from the sound of his own heartbeat in his ears.

you were never nervous when you danced, the flow of it just coming naturally to you. but now you felt like you were dancing for the first time, pope's hands resting on his thighs as he stared up at you. "why'd you come in today?" you asked as you slowly moved to straddle his waist, his hands immediately moving to the side. he would hate to make you uncomfortable with any unwanted touch. the last thing he wanted you to be was scared of him. "you can touch me, andrew," you spoke softly, your hands moving to wrap around the backside of your neck as your hips slowly began to move to the music. it was like he was stuck, his hands raising slightly before they went right back down against the couch. "no touching. that's the rules," he spoke, his voice low and raspy as he stared up at your face. you couldn't help but giggle, your hips only grinding down harder onto him. "can break the rules for you," you spoke softly in his ear, the feeling of your lips brushing his ear causing him to swallow hard. it was like the world was moving in slow motion as his large hands came to grip tightly onto your hips, the feeling of your soft skin against his rough hands having him growing hard immediately.

it was like all his shame went out the door when you turned around, nearly bent in half as your ass moved back against him. the small groan that left his lips only egged you on more, looking back over your shoulder at him. you reaching to grab one of his hands, placing it on your ass, a small moan leaving your lips that you prayed to god he didn't hear. you were quick to sit up, your back pressed to his chest, head thrown back against his shoulder. "you didn't answer my question, why did you come in today?" you spoke again, his hands moving slowly up your stomach till his fingertips were brushing the undersides of your tits. he swallowed hard again, his hips involuntarily bucking up against you as you pressed rather hard down against him. it was like he forgot how to speak, his eyes shutting for a moment before his hands were moving to grab at your boobs. "i wanted to see you," he finally spoke, eyes opening back up to study the side of your face. you couldn't help but smile, hands resting on top of his that were on your chest. the pride that was exploding in your chest almost matched the ache that was exploding in your cunt as his hands groped at you, small groans leaving his lips. you had completely lost track of time as his hands roamed you, a quick couple knocks from the door making pope's head drop against your shoulder.

"you guys okay?" one of the bouncers called from the other side, a small chuckle leaving your lips. "i'll be out in a minute," you called back, slowly standing up between his legs to turn and face him. his fingertips slowly brushed your thighs as his stared up at you, both his and your cheeks a light shade of pink. "how much do i owe you?" he finally spoke, clearing his throat a little as he began to pull out his wallet. it made your heart hurt a little, the reminder that you were just putting on a show for him clear in your mind. your hand was quick to reach and stop on his arm, shaking your head. "it's okay. you tipped me good for the bottle. on the house," you spoke quietly, your voice cracking a little, your eyes burning with the threat of tears. he only furrowed his eyebrows a little bit, slowly raising so he was now stood in front of you. "you can't do that. you'll get in trouble for doing it for free," he mumbled, fishing in his wallet, but again, you pushed it away. "please don't pay me. i enjoyed it," you spoke quietly, your head shaking a little bit. a small sigh left his lips, finally shoving his wallet back into his pocket. "let me take you out. my treat for your treat to me," he almost whispered, a smile tugging at the corner of his lips. you couldn't help but smile, a small breathy laugh leaving your mouth. "fine. if you insist," you teased, the smile finally stretching across his lips. you both stood just staring for a moment, the loud knock repeating at the door. "bye andrew. i'll see you soon," you spoke, pressing a quick peck to his cheek before you were rushing out of the room.

you couldn't erase the large smile you had on your lips the rest of the night as you served drinks to the other patrons. you didn't even do any other private dances, too worried about losing the feeling of his hands on your body that remained. he simply nodded at you as he left with his brothers, all of them poking fun at him as they made their way out the door but again, you didn't care. as the night slowly finished you were giddy as you made your way back to the shared dressing room, the smile never falling off your face. "someone left you a present," one of the girls teased to you, pointing at your vanity. there was a large white envelope peeking out of the top of your book bag. you opened it slowly, your jaw almost dropping at the sight. stuffed inside was at least a thousand dollars, a small note left in the front with some straggly handwriting.

'buy something pretty for our date'

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kay's note: i love this man so bad. if you want tagged let me know

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