pairing: !joel miller x f!reader
wc: 12k (srry lol)
summary: it's joel's 55th birthday and you decide to spoil your husband properly: short dress, no panties, and a home cooked meal. but the real surprise comes at midnight when you finally get to tell him the news you've been keeping from him all week—you're pregnant.
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warnings/tags: 18+, age gap (reader age not explicitly stated but is significantly younger than joel), explicit smut (couch sex, oral, creampie, lots of dirty talk and praise), surprise pregnancy reveal, mentions of past infertility struggles and disappointment, breeding kink vibes/ trying for a baby, soft dominant joel + very tender aftercare, emotional/fluffy ending.
happy tears guaranteed ♡
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a/n: hey guyysss. i know its been almost 2 months since i last updated Almost Yours and im sorry ab that but i've been in a pretty bad writers block + my adhd has been kicking my ass hard. there were days i genuinely wanted to abandon the fic completely bc i couldnt figure out how or if i wanted to continue it, even though i still really love the characters and story.
but i got inspired a couple days ago while reading another daddy joel fic and ended up writing this little birthday one shot instead lol
this is completely separate from almost yours. it's just a soft, fluffy, smutty, pregnancy reveal with our favorite old man.
no pressure at all but comments and feedback always mean the world to me and helps me a lot with the motivation slump ive been in.
thanks for being patient with me♡
updated a/n: would you guys be interested in a mini series out of this? (pregnancy fluff, domestic joel, etc,) i already have like a million little ideas running through my head lol
part 2: coming soon(:
Your little house on the edge of Jackson smells like rosemary and slow-roasted venison. You’re standing at the kitchen counter in the soft glow of the oil lamp, tying the strings of your favorite apron that Joel found for you on a run a few years ago around your waist. The short cotton dress you’d picked out this morning hugs your hips and barely reaches mid-thigh, the black heels you know Joel loves click softly against the wooden floor every time you move between the stove and the table.
Tonight was special. Monday or not, it’s Joel’s fifty-fifth birthday, and you have plans.
You and Joel have been together for three and a half years now. It started quietly after you rode into Jackson half-starved and wary, your shoes still caked with the dust from the long road. He was one of the few people who looked at you like you were more than another body for the patrol roster.
It took a few months after that before anything really happened between the two of you.
Quiet conversations in the Tipsy Bison, long after the last song had faded from the jukebox, and the final stragglers had shuffled out into the night became more frequent, and lingering glances across the dining hall started happening a little more often than you care to admit. The slow, unspoken realizations that followed one by one, each one pulling you a little closer without either of you saying a word.
Only then did you two start seeing each other regularly.
First in the tack room by the stables, tucked between saddles and old leather reins where no one stayed long, then at his place – warm, dim, private – always careful, always secret at the beginning. Joel had been hesitant to make your relationship public because of the years between you, always muttering that folks would think he’d “lost his damn mind messin’ with someone your age”, and he hated the idea of you getting any dirty looks because of him.
But everyone in town seemed to know anyway and didn’t really care.
Tommy’s knowing smirk whenever he caught you two lingering near the stables, Maria’s raised eyebrow and quiet little smile during community dinners when she spotted his hand on the small of your back, and Ellie’s over-the-top eye-rolls accompanied by gagging sounds whenever she noticed you two being affectionate in public... no one was fooled for very long.
A year ago, he’d finally asked you to marry him on the front porch at sunset with you in his lap, voice a little tight and shaky: “I’m too damn old for you, but I wanna keep you anyway.” You’d said yes before he could even finish the sentence.
The first few months of marriage felt like a quiet kind of heaven. Mornings where you woke up tangled in sheets together, slow dances in the kitchen while dinner cooked, and the simple comfort of being able to call him your husband out loud. You learned how he took his coffee on mornings before patrol, how he liked his shirts folded a certain way – even if he refused to admit it – and how he always left the porch light on when you worked late at the green house. He learned the songs you hummed under your breath when you were happy, and that you preferred the left side of the bed. It was the closest thing to peace either of you had known in a long time.
The baby talk hadn’t started right away. It crept in gradually, a few months after the wedding.
At first, it was small, playful things you’d say when you saw one out. You’d watch a father lift his laughing baby high in the air, and you’d bump Joel’s arm gently. “You’d definitely do the same thing,” you teased. “Probably even higher.”
Or on a lazy Sunday morning, you’d stretch beside him in bed and murmur against his shoulder, “Bet our kid would wake up at the crack of dawn just like you do... guess you’d finally have some help dragging me out of bed in the morning.”
Joel would laugh that low, warm rumble, pull you close, and play along. “Hell, you’re plenty trouble on your own darlin’. Not sure if I could handle two of you teamin’ up on me.” But his hand would linger on your stomach, his thumb brushing slow, absent circles through your shirt.
But over the following months, he started giving himself up in quieter ways.
He’d come home from patrol and spend an extra hour in the spare room that had been nothing but storage—sweeping it out, wiping down the walls, moving boxes to the shed without ever saying why. One day he came home with a tiny pair of baby boots he’d traded two extra shifts for at the trading post, a job you knew he hated, pretending it was “just for the community kids.” You knew better. You both did.
For a while, it stayed like that.
The two of you dancing around the topic without ever really talking about it.
One night, though, you were lying in bed, the room dark except for the faint moonlight coming through the window. You were curled against his side, absently playing with the curls at the nape of his neck, twirling them slowly between your fingers. After a quiet moment, you murmured, “You know,” you whispered. “Our kid would probably get your curls... be an absolute handful.” He’d laughed and pulled you closer, one arm tightening around your waist. A couple minutes later, he quietly muttered, “Kid’d propbably have your eyes... be hell on me.” His voice was quiet, almost like he was talking to himself, and he didn’t say anything more after that.
Until one day, after your lunch break at the greenhouse, you’d walked into the community market and spotted Joel a few aisles over. A tired young mother had been struggling with her fussy baby while trying to trade for supplies. You’d watched Joel as he stepped in with nothing but a few small words to the mother, gently taking the squirming little one from her arms. He’d bounced the baby lightly against his chest, murmuring something low and soothing in that rough voice until the cries quieted. The baby had grabbed a fistful of his hair and cooed happily, and Joel let out a rare, soft chuckle, letting the tiny hand tug at his hair without complaint.
You didn’t stop thinking about it all day. The image kept replaying in your mind – how natural he looked, how gentle those big hands could be with something so tiny, the quiet sounds of his chuckle when the baby tugged at his curls. It stayed with you through the rest of your shift, through grocery shopping, and followed you home like a warm little secret.
Later that night, after the dishes were cleared, you were curled against his side on the couch with a fire burning low. You tilted your head up to look at him, fingers tracing lazy circles on his shirt and a nervous smile on your lips.
“I saw you today at the market... with that baby,” you said quietly.
Joel turned his head to look at you, one eyebrow lifting slightly. “Yeah?”
You nodded and hummed in response, still smiling. He let out a low chuckle, the sound small and a little self-deprecating. “What, did I look like a complete lost cause? Figured the kid would start screamin’ any second. Surprised he didn’t hate me on sight.”
“No, no...” you said quickly, shaking your head with a soft laugh. “Joel, you looked perfect. Really.”
He hummed, clearly amused, but you kept going.
“I actually think you’d look even better with your own.”
He paused, then let out a low, surprised laugh, the corners of his eyes crinkling. “My own, huh?”
You nodded, holding his stare. “Yeah,” you said softly, your fingers twisting nervously in the fabric of his shirt as your eyes dropped to his chest for a moment. “I don’t know... maybe—maybe we could start trying? You swallowed the nerves back before continuing. “It wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world… right?”
Joel went quiet for a moment, just watching you, his eyes soft in the firelight. It felt like forever that he was just staring at you. Then a small smile tugged at the corner of his mouth before he reached up and gently brushed a strand of hair out of your face, his thumb lingering on your cheek.
“Absolutely not. Let’s do it,” he whispered. “I’m all in with you.”
Your heart definitely skipped a beat. A bright, giddy smile broke across your face as you let out a disbelieving little laugh. You sat up straighter, tucking your legs beneath you so you could lean closer to him, your hands still gripping his shirt.
“Yeah?” you breathed, eyes wide and sparkling. “Really? You want that?”
His thumb traced your cheekbone as his expression turned impossibly gentle.
“Sweetheart… course’ I want that,” he said quietly. “Want every bit of it with you.”
After that night, you both simply stopped using protection.
By protection, you really just meant the pull-out method. You guys had stopped using condoms a long time ago. They were getting harder and harder to find in Jackson, especially any that actually fit Joel’s size comfortably. And birth control pills just didn’t exist anymore – the clinic had run out years ago, and no one knew how to make more.
So you figured this process wouldn’t take long at all – the second you decided to try, you thought for sure you’d be pregnant before winter was over and be ready to pop by mid-fall.
You were completely wrong. Month after month passed with nothing but disappointment.
And you became quietly obsessed. You read every fertility book the Jackson library had, dog-earing pages until the spines cracked. The copy of “A Guide to Fertility and Family Planning” probably still lives somewhere under your bed.
You started tracking your cycles on the calendar in your journal with careful little marks. You sucked on pineapple cores until your tongue went raw because someone during your shift at the greenhouse said the enzymes helped with “implantation”. And if you weren’t too worn out, you’d do the leg-up-the-wall pose for twenty minutes after you and Joel had sex, just like the book said. You even hung an old horseshoe above the bed “for luck,” laughing at yourself the whole time but doing it anyway.
And Joel saw how it was wearing on you. How much sleep you were losing over it, or how you’d go quiet in the café when the conversation turned to kids. He never admitted it out loud—how badly he wanted a baby, but you could feel it in the way his shoulders dropped every time your period came. Or how his hand would find your stomach without thinking when you were close. Even through his disappointment, he’d still pull you into his lap on the couch or on the porch, wrap those big arms around you, and say something like:
“Hey, none of that cryin’. You’re breakin’ my heart with those eyes. We got all the time in the world. I ain’t goin’ nowhere.”
Or he’d kiss your forehead and murmur, “We’re tryin’, that’s what matters. And if it takes a little longer... well, I ain’t complainin’ about all the practice.”
He’d make love to you slow and gentle after, like he was trying to pour all the comfort he couldn’t quite say into your skin until you forgot the disappointment of it all. But you could tell he was just as upset as you were. Some nights, you’d catch him staring off into nothing, and deep down, you knew he felt responsible because of his age.
Last month, you finally went to the clinic together. The small exam room smelled faintly of antiseptic and dried herbs. The doctor – a no-nonsense woman in her mid-sixties who’d delivered half the babies in Jackson – ran every test she could: blood tests to check your hormone levels, studied the cycle charts you’d been keeping, did a pelvic exam and ultrasound to look at your ovaries. She even asked Joel to step into the next room for a quick sample so they could check his side of things.
The whole thing took nearly two hours, and Joel stayed right there with you the entire time, sitting on that creaky wooden stool with his shoulders tight, one big heavy hand on your knee, thumb rubbing those same slow circles over and over like it was the only thing keeping him anchored to earth.
When the results finally came back, the doctor flipped through the pages, gave a small nod, and offered you both a gentle smile.
“You two are as healthy as they come,” she said. “Hormones look good, everything’s right where it should be. Sometimes it just takes a little longer for some folks, that’s all. Your body will know when it’s time. Keep loving each other and keep trying. That’s the best advice I can give you.”
You’d cried in Joel’s arms that night, and he held you so tight you could barely breathe.
After that, you both just kept trying – loving on each other through the disappointment, stealing quiet moments on the couch, making love a little slower some nights, and pretending it didn’t sting every time your period showed up again.
But all that careful hoping finally broke open last month, in the quietest way possible.
You’d actually found out a full week ago today.
It started with little things you could easily explain away.
The sudden fatigue that made you want to nap in the middle of the day – you’d been pulling extra shifts at the greenhouse to keep your mind off everything. The missed periods – stress and hard work do that to you sometimes.
But one regular morning, you’d walked into the kitchen while Joel was making his coffee, the same strong black brew he drank three cups of every single day since you’d known him. The rich, bitter aroma hit you like a brick wall, turning your stomach violently in a way it never had before. You swallowed hard, fighting the wave of nausea, and calmly excused yourself before slipping off to the bathroom. The second the door clicked shut behind you, you were dry-heaving over the sink, eyes watering.
That was the moment you knew. The smell of coffee had never bothered you before – not once in all the years you’d known Joel.
You’d washed your face, steadied your breathing, and told Joel you needed to run to the market for eggs. He was already heading out the door for morning patrol, so he just kissed your temple and said he’d see you later. The second he was gone, you went straight to the small clinic supply shelf and grabbed a test.
You hurried home, heart hammering the whole way, and took it right there in the guest bathroom—too anxious to make it to yours upstairs. The two pink lines appeared almost instantly. Positive. You sat on the cold floor staring at it with shaking hands, tears already blurring your vision. Only then did you manage to pull yourself up, slip back out of the house, and head straight to the clinic supply shelf again. You grabbed four more, and every single one came back positive.
You stayed on the bathroom floor and cried happy, overwhelming tears, wanting nothing more than to run straight to Joel and tell him right then. But his fifty-fifth birthday was only one week away, and the idea of giving him this news as a surprise felt too perfect to ruin. So you’d kept the secret, buzzing with joy and anticipation every single day since.
The whole week after that had been sweet, sweet torture.
Every time Joel came home from patrol or a night out with friends, you had to swallow the words burning in your throat.
On Tuesday night, he’d pulled you into his lap on the couch like always, rubbing your back while he talked about his day, and you’d nearly blurted it out when his hand drifted to your stomach out of pure habit.
Wednesday morning you almost told him over breakfast when he asked why you hadn’t been coming down to sit with him during his morning coffee like you usually did – you covered it with a laugh and said you’d just been sleeping in a little later these days, but you couldn’t tell him it was because the smell of his coffee still made you stick to your stomach, even when you stayed upstairs with the bedroom door closed.
Thursday evening, while you were washing dishes, he’d come up behind you, wrapped his arms around your waist, and told you how much he loved you while he rested his chin on your shoulder. You’d felt his warm breath on your neck and had to grip the edge of the sink and stop yourself from turning around and saying it right then and there.
At night, it was the hardest.
You’d lie awake beside him, one hand secretly pressed to your lower belly under the covers, feeling the tiniest bit of wonder and fear and joy all mixed together while he slept soundly next to you, completely unaware. You practiced different versions of the announcement in your head probably a million times – sometimes whispering them into the dark, sometimes imagining his face when you finally said the words. By the weekend, you were practically vibrating with the secret, equal parts nervous and deliriously happy, counting down the hours until his birthday.
Tonight was finally the night.
You’d decided to cook him a late dinner because his birthday fell on a Monday this year, and he was going to be gone all day for an important council meeting and supply coordination that Jackson desperately needed – something he couldn’t miss or reschedule.
Normally, you celebrated his birthday properly: a night out at the Tipsy Bison with a few drinks, laughter, and dancing to whatever old records they had spinning, then you’d come home and spend the rest of the night following the one silly, but hot rule you’d started years ago – “Whatever the birthday boy wants.” Joel got to choose everything: the pace, the position, how rough or slow he wanted it, and you happily let him use you however he pleased while whispering, “It’s your day, old man... do whatever you want with me.” And he loved taking his time with that freedom, and you loved watching that rare, hungry smile spread across his face when he realized he had full control.
But since he had an early start tomorrow, you knew tonight had to be quieter and quicker than usual. So you’d planned something simple and intimate – just the two of you at home.
You’d wait until the two of you had finished dinner – plates cleared, honey cake eaten, and that content silence settling between you. Then you’d reach into your apron pocket and pull out that tiny pair of soft wool baby boots – the exact ones he’d brought home months ago that he swore were for the “community kids.” You’d set them gently in the middle of the table, your hands probably shaking with excitement, and say with the biggest, brightest smile:
“Happy birthday, old man... These’ll finally have someone to wear them.”
You set the last plate on the table, nerves and excitement fluttering in your chest like butterflies. Any minute now, he’d walk through that door, tired from patrol, and you’d finally get to give him the best birthday gift ever.
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The front door creaks open a little after eleven thirty, just as you finish slicing the last of the honey cake, setting it gently on the plate.
You hear the heavy thud of his boots first, then the sound of his rifle being set carefully against the wall by the door. A tired sigh leaves him as he steps further inside, shoulders rounded from the long day. But the moment he crosses the threshold into the warm kitchen light and sees you...
His eyes rake slowly over you – the short cotton dress hugging your hips and barely reaching mid-thigh, the frilly apron tied tight around your waist, the black heels he loves that make your legs look endless, and the soft glow of the oil lamp highlighting your every curve.
“Jesus fuckin’ Christ...” His voice drags as he speaks. “You tryin’ to kill an old man on his birthday?”
You turn from the counter with a teasing smile, wiping your hands over your apron, laughing softly. “Just wanted to do something nice for my husband.” You glance up at the clock on the wall before looking back at him. “And it’s not your birthday yet. You’ve still got about thirty minutes left.”
He lets out a short, breathless chuckle and steps closer, his eyes dark and hungry. “Twenty minutes, huh?” His big hands settle possessively on your waist, thumbs stroking over the apron strings. “Plenty of time for me to start unwrappin’ my present early.”
He leans down, voice dropping an octave and lifts the hem of your dress between his thumb and pointer finger, twisting the fabric. “You wearin’ anything under this?”
You give him a playful shrug, eyes sparkling. “Now where’s the fun in telling you that?”
He shakes his head, a low groan rumbling in his chest. “Guess I’ll just have to check myself.”
You let out a small laugh, cheeks warming as his hand leaves from the hem of your dress and up your thigh. “Joel,” you tease, half-scolding, half-amused at how predictably filthy he is.
You hadn’t even meant to—not wear anything under your dress. You were so busy running around trying to get everything ready for tonight, you forgot about the load in the washer you threw in right before you started dinner. Forgot about it right up until Joel reminded you, you in fact, are not wearing anything under this.
His hand slides higher under your dress, fingers brushing slowly up your bare thigh. The moment he realizes you’re not wearing any panties, he lets out a strained sound, caught between a groan and a swear.
His hand clamps firmer at your hips as he draws back just enough to look at you, eyes dark, pupils blown.
“You really came down here with nothin’ on under this?”
You let out a small, embarrassed laugh, your cheeks burning as you try to explain. “I didn’t mean to, I was doing laundry and completely forgot about the load in the washer and—"
Before you can even finish the rest of your sentence, he’s already pulling you back in, one hand sliding down to cup your bare ass, the other moving up and tangling gently in your hair. His lips find yours in a slow, deep kiss that makes you weak at the knees. You smile against his lips, leaning into him, your body already responding to his touch.
His fingers knead your ass for a moment before sliding between your legs. The second his fingertips brush along your slick folds, you gasp softly into his mouth, your hips jerking toward his hand on their own. A rush of heat floods through you as he teases you with slow, calculated strokes. You can feel how hard he is already, the thick, heavy outline of his cock pressing insistently against your stomach through his jeans.
“Joel,” you murmur between kisses. “Dinner’s gonna get cold.” Your voice comes out a little breathless and shaky, his fingers never losing their rhythm.
“Good,” he smiles against your mouth, nipping at your bottom lip. “I always liked eatin’ my dessert first.”
You giggle softly, the sound turning into a quiet sigh as he kisses you harder. Any other time you would have told him to wait. You would have made him sit down and eat the meal you spent all afternoon prepping, and saved this for later.
But tonight, the early pregnancy hormones are making you ache for him in a way you can’t ignore. Or maybe it’s the way he’s touching you – big calloused hands gripping your bare ass, fingers teasing between your legs like he can’t get enough of you. Either way, you don’t think you can wait.
So you lean into it, arms wrapping around his neck, pressing your body flush to his.
And Joel wastes no time scooping you up.
A low, hungry sound rumbles in his chest as his hands grip your hips tighter. In one smooth motion, he lifts you off the ground, your legs wrap around his waist, the heels of your shoes dig into his leg as he carries you the few steps to the couch, his mouth never leaving yours—it’s deep, messy, and desperate, tongues sliding, teeth nipping.
He lowers you onto the couch and sits you right on the edge of the cushions, still towering over you. One of his knees braces the cushion beside your thigh while his other foot stays planted on the floor. His hand immediately slides back under your dress, rough palms spreading your thighs wider.
“Mmm,” he moans against your mouth. “So wet for me already.”
Two thick fingers glide through your slick folds, teasing your entrance before slowly pushing them inside you. You gasp into his mouth as he curls them, stroking the spot that makes your back arch. He pumps them slowly at first, savoring the way your walls flutter around his fingers, drawing out every little sound. Then he gradually picks up the pace, thrusting deeper while his thick thumb finds your clit and starts circling it with firm, constant pressure – just the way he knows you like.
You moan softly, hips rocking against his hand. Joel pulls back from the kiss just enough to look at you, gaze pinning you in place.
“Look at you,” he breathes, leaning closer. “So damn pretty in this short little dress... and nothin’ underneath. Been thinkin’ about me all day, huh?”
You bite your lip, gazing up at him through your lashes, and give a small, eager nod. You love the way his voice gets like this – low and gravelly, dripping with hunger and praise. It always sends a wave of heat right through you.
His eyes darken again at your silent response, a slow, satisfied smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth as he lets out a low, pleased hum, his gaze full of warm approval as he looks at you.
“Those pretty eyes and those lips...” he breathes, voice thick and raw. “Gonna be the death of me, darlin’.”
He leans back in and starts kissing down your neck, sucking lightly, then lower, open-mouth kisses along your collarbone. His fingers never stop moving, easy and controlled, working you open while his mouth explores you.
Your lips part a little at the contact, chest rising and falling quickly. Every kiss he presses to your skin sends another little shock of pleasure racing through you, especially when he sucks on your neck or drags his tongue along your collarbone. You tilt your head back instinctively, giving him more access, and a soft, needy little sound slips from your throat. Your early pregnancy hormones are making everything feel so much more intense – each warm press of his lips and every slow stroke of his fingers lights up your nerves like fireworks.
You move one hand up, tangling it into his graying curls while the other grips his shoulder, fingers digging in as your body arches toward his mouth and hand.
He moves lower, pushing the neckline of your dress down so he can mouth at your breast. Then he sinks to his knees on the floor between your spread thighs, looking up at you with that devastating half-lidded gaze.
“Gonna taste you, darlin’,” he says, voice thick. “Gonna make you feel so good.”
He pushes your dress up to your waist, exposing you completely. His big hands spread your thighs even wider, and then his mouth is on you.
The first slow, broad lick from your entrance to your clit makes your head fall back against the couch with a broken moan. Joel hums in approval, the vibrations shooting through your pelvis.
“Taste so good, baby,” he groans, licking you again, slower this time, savoring. “So sweet for me.”
His tongue circles your clit with teasing flicks before he seals his lips around it and sucks gently. His two fingers slide back in you, curling in time with the movements of his mouth. He sets a torturously slow rhythm – licking, sucking, fucking you with his fingers while his eyes glance up at you every few seconds, watching every reaction on your face.
You’re trembling, heels digging into his back, fingers tightening in his hair.
“Joel...” you whimper, hips twitching.
“That’s it,” he groans against you, voice muffled. “Lemme hear you, darlin’. Want every pretty little sound you make.”
He picks up the pace slightly, tongue working your clit with firmer strokes while his fingers thrust deeper, hitting that perfect spot over and over. The wet sounds of his mouth and fingers fill the room, mixing with your increasingly desperate moans.
Your thighs start to shake around his head. The pleasure is building fast and intensely, made even stronger by the hormones flooding your body. Every lick, every curl of his fingers feels like too much and not enough all at once.
Joel groans against your pussy, clearly enjoying how worked up he’s got you. He pulls back, just enough to press slow, teasing kisses to your inner thighs, his stubble scraping lightly against your sensitive skin.
“You gettin’ close already?” he smiles, voice low and teasing, lips brushing against your thigh. “Ready to come on my tongue?”
Your hips twitch desperately toward his mouth, a needy whimper escaping your lips. You try to answer, but all that comes out is a broken, breathy sound as your fingers tighten in his hair again.
He smiles against your thigh, pressing another kiss to your other thigh. “I know, baby.” He presses one last kiss to your thigh before he pulls away completely, removing his fingers with it. “Not yet.”
He kisses his way back up your body – slow, open-mouthed kisses along your stomach, then your chest, sucking lightly and the top of your breast before moving higher to your neck. Finally, he reaches your lips again, kissing you slow and greedy. You can taste yourself on his tongue, warm, slick, and unmistakably sweet.
The thought floats through your hazy mind, equal parts frustration and affection. He always does this – brings you right to the edge with his mouth and fingers, then pulls back just when you’re about to fall apart, making you wait until he decides you’re ready. It drives you crazy... but you love it.
You arch your back off the couch with another needy whimper, pulling him closer with urgent hands as you try to shift your bodies. “Tease,” you breathe, nipping at his bottom lip.
He huffs a quiet laugh against your mouth. “You know me too well,” he mutters, smirking as he helps settle you onto his lap.
You slide your hands up into the back of his hair, fingers tangling into his curly, graying hairs as you smile against his lips.
“Yeah?” you whisper sweetly.
You kiss the corner of his mouth, then slowly move, trailing soft, lingering kisses along the line of his jaw. The rough scrape of his stubble prickles nicely against your lips as you move, tasting the faint salt on his skin from his day. You take your time, savoring every inch, until your mouth finally reaches his ear.
You smile just as you reach the edge of his ear. “Then you should know paybacks a bitch.”
He chuckles, the sound vibrating through his chest to you. “You’re somethin’ else, you know that?” he says, hands sliding up your thighs. “Well, go on then baby, make me pay.”
You smile against his jaw, pressing another soft kiss under his ear – the spot you know drives him crazy. You linger there, trailing slow kisses along his jaw before letting your tongue flick lightly over that sensitive skin.
His breath hitches instantly and his hands tighten on your thighs, a low, rough groan escaping him as his head tilts slightly, giving you more access. You feel his cock twitch hard beneath you, straining against the denim.
A small, satisfied smile curves your lips at the feeling.
“Oh, I plan to,” you whisper, voice sweet but dripping with mischief.
You keep one hand buried in his hair, fingers gently tugging and playing with his hair as you continue kissing and licking along his jaw and under his ear. Your mouth moves slowly, sucking lightly at his sensitive skin, tasting more salt and whatever lotion he put on this morning. You keep kissing him just as you start to rub yourself against him, rolling your hips so your bare, slick pussy drags along the thick ridge of his cock through his jeans.
It drags perfectly over your clit, the denim catching and rubbing against your most sensitive spot with every roll of your hips, drawing a quiet, trembling moan from deep in your chest.
And Joel is losing it just as much as you are.
He groans again, a little louder this time, his hands gripping your thighs almost bruisingly tight. His cock twitches repeatedly under you, growing even harder as you rock against him. His head falls back slightly, giving you even more room to kiss and suck at his neck while his breathing turns ragged.
“Jesus...” he drags, voice clearly strained. “Can’t... fuck—” He grunts loudly as you roll your hips again, pressing down harder. “Can’t think when you’re...”
You cut him off with another kiss, slipping your tongue between his lips and swallowing the rest of his sentence. You shake your head slightly against his mouth, murmuring a soft “mm-mm” into the kiss. You smirk against his mouth again and whisper, “Not yet.”
Joel scoffs into your mouth– a small, wrecked sound that’s half amusement, half disbelief –realizing you’re throwing his own words right back at him.
You keep kissing him, tongues gliding together in wet, filthy strokes as you tilt your head. The soft, slick sounds of the kiss fill the quiet room, mixed with his low groans and the faint rasp of his stubble dragging against your skin.
Your hips never stop moving, grinding down against the thick bulge in his jeans with slow, unhurried rolls. His crotch is already wet beneath you – you’re not sure if it’s from how wet you are or from the precum leaking from his cock, probably both – but the slick heat only makes you grind even slower, loving every second of the sweet torture you’re putting him through.
“Goddamn it...” he rasps, breathing hard, voice cracking with desperation. “You’re torturin’ me here, baby.”
You smile against his mouth, loving what you’re doing to him, the way his cock keeps twitching every time you move.
“Can’t handle it, old man?” you whisper sweetly against his skin.
You slowly pull back from the wet kiss, lips trailing back to his jaw, pressing more soft, lingering kisses there as you continue rolling your hips against him in those same, excruciatingly slow circles.
You feel Joel’s entire body tense under you, and a broken, guttural groan tears from his chest as his cock twitches violently against you. His fingers dig hard into your hips, almost painful, and his thighs flex abruptly under you. His breathing turns ragged and uneven, his chest heaving as he fights for control.
His hands clamp down hard on your hips, fingers digging in as he yanks you down against him with sudden force—stopping you cold.
You pause mid-kiss, pulling away from his cheek to look at him, brows furrowing in confusion.
Joel just shakes his head slowly, his thumb rubbing soothing circles against your hips where his fingers were just digging seconds ago. “You’ve had your fun, darlin’.”
A spark of realization hits you – he’s tapping out, finally waving the white flag. The thought makes a pleased little thrill run right through you.
You smirk now, eyes sparkling with victory. “Yeah?” you murmur, voice light and teasing but full of affection.
He smirks right back, eyes dark and fixed on you. “Yeah.”
In one smooth motion, he rises, holding you securely against him with one strong arm wrapped around your waist while his other quickly loosens the remaining buttons on his pants.
He keeps his eyes locked to yours the whole time his fingers work at the buttons on his pants.
You cling to him tightly, legs wrapped around his waist, arms looped around his neck. His pants drop to the floor with a heavy thud, and his cock springs free, hot and heavy against your bare skin.
Before you can even respond – a giggle bubbling up in your throat – he’s pulling you back into another hungry kiss. His lips press firmly against yours, warm and slightly rough, molding to your mouth with fixed pressure. His tongue slides in with slow, heavy strokes, pushing and retreating in a rhythm that makes your head spin. The kiss is wet and consuming, his mouth moving against yours with insistent pressure, lips parting wider as he deepens the contact, his breath hot and uneven.
He sits back down on the couch, lips never leaving yours, pulling you with him so you’re straddling his lap again. He slides you forward, dragging your slick folds along the bare, hard length of him.
You gasp into his mouth at the feeling.
You lift your hips just enough, letting the blunt edge of his cock kiss your entrance. Your fingers tangle deeper in his curls, tugging with just enough pressure as you arch your back, spine curving gracefully while your body trembles with anticipation, feeling him pulse hot and heavy against your slick pussy.
“Can’t ever get enough of you,” he breathes into your mouth, words full of quiet praise.
You smile softly against his lips, a small, pleased curve of your mouth as you lean in for another kiss. Your lips press warmly against his, tongues sliding together in slow, wet strokes as you savor the heat of his mouth and the way his breath stutters against you.
His hands slide up your thighs, palms squeezing the soft flesh as he pulls you closer, guiding your hips in another slow roll against his bare cock. The thick, hot length of him slides through your folds again, the blunt head catching perfectly against your swollen clit with every grind. You moan quietly into his mouth, the sound swallowed by his tongue as a fresh wave of heat floods through your core.
Everything feels...so intensified tonight—every drag of his cock against your pussy, every brush of his calloused fingers on your body, every hot exhale against your lips.
Joel’s groan rumbles low, echoing where you’re pressed to him. “That’s it baby... just like that,” he murmurs against your lips, voice gravelly and thick. One hand leaves your thigh to fist gently in your hair, tilting your head so he can kiss you deeper, slower, more possessively. His tongue strokes against yours in relentless, controlled licks that makes you ache.
You rock your hips again, intentionally slow, letting your pussy drag from the base of him all the way to the tip. His cock twitches under you again, leaking steadily, the wetness mixing with y our own and making every slide obscenely slick.
He breaks the kiss with a ragged breath, forehead resting against yours, eyes dark and half-lidded as he watches you move. “Fuck—look at you,” he growls, thumb brushing your bottom lip. “So fuckin’ pretty ridin’ me like this.”
His words send another pulse of heat straight through your clit. You bite your lip, eyes fluttering as you grind down harder, the pressure building fast and heavy in your belly. Your hands tighten again in his graying curls, tugging lightly as you chase the friction.
Joel’s grip on your hip tightens suddenly, fingers digging in just enough to still your movements. His other hand comes up to cup your jaw, thumb stroking your cheek as he looks at you with that devastating mix of hunger and tenderness.
“Can’t wait anymore, darlin’,” he breathes into your mouth. “Gotta fuck you now.”
Before you can say anything, he moves under you, one strong arm banding around your waist as he lifts you slightly. His free hand reaches between your bodies, gripping the base of his cock and angling it up. The blunt, leaking head presses hot and heavy at your entrance, nudging just inside your wet folds.
You gasp into his mouth, thighs trembling around his legs. You can feel how hard he is—throbbing, scorching—and the stretch is promising even though he’s not inside you yet.
“Go slow for me,” he murmurs, pressing his mouth to your neck and sucking lightly. “Wanna feel every inch of you.”
You nod breathlessly, one hand braced on his broad shoulder as you lower yourself. The thick head pushes past your entrance, stretching you open with that familiar, delicious burn you love so much.
A soft, broken moan slips from past your lips as you take the first few inches, your walls fluttering around him. He’s big—always has been—and you’ve never really gotten used to it—the stretch—it’s a different kind of burn every time, but tonight, it feels amplified, every ridge and vein dragging against your sensitive inner walls in a way that makes your toes curl in your heels.
Joel’s head falls back against the couch with a deep groan, his fingers flexing on your hips. “Jesus... fuck, baby. So tight. So fuckin’ wet for me.” His voice is strained, jaw clenched as he fights the urge to thrust up into you. “You feel incredible.”
You sink lower, inch by slow inch, until your ass meets his thighs and he’s buried to the hilt inside you. The fullness is overwhelming—thick, all-consuming, perfect.
Your mouth falls open in a silent gasp, forehead dropping to rest against his as you adjust. You clench around him involuntarily, drawing another rough curse from his lips.
You roll your hips experimentally, lifting just enough to slide halfway off his cock before sinking back down. The wet, obscene sound of your joined bodies fills the quiet room—your slick coating him, making each slide messier and wetter.
His hands guide you, not forcing, just helping you find the rhythm, and his eyes never leave your face, drinking in every flutter of your lashes, every parted-lip moan.
“Beautiful,” he breathes, one hand sliding up under your dress to palm your breast, thumb brushing over your already peaked and sensitive nipple, the touch sending sparks racing down your spine. “Look so pretty ridin’ me like this... my wife... my girl.”
His praise is soft and dirty, wrapped in the deep southern drawl you love. “Joel...” you whisper breathlessly, leaning forward to kiss him again, your fingers threading higher in his hair and tugging gently. Your mouth moves against his with growing hunger, tongues sliding together while you start to bounce on him with more purpose.
Your hands stay buried in his hair, holding him close while you ride him harder, each downward stroke grinding your clit against his pelvis and sending sharp jolts of pleasure through you. Your breaths comes quicker, turning into soft, needy whimpers that he swallows with every kiss. You press your chest flush to his, the thin fabric of your dress doing almost nothing to hide how hard your nipples have become against his palm.
Joel’s control starts to fray. His hips begin snapping up to meet you, driving his cock deeper, harder. The wet slap of skin on skin starts to grow louder. His hand leaves your breast to grip your ass, spreading you open as he fucks up into you.
“Fuck—that’s it, baby,” he hums, voice cracking. “Ride me just like that. Use me.”
Your thighs are starting to burn, a hot ache that intensifies every movement, but the pleasure is too good to stop. You fold forward, pressing your face into the hollow of his neck, tasting salt and him, you kiss and suck at that skin while you grind down hard, hunting the one spot that makes your belly tighten.
A raw sound rips out of you, “Oh my—” your breath stutters against his throat. Your vision narrows, lids fluttering, the world reduced to rhythm and friction and the tight, bright burn blooming inside you. You plant both hands on his shoulders and dig in, needing purchase, clinging to him to keep yourself from falling apart.
A tremor runs through you, raw and pleading, and his hands answer by sweeping you up without warning.
Suddenly, his arms lock around you. In one smooth, powerful motion, he flips you both—your back hitting the couch cushions and the short dress bunching up around your waist as he settles between your spread thighs without ever pulling out. This new angle has him even deeper now, the head of his cock pressing right against your sweet spot with every thrust.
He braces one hand beside your head, the other gripping your thigh and hooking it higher around his waist. Your heels dangle in the air behind him as he starts fucking in earnest—deep, steady strokes that punch the air from your lungs.
You throw your head back, letting out a long, helpless moan; your eyes roll and go unfocused, and your hands find the pillow at your side, digging in as the pressure swells.
“Look at me,” he commands softly. His hips snap forward, burying himself deeper in you with every thrust. “Wanna see those pretty eyes when you come on my cock.”
You obey, lifting your eyes through damp lashes. His cheeks are flushed, graying curls framing his face perfectly, mouth parted as his breath escapes in short, wet pants as he watches you come apart under him.
He starts moving differently – slower, tighter rolls of his hips that bottom him out inside of you. The couch creaks quietly under you both with every calculated push. Your dress is twisted high around your ribs, the fabric damp and clinging to your skin where sweat has started to gather. One of your heels has slipped off, your bare foot dangles behind him as your leg stays hooked around his waist.
His hand slides up your side, rough palm dragging over the bunched cotton until he cups your breast, thumb brushing slowly across your nipple. He watches your face the whole time, eyes glazed over and heavy, like he’s memorizing every small reaction you make.
Look at you,” he whispers, almost reverent. “So perfect in my hands... I love you like this.”
The words sink softly in your chest, spreading through you like honey. You feel every thick inch of him moving inside you, the way your body grips and releases him with each thrust. Your hands move restlessly – one slipping beneath the back of his shirt to press against the damp skin of his lower back, the other tangling in the hair at the base of his neck.
He leans down, lips brushing your temple first in a gentle press, then trailing to your cheek with another soft kiss. Before he can pull back, you tighten your fingers into his hair and tug it gently down to you. Your lips find his , soft and patient at first, then you take more, wet and a little messy, tongues sliding together as you pour all your affection and need into it.
“I love you,” you murmur against his mouth, the words slipping out between kisses, breathy and half-swallowed by the slide of your tongues.
You taste the salty sweat on his skin, feel the steady thud of his heartbeat against your chest while he keeps the rhythm between your legs.
His mouth stays on yours, kissing you between every breath while his hips continue driving forward in that same unhurried place. He whispers against your tongue, “I love you... all mine.”
You smile against his lips, the tenderness mixed with the insistent way he’s fucking you makes everything feel more intense, overwhelming. You tilt your hips up to meet his, and he lets out a low groan, the sound rumbling through his chest and into yours.
He shifts slightly, hooking your leg higher around his waist so he can press even further inside you on the next thrust. The new angle sends a sharp burst of pleasure racing up your spine, making your back arch off the couch. Your fingers tighten in his hair, tugging gently as you whimper into his mouth.
Joel’s breathing grows rougher, each exhale hot against your lips, but he doesn’t speed up. He keeps those long, slow strokes, grinding down on every inward push so the base of his cock rubs firmly against your clit. His hand stays on your breast, kneading the soft flesh with slow, possessive squeezes while his thumb circles your nipple in tight circles, matching the rhythm of his hips.
“Fuck—,” he moans into your mouth. “You’re gettin’ so close, aren’t you? I can feel it.”
You nod quickly, words failing you. The pressure has been building steadily, coiling tighter and tighter in your belly and your thighs are starting to tremble around him. Every slow drag of his cock, every warm pass of his thumb against your nipple, every quiet murmur against your lips pushes you closer to the edge.
He must feel it – the way your body is starting to tense and flutter around him – because he lets out a low, strained sound and presses his forehead to yours.
“Come on, sweetheart,” he breathes, the endearment rough but sincere. “Let go for me. Wanna feel you come while I’m still buried inside you... just like this.”
The gentle command, paired with the deep, steady way he’s moving, finally tips you over.
Your orgasm crashes through you in heavy, pulsing waves. Your back arches off the couch again, a broken moan spilling from your lips as you clamp around him. Pleasure floods every nerve, making your legs shake and your fingers dig harder into his shoulder and hair.
Joel’s breath stutters against your lips. “That’s it... good girl... fuck, I can feel you—” His voice cracks as your pulsing pulls him under with you.
He thrusts deep one last time and stays there, hips pressed tight to yours as he comes with a low, guttural groan. You feel the hot rush of his release flooding you – thick, warm pulses that fill you completely. His cock twitches hard inside you with every spurt, each throb pushing more of his cum deeper while your own orgasm continues to ripple through you.
The sensation is overwhelming – the sudden fullness, the heat of him spilling into you, the way your body keeps drawing him in. You exhale a shaky breath against his lips as another wave of pleasure rolls through your core, your walls tensing around him as he empties himself into you.
It starts leaking out almost immediately, warm and slick, running down between your thighs and hitting the couch beneath you. It’s messy – unusually messy – more than you or him have probably made. It makes your stomach flutter with a strange mix of satisfaction and overwhelm.
Joel lets out a shaky breath, his body shuddering above yours. He drops his forehead to the crook of your neck, one arm wrapping tighter around you as if he can’t bear to pull away yet. His hand strokes slowly up your side, soft with awe, while he stays buried deep in you, breathing hard against your skin.
He presses soft, lazy, wet kisses along your jaw and neck, murmuring against your skin between breaths. “Love you... so damn much. My beautiful wife.”
Your fingers thread deeper into the hair at the back of his head, gently tugging and stroking as you pull him closer. You rest your head on his, chest full of warmth and love, completely overwhelmed by the feeling of him.
You can still feel him pulsing faintly inside you as the last aftershocks fade. The room is quiet again except for your shared breathing and the faint creak of the house settling.
After a minute or two, he finally lifts his head enough to look at you, eyes soft and sated, a small, tired smile tugging at his mouth as his thumb brushes gently across your cheek.
“You alright, darlin’?” he murmurs, voice low and a little hoarse, but full of that quiet tenderness he saves only for you. His hand strokes slowly up and down your side, thumb tracing gentle circles over the bunched fabric of your dress. “Got a little lost in you there... you doin’ okay?”
You let out a soft, content sigh, still hazy and warm all over. “M’perfect,” you whisper, nuzzling deeper into the crook of his neck. “Felt so good... you always feel so good.”
Even now with him still buried deep inside you, every sensation feels so... strong. You know you aren’t very far along—barely a few weeks at most—and part of you wonders if you’re even far enough along for the ‘pregnancy chemicals’ to affect you this much or if it’s all in your head. But whatever chemicals are flooding your system right now have you feeling things on an entirely different level than you’ve ever felt before.
You can feel every single vein of his cock inside you, every ridge and pulse of him so clearly you’re almost positive you could count them if you focused hard enough. The warm, earthy scent of skin – that familiar mix of pine soap, worn leather from his jacket, and the faint salt on his skin – is stronger than ever, wrapping around you like a blanket. You feel almost drunk with it, like your body is floating in honey. You could stay here in his arms all night, wrapped up in him, and never leave.
He hums in quiet relief, pressing one last lingering kiss to your damp forehead before he carefully eases out of you. The slow withdrawal makes you whimper softly at the sudden emptiness, but he’s already moving, big hands gentle as he shifts you on the couch.
He reaches for the soft throw blanket draped over the back and tucks it beneath you, then grabs a clean dish towel from the stack you’d left out earlier.
“Easy, baby,” he says softly when you try to sit up. One of his hands moves to rest on your thigh, holding you still while he kneels between your legs. He wipes you with careful, tender strokes, the soft cloth soothing against your sensitive, slick skin.
He takes his time, making sure every trace of your combined release is gently cleaned away, murmuring soft praises the whole while. “ I got you. Almost done here.”
You’re overcome with emotion just watching him. He’s so careful with you, so completely focused on taking care of every inch of your body like it’s the most precious thing in the world. It doesn’t matter if you’ve just had the roughest, most desperate sex or something slow and gentle like tonight – he always treats you like you’re the answer to every prayer he’s never voiced.
Like one of the first times you’d had sex — when he’d taken you against the wall behind the Tipsy Bison after one too many drinks. Your legs had been shaking so badly afterward you couldn’t even stand. But Joel didn’t even hesitate, he just scooped you up in his arms, carried you the whole way back to his place, and didn’t give a single damn who saw him doing it.
And now, all you can think about is how lucky your baby is going to be to have him. How lucky you are to have him. The secret sits heavy and sweet behind your chest, making your eyes sting with unshed tears.
When he’s satisfied, he tosses the towel aside and stands, pulling his jeans back up just enough before sinking back onto the couch. With effortless strength, he gathers you into his arms and settles you on his lap sideways, both of your legs tucked under you. You snuggle into him and rest your head against his broad chest, the steady thump of his heartbeat right under your ear, while one of his arms bands securely around your waist and the other smooths slow, soothing strokes up and down your back.
He tugs the hem of your dress back down over your thighs and straightens the apron strings that had gone crooked, then presses a lingering kiss to the top of your head.
“Better?” he asks, his chest rising and falling under your cheek as his thumb traces soothing circles at your hip. “Comfortable?”
You nod against him, curling closer, one hand slipping under the bottom of his shirt to rest against the warm skin of his chest. The need to be closer overwhelms you – you want to crawl into his skin, press so deep into his body that you disappear inside him.
“Much better,” you murmur, smiling sleepily. Your hand moves lazily across his chest, caressing him. “You always take such good care of me, old man.”
He chuckles warmly at that, the sound vibrating through his chest. “Damn right I do. And you deserve every second of it.” He tilts your chin up gently with two fingers, eyes soft and searching as he studies your flushed face. “Sure you’re okay? Heart’s still goin’ pretty fast.”
You lean up and kiss the corner of his mouth, slow and sweet. “I am. More than okay.” Your voice drops to a playful whisper. “Though our dinner is probably cold now.”
He breathes a quiet laugh, thumb brushing your bottom lip. “Worth it. Every damn second.” His hand drifts down to rest possessively over your stomach for a moment—habit, the same unconscious touch he’s done for months—before he pulls you closer again, tucking your head back under his chin.
The second his hand meets your stomach, your heart starts beating faster, the rhythm picking up noticeably against his chest. You’re pretty sure he can hear it now, louder than it was just a minute ago.
The secret you’ve been carrying for the past week is swelling in your chest, too big to keep quiet any longer. Curled up in his lap like this, safe and warm against the man you love, the words rise up in your throat on your own. Your lips part through a shaky breath, ready to whisper the news, ready to tell him he’s going to be a daddy again—
When the old wall clock in the living room begins to chime.
The loud, melodic tones ring out one after another, filling the quiet house. One... two... three... You count them silently against Joel’s chest until the last chime fades into the quiet again.
You lift your head slowly, resting your chin on his chest so you can look up at him. The glow from the lamp in the corner catches the silver in his hair and the tired lines around his eyes, but right now he looks peaceful, perfect – content in a way he rarely lets show.
“Happy birthday, old man,” you murmur softly, warmth blooming across your face. A small smile tugs at your lips as your fingers keep tracing lazy circles across his chest. “Fifty-five looks good on you.”
He lets out a low chuckle, the sound vibrating off your chin. His hand comes up to cup the back of your head, thumb brushing through your hair lightly. “Fifty-five looks good on me?” He raises an eyebrow, a faint smirk forming on his lips. “You’re biased as hell, baby. But I’ll take it.” His fingers move through your hair as he adds, “Just don’t let anyone else hear you sayin’ it. I’ve got a reputation to uphold.”
You laugh quietly, the sound muffled against him. You lift your head higher and press a soft kiss to the underside of his jaw, then another one higher on his cheek.
“My lips are sealed,” you whisper, smiling as you kiss the corner of his mouth. “Your tough guy reputation is safe with me.”
You pull back just enough to look at him properly, your fingers still rubbing across his chest. “But between us... I meant what I said. I like you just like this. Gray hair and all.”
His smirk fades into something smaller, his eyes softening as he looks down at you. His thumb moves and strokes slowly along the back of your neck. “Yeah?” he asks. “Even when I’m complainin’ about my back in the mornin’ and snorin’ by nine p.m.?”
You smile and nod, leaning in to kiss him again – this time slow and lingering. When you pull away, you run your fingers back through his hair.
“Especially then,” you whisper. “I like all of it. The complaining, the snoring, the way you still look at me like I’m the only person in the room.” You brush your nose against his. “And I wouldn’t change a single thing.”
He doesn’t answer right away.
He lifts his head a little and stares at you, really stares – eyes traveling over the line of your jaw, the freckle near your eye, the curve of your lips. For a long while, he makes no move, until his hand comes up and cups the side of your face, his thumb pressing softly beneath your ear. You watch him drink you in, breath shallow and slow against your face, as if he’s memorizing the way you look so he never forgets it.
Then he leans in and kisses you – his lips pressing gently to yours as they part, tongue sliding in to brush and curl against yours in long, tender strokes, leaving you certain your legs would buckle if you were standing.
When he breaks it, he moves his hand to yours, still on his chest, holding your wrist in his hand. He tucks a stray curl behind your ear and rests his thumb at your ear. He exhales, and a small, stunned laugh slips out. “I don’t know what I did right in this life to deserve you, Don’t know what the hell you see in an old man like me,” he whispers, a little shaky. “But I’m real grateful I get to call you mine.”
He strokes the space at your ear and shakes his head. “You’re the best part of my life, darlin’. Don’t ever forget that.”
Something soft yet enormous blooms behind your chest as you look at him. The way he looks at you – like you’re something rare and precious he can’t quite believe he gets to keep – fills you with the simplest, purest contentment. This man, who has lost so much and carries the weight of the world on his shoulders, is looking at you like you’re his safe place. The small little shake in his voice, the love bleeding through every single syllable, the way his thumb keeps stroking your skin like he needs the contact to convince himself you’re real... it’s all too much and not enough.
And right now, nestled safely between the two of you, is the tiny life you’ve been keeping secret for a week – his baby. The thought fills you with such pure, quiet happiness that it completely overwhelms you.
You feel a lump forming in the back of your throat – from how much you love him, from how happy you are to be carrying his baby -- you have to tell him before the lump in your throat turns into actual tears.
You smile, eyes a little watery, and sniffle once as you continue to play with the curls at the nape of his neck.
“You’re my best part too,” you say softly. “Always.”
You take a shaky little breath, then add with a small nervous smile, “I actually have one more surprise for you.”
Joel’s eyebrow lifts slightly, a teasing glint returning to his eyes as he sits up a little straighter on the couch, still holding you securely in his lap.
“One more, huh?” he says, the corner of his mouth twitching up. “You really are spoilin’ me tonight,” he laughs. “What is it, darlin’? You gonna make me guess?”
You shake your head, another sniffle escaping as you smile.
“No guessing,” you tease. “This one’s big.”
You sit up a little straighter against him, slip your hand into the pocket of your apron and move your hands around until they close around the tiny pair of wool baby boots, and with slightly trembling hands, you pull them out and hold them between you, the little boots resting in your open palm.
You look up at him, heart pounding, hands still shaking. “I thought these might finally get some use...”
His eyes drop from yours to the tiny boots in your hands. They come back to yours quickly and then drop again. He lets out a small, confused laugh, brow furrowing slightly.
“What’re you doin’ with these?” he asks with a little laugh. “Didn’t even think I still had these things. You keepin’ em’ as a souvenir or somethin’?”
He looks back up at you, ready to tease you some more – until he sees the look on your face.
You're smiling at him, eyes bright and hopeful, glistening with unshed tears. Your lips are trembling just a little and the way your hands are shaking, you feel like you’re about to drop them.
The amusement on his face slowly fades and his expression changes – the playful spark in his eyes dims as confusion washes across his features then turns into stunned disbelief. His brows draw together slightly, lips parting as the realization of the moment hits him.
He opens his mouth but no sound comes out, he just stares at the tiny wool boots in your trembling hands for what feels like forever. His throat works visibly as he swallows, and when he finally lifts his head, those deep brown eyes—usually so firm, so grounded— are filled with something you’ve only ever seen one other time – your wedding day –when you walked down the aisle in the Jackson community church.
“Darlin’...” he breathes, his voice barely above a whisper. “What’re you sayin’ here?”
You let out a soft little laugh as the tears finally spill over and onto your cheeks, and the biggest, shakiest smile spreads across your face. “I’m pregnant, Joel. We’re gonna have a baby.”
The silence that follows is heavy, it’s filled with everything he can’t quiet say yet. His hands, resting in your hips now, tighten almost involuntarily. Then one of them lifts—slow, hesitant, like he’s afraid the moment might actually break if he moves too fast—and gently cups the back of yours, steadying the little boots in your trembling hands.
His thumb brushes over the soft wool, once ,then again, like he’s testing if they’re really there. That this is really happening.
“You’re serious,” he breathes, more of a statement than a question. His eyes lift to yours again, searching your face, memorizing it again—the wetness on your cheeks, your trembling lips, the pure joy and slight terror shining through. “You’re really... we’re really...?”
“Positive,” you whisper, voice thick with another lump in your throat. “Five tests. All of them positive. I found out last week but I wanted to wait for tonight... for your birthday.”
He laughs in a quick broken exhale—half disbelief, half wonder—and then his face crumples in the most beautiful way. His eyes fill, one tear slipping free to track down the weathered line of his cheek before he can stop it. Joel Miller doesn’t cry easily—and you’ve only ever seen him cry maybe twice in all the time you’ve known him—but right now, he doesn’t even try to hide it.
“Jesus...” He pulls you closer in his lap, one strong arm banding around your waist while the other hand carefully takes the boots from you, cradling them like they’re made of glass. He stares down at them again, thumb stroking the soft fabric. “We’re really havin’ a baby?”
You give a small, teary nod, a soft sniffle escaping as fresh tears slip down your cheeks.
His forehead gently drops to rest against yours, his breath warm and shaky against your skin. You can feel the faint tremble in his broad shoulders, his chest rising and falling quicker than normal as he holds you close.
“I thought... after all this time...” He swallows hard, voice dropping even lower. “I thought maybe it wasn’t gonna happen for us. Thought maybe I was too damn old to give you this.” He shakes his head in disbelief. “But you... you kept hopin’. And now...”
He pulls back just enough to look at you again, eyes shining, that rare, soft smile breaking through—the one that makes the years melt off face. His free hand slides down to rest over your lower belly, palm warm and protective through the thin fabric of your dress. The same unconscious touch he’s done for months, only now it means everything.
“Hey there, little one,” he whispers, voice so low and sweet it makes fresh tears slip down your cheeks. “You really in there? Your mama’s been keepin’ you a secret from me... but I got you now.”
A soft, wet laugh bubbles out of you. Joel’s eyes crinkle at the corners as he leans in, pressing a kiss to your forehead, then your temple, then the tip of your nose—slow, worshipful presses of his lips like he’s trying to pour every ounce of love and gratitude into your skin.
When he finally speaks again, his voice is rough but a little calmer, that southern drawl laced into every word. “We made a baby,” he breathes out. “You and me.” He says it like he’s testing the words, tasting them, letting them settle deep in his chest. “Fifty-fuckin-five years old and I’m gettin’ lucky enough to do this with you.”
You let out another small, teary laugh and nod, your voice barely above a whisper.
“Yeah... we really did.”
His hand stays on your stomach, thumb brushing slow, gentle circles.
“I’m gonna take care of you both,” he promises. His other hand comes up to brush a tear from your cheek. “You hear me? Nothin’ in this world’s gonna touch you or this baby. Not while I’m still breathin’.”
You nod, sniffling happily as you cup his stubbled jaw with both hands. You kiss the tears away on his cheeks. “I know you will. You already do.”
He huffs a quiet, shaky laugh before he kisses you again—tender, trembling with joy and awe, his lips moving against yours like a vow. It taste like tears and salt and quite promises, gentle and slow.
When he pulls back, he presses a slow kiss to the top of your head and lingers there, eyes closed as he just breathes you in.
“Best birthday present I ever got,” he murmurs. “Best damn thing that’s ever happened to me... besides you sayin’ yes to me on that porch.”
You laugh through your happy tears, still cradled in his lap, his hand warm and comforting over the tiny life growing between you.
“Happy birthday, Daddy,” you whisper, pressing one more soft kiss to his lips.
He smiles against your lips and pulls you tighter, the little wool boots still carefully tucked in his other hand, and for the first time in a long while, the weight on his shoulders seems just a little lighter—replaced by something kind, something hopeful, something that feels a lot like the start of a new chapter in your little house on the edge of Jackson.
The venison has definitely gone cold by now. Neither of you cares in the slightest though.
stormborns
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