I live inside my head.

You’d been so close.

That was the worst of it.

Days him and his raiders had kept you - God, maybe weeks - you’d lost count somewhere between exhaustion and routine - but through all of it, you’d held onto that thin, stubborn thread of defiance. Watching. Waiting. Learning their patterns. Learning him.

And tonight had felt right. Or at least right enough to give it a try before they could come to the conclusion that you are useful for more than just cooking and maintenance tasks.

You had used a moment of carelessness. A shift in guard. Darkness thick enough to swallow you whole if you just moved fast enough, quiet enough - 

You had run.

And for a few seconds, you had believed that you could actually make it.

Then you heard him.

Not rushing. Not scrambling. Just boots hitting the ground behind you with steady, unhurried weight, like he had all the time in the world. Like this wasn’t a chase at all.

“Spare us the stress, darlin’.”

That booming voice of his had carried easily through the trees  and edged with something that almost sounded like amusement.

“You and me both know how this ends.”

You’d pushed harder anyway.

It hadn’t mattered.

You hadn’t even seen him when he caught you - just the sudden sweep of your legs, the world tilting, your body hitting the ground hard enough to knock the breath clean out of you. Dirt in your mouth, pain sparking across your ribs - and then him, already there, already in control - stepping onto you as if it was nothing.

Like you’d never had a chance.

“Please, Joel…”

The words slipped out before you could stop them, thin and breathless against the forest floor. You hated how they sounded. Hated it almost as much as the way your body betrayed you, straining uselessly beneath him.

A quiet chuckle rumbled above you.

“Please?” he echoed, like the word didn’t belong in your mouth. Like it was something small, something almost funny. “Bit late for that, isn’t it?”

The pressure of his boot shifted, pressed down a fraction harder, and the air left your lungs in a sharp, helpless sound.

“Had me runnin’ all through the damn woods,” he went on, tone easy, almost conversational. “And now you wanna beg?”

“I just -” You swallowed, dirt and panic and pride tangling in your throat. “Just let me go.”

The weight on your back didn’t move.

If anything, it settled.

“Got a better idea.”

You felt him crouch then - not because you saw it, but because the shape of him changed above you, the presence of him closer now, more defined. A shadow leaning in, a heat at your back that had nothing to do with comfort.

“Gonna pick you up,” he said, voice dropping lower, quieter, like it was meant just for you. “Make sure those little claws don’t reach me first.”

His hand closed around your wrist.

Before you could react, your other wrist was caught too, yanked back behind you in a grip that left no room for argument. You twisted, instinct kicking in, but it only earned you a sharper pull and a low, warning hum from him.

“Easy now.”

There was nothing easy about it.

“Joel, please -”

“- and then,” he continued over you, like you hadn’t spoken at all, like your voice was just another background noise he could ignore, “I’m gonna drag you all the way back.”

Something rough bit into your wrists - fabric, rope, you couldn’t tell - and your breath hitched as he secured it tight enough to hold, not enough to cut.

“And after that…” His fingers tapped lightly against your temple, almost thoughtful. “We’ll figure out a way to get that idea outta your head that you get a chance at runnin’ away.”

Your eyes widened.

He was right there when you turned your head - closer than you’d expected, closer than you wanted. No anger in his face. No strain. Just that same steady calm, lined with something darker underneath.

He brushed a smear of dirt from your cheek with his thumb.

Almost gentle.

The anger came back sharp enough to sting.

“Fuck you, Joel.”

A humorless breath of a laugh left him, low and unimpressed. His hand dropped, replaced by a brief, patronizing pat against your cheek.

“Yeah,” he muttered. “That mouth’s gonna get you in trouble one day.”

He stood then, and the sudden absence of his weight on your back left your body aching, your muscles trembling with the effort of holding yourself up. For half a second - just a flicker - you thought maybe he’d shove you forward. Make you walk. Parade you back to camp like a warning, like a joke.

Instead, his grip on your bound wrists tightened.

Hard.

You barely had time to register it before he hauled you up with him, your balance failing immediately, legs unsteady beneath you.

And then - 

The world tipped again.

A sharp inhale tore from your chest as he lifted you clean off the ground and slung you over his shoulder like it cost him nothing at all.

“Joel - no!”

The protest came out half-choked, half-panicked, your hands useless behind your back as you twisted against him. His shoulder dug into your stomach, knocking the air from you in uneven bursts while the blood rushed to your head.

One of his hands settled against the back of your thighs, holding you in place.

The other - 

Higher.

Fingers pressing in on your butt, firm, possessive enough to make your breath hitch for entirely different reasons.

“No need for that,” he said, starting forward without a pause, his steps steady even with your weight thrown over him. “You chose this, remember?”

A sharp pat landed where his hand rested, not hard enough to hurt - but enough to send heat straight up your spine.

“You run,” he went on, voice carrying that same rough calm, “you make me chase you - this is how it ends.”

The forest shifted around you as he walked, the ground soft with moss, branches brushing against your dangling arms, the night swallowing every direction that wasn’t forward.

“You know,” he added after a moment, almost thoughtful, “I kept things real civil with you.”

You stilled slightly at that.

“Did your part. Helped out. Didn’t give me much trouble.” A quiet huff of something that might’ve been amusement. “Even when I could see plain as day how much you hated it.”

His grip tightened. He was right though. The days since his group of raiders had caught you, you had found your role in cooking, healing. As invisible as possible. Up until now.

“Think that time’s over.”

Cold slid in where your anger had been. Deep panic surging about the idea of being tossed to the raiders like a piece of meat.

“Joel - no, please - your men, they -”

“My men?” he cut in, and this time the laugh that followed was sharper. Drier. “Ain’t talkin’ ‘bout them, darlin’.”

The words settled heavy in your gut.

“They don’t touch you,” he continued, tone matter-of-fact. “Not unless I say so.”

A beat. As if he amused the thought of that for a secondbthen tossing it aside.

“Don’t figure they’ll get the chance.”

Your stomach turned.

“No,” he went on, quieter, almost like he was speaking more to himself than to you. “That ain’t the problem.”

His hand at your legs shifted, thumb dragging slow against your skin through the fabric of your clothes, absent and deliberate all at once.

“The problem is you forgot where you stand.”

Your throat tightened.

“You get comfortable,” he said, “start thinkin’ you got options.”

You tried to speak. Tried to fight it, to push back, to say anything that would put distance between you and the way his words curled low in your chest - 

The soft click of his tongue stopped you cold.

“Now, now,” he murmured. “Save it.” His grip didn’t loosen. “Wanna see it in your eyes when reality sinks in.”

The trees began to thin ahead - faint shapes of camp just visible through the dark.

His voice dropped, quiet enough it barely carried past your own ears.

“When you finally understand,” he said, “that runnin’ ain’t ever gonna be an option for you.”

And the way he said it - 

Steady. Certain. Like a promise.

Like a fact.

 “And who knows, sweetheart? Maybe you don’t ever want to leave my side after I fucked some sense into you.”

Part 1 (coming soon)

My Masterlist

your parents’ house, Christmas Day

“You’re pregnant?”

Your sister’s voice cuts through the moment you step into the foyer. Her head is poking out from around the kitchen doorway, hair pulled up in a messy bun, hands still flour-dusted from rolling dough, and her eyes lock right onto your stomach.

You glance down at your bump, snug and unmistakably visible beneath your soft, form-fitting sweater.

Your small frame was always quick to betray the blooming life within your womb. You’d started showing at just two months pregnant, a form-fitting sweater leaves little doubt.

You blink at her past your parents, who are busy wrangling your kids into hugs… Sarah already halfway out of her coat and Artie’s stomping water off his boots, and letting himself be lifted into your dad’s arms.

“Well,” you deadpan, tossing a look back at Joel and that permanent smirk fixed on his face, “hello to you, too.”

Your sister disappears, but before you can get your coat off she’s right in front of you, wide-eyed and eyes locked on your bump.

“Oh my god, oh my god, you are. That’s a baby bump.” Her eyes find yours and you swear you see a tear in the corner of them, “You didn’t tell me!”

“I was going to,” you laugh nervously, surrendering your coat to Joel’s waiting hand. “I mean… I am telling you.”

Your mom turns at the noise, gaze dropping to your sweater the same moment she registers the conversation. Her brows lift, lips part, and then her hand covers her chest like the gesture might steady her heart.

“Is it true?” she asks, softly. “Honey, are you really…?”

Joel steps up beside you, tucking a hand around your waist, grounding the moment with that subtle, quiet strength of his. He’s still carrying Ellie, who’s buried her face in his neck with her thumb in her mouth, clinging to him despite her puffy pink jacket. Her little legs dangle against him.

“A little over 4 months along,” he says. “We wanted to wait a little while before tellin’ everyone.”

Your dad glances up from where Artie’s got him in a bear hug. “Wait… four months? You’re four months pregnant?” He stares at you, then Joel, then you again. “When were y’all gonna mention that, sometime after the baby graduates?”

“We wanted to do it in person,” you raise your hands in mock surrender.

The room stills, the chaos of coats and kids fading into a shared, stunned silence, and then your mom’s face breaks open like the sun coming out from behind clouds. She steps forward, hugging you with both arms.

“Oh, sweetheart… another baby,” she murmurs. “You’re growing another little person.”

Joel smiles softly beside you, and when your mom pulls back, she hugs him too. He stiffens for only half a second before sinking into it. Just the effects of your mom’s hugs, he stopped denying that fact.

“Four kids,” your dad mutters, still shaking his head. “You must really like bein’ exhausted.”

“Well, she’s hard to say no to.” A sharp nudge of your elbow has him looking at you with that devious smirk of his, knowing damn well he was the one you couldn’t say no to.

“Happy wife happy life, right?” your sister jokes, nudging Joel from the other side and causing a grunt from the man as he’s attacked from both sides with what he swears are the pointiest damn elbows.

So distinctly sisters, but he loves the bond the two of you share.

Your sister grins as she steps in front of you and reaches over to rub your bump. You roll your eyes, though you secretly love when your sister dotes on your babies. You were practically her baby growing up, after all.

“This little one’s already stealing the show.”

Everyone’s laughing gleefully and so emotionally now, your sister hugging Joel from the side with a playful, ‘you dog, you’.

Joel finally lowers Ellie, who’s now more awake and mumbling something as she toddles straight toward your dad, arms out like a sleepy penguin. It’s her turn to be scooped up by him and he presses a kiss to her forehead.

Joel peels off his coat last with a deep sigh and a pleased smirk on his face.

He glances at you with that look he saves just for these moments, half overwhelmed and half overflowing.

“You okay?” you ask quietly as the room moves around you in a swirl of hugs, laughter, and boots being peeled off of tiny feet.

He nods once, eyes locked on yours, the softest brown to ever be seen. Warm like creamy hot chocolate which has become a staple in your cravings lately, “Never better, darlin’.”

Sarah tugs at his hand then, pulling his attention away from you. Always feels like a much crueler interruption than it is. But what can you do when just a look from the man can have you feeling your heart beat out of your chest.

“Can I show Poppy the drawings we made?” Sarah asks, the brightest smile on her little face causing those distinctly Joel dimples to make their appearances.

Joel’s mouth twitches into a soft grin, “Sure thing, bug.”

She grabs your dad’s hand and drags him into the living room while Artie runs ahead. Your mom leads you toward the kitchen with her arm around your waist, as if you’re viable to break like precious china if handled wrong. She was always like this with your pregnancies, with your only sibling being your sister who was quite content remaining single and childfree, you and your kids were the main attraction at any family gathering.

Joel only had one brother, Tommy, who had also miraculously remained childfree despite his dalliances before he hit his mid-thirties where life turned serious.

Joel had told you all about that moment in his life that he’d realized how much he’d forgone a personal life to take care of his mom when she’d gotten sick. Then, she got better, and he was still stuck in that eldest role of taking care of his younger brother and being the pinnacle of support for the entire family.

When his work started flourishing and he had his own house to maintain, he lost himself in the work. The effort of a relationship is easily dissuaded by the endless hours of paperwork and phone calls that drained his brain of any further effort. By the time he’d get home, he’d be exhausted mentally, physically, and emotionally; he knew trying to establish anything external would only be a distraction. Plus, if he were to get into a relationship he’d want to be able to focus more of his energy on that than he was capable of at that point.

By the time you’d met him, he’d finally opened himself to the idea of dating. But he didn’t want the flings or the one-night stands. He’d taken care of himself for long enough that he had no interest in wasting time as that was his most valuable asset. Then, you. Intense, focused, brilliant, determined… young as hell, but you were… well, you. As much as he tried to deny it initially, you had woven yourself into his very being. The idea of waking up to a cup of coffee and his dose of you every day became his lifeline.

When you’d finally decided to try for a baby together, it wasn’t a decision made lightly.

You’d enjoyed almost an entire decade together childfree. You’d filled your time with traveling and enjoying each other to the fullest, but there was so much love left to give.

Joel had respected your wishes after things between the two of you had gotten to an undeniably serious point after you’d settled into the married life. The discussion of kids came up, and you’d both agreed that you wanted to focus on your career and your marriage and not prioritize the life path of having children.

Joel was respectful of your wishes, as he always has been, but you could tell he was a man meant to be a dad. He was nurturing and patient, slow to anger, protective, kind, strong and soft all at once.

He’d never once brought it up unless you did, the exciting idea of having kids. Then, you slowly started talking about it more. How you were having baby fever, or when his cousin’s kids always gravitated towards him and he was just so natural and gentle that you couldn’t help but feel your womb ache to have his babies. Or when you were just so deeply and irrevocably in love you’d beg him to give you his babies.

He always tried to differentiate the feral requests with the logical ones, the conversations brought up when talking about bills or vacations or friends who were having kids. The logistics of it all, the time allocated, the mental and physical impacts that may occur, the lifestyle changes, the entire shift of dynamics once again to accommodate the new roles of being mom and dad, best friends, and husband and wife.

Then, you were buying baby books for new parents, eyeing that empty room for the layout of a nursery, and adjusting yours and his diet for the healthiest baby-making… That's when he finally embraced the excitement he’d been harboring for years.

Of course, he’d always stated his openness to the idea. In a “if you ever want kids, darlin’…” kind of way. Well, he can’t pretend he’s entirely innocent… especially when he’d be balls deep inside of you and he hears those sweet whimpers and tells you to ‘take it… let me fill y’up, make it stick, make a momma outta you’.

It's easy for him as a man to embrace the concept of children. But he knew it would have to be your choice, all he could do was be supportive of your decision. He wanted you, all of you, to himself. He wasn’t ashamed to finally admit his desire for physical, undeniable proof of his possession of your love and your devotion. Turns out, you wanted everyone to know who you belonged to, too.

As if that was much of a surprise for the way you unashamedly would display your affections in public. Or rather lay your claim. He loved every damn minute of it.

You’d learned early on that you shared particular turn-ons regarding the idea of Joel’s seed taking root deep inside you, creating life out of primal instinct. Which were very unproductive for the logical side of things when in reality you both had agreed to prioritizing a childfree life… but it had always been a turn-on. In addition to many others you’d explored over the years, at some point you realized there may be some real-life application with which you were both genuinely excited for. Not just the primal instinct to breed, claim, and belong to each other, though that fire within you both certainly continues to burn brighter with each day.

Now, with your little family, anyone you’d ever encountered had no doubt in their minds about the passion shared between the two of you. Overflowing with love and admiration for each other and bleeding into the physical and living proof of your love in the form of three little munchkins and another on the way.

Damn, he was proud to be the daddy to these kiddos. Quite literally made with love. Growing to become little people he adores, so distinctive and brilliant in their own ways, yet so undeniably you in other ways. And yes, more often than not he can’t help but confront the parts of himself that shine through these mini-versions of he and you.

“Daddy…” Ellie’s tugging on the pant leg of his jeans, her brows furrowed just like her daddy’s, so intently focused on getting his attention.

“Yeah, baby girl? What’d’ya need?” Her eyes light up once she’s won his attention, immediately outstretching her arms.

With a deep sigh, he leans down and picks her up, a soothing hand rubbing her back as he straightens again.

His girls are spoiled, and his son certainly is too. The blossoming life growing inside of you will be just as spoiled… he looks at you at that thought, his gaze softening at the sight of your hand absently resting on the bump beneath your sweater.

He’s obsessed with that sight, but is once again rudely interrupted by Sarah and Artie nearly knocking over your mother as she was carrying dishes to the dining room table.

He groans, letting his eyes rove over you once more before gently sets Ellie back down, much to her disapproval, “alright, you two… c’mere.” Artie and Sarah’s eyes quickly look as his usual soft, gentle voice turned stern. A rarity, but they knew enough to know that they had done something to earn that tone. He points his finger to the floor in front of him, and kneels down so he’s closer to eye-level of your two oldest.

“Artie…” your son refuses to still, trying to grab onto Joel’s broad shoulders and climb onto his back. But Joel quickly catches him, lifting him and setting him down in front of where Joel was kneeling. Joel’s large hands gently grip your son’s upper arms, keeping him still which is a nearly impossible endeavor when he’s hyper.

“Y’listenin’, bud?” Joel’s stern dad voice is so unbearably sexy to you, and as much as you loved it you also liked that he didn’t have to use it that often… yet. Who knew what trouble your kids would get into as they get older and likely more rambunctious.

Artie’s mischievous eyes, the same dark, scheming eyes his daddy gets whenever he’s up to no good, dart everywhere except his father’s face.

Meanwhile, Sarah has already begun retreating behind you.

Your now seven-year-old carefully wedges herself against the back of your legs like maybe if she becomes part of your silhouette Joel won’t notice she’d very clearly been involved in whatever catastrophe had nearly taken out your mother and the dinner dishes.

“Oh no,” he drawls, pointing toward her without looking away from Artie. “Don’t you start hidin’ behind your mama like she’s gonna save ya.”

You bite the inside of your cheek, fighting a smile as Sarah’s little hands clutch the back of your sweater tighter.

“Mommy likes me,” she mutters into your side.

Joel huffs out a laugh at that, deep and warm and exhausted all at once. “Mommy likes me too, bug. Means she’s my accomplice, not yours.”

You finally glance down at her, raising a brow, “Were you helping your brother cause problems?”

Sarah’s eyes widen with immediate betrayal. Like you, of all people, should understand loyalty.

Joel catches the look and points between the two of you, “See? Team effort. Mommy and Daddy are united against tiny menaces.”

Joel sighs through a smile before finally straightening back up to his full height. Sarah stays tucked against you, peeking around your arm with cautious little eyes now that she realizes this is shifting from teasing into an actual lesson.

The softness settles back into his face almost immediately.

He reaches down, patting Artie lightly on the shoulder. “Hey,” he says more gently, waiting until both kids are looking at him. “Y’all know Grandma could’ve gotten hurt, right?”

Sarah’s mouth pulls downward just slightly while Artie’s grip loosens on Joel’s jeans, “We didn’t mean to,” Sarah says quietly.

“I know y’didn’t.” Joel’s voice stays calm and steady, never sharp. “But that’s why we gotta be careful in houses full’a people, ‘specially when folks are carryin’ hot food or dishes, alright?”

Artie nods first, quick and earnest now that he understands that they could’ve hurt someone because of running inside. He was a kid with good intentions, and so was Sarah. You and Joel both know they’d never intentionally hurt anyone, especially Grandma, who makes the best cookies and lets them lick the bowl.

“Can y’go apologize to Grandma for almost knockin’ her over?”

Sarah immediately slips away from your side while Artie barrels after her, nearly tripping over his own feet in his rush to make it right.

Joel catches the back of his sweater again automatically before he can faceplant, “Walk,” he warns.

Artie slows to an aggressively fast walk.

You laugh quietly beside him while Joel shakes his head under his breath, though you can see the fondness written all over his face.

Then he glances over at you, “Think they just need to burn some energy,” he murmurs.

“Y’think?”

He ignores the sarcasm entirely, “I’ll take ‘em outside for a bit before dinner. Let ‘em run ‘round the yard or somethin’.” His gaze drifts toward the darkening yard outside. “Better than lettin’ your father get tackled by a four-year-old hopped up on peppermint bark.”

You hum and melt into his side, pressing your face to his chest as his hand finds your lower back, his fingers massaging right where you always need it.

Your eyes drift toward the kitchen again just in time to see Ellie ignoring the chaos entirely in favor of your sister, who’s finally escaped dish duty and flour-covered countertops long enough to breathe.

Ellie toddles directly toward her with complete certainty, as she always has with your sister.

Your sister barely has enough time to crouch before Ellie climbs straight into her lap, little arms looping around her neck like she belongs there.

You watch as Ellie curls so naturally into your sister’s lap while the rest of the house buzzes around them. She’d always been different from the older two in that regard. Ellie preferred to observe first. To linger quietly at the edges until she decided where she wanted to be.

And somehow, more often than not, she chose your sister.

Maybe because your sister never pushes for attention from her. Never forces interaction or tries to coax her out of her shell. She simply exists beside her. And Ellie responds to that with the kind of trust only little kids are capable of giving.

Sarah reappears from the kitchen with your mother behind her, and your mom’s already waving the whole thing off with affectionate exasperation.

Artie’s at her heels in apology while Sarah explains something very seriously with animated little hand gestures.

Joel watches the scene unfold and something in him visibly eases again.

You tilt your head up to look at him properly, and there it is again, that unbearable feeling that still catches you off guard even after years together.

The sight of him.

Not just handsome, though god he is. Broad shoulders filling out that dark sweater, hair slightly mussed from tiny hands, wedding ring catching warm kitchen light every time he moves.

It’s the intimacy of knowing every version of this man.

Knowing how gentle those hands are when they hold your babies. Knowing the same man that disciplines your children, kissed every inch of your body this morning like devotion itself. Knowing the quiet steadiness of him is real because you’ve seen every version of this man there is to see.

The younger Joel who kissed you like he was starving for it never disappeared. If anything, age only made him worse. Who kisses you now like it’s the nectar of life itself and the only way he can possibly get through the day.

The man who keeps fruit snacks in his coat pocket because Ellie gets cranky in grocery stores. The man who learned how to braid Sarah’s hair from YouTube videos because she once cried when he couldn’t make it look like yours. The man who lets Artie “help” him with yard work even though it usually creates three times more work in the end.

Now, the amazing father who is currently calculating exactly how long he can let the kids sprint around outside before someone inevitably cries about wet socks.

Joel notices you staring almost instantly and his eyes lower to yours, softening at the edges, “What?”

“Nothin’.”

That earns you a skeptical little huff.

Your fingers curl into the front of his sweater instead, smoothing over the fabric there while your body instinctively drifts closer.

You swear sometimes loving him feels less like an emotion and more like gravity.

Your Joel.

The man who somehow still looks at you like he’s a little stunned you chose him.

Even now, standing in your parents’ foyer surrounded by children and Christmas dishes and overlapping conversations, you can feel it lingering beneath the surface in the way his eyes drift over you.

“What’s on your mind, darlin’?”

You smile against his chest, “You always know when I’m in my head, huh.”

“Married to ya long enough.” His nose brushes briefly against your temple, “Got tells.”

You raise an eyebrow and look up at him again, “Oh, I’ve got tells?”

He nods lazily, his eyes slowly absorbing everything your expression has to reveal, “Mhmm.”

“What are they?”

His eyes flick down to your mouth before lifting again, warm amusement settling there, “Get real quiet. Start lookin’ at me like you’re about five seconds away from either kissin’ me or cryin’.”

His hand slides firmly around your waist and pulls you against him until there’s barely space left between your bodies. Warmth radiates off him in waves, familiar and grounding and dangerously distracting all at once.

Then he kisses you, his mouth moves against yours with the ease of long practice. His thumb strokes slow against the curve of your waist beneath your sweater while your fingers drift upward into the slightly mussed hair at the nape of his neck.

God, you love kissing your husband.

Love the way he always sighs into it immediately.

Love the way his hand tightens subtly at your hips every single time, grounding himself to you.

The room dissipates from around you. Everything else fades away until…

“Again?”

Joel pulls back first, though only barely, forehead still resting against yours as he closes his eyes with exhausted resignation.

Sarah stands in the middle of the foyer holding a candy cane like she’s personally witnessed a war crime.

Artie appears beside her two seconds later, immediately far less interested.

Sarah keeps squinting suspiciously at the two of you, “You kiss a lot.”

Joel snaps his fingers playfully and points toward her without missing a beat, “Well, I like mommy a lot. That’s generally how bein’ married works, bug.”

Artie nods thoughtfully at this revelation while Ellie, still planted in your sister’s lap, watches the entire exchange.

Your mother waves a hand from the dining room, “Joel, if you still plan on taking those children outside before dinner, now would be an excellent time.”

“Yes ma’am, I’m goin’.”

The kids erupt instantly.

You bite back another smile as Joel starts gathering tiny jackets, hats, gloves, and boots with the efficiency of a man who’s done this exact routine a thousand times before. He crouches to zip Sarah’s coat while simultaneously stopping Artie from pelting Ellie with a mitten.

Then he looks up at you with that stupid, devastating tenderness that never fails to wreck you.

Joel sighs heavily through a smile before opening the back door, immediately getting blasted with cold air and shrieking children.

Within seconds the backyard is chaos.

Sarah starts organizing some elaborate puddle game that only she understands while Artie sprints through the yard like a feral woodland creature. Joel trails after them with Ellie right behind him, her hat slipping crooked over one eye while she watches her siblings with fascination.

You stand near the kitchen window with your mother and sister, pretending to help arrange dinner while mostly just watching your husband through the glass.

The porch light catches on the broad shape of him moving through the yard, bending to help Artie gather sticks that look the most sword shaped while Sarah tugs insistently at his sleeve trying to explain rules to whatever game she’s invented.

And even from across the yard you can see the grin that spreads across his face when he catches you staring again.

—

Dinner passes in the warm, chaotic blur family holidays always seem to become.

By the time the gifts are all exchanged and opened, and the kids are finally bundled into pajamas and makeshift sleeping arrangements, both you and Joel are running on exhaustion, affection, and several hours of quietly pretending you weren’t thinking about each other in entirely inappropriate ways all evening. Joel stands in the hallway doorway watching you adjust Sarah’s blanket later that night, your sweater riding up slightly over the curve of your stomach as you bend.

The look on his face when you straighten again is enough to make warmth coil low in your belly instantly.

His wedding ring glints softly as he hooks a finger through the belt loop of your jeans and pulls you into him.

There’s a pattern to the two of you now. One built over years of marriage and children and knowing each other too well. Lingering touches throughout the day. Stolen glances across crowded rooms. The gradual build of tension until eventually one of you finally caves.

Usually him, though not always.

You glance down the hallway toward the room where the kids are sleeping before looking back up at him.

Joel follows your gaze and immediately groans under his breath.

“Darlin’,” he mutters, forehead dropping briefly against yours. “We are absolutely not sneakin’ around your parents’ house like teenagers,” Joel mutters against your mouth. Even as he says it, his hands are already sliding beneath your sweater, warm palms spreading over your waist like he physically cannot help himself.

“Mm,” you hum against his mouth. “Married teenagers with a mortgage and four children.”

That rough laugh leaves him before he kisses you again, helpless against it despite himself.

Maybe it was the nostalgia of being back in your childhood home. Maybe it was watching Joel all night, warm and broad and endlessly patient with your children. Maybe it was pregnancy hormones or the rare opportunity to exist without tiny hands climbing all over both of you for five consecutive minutes.

Whatever it was, the second the bedroom door shut behind you, restraint stopped feeling particularly important.

The guest room, which was once your childhood bedroom, is dark except for the colored glow of Christmas lights filtering faintly through the curtains from outside. Soft reds and greens drift across the walls in muted washes, catching along Joel’s shoulders as he locks the door as quietly as possible before turning back toward you.

And then he just… looks at you.

His gaze drifts slowly down your body, lingering at the swell of your stomach beneath your sweater before climbing back upward again. Something about pregnancy completely rewires this man. Not that Joel had ever really tried to keep his hands off of you, but carrying his babies seemed to reduce whatever self-control he once possessed into ash.

He’s stepping toward you again and you bite your lip in anticipation, the heat already climbing your neck.

His mouth brushes yours, “Thought your mother was gonna catch you eye-fuckin’ me across the dinner table.”

A startled laugh escapes you before he kisses you again, swallowing the sound immediately.

The kiss deepens almost without warning.

Years together had made the two of you dangerously attuned to each other. Every inhale. Every shift of breath. Every tiny sound. Joel kisses you like a man who already knows exactly what makes you melt and still enjoys discovering it all over again anyway.

His hands slide beneath your sweater fully now, rough palms smoothing up the curve of your spine before settling at your ribs. You shiver when his thumbs brush the underside of your breasts.

“Joel,” you whisper.

The sound of his name alone seems to do something to him.

His forehead drops briefly against yours again, eyes closing as he exhales slowly through his nose like he’s actively trying to collect himself, “This is a terrible idea.”

Your fingers slide into his hair, “Y’wanna stop?”

Joel lets out a quiet, disbelieving laugh against your mouth.

“Sweetheart,” he murmurs, palms smoothing slowly down your sides, “if I ever stop touchin’ ya, it’s because I’m six feet under.”

Joel backs you toward the bed slowly, one hand spread protectively over the curve of your stomach. The backs of your legs hit the mattress and he follows you down with a quiet groan the second you pull him with you.

His beard scrapes lightly along your jaw before his mouth finds the sensitive spot beneath your ear.

“Y’have any idea,” he murmurs quietly against your skin, “what watchin’ you tonight did t’me?”

Your hands smooth beneath his sweater, palms dragging over warm skin and the firm planes of his back. “Probably the same thing watchin’ you with the kids does to me.”

That earns you a rough exhale against your throat.

“Yeah?” His mouth curves faintly there. “Me wranglin’ sugar-crazed children got you worked up?”

“So stern yet so gentle with your minis…” You glance up at him innocently, “yeah, very much so.”

His mouth drags down your throat and he immediately catches the tiny sound that escapes you, one large hand sliding up to cover your mouth before instinct can betray either of you.

Those dark chocolate eyes lift back to yours instantly, equal parts amusement and warning.

“Mind yourself, darlin’, got sleepin’ kids and a house full’a people who already know too much about what we get up to when we’re alone.”

Your fingers smooth through the hair at the nape of his neck, softening at the rough edge in his voice. It’s almost unfair how quickly this man unravels for you after all these years. One kiss and suddenly the steady, capable father downstairs wrangling over-tired children disappears, replaced by the version of Joel who still looks at you like he’s starving for every inch of affection you offer him.

His other rough palm skims over your ribs, your waist, the gentle swell of your stomach again, “Y’gonna be quiet f’me, baby?”

You nod your head pathetically, and he can feel your grin against his hand.

“Y’promise?”

You nod your head again, taking staggered breaths through your nose as he looks down at you with such fire that you swear you melt beneath him.

“Alright… but I won’t hesitate in gaggin’ ya if I have to, y’understand?” He takes his hand slowly off of your mouth, assessing your understanding and obedience, “use your words, hun. Be a good girl.”

“Yes sir, I… I’ll be good.”

He hums in contemplation, knowing you have good intentions, but also knowing how hard you try to be quiet and how rare it is for you to succeed in that endeavor. His hands finally grab the hem of your shirt and peel it off of you, quickly disposing of your bra as you arch your back for him.

“Y’are a good girl f’me, ain’t ya…” His lips trail lower, lingering and reverent one second before turning hungry the next. Leaving dark red marks in his path.

The colored glow of the Christmas lights from the house beside your parents’ catches across his shoulders as he settles between your thighs again, broad hands smoothing up the outsides of them before spreading them gently apart.

You bite your lip hard enough to stop the sound threatening to leave you and his eyes darken instantly at the effort.

His thumb drags slowly along your bottom lip before pressing gently against it. Your mouth opens for him without hesitation, your tongue instantly working around it in a way that threatens his own unraveling.

“Y’know what y’do to me carryin’ my babies?” he murmurs, eyes dragging slowly over you. “Walkin’ around lookin’ so damn sexy all day while I’m tryin’ to behave in front’a your parents.”

His mouth presses briefly against your stomach then, softer than before, lingering there for a second longer before he looks back up at you again. His mouth presses briefly against your stomach then, softer than before, lingering there for a second longer before he looks back up at you again.

He withdraws his thumb from your mouth much to your dismay, but quickly unbuttons your jeans and hooks his fingers beneath the waistband of your pants and panties and pulls them down with less self-control than he’d been showcasing thus far.

You lift your hips as he slides them off, his hands lightly trace back up your legs, his eyes following aptly.

“Fuckin’ gorgeous, and look at that…” his obsession with your baby bump is no surprise, and might also be one of the reasons you’d agreed to having one last baby in the first place.

“You get prettier every damn day, don’t’cha?” His eyes flick back up to yours with that devilish grin of his before he’s gripping your thighs apart and settling himself between them.

He crosses his arms and peels his sweater and undershirt off in a grand show of revealing his deliciously tanned skin to your hungry hands and eyes.

It doesn’t take long for your hands to unbutton and unzip his pants and start to shuck them down his thick thighs. He steps off of the bed to peel the final layers all the way off.

His cock springs free, leaking profusely at the tip as if he’d been neglected all day. And maybe he had been, unintentionally, due to the demands of wrangling three trouble-makers on Christmas. And so had you, you realize, as your legs spread wider as settles between them again. Then, his attempt to inch down the bed is thwarted by your heels anchoring behind his thighs.

You’re not one to deny his hungry mouth from getting its fill of you, but the entire evening all you’d been able to think about is how you’re carrying his baby and how you need him to melt into you. For his broad body to cage you in like a damn animal and fuck the ache out of you.

“Need you, Joel… need to feel you,” your arms wrap around him as he presses his exposed skin against yours.

“Awfully bold of ya to assume you’re ready to take me, darlin’,” he drags two of his thick fingers down the expanse of your stomach, watching the shivers erupting on your skin with a quiet reverence.

“Gonna need t’use my fingers first, baby… need to feel y’cum before I lose my damn mind inside this tight pussy,” His fingers cup your mound now, his middle finger pressing against your entrance and quickly sinking inside without much resistance at all because of how long you’d been worked up, “fuck…” Joel groans at how wet you are already, then slowly adds another finger before starting to thrust in and out.

The squelch of his fingers is obscene, betraying how needy you are for him, as if there’s ever really any doubt.

“Needy cunt, I know… I know,” he soothes, his thrusts quicken with the addition of his thumb nudging against your swollen clit.

A whimper immediately escapes you, followed quickly by a moan of relief as he finds that spot inside of you, curling his fingers into the spongy ridge that has you seeing stars.

Joel can tell that you are already oblivious to the sounds you’re making. Before you can even register what’s happening, Joel’s thick fingers are stuffed into your open mouth, stifling the sounds pouring out of you, “since y’can’t shut y’self up…” he doesn’t need to finish that thought, the purpose is clear.

You hum around his fingers in surprise, but your eyes tell him everything he needs to know… well, the clenching of your tight walls around his thick digits buried deep in your pussy tends to also be a tell-tale sign that you are getting closer to cresting over that wave of pleasure.

Your hands anchor themselves to some part of him. Your nails biting into the tanned skin of his biceps and forearms, desperately trying to ground yourself against the onslaught of stimulation.

You're enraptured by the sight of him expertly working your body. He’s added a third finger into the gummy walls of your pussy, scissoring you open for his cock, and his thumb continues its circles on your clit.

You’re a blubbery mess around his fingers as you suckle them and incoherently plead for him, he doesn’t need to hear your words to know what you’re saying, “cum f’me, baby, then I can fuck the ache away. Be my good girl…”

Not like you had much choice in the matter as your body keens, your back arching into his touch as he brings you over that edge. Your vision goes blurry, the pleasure is blinding, and all you can feel is him. All you can hear are his stifled groans of approval and his words of encouragement through clenched teeth as he works you through your intense orgasm, “fuck yeah…such a good fuckin’ girl f’me… that’s it…”

You can feel the throb of his cock against your thigh, the tip leaking profusely and swollen red with need.

You still can’t talk coherently through his fingers still stuffed in your mouth, but he can feel your tongue moving along his fingers and his eyes finally meet yours again after he brings you down from your much needed release and withdraws his fingers from your pussy.

He keeps his fingers in your mouth, his eyes dark and hungry as he brings the fingers that had just been buried inside of you to his lips, sucking and licking them clean with a low hum of approval and murmuring praises as he indulges his favorite taste in the damn world, “so sweet, all fuckin’ mine.”

He keeps his fingers in your mouth as he grips his cock in his other hand, his head tilting back briefly in relief as he strokes it once before nudging your legs wider with his.

Your eyes say enough for him to understand what you want, and your body says what your eyes can’t. Your legs spread wider, inviting... begging. Your hands pulling him closer, the heels of your feet digging into the back of his legs and practically forcing his cock closer to where you need him.

“Alright, alright… I hear ya, needy thing, let me make y’feel better, yeah?”

You nod frantically, only now noticing the tears welling up in your eyes in sheer need to be filled by him.

Joel tuts mockingly at your desperation which only causes the tears to spill down your cheeks, “Y’need my cock to claim this sweet pussy like it ain’t what fucked ya deep and raw til it knocked y’up… again?”

His thumb traces your chin and cheek as your tongue works around his fingers as if they were his cock shoved deep into your throat. You do your best to swallow around them, the saliva starting to spill out and down your chin and he just watches, completely enraptured by the sight.

Much to your dismay…. surprise…. delight? you’re not really sure, he pulls his fingers out of your mouth. He then grips your face, with your mouth still agape, between his thumb and his soaked fingers, ensuring your full attention on him.

The next thing you know, his mouth is on yours, and the thick head of his cock is pushing into you.

You swallow each other’s moans, inhaling and absorbing every non-verbal confession of how badly you both needed this.

His tongue licks hungrily into your mouth and you greedily accept it, your hands finding purchase in his greying curls once more as he gives in to his own need.

The stretch is accompanied by a subtle burn as he works the girth of his cock into you. One of his hands grips the underside of your thigh, holding you open for him, while the other braces himself.

“Fuck,” he breathes against your mouth once he bottoms out. “Needed y’too, woulda kept teasin’ ya, but who the fuck am I kiddin’.”

He widens the stance of his thick thighs between yours, causing your legs to spread even more as he loses all abandon and begins fucking you into the mattress.

“Thank you, thank you… thank y…” you blabber against his lips, and you feel him grin against yours in response.

His pace picks up and his heavy balls slap against you with every thrust as he murmurs filth right into your soul, “take it, baby… this cock was made to fill this tight pussy, to fuck ya so hard and deep that y’can’t form a word in that pretty little head a’yours.” He keeps going, nestling his face into the crook of your neck and replacing his hand over your mouth to prevent your whimpers and moans from filling the entire house.

His lips are right up to your ear now, and you know he has no intention of stopping this spew of filth as he fucks you without reprieve, “this tiny body was made f’my thick cock to fuck my seed right into your womb… ‘n make it stick… over and over…” the sound of your bodies slapping together should’ve been more of a concern than whatever other sounds you could possibly be making, but Joel couldn’t care less at the moment.

The sound of Christmas movies carried throughout the house, so at this point it was more about making you compliant to the impact of his words, which he knows will have you milking his cock in no time, “fuckin’ ya in your childhood bed with our kids sleepin’ down the hall… what would your younger self say, huh? Before she knew what a greedy, desperate girl she’d become because a real man showed her how to fuck.”

You think about your eighteen year old self, finally eighteen, having indulged in endless fantasies of someday meeting an older man to show her exactly what Joel has shown you, but those fantasies could never compare to your reality now.

Joel’s words certainly have the desired effect, you can feel that coil tightening once more. That perfect mushroom head of his cock digging perfectly into that spot so so deep inside of you. His teeth and tongue are laying claim to the hollow of your throat. His grip tightens around your thigh, and you know it’ll bruise.

You fucking love when his hands leave a mark in the shape of his fingers. “Please…” you mouth the word against the hand still covering your mouth. Your nails rake down the muscles of his back, each thrust has you crying against his palm. You feel every detail of his impossibly hard cock as it repeatedly stretches you open around it and fucks deeper than you think is even possible, every time.

You can imagine every throb of every vein you’ve memorized with your tongue, your hands, your pulsating walls… his chest heaves against yours, the coarse, yet soft hair spattered across his broad chest rubs deliciously against your nipples and causes more whimpers to spill between his fingers. His skin melts against yours, the sweat of passionate bodies mixing together in a concoction of devotion and primal need.

He lifts himself up so he can see the way his cock splits you open and the foamy ring of your arousal forming at the base of his cock.

His brows furrow in concentration as he feels how fucking close you are again, “there it is, baby… give it t’me, my good fuckin’ girl,” he finally moves his hand from over your mouth in favor of strengthening your impending release. His hand moves between your thighs and his thumb finds that oversensitive bundle of nerves that instantly has you biting down on your own hand to stifle the noises from flooding out.

“That’s it,” his hips stutter as you begin to pulsate around him, he pushes his hips forward, tilting yours up slightly and then everything implodes, “fuck… fuck yes, milkin’ the fuck outta me, baby…”

Now, both of his hands grip the back of your thighs and folds you in half, his entire body pressing you into the mattress as he pounds mercilessly into you.

You’re free-falling off of the edge and Joel’s right there with you. Lips colliding in kisses meant to devour, hands grasping to pull him closer, but there’s no space between you left to fill, yet you ache to absorb.

A few more thrusts and he can’t hold back any longer. With a deep, guttural groan that vibrates so deep you can feel it in your own bones, he’s spilling his seed deep inside of you, “take it,” his forehead drops to your shoulder, his breath hot on your skin in soft grunts, emptying himself with thick spurts of cum painting your walls, “take it all.” His mouth claims every inch of skin he can reach, leaving little red marks and sloppy kisses in its wake. He slowly and messily trails back to your mouth, which he promptly pries open with his.

Your legs shake in the aftershock, your hands alternating between smoothing down the muscles of his back and tangling in his sweat-slicked hair.

You feel every pulse of his cock throbbing deep inside of you. With a few final and deep thrusts, he fucks his cum even deeper, and you can feel the mix of yours and his juices spilling out around his softening cock.

Right as you start to contemplate the consequences of making a mess on the guest room’s sheets, Joel understands exactly where your mind wanders to, “your parents ain’t dumb, they know we fuck like animals.”

Which does little to soothe your nerves. To know that your parents know how sexually active you are… as if a gaggle of kids and another on the way wasn’t proof enough… it went against your upbringing to really talk about that stuff with them. You and your sister are fairly certain they believe that she’s still a virgin, when you’d grown into your womanhood hearing about all of her sexual escapades. Her experience indirectly solidified your own preference for older men.

“Don’t worry, darlin’,” he presses gentle kisses to your forehead, your temple, your cheekbone…. the corner of your mouth, “I’ll rinse the sheets off in the mornin’ and leave ‘em to dry so there’s some benefit of the doubt… That work?”

You nod your head, but roll your eyes at the brown-eyed man staring so intently down at you, “thank you.”

He winks cheekily and you pull him into another sultry and sloppy make out.

“Anytime,” he replies.

You kiss his smug grin with a pleased hum.

A wandering hand finds your sore breasts with a soft sigh of relief against your lips, and he finally pulls out of you with a quiet groan, collapsing beside you. Joel presses gentle kisses to your shoulder and neck before settling into the soft mattress, allowing the exhaustion from the day to finally overtake you both.

୨୧ ⏔⏔⏔♡⏔⏔⏔ ୨୧ ୨୧ ⏔⏔⏔⏔♡⏔⏔⏔⏔ ୨୧

a/n: and yes, we are going to ignore the fact that this initially was going to be more of a Christmas chapter. fighting for my life a little bit (just being dramatic). my drive to do quite literally anything is minuscule to non-existent, but there is no better feeling than a blissful realization where I’m like oh let me do something I want to do and I actually do it. Throughout the past few months I have made like 20 drafts of general ideas for this fic and filled in plot holes/ did research for accuracy. that process is exhilarating for me as I scour pinterest, but that’s as far as I’d gotten til now. writing smut just wasn’t happening for me lol. soooo, here’s whatever this became! hope you enjoyed!

Slow trails down the inside of your thighs, gloved fingertips barely skimming skin still trembling from magic and want. You felt him shudder - a subtle, almost reluctant tremor - as if your skin under his touch startled him every time. As if he’d forgotten softness could exist under his hands. You heard the breath he drew in, sharp and quiet, like he was relearning the sensation of warm skin giving beneath his touch. Your heat. Your pulse. Your want.

His fingers traced upward again. You felt your knees draw inward instinctively, your hips shifting toward him, your body leaning into his palms as though your magic recognized him before your mind did. Goosebumps rose along your legs in a wave, and you felt his thumbs follow the trail, catching each tremor like it told him something he shouldn’t want to know.

The air between you vibrated with magic and need.

He pressed forward, sheathing himself deeper, and you dragged in a sharp breath that dissolved into a strangled whimper. Everything was blurring - the runes, the chamber, your own sense of self - dissolving into the heat and pressure and the pull of the dark realm brushing too close to your pulse.

He felt the build in you, felt your body climbing fast toward that razor edge, and he moved with a growing urgency that made the magic around you tighten into a coil ready to snap.

But then -

He stilled.

Completely.

His hands froze at your thighs. His breath stalled behind the helmet. His entire body went rigid, armor and muscle and magic going still in one terrible heartbeat.

You blinked, dazed, breathless, confused-and then you understood what he was staring at.

Your eyes.

Or rather: the ink-black darkness that had swallowed your irises whole.

The pulse of the realm beat through you like a second heartbeat. You felt it seize your spine, tugging. Wanting. Claiming.

“Why…,” you gasped, reaching for him, trying to pull him back into motion, into you. “Don’t stop -”

He pulled out of you so suddenly you cried out, your hands scrambling for him, for the heat, for the grounding of his body. Air flooded your lungs too fast. Your legs nearly gave.

“No- What -” You stared up at him, your eyes already shifting back to normal, confusion crashing over you. “What are you doing?” Your knees felt too weak to hold you already on your own.

His voice, when it came, wasn’t the deep warmth you’d grown used to. Not the reluctant sweetness he sometimes let slip. This was something else entirely.

A voice hollowed by dread.

“Enough,” he said. “Another inch, cyar’ika, and the realm swallows you whole.”

You shook your head hard, pushing off the wall to stand straighter, clutching your cloak around your trembling body. “I can control it,” you snapped, the lie burning your tongue. You knew you didn’t. You had felt it weeks ago. The creeping hunger. The quickening need. The thinning veil.

He tilted his helmet slightly, just enough for you to feel the weight of his disbelief.

“You certainly cannot.” The words landed heavy. Final. He wrapped your cloak tighter around your shoulders, shielding you from the cold air, from the magic still rustling under your skin. His touch gentled, steadying you with warmth at your arms. You hated that it soothed you. Hated that he was right.

Your breathing steadied against his hands, but your voice trembled. “Why? Why now? You’ve never stopped before -”

His hands stayed on your arms, steady but unyielding, and you somehow saw it hit him - the realization that you still didn’t understand. Or couldn’t. Or refused to.

“You remember what I told you,” he said, voice low, almost vibrating with restraint. “About the cost of taking too much. About the witches who didn’t stop in time.”

You bristled. “I remember. And I’m not -”

“You will not return once you cross over,” he cut in, sharper than a blade. “There is no waking from the realm once it claims you.”

“You cannot know that,” you shot back, lifting your chin even though your stomach twisted.

But he shook his head with a certainty that froze the air.

“I can.” He stepped back from you, not to distance himself - but to gather something heavy, something he had held back from you until now. His voice was colder when he continued. “Because it happened to me.”

The words landed like a breaking spell.

He turned away from you then, as if the story could only be told to the wall - or as if facing you would make it harder.

“I was not born a demon,” he said. “I was human. Flesh and bone and choice. So many centuries ago, I barely remember… me. I served the realm before I belonged to it.” A bitter sound twisted through his helmet. “A fool who thought he could take power without consequence.”

Your breath caught. He had never spoken of this. Never even hinted.

“When I crossed the threshold,” he said, “I did not fall. I was taken. Absorbed. Remade into something bound to the hunger of others.”

You swallowed, throat tight.

“What happened to me,” he continued, “is what will happen to you. The realm does not ‘empower.’ It consumes. It strips the witch of her mind first, then her body, then her name.” His fists clenched at his sides. “And what comes out the other side is not you.”

You opened your mouth - to argue, to deny, to pretend control you did not have - but he spoke over you, voice rising with raw anger.

“You think you can fight it because you want me?” He turned then, his visor cutting to you like a blade’s edge. “You think your desire is stronger than the realm? You think I haven’t heard that from witches before?” Your pulse hammered. He took a long, sharp breath. “You don’t listen.”

“Why would you care?” you snapped, the words tearing out before you could stop them - a desperate attempt to deflect, to shield, to understand.

He froze.

Then he moved.

Fast.

He crossed the space between you and grabbed your shoulders so hard the breath punched out of you. This time when your back hit the wall, it wasn’t lust driving him - it was certainty. Fury. Fear.

He loomed over you, helmet inches from your face. “Because I want the circle to end.”

Your lips parted, but no sound came.

His grip tightened.

“Your fall won’t free me,” he growled. “It will bind me. Anchor me deeper. Make me exactly what the realm wants - a creature without memory, without will, without anything left of who I was.”

His voice cracked - not with emotion, but with the rawness of truth spoken aloud for the first time.

“And if you cross over… you won’t just die.” A breath shuddered through both of you. “You will take what’s left of me with you.” Your heartbeat stumbled. “And then?” his voice dropped to a whisper. “I become the thing that devours you.”

You finally understood.

Not the hunger or the magic.

Not even the danger.

But the last flicker of him - the human part - fighting to keep from being erased. Fighting not to lose you with it. And it hit you with a slow, cutting ache:

Whatever remained of him inside the demon…

…this was it.

This desperate refusal. This anger layered with fear.

It wasn’t softness but survival.

And for the first time since summoning, you were afraid. Not of the realm. But of what your loss would do to him. Of what his loss would do to you.

“There must be another way,” you whispered. Your voice barely held shape - too raw from what almost happened, too thin from what you now understood. Still, you stepped toward him.

Your hand rose before you could stop it, fingers brushing the solid curve of his shoulder plate. If the touch startled him, he didn’t show it. Only the tiniest shift of his helm - as though acknowledging, not yet accepting.

“I searched for centuries,” he said. It wasn’t defeat in his tone. It was a truth worn down to bone.

“That doesn’t mean the search is over,” you argued softly.

Your cloak slipped from your fingers; you clutched it quickly, wrapping it tighter across your chest. The air in your chambers had gone cold, reverent almost, as if it understood the severity of what passed between you.

He didn’t look at you. His gloved fingertips ghosted the edge of the old tome on your table - his book, the one you had devoured front to back, searching for answers he never gave.

“You know as well as I do what the text says,” he murmured. “The best you can do is end this bond. Now. While you still can.” His hand stilled on the parchment. “Release me, and I will return to the void that birthed me. Wait for the next summoner who calls. And you…” He exhaled hard. “You will walk free of a path that would swallow you.”

The words struck something deep in you, deeper than fear.

Care.

From him.

From a creature built from shadow.

You shook your head violently. “No. There will be another way.” You hesitated - just for a heartbeat - before adding, quieter, “If not in my world… then in yours.”

That made him turn.

The visor fixed to your face, and though you could not see his eyes, you felt the weight of his stare - heavy, searching, almost disbelieving.

“You want to enter the realm willingly?” he asked. His voice was sharper, not mocking - startled, perhaps. Maybe even alarmed.

You swallowed. “Is it possible?”

His silence stretched, taut as a blade wire.

The realm. The forbidden plane. The place the coven only spoke of in warnings and whispered lessons meant to frighten novices. A land where magic swelled until it burned through the soul. Where no mortal walked without losing the pieces that made them human.

“It is dangerous,” he said at last ambiguously. A warning contained inside a fact.

“So is this union,” you countered with a smirk that barely hid your trembling. “And yet here we are.”

You turned from him then, crossing to your shelves. Your hands moved almost on instinct - reaching for vials, dusts, sigils etched on parchment, the obsidian blade used for rift-openings forbidden even among the coven’s elders.

“Witch.” His tone sharpened. A command. A plea. “Do not -”

But you had already gathered the components to open a portal.

A portal to his world.

The air around you hummed with rising power.

And he knew - far too late - that you had made up your mind.

Opening the portal had been dangerously easy.

Far too easy.

You knew why.

Your magic was swollen to its peak - thick with every ounce of power siphoned from your union over the past weeks. It throbbed inside you now like a second heartbeat, restless, hungry, eager to be used.

You dragged a simple dress over your still-trembling body, discarding the cloak. No point bringing anything heavy; fabric meant nothing where you were going. You packed quickly - his ancient book, a vial of crushed moonstone, a pinch of voidsalt, the iron-scented ash from your hearth bowl, and a ritual dagger sharpened to a gleam.

You told yourself it was just precaution. But stepping into an unknown realm with bare hands felt foolish, even for you.

The portal pulsed in the center of your chambers, its surface warping the air. Deep purple light bled across your walls, staining the stone and unmaking the shadows. It hissed and shimmered like a wound torn open in reality itself.

Your breath hitched.

This was it.

You stepped forward -

- but a gloved hand snapped around your wrist and yanked you back.

He stood half in the unnatural glow, half in the dim candlelight of your room. The portal’s purple reflections skated across the curve of his helmet, casting him in a way that made him look both celestial and monstrous.

His chest rose with a sharp breath, one he didn’t want you to notice.

“Are you certain, little witch?” he asked.

His voice wasn’t soft. It was controlled, but underneath you heard something you had never heard from him before:

Fear.

“This is magic you have not even begun to comprehend,” he went on. “You cannot master what waits beyond that threshold. It could mean your end.”

A cold shiver crawled up your neck. You ignored it.

“As I understand you,” you said quietly, “I meet my end either way. Better to face it head-on.”

His grip tightened. For a moment - a single, hesitant moment - he didn’t speak. Hesitation was not part of his nature.

“Not if you simply break our bond.” There was iron in his tone now. “Do the ending ritual. Walk away before the void claims you.”

You turned your head slowly toward him, giving him a look that needed no words.

He saw the truth written in your expression.

We both know I will not let you go.

His hand remained on your wrist - steady, almost painful in its hold - until you pulled free with a sudden, decisive twist.

“No,” you whispered. “I won’t.”

Then you stepped forward.

Into the rippling light.

And the realm swallowed you.

The sensation hit instantly - a violent, twisting pull, like your bones were being rearranged while your body was wrung inside out. Your stomach dropped; your ears roared; your blood turned molten. For one terrifying moment you weren’t sure if you were falling or floating, or if you even had a body anymore.

Then -

Silence.

Everything snapped into place.

The strain vanished as if it had never been there.

You stumbled forward, catching yourself on shaky knees as you gasped for air that tasted unlike anything in your world - cold, metallic, tinged with smoke and something older than language. Sharp rocks dug into your palms, but you hardly noticed.

The realm spread before you.

A vast, dark expanse where the sky bled violet and black in slow-moving tides. The ground beneath you shimmered with a dull sheen, like obsidian softened by endless heat. Jagged spires rose in the distance, reaching toward a sky with no sun, no moon - only the constant pulse of living shadow.

A whispering wind brushed your ears.

Or maybe it wasn’t wind at all.

You barely had time to collect yourself or even get up onto your feet when a shift in the air announced him.

He stepped through the closing portal without stumbling, without even the slightest hitch in his breath. His armor caught the eerie light perfectly, outlines sharp and sure. This world fit around him like a memory slipping back into place.

He didn’t look foreign here.

He looked inevitable.

A creature returning to the shape of his origin - not because he chose it, but because the realm had claimed him long ago.

You stared up at him, chest still heaving from the crossing.

He stood steady beside you, the weight of his presence grounding and terrifying all at once.

Because for him, this was home.

A dark home. A prison he never asked for.

He let his gaze sweep over the dark horizon, the lines of his helmet stark against the shifting gloom. For a heartbeat, he didn’t move - then, with a reluctance so subtle you almost missed it, he extended a hand.

You blinked, startled.

But you took it.

His grip steadied you as you pushed yourself upright, your knees still shaky from the fall. Realm dust - cold, shimmering like powdered bone - clung to your dress. You brushed it off with quick, impatient strokes, all while scanning the horizon for anything that resembled a direction, a path, a sign.

You hadn't truly planned this far.

You’d leapt into the realm on instinct, desperation, and a reckless thread of hope.

But the realm, surprisingly, offered something back.

“What’s that?” you asked, lifting your hand toward a faint purple glimmer in the distance - ruins, or the suggestion of ruins, carved in jagged silhouettes against the dark sky. Light pulsed there like a dying heartbeat.

His helmet tilted - barely, but tellingly.

“It’s…” His voice dipped, uncertain. “It’s never done that.”

“Then we should seek it out!” you said immediately, too quickly, already ready to run - but his hand closed around your wrist again, stopping you with effortless strength.

“That place,” he said, the low timbre of his voice vibrating through his hold on you, “is not a sanctuary. Every creature in this realm avoids it. They call it a Circlebreaker. Your kind carved it into the bones of my world long before your covens forgot the truth.”

“My kind?” you echoed incredulously. “Mortals?”

He did not release your wrist. If anything, your proximity pulled you closer, a breath’s width at most, your hand gently turning within his grasp, soft flesh against cold armor.

“What does it do?”

His attention tore from the horizon back to you. The tilt of his helmet was sharper this time, pointed, and though you couldn’t see his eyes, something about the moment felt… unusually careful.

“Some say,” he murmured, “it can break any bond. Any pact. Any summon.” A beat. “But the cost is always steep.”

“Let me guess.” You breathed out a humorless laugh. “It wants a life.”

A low exhale left him - a sound hauntingly close to a chuckle, though rougher, darker.

“Your kind is amusing, little witch. Always prodding the unknown. Reckless with the gifts you were born fragile enough to lose.”

You softened, just slightly.

“Remember,” you said, voice quieter, “it was your kind too… once.”

Something in him stilled.

Before he could respond, you pivoted on your heel and set your gaze on the ruins again - your pulse quickening, your resolve locking into place.

And without looking back, you began walking toward the distant, pulsing light.

It was impossible to tell how long the journey took.

Time in the realm didn’t move forward - it folded, slithered, opened and collapsed again. Your body insisted you’d been walking for minutes. Your mind whispered: weeks. Your bones agreed with both.

But eventually the ruins rose before you.

Massive pillars broken at unnatural angles. Half‐crumbled archways carved with symbols that moved when you weren’t looking directly at them. Stone that looked like it had been poured, not chiseled, still warm beneath a layer of cold shadow. And everywhere - light. Pulsing, low and rhythmic, as if the ruins themselves breathed.

With every step you took, the pulse flared brighter.

Runes ignited under your feet, reacting to your presence, shimmering against the slanted metal plates of his armor. The glow reflected off him in violent streaks - purple, silver, void-black.

“This place…” His voice dropped, strange. “I can feel the pull already. The drain.” He flexed his gloved fingers once, as if testing his own strength. “It was built to cost something.”

You drifted toward the nearest glyph-marked column. Your fingertips skimmed its surface - cold at first, then warming abruptly, almost painfully, as power throbbed under your skin.

You inhaled sharply.

The magic here was nothing like the clean, disciplined current the coven taught. It was wild. Deeper. Less shaped by human hands and more by desperation.

“What is all this?” you whispered.

“A conduit,” he answered, stepping beside you. “Your ancestors carved these sigils to reach through the veil. To tear through it, if needed.”

“The coven never…”

“Of course they never taught you,” he cut in. “Knowledge like this destroys more witches than it saves.”

You traced a spiraling rune curling around the stone. It sparked beneath your touch - a soft sting - and the symbol lit brighter, reacting to you, not to him.

“They’re attuned to mortal magic,” you murmured.

He hummed. “And the center will be worse.”

You continued deeper, both following the widening path of runes until the structure opened into a vast circular chamber - a hollowed-out bowl in the earth, ringed with carvings. And in the middle:

An altar.

Black stone, impossibly smooth. Runes etched into its entire surface, each one glowing faintly like dying embers. The circle surrounding it thrummed with layered sigils, each one overlapping another in complex weaves of authority and surrender.

You stepped toward them, kneeling to study the script. He joined you, lowering himself with careful control, his armor whispering against the stone.

Together, you read:

“Bound magic must be unbound at the origin…”

“Connection severed through dual presence…”

“Strength drawn from the bonded -”

“- but the breach stabilizes only with life offered.”

You exchanged a look.

“Here,” you said, pointing to the central ring of glyphs. “This is the part that needs to be activated from inside the circle.”

He scanned it, posture tightening. “Only a living witch can stand there. The circle reads mortal life. It responds to it.”

“And the incantation?” you pressed.

Another set of runes. Another translation. Your throat tightened as you pieced it together.

“It siphons life force.”

He finished it for you, tone grave. “Not metaphorically. Literally. The circle burns what it consumes.”

You imagined it - your magic unraveling from the inside, your life peeling away layer by layer.

The magic would unbind him, yes. It would free him, yes.

But it would take you with it.

He straightened to his full height, shadows clinging to him like a mantle. Then, with a bluntness he had never afforded you before, he said:

“You won’t survive it.”

The words fell heavy, a verdict spoken by the realm itself.

Your pulse skipped.

Then steadied.

Then burned.

You rose slowly, dusting realm grit from your palms, and looked him dead-on.

“Not alone.”

He stared at you as though you had spoken absolute madness.

“You cannot be serious, cyar’ika.” His helmet snapped from the altar to you, then back again. “This is not a plan. This is suicide dressed as cleverness.”

You lifted your chin. “It’s logic. Our bond was created through summoning, strengthened through… our union. It formed a feedback loop. We share magic now. In balance. In motion. That is our loophole.”

He made a low, disbelieving sound, shoulders tensing under his armor.

But you pressed on.

“When the ritual begins, the circle needs my pure life force first. It must taste it. Recognize it.” You pointed to the carved glyphs that pulsed beneath your feet. “But once the threshold is reached - once you sense it - you join with me. Fully.”

His fists clenched. “The circle might reject me the moment you begin! Throw us both into oblivion!”

“But if it doesn’t,” you continued, refusing to yield, “our energies merge. You feed me power instead of draining it. Your realm-born magic cycles through me before the circle can burn me out. The ritual gets what it thinks is my life force… but it’s actually yours channeling through me.”

“That is not how the Circlebreaker was intended to function.”

“Exactly.” You smiled humorlessly. “Which is why it might work.”

He stepped closer, tone harsh yet strangely strained. “We do not know if the circle will let me enter. We do not know if the merging will stabilize you. We do not know -”

“We never know,” you cut in quietly. “Not in magic. Not in life. Not in anything.”

He stared at you - long, tense, unreadable beneath the visor.

Then his voice sharpened, almost desperate. “There is another way.”

You exhaled through your nose. “No.”

“Yes.” A metallic clench of his gauntlets. “You break the bond here. Now. I return to the dark.”

“And condemn you to another cycle?”

“It is what I am.”

“It is what someone made you,” you corrected. “That isn’t the same.”

His head tilted downward. “Little witch…”

You stepped back.

“No. I will not end our bond. And you cannot force me.” You held his gaze levelly. “I am still your summoner. You cannot override my will.”

Something flickered through his stance - anger, yes, but something else too. Something wounded. He looked ready to argue, to shout, to grab you and drag you from the circle if that’s what it took.

So you acted first.

You drew the ritual dagger and sliced it across your palm - enough to call the blood to the surface. Enough to show him you weren’t bluffing.

You held the trembling, blood-warmed hand above the altar.

“If you will not trust my plan,” you said quietly, “then trust me.”

He froze.

You both guessed the stakes.

If he entered the union too early, the ritual collapsed.

If he entered too late, you burned before he ever reached you.

If the realm rejected the merging, you both vanished into the void between worlds.

It was the worst kind of magic.

Unpredictable. Delicate. Perfectly balanced between death and salvation.

He stepped back - out of the circle entirely. A deliberate gesture. A surrender of control.

“You are,” he said slowly, “by far the most peculiar mortal I have encountered in centuries.”

You allowed yourself a thin, shaking smile. “I’ll take that as encouragement.”

His presence retreated another few steps, and the moment he was no longer near you, the realm’s cold pressed in like a living thing. Heavy. Grasping. And hungry.

No turning back now.

You raised your hand over the altar higher. Blood swelled, warm and slick, gathering at the cut. For a heartbeat, you hesitated - just one.

Then you opened your fist.

A thick, dark drop fell onto the polished black stone.

The glyphs flared.

The chamber shuddered.

You felt the circle wake.

And the ritual began.

He watched the circle awaken as if the ground itself inhaled. Watched you speak the incantation you had studied with such relentless, maddening determination - the one he had tried, more than once, to talk you out of. And yet here you were: stepping willingly into ancient magic that had devoured every mortal who attempted it before you.

He felt the shift before the first syllable left your mouth. A shudder in the air, a vibration that crawled across the floor like lightning searching for a place to strike. The stones hummed. The sigils carved into them brightened with a sickening, living pulse. Power unfurled - slow at first, then ravenous.

The magic worked exactly as intended.

You leaned over the altar, hair whipping into your face as the winds grew bolder, louder. They tore at your dark dress, ripping at the seams like claws wanting to pull you out of your mortal shell. He nearly called out your name when violet flames erupted at your feet - silent at first, then crackling with hunger - but he swallowed the instinct. Anything he did could break your focus, and breaking your focus meant killing you.

That was the part you had to endure.

The flames climbed your legs, curling around your calves, licking higher, finding cloth and skin with equal greed. The dress caught instantly. A flash of purple light, then fire consumed it, devouring fabric in fluttering strips. For a fleeting, terrifying heartbeat, your voice twisted - the incantation overlapping with the unmistakable sound of being burned alive.

And yet you did not collapse.

Hair wild, dress gone, arms raised toward the cavernous dark above, your voice carried over the storm like something ancient. Something powerful. Something not entirely mortal.

In that moment, he had no words, no comparison, nothing in his centuries of existence to place you in. You stood in the center of the flames as though they were your birthright, and he - a being older than most civilizations - could only stare.

Your union had fed you well these past weeks. A steady, quiet exchange of power each time you had opened yourself to him. Every night you gave him your body, every tremor of pleasure, every time you clenched around him and pulled him deeper - you had taken from him too. Strength, magic, whatever remained of his old divinity. Without that stolen reservoir, you would already be nothing but ash.

But now?

Now he saw what it had built in you.

And beyond all of that, he felt it: the rise in the air. Pressure, gathering. Energy thickening until it vibrated against his teeth. A rising, mounting climax of magic. It would peak soon - and if he waited too long, the drain would become irreversible. You would burn from the inside out.

It was a tightrope walk. A single misstep would kill you or imprison him forever.

Chances of failure were so astronomically high they bordered on certainty.

And yet…

…that stubborn, pathetic part of him that had stayed human allowed him one thing he hadn’t felt in centuries:

Hope.

There had never been a summoner who even considered freeing him.

Why would they? They all knew what it cost.

But you stood in these cursed flames like it was the only thing you were ever meant to do.

Your voice faltered once. Barely. A single stumble in the rhythm of the chant.

But he recognized it instantly.

The strain.

The pull.

Your life being siphoned.

He readied himself.

Any moment now-

Then he felt it:

The tingle.

The shift.

Finally: the snap.

The peak of the incantation.

Without another thought, he stepped into the circle, expecting the magic to recoil, expecting to be thrown back or vaporized entirely.

Neither happened.

Instead, the flames parted around him like water. The winds still slammed against him, forcing him to shield his face with his arm as he fought forward, step by step, toward you.

You didn’t feel him approach.

You couldn’t. You were gone - submerged in the magic, suspended between worlds. Your body was nearly floating, only millimeters above the stone floor, head tilted back, eyes rolled white as you spoke the words with supernatural precision. What remained of your dress fluttered away in final razor-thin strips.

He reached you, grabbed your waist - the bare skin fever-hot beneath his gauntlets. Still you did not react.

And then it struck him:

You needed connection too.

Physical anchoring.

He ripped the gauntlets from his hands and tossed them into the storm.

The moment his bare fingers touched your skin, you snapped back into your body. Dark eyes rolled down, pupils dilating, human again - but your voice did not break. You kept reciting, syllables spilling from your lips, words meant to unmake him and set him free.

But your gaze found him now - hazy, unfocused, but there.

A barely-there nod. Permission. Or plea.

He lifted you. Set you onto the altar. Cold stone kissed overheated skin, and you arched at the shock.

There was no room left for teasing, for drawn-out seduction, for the kinds of games the two of you had played over the past weeks. The ritual was rising. The energy was cresting. Timing was seconds from slipping beyond control.

Your hands found the back of his neck, fingers curling in his hair beneath the helmet. Your breath hitched but the words kept pouring from you, unwavering, relentless, divine.

He freed his already hardened cock - a desperate, rough motion - and forced your legs open. Your body answered him instantly, instinctively, as if it recognized him the way the magic did.

When he pushed into you in one swift motion, your head fell back. Your voice stuttered - barely - but you caught the next word before it escaped. Power surged up through both of you like a detonation.

He knew the sensation of your magic by now.

How every time you tightened around him, he felt your pull - felt your need - and felt himself give to it. How every time he thrust deeper, the bond between you tightened, feeding the both of you in equal, intoxicating measure.

But this?

This was beyond anything he had imagined.

A magnitude that rattled his bones.

A force that felt like the world splitting.

He braced himself on the altar, hands on either side of your hips, driving into you with a pace adapted to your breath, to the cadence of your incantation, to the trembling arc of your spine. The wind howled around you. Flames erupted along the sigils, pulsing brighter with every movement.

Your legs tightened behind his back, and with a fierce roll of your hips you pulled him deeper, forcing a sound from him - half growl, half gasp - swallowed instantly by the storm.

He could no longer deny it.

This union was more than magic.

More than ritual.

More than a bond.

It was symbiotic.

Two forces feeding into each other, rewriting each other, reshaping power and flesh alike.

The storm crescendoed. Magic tore through the air in violent waves. He felt you slipping - losing control whenever he thrust too hard, too deep - and he tried to restrain himself, grounding you with one hand cupping your face, the other tangling in your hair.

You shifted beneath him with every push, sliding farther back on the altar until you lay flat. He climbed onto it without breaking the connection, looming over you, movements forceful but synced to the rhythm of your chant, matching you word for word in breath and motion.

And then -

- the ritual changed.

The air thickened with something new.

The energy no longer drained. It built.

Your eyes snapped open, meeting his, and for the first time in the entire ritual, you smiled. A small, knowing, wicked smirk that made his breath hitch.

Your hands slipped from his neck.

Before he could react, you moved.

Fluid and without any effort.

Unnaturally quick.

You twisted - and in one smooth motion, you flipped him. His helmet hit the stone on his back, the impact echoing through the chamber, and you followed, straddling him, never losing the connection between your bodies.

You sat above him bathed in violet fire, bare skin glowing like molten metal, hair whipping around you as the magic crowned you with light. You were mortal - and yet not. Breakable - and yet terrifying.

His hands roamed your form instinctively, gripping your waist, sliding up your ribs, cupping your breasts with reverent desperation. You steadied yourself with both hands on his chest as your hips began to move - slow circles first, punishingly controlled.

Your head fell back, throat exposed to the violet storm, and the ritual surged with you.

And he understood - with a clarity that cut through everything -

that this was the moment.

The precipice.

He felt you clench around him - tight and pulsing - your body gripping him with a force that was more than physical. It was magic, instinct, desperation, all woven into one. His own climax built low and heavy, coiling with the same unbearable inevitability as the storm around you.

You felt perfect.

Made for him.

As though the bond itself had shaped you to fit him in this moment.

Your fingers scrambled for purchase on the steel of his breastplate. Nails scraped metal, slipped, found edges, lost them again. And through the roar of the storm, through the crackling violet fire and the tearing wind, he heard it - your whimper threading itself through the last strains of the ritual.

It nearly undid him.

Your hips were losing rhythm, snapping forward in frantic, uneven motions as your breath stuttered on each syllable. He saw your brows knit, your mouth part, your voice wavering dangerously on the edge of breaking.

He couldn’t let you fall apart alone.

With the last of his strength-both physical and magical, both draining fast - he pushed up, muscles trembling, lightning flickering over his skin. He gathered you into his lap, pulling you down onto him with a fierce, grounding hold. One hand splayed across your spine, the other gripping your hip hard enough to bruise, anchoring you against him as he buried himself in you.

Your forehead found his. A soft collision.

For a heartbeat, he wished - truly, painfully wished - he were without his helmet. That he could catch your climax with his mouth, swallow your cry, feel your breath on his tongue. That the first kiss between you wouldn’t be stolen by steel and circumstance.

Instead, he held you as it hit.

Your body tightened around him in a shuddering wave, your voice dissolving into the last word of the incantation - spoken against his helmet - ending in a moan that belonged only to him.

The magic answered instantly.

He felt the surge before it swallowed him - a tidal pull ripping through your joined bodies, snapping through the circle like lightning hitting stone.

And from his own throat, uncontrolled, torn loose from centuries of restraint, came a single word:

“Cyar’ika.”

A groan wrapped around the syllables as he spilled into you with raw, violent force.

The storm reached its peak with you.

And then -

- silence.

A silence so complete it felt unnatural.

As if the world itself inhaled and forgot to exhale.

Only the sound of your breaths - sharp, broken, disbelieving - filled the void between you. You lifted your head, just enough to find his gaze beneath the visor, searching for him, seeking confirmation, connection, something.

But you didn’t get the chance.

Because before either of you could speak, before you could touch him or he could breathe your name -

Light.

Noise.

Pull.

All at once.

A wrenching force tearing through the circle, through your bond, through flesh and power alike.

And then -

nothing.

Only darkness.

You woke with a violent, tearing inhale - air scraping into your lungs as if it had been withheld for too long. Your chest lifted off, spine arching, a soft cry torn from your throat as your body remembered the burn.

Flames.

Violet, hungry, crawling up your skin.

For a raw heartbeat, you were still there - bare on the altar, fire devouring your dress, wind shredding the world apart around you, his hands on your waist, his voice in your ear - 

Your breath trembled.

But the darkness here wasn’t the dark realm.

It was… softer.

Quieter.

Your eyes adjusted slowly and the shapes around you wavered and blurred into unfamiliar silhouettes. Nothing reacted to your magic. Nothing pulsed back with ancient power. Nothing smelled of ash or burning stone.

Your fingers scrambled for grip, for reality. They found soft linen beneath you. Clean. Warm. Not the cold slab you expected. Not the black floor dusted with realm ash.

And something heavy rested on top of you - a blanket, not chains of magic. You touched your own skin and found it whole. No scorch marks. No cracked flesh. No lingering fire.

You blinked into the dark, letting the shadows settle.

A shelf. A small lantern. A curtain swaying. Herbs hanging to dry. Recognition hit like a soft blow.

You were in your coven’s sickbay.

Home.

…But how?

Your lips parted, your breath stuttering as your mind tripped over the impossibility of it. The last thing you remembered was him - his hands, the ritual, the incantation, the storm, the climax of the spell - 

Then light.

Then nothing.

Soft footsteps broke through your disorientation.

A figure appeared at your bedside with a gasp so sharp it cut through the room.

“Sister!”

Your coven-mate dropped to her knees beside you, grabbing your hand with both of hers. “By the moons - you’re awake! Do you feel alright?”

Before you could answer, she was already checking you - touching your forehead, brushing your hair back, tracing along your arms as if expecting burns or bleeding. Her eyes scanned you like she was bracing for the worst.

“I… how -?” you whispered.

Her brows knit tightly.

“That’s what we want to know.” She exhaled shakily. “You were found in your chambers. Unconscious. Nearly drained of life force. Completely bare and covered in realm ash!”

She swallowed hard, voice thinning. “The Arcanist said… said if we had found you an hour later -” She broke off, eyes glassy.

You stared at her.

Your chambers.

Not the altar.

Not the ruins.

Not the realm.

He had gotten you out.

Somehow.

The realization hit you like a strike of magic. A tremor shivered down your spine.

“Was I…” Your voice came out hoarse. “Was I alone?”

Her face twisted in confusion.

“Of course you were. Who else should have been with you?” She tilted her head, concern deepening. “Sister, do you remember what you were doing?”

You shook your head quickly. Too quickly.

“Forgive me,” you murmured. “I still feel… muddled. May I rest more?”

Relief bloomed across her expression. “Of course. Rest as long as you need.” She poured you water, guided it to your lips, checked your pulse again, then finally - finally - left you alone in the dark.

You waited.

One breath.

Two.

Ten.

The door closed fully. Her footsteps faded.

And then - 

“Demon?” you whispered.

The darkness didn’t shift. Didn’t thicken or ripple or breathe. No voice slipped through it. No warmth curled around your spine.

Nothing answered.

And deep, deep down, you knew why.

The ritual had worked.

The bond was gone.

The circle broken.

He was free.

And freedom - for him - meant away from you.

You lay back slowly, staring into the shadows until your vision blurred, exhaustion tugging you down.

He was gone.

Weeks bled into each other with an uncomfortable sluggishness. Your strength returned in days, but your spirit… not quite.

You slipped back into the coven’s rhythm - lessons, chores, assignments - but everything felt bland. Dull. Insufficient. Your teachers praised your elevated proficiency, your effortless control, your sudden leaps in spellwork.

They didn’t know the truth:

Power still hummed in your veins.

His power.

The last thing he had given you.

And every time you cast even the simplest spell, you felt him. Felt the echo of him, his presence, his touch on your skin, the night he first appeared in your chambers. Felt the ritual’s climax in your body, in your bones.

The study halls bored you.

The lessons insulted your potential.

One of your teachers noticed.

Which was why the Arcanist summoned you today.

You waited beneath the stone archway of the coven gardens, the moonlight spilling over nightshade blossoms that glowed faintly blue in the soft dark. A breeze curled through the tall chanting reeds, and the distant lake reflected silver ripples.

The gardens were expansive - wide enough for wandering paths and quiet alcoves, stretching all the way to the bordering wood. In other nights, you loved the solitude here.

Tonight, it hurt.

The moonlight reminded you too much of the union - the nights he visited, shadows dancing across your walls as he stepped through the veil to reach you, his presence heavy and magnetic. You wrapped your cloak tighter around your shoulders, though the night air wasn’t cold.

It was absence that chilled you.

The Arcanist approached with the soft click of heeled boots. She was reverent in her age - silver hair braided, golden spectacles perched on a sharply defined nose, dark robes immaculate. Stern, yes, but never unkind.

“Walk with me,” she said simply. You followed. “Your progress,” she began as you passed rows of moon-blooming bellflowers, “has been impressive.”

“Thank you,” you replied, trying for humble, landing somewhere between hollow and flat.

She continued without reprimand.

“I watch closely when potential rises among us,” she said. “And yours rises quickly. Quicker than most.” Her gaze slid sideways to you. “You stand at the top of every list.”

Your stomach twisted. Praise felt wrong. Misplaced. As if the power you wielded was borrowed, stolen, not earned.

You murmured another thanks.

She noticed the tension in your shoulders, the way your fingers twitched to touch every bloom you passed - your magic restless beneath your skin.

“You need more than foundational lessons,” she said. “You need challenge. Expansion. Something that matches your… new capabilities.”

You stared at the lake as you reached its edge. The wind brushed the surface, leaving dark ripples under the moon’s reflection.

“If you are willing,” the Arcanist continued, “I arranged for extracurricular guidance. One-on-one instruction.” A pause. “Entirely optional. But suited to you.”

You hesitated.

Coven-sanctioned magic felt trivial now. But refusing her felt unwise - and maybe, just maybe, something in you craved distraction.

“…When would this instruction begin?” you asked.

She didn’t look at you.

Instead she looked across the lake’s shore - toward a soft, distant glow. A small lantern. And beside it, a figure cloaked in dark fabric, standing very still.

“If you wish,” she said, “now. He was eager to begin immediately.”

“He?” you repeated. Mages rarely entered coven grounds. Rarer still that one would teach.

But she simply nodded. “Give it a try,” she said, reaching toward your shoulder before hesitating, settling instead for a small encouraging nod. “You can always decline later.”

She walked away, leaving you alone with the moonlight and the distant stranger.

You watched him.

He didn’t move.

Didn’t beckon.

Just waited.

You sighed.

What could it hurt?

At worst - boredom. At best - distraction.

Your boots whispered over grass and stone as you circled the lake, approaching him slowly. The lantern light flickered over him, outlining broad shoulders beneath a dark cloak. He didn’t turn. Didn’t speak.

But something - something - shifted in the air.

Not magic.

Not exactly.

But familiarity.

When you stepped into the circle of lantern light, he finally turned.

He pushed back his hood.

He was younger than you expected. Dark curls tumbled over his forehead. A grin tugged at his lips, nearly boyish and warm. His clothes were practical but elegant - dark tunic, fitted trousers, boots laced high. Nothing that should have made your heart stutter.

But it did.

“Evening,” you greeted softly. “It’s an honor that you chose me as your apprentice.”

His grin widened - a spark of mischief in it.

And then he spoke.

Warm. Deep. Familiar in a way that struck straight through your chest.

“I would choose you,” he said, “again and again, cyar’ika.”

Everything inside you broke.

A soft gasp hitched in your throat. Your knees weakened. The world narrowed to him, to the syllable on his lips - cyar’ika - spoken with the same heat, the same reverence, the same aching affection as in your union.

He stepped closer slowly and lifted a hand - bare. Human. And as you touched it: Warm.

His fingers curled around yours.

And that touch -

Gods, that warmth - 

It was him.

All of him. Not the armor, not the runes, not the binding. Just him.

He pulled you gently into his space, the lantern dimming behind you as his other hand rose to cup your cheek. You leaned into it helplessly, a soft, broken exhale leaving your lips.

He smiled.

“Not bound,” he murmured, “not summoned. Not tied to a cycle. I came back because I wanted to.”

Your eyes burned. Yet you didn’t get a chance to respond. Because he leaned in and pressed his lips to yours.

A union not bound by darkness anymore but bound by something stronger: purpose.

Masterlist

Taglist:

your parents’ house, Christmas Day

“You’re pregnant?”

Your sister’s voice cuts through the moment you step into the foyer. Her head is poking out from around the kitchen doorway, hair pulled up in a messy bun, hands still flour-dusted from rolling dough, and her eyes lock right onto your stomach.

You glance down at your bump, snug and unmistakably visible beneath your soft, form-fitting sweater.

Your small frame was always quick to betray the blooming life within your womb. You’d started showing at just two months pregnant, a form-fitting sweater leaves little doubt.

You blink at her past your parents, who are busy wrangling your kids into hugs… Sarah already halfway out of her coat and Artie’s stomping water off his boots, and letting himself be lifted into your dad’s arms.

“Well,” you deadpan, tossing a look back at Joel and that permanent smirk fixed on his face, “hello to you, too.”

Your sister disappears, but before you can get your coat off she’s right in front of you, wide-eyed and eyes locked on your bump.

“Oh my god, oh my god, you are. That’s a baby bump.” Her eyes find yours and you swear you see a tear in the corner of them, “You didn’t tell me!”

“I was going to,” you laugh nervously, surrendering your coat to Joel’s waiting hand. “I mean… I am telling you.”

Your mom turns at the noise, gaze dropping to your sweater the same moment she registers the conversation. Her brows lift, lips part, and then her hand covers her chest like the gesture might steady her heart.

“Is it true?” she asks, softly. “Honey, are you really…?”

Joel steps up beside you, tucking a hand around your waist, grounding the moment with that subtle, quiet strength of his. He’s still carrying Ellie, who’s buried her face in his neck with her thumb in her mouth, clinging to him despite her puffy pink jacket. Her little legs dangle against him.

“A little over 4 months along,” he says. “We wanted to wait a little while before tellin’ everyone.”

Your dad glances up from where Artie’s got him in a bear hug. “Wait… four months? You’re four months pregnant?” He stares at you, then Joel, then you again. “When were y’all gonna mention that, sometime after the baby graduates?”

“We wanted to do it in person,” you raise your hands in mock surrender.

The room stills, the chaos of coats and kids fading into a shared, stunned silence, and then your mom’s face breaks open like the sun coming out from behind clouds. She steps forward, hugging you with both arms.

“Oh, sweetheart… another baby,” she murmurs. “You’re growing another little person.”

Joel smiles softly beside you, and when your mom pulls back, she hugs him too. He stiffens for only half a second before sinking into it. Just the effects of your mom’s hugs, he stopped denying that fact.

“Four kids,” your dad mutters, still shaking his head. “You must really like bein’ exhausted.”

“Well, she’s hard to say no to.” A sharp nudge of your elbow has him looking at you with that devious smirk of his, knowing damn well he was the one you couldn’t say no to.

“Happy wife happy life, right?” your sister jokes, nudging Joel from the other side and causing a grunt from the man as he’s attacked from both sides with what he swears are the pointiest damn elbows.

So distinctly sisters, but he loves the bond the two of you share.

Your sister grins as she steps in front of you and reaches over to rub your bump. You roll your eyes, though you secretly love when your sister dotes on your babies. You were practically her baby growing up, after all.

“This little one’s already stealing the show.”

Everyone’s laughing gleefully and so emotionally now, your sister hugging Joel from the side with a playful, ‘you dog, you’.

Joel finally lowers Ellie, who’s now more awake and mumbling something as she toddles straight toward your dad, arms out like a sleepy penguin. It’s her turn to be scooped up by him and he presses a kiss to her forehead.

Joel peels off his coat last with a deep sigh and a pleased smirk on his face.

He glances at you with that look he saves just for these moments, half overwhelmed and half overflowing.

“You okay?” you ask quietly as the room moves around you in a swirl of hugs, laughter, and boots being peeled off of tiny feet.

He nods once, eyes locked on yours, the softest brown to ever be seen. Warm like creamy hot chocolate which has become a staple in your cravings lately, “Never better, darlin’.”

Sarah tugs at his hand then, pulling his attention away from you. Always feels like a much crueler interruption than it is. But what can you do when just a look from the man can have you feeling your heart beat out of your chest.

“Can I show Poppy the drawings we made?” Sarah asks, the brightest smile on her little face causing those distinctly Joel dimples to make their appearances.

Joel’s mouth twitches into a soft grin, “Sure thing, bug.”

She grabs your dad’s hand and drags him into the living room while Artie runs ahead. Your mom leads you toward the kitchen with her arm around your waist, as if you’re viable to break like precious china if handled wrong. She was always like this with your pregnancies, with your only sibling being your sister who was quite content remaining single and childfree, you and your kids were the main attraction at any family gathering.

Joel only had one brother, Tommy, who had also miraculously remained childfree despite his dalliances before he hit his mid-thirties where life turned serious.

Joel had told you all about that moment in his life that he’d realized how much he’d forgone a personal life to take care of his mom when she’d gotten sick. Then, she got better, and he was still stuck in that eldest role of taking care of his younger brother and being the pinnacle of support for the entire family.

When his work started flourishing and he had his own house to maintain, he lost himself in the work. The effort of a relationship is easily dissuaded by the endless hours of paperwork and phone calls that drained his brain of any further effort. By the time he’d get home, he’d be exhausted mentally, physically, and emotionally; he knew trying to establish anything external would only be a distraction. Plus, if he were to get into a relationship he’d want to be able to focus more of his energy on that than he was capable of at that point.

By the time you’d met him, he’d finally opened himself to the idea of dating. But he didn’t want the flings or the one-night stands. He’d taken care of himself for long enough that he had no interest in wasting time as that was his most valuable asset. Then, you. Intense, focused, brilliant, determined… young as hell, but you were… well, you. As much as he tried to deny it initially, you had woven yourself into his very being. The idea of waking up to a cup of coffee and his dose of you every day became his lifeline.

When you’d finally decided to try for a baby together, it wasn’t a decision made lightly.

You’d enjoyed almost an entire decade together childfree. You’d filled your time with traveling and enjoying each other to the fullest, but there was so much love left to give.

Joel had respected your wishes after things between the two of you had gotten to an undeniably serious point after you’d settled into the married life. The discussion of kids came up, and you’d both agreed that you wanted to focus on your career and your marriage and not prioritize the life path of having children.

Joel was respectful of your wishes, as he always has been, but you could tell he was a man meant to be a dad. He was nurturing and patient, slow to anger, protective, kind, strong and soft all at once.

He’d never once brought it up unless you did, the exciting idea of having kids. Then, you slowly started talking about it more. How you were having baby fever, or when his cousin’s kids always gravitated towards him and he was just so natural and gentle that you couldn’t help but feel your womb ache to have his babies. Or when you were just so deeply and irrevocably in love you’d beg him to give you his babies.

He always tried to differentiate the feral requests with the logical ones, the conversations brought up when talking about bills or vacations or friends who were having kids. The logistics of it all, the time allocated, the mental and physical impacts that may occur, the lifestyle changes, the entire shift of dynamics once again to accommodate the new roles of being mom and dad, best friends, and husband and wife.

Then, you were buying baby books for new parents, eyeing that empty room for the layout of a nursery, and adjusting yours and his diet for the healthiest baby-making… That's when he finally embraced the excitement he’d been harboring for years.

Of course, he’d always stated his openness to the idea. In a “if you ever want kids, darlin’…” kind of way. Well, he can’t pretend he’s entirely innocent… especially when he’d be balls deep inside of you and he hears those sweet whimpers and tells you to ‘take it… let me fill y’up, make it stick, make a momma outta you’.

It's easy for him as a man to embrace the concept of children. But he knew it would have to be your choice, all he could do was be supportive of your decision. He wanted you, all of you, to himself. He wasn’t ashamed to finally admit his desire for physical, undeniable proof of his possession of your love and your devotion. Turns out, you wanted everyone to know who you belonged to, too.

As if that was much of a surprise for the way you unashamedly would display your affections in public. Or rather lay your claim. He loved every damn minute of it.

You’d learned early on that you shared particular turn-ons regarding the idea of Joel’s seed taking root deep inside you, creating life out of primal instinct. Which were very unproductive for the logical side of things when in reality you both had agreed to prioritizing a childfree life… but it had always been a turn-on. In addition to many others you’d explored over the years, at some point you realized there may be some real-life application with which you were both genuinely excited for. Not just the primal instinct to breed, claim, and belong to each other, though that fire within you both certainly continues to burn brighter with each day.

Now, with your little family, anyone you’d ever encountered had no doubt in their minds about the passion shared between the two of you. Overflowing with love and admiration for each other and bleeding into the physical and living proof of your love in the form of three little munchkins and another on the way.

Damn, he was proud to be the daddy to these kiddos. Quite literally made with love. Growing to become little people he adores, so distinctive and brilliant in their own ways, yet so undeniably you in other ways. And yes, more often than not he can’t help but confront the parts of himself that shine through these mini-versions of he and you.

“Daddy…” Ellie’s tugging on the pant leg of his jeans, her brows furrowed just like her daddy’s, so intently focused on getting his attention.

“Yeah, baby girl? What’d’ya need?” Her eyes light up once she’s won his attention, immediately outstretching her arms.

With a deep sigh, he leans down and picks her up, a soothing hand rubbing her back as he straightens again.

His girls are spoiled, and his son certainly is too. The blossoming life growing inside of you will be just as spoiled… he looks at you at that thought, his gaze softening at the sight of your hand absently resting on the bump beneath your sweater.

He’s obsessed with that sight, but is once again rudely interrupted by Sarah and Artie nearly knocking over your mother as she was carrying dishes to the dining room table.

He groans, letting his eyes rove over you once more before gently sets Ellie back down, much to her disapproval, “alright, you two… c’mere.” Artie and Sarah’s eyes quickly look as his usual soft, gentle voice turned stern. A rarity, but they knew enough to know that they had done something to earn that tone. He points his finger to the floor in front of him, and kneels down so he’s closer to eye-level of your two oldest.

“Artie…” your son refuses to still, trying to grab onto Joel’s broad shoulders and climb onto his back. But Joel quickly catches him, lifting him and setting him down in front of where Joel was kneeling. Joel’s large hands gently grip your son’s upper arms, keeping him still which is a nearly impossible endeavor when he’s hyper.

“Y’listenin’, bud?” Joel’s stern dad voice is so unbearably sexy to you, and as much as you loved it you also liked that he didn’t have to use it that often… yet. Who knew what trouble your kids would get into as they get older and likely more rambunctious.

Artie’s mischievous eyes, the same dark, scheming eyes his daddy gets whenever he’s up to no good, dart everywhere except his father’s face.

Meanwhile, Sarah has already begun retreating behind you.

Your now seven-year-old carefully wedges herself against the back of your legs like maybe if she becomes part of your silhouette Joel won’t notice she’d very clearly been involved in whatever catastrophe had nearly taken out your mother and the dinner dishes.

“Oh no,” he drawls, pointing toward her without looking away from Artie. “Don’t you start hidin’ behind your mama like she’s gonna save ya.”

You bite the inside of your cheek, fighting a smile as Sarah’s little hands clutch the back of your sweater tighter.

“Mommy likes me,” she mutters into your side.

Joel huffs out a laugh at that, deep and warm and exhausted all at once. “Mommy likes me too, bug. Means she’s my accomplice, not yours.”

You finally glance down at her, raising a brow, “Were you helping your brother cause problems?”

Sarah’s eyes widen with immediate betrayal. Like you, of all people, should understand loyalty.

Joel catches the look and points between the two of you, “See? Team effort. Mommy and Daddy are united against tiny menaces.”

Joel sighs through a smile before finally straightening back up to his full height. Sarah stays tucked against you, peeking around your arm with cautious little eyes now that she realizes this is shifting from teasing into an actual lesson.

The softness settles back into his face almost immediately.

He reaches down, patting Artie lightly on the shoulder. “Hey,” he says more gently, waiting until both kids are looking at him. “Y’all know Grandma could’ve gotten hurt, right?”

Sarah’s mouth pulls downward just slightly while Artie’s grip loosens on Joel’s jeans, “We didn’t mean to,” Sarah says quietly.

“I know y’didn’t.” Joel’s voice stays calm and steady, never sharp. “But that’s why we gotta be careful in houses full’a people, ‘specially when folks are carryin’ hot food or dishes, alright?”

Artie nods first, quick and earnest now that he understands that they could’ve hurt someone because of running inside. He was a kid with good intentions, and so was Sarah. You and Joel both know they’d never intentionally hurt anyone, especially Grandma, who makes the best cookies and lets them lick the bowl.

“Can y’go apologize to Grandma for almost knockin’ her over?”

Sarah immediately slips away from your side while Artie barrels after her, nearly tripping over his own feet in his rush to make it right.

Joel catches the back of his sweater again automatically before he can faceplant, “Walk,” he warns.

Artie slows to an aggressively fast walk.

You laugh quietly beside him while Joel shakes his head under his breath, though you can see the fondness written all over his face.

Then he glances over at you, “Think they just need to burn some energy,” he murmurs.

“Y’think?”

He ignores the sarcasm entirely, “I’ll take ‘em outside for a bit before dinner. Let ‘em run ‘round the yard or somethin’.” His gaze drifts toward the darkening yard outside. “Better than lettin’ your father get tackled by a four-year-old hopped up on peppermint bark.”

You hum and melt into his side, pressing your face to his chest as his hand finds your lower back, his fingers massaging right where you always need it.

Your eyes drift toward the kitchen again just in time to see Ellie ignoring the chaos entirely in favor of your sister, who’s finally escaped dish duty and flour-covered countertops long enough to breathe.

Ellie toddles directly toward her with complete certainty, as she always has with your sister.

Your sister barely has enough time to crouch before Ellie climbs straight into her lap, little arms looping around her neck like she belongs there.

You watch as Ellie curls so naturally into your sister’s lap while the rest of the house buzzes around them. She’d always been different from the older two in that regard. Ellie preferred to observe first. To linger quietly at the edges until she decided where she wanted to be.

And somehow, more often than not, she chose your sister.

Maybe because your sister never pushes for attention from her. Never forces interaction or tries to coax her out of her shell. She simply exists beside her. And Ellie responds to that with the kind of trust only little kids are capable of giving.

Sarah reappears from the kitchen with your mother behind her, and your mom’s already waving the whole thing off with affectionate exasperation.

Artie’s at her heels in apology while Sarah explains something very seriously with animated little hand gestures.

Joel watches the scene unfold and something in him visibly eases again.

You tilt your head up to look at him properly, and there it is again, that unbearable feeling that still catches you off guard even after years together.

The sight of him.

Not just handsome, though god he is. Broad shoulders filling out that dark sweater, hair slightly mussed from tiny hands, wedding ring catching warm kitchen light every time he moves.

It’s the intimacy of knowing every version of this man.

Knowing how gentle those hands are when they hold your babies. Knowing the same man that disciplines your children, kissed every inch of your body this morning like devotion itself. Knowing the quiet steadiness of him is real because you’ve seen every version of this man there is to see.

The younger Joel who kissed you like he was starving for it never disappeared. If anything, age only made him worse. Who kisses you now like it’s the nectar of life itself and the only way he can possibly get through the day.

The man who keeps fruit snacks in his coat pocket because Ellie gets cranky in grocery stores. The man who learned how to braid Sarah’s hair from YouTube videos because she once cried when he couldn’t make it look like yours. The man who lets Artie “help” him with yard work even though it usually creates three times more work in the end.

Now, the amazing father who is currently calculating exactly how long he can let the kids sprint around outside before someone inevitably cries about wet socks.

Joel notices you staring almost instantly and his eyes lower to yours, softening at the edges, “What?”

“Nothin’.”

That earns you a skeptical little huff.

Your fingers curl into the front of his sweater instead, smoothing over the fabric there while your body instinctively drifts closer.

You swear sometimes loving him feels less like an emotion and more like gravity.

Your Joel.

The man who somehow still looks at you like he’s a little stunned you chose him.

Even now, standing in your parents’ foyer surrounded by children and Christmas dishes and overlapping conversations, you can feel it lingering beneath the surface in the way his eyes drift over you.

“What’s on your mind, darlin’?”

You smile against his chest, “You always know when I’m in my head, huh.”

“Married to ya long enough.” His nose brushes briefly against your temple, “Got tells.”

You raise an eyebrow and look up at him again, “Oh, I’ve got tells?”

He nods lazily, his eyes slowly absorbing everything your expression has to reveal, “Mhmm.”

“What are they?”

His eyes flick down to your mouth before lifting again, warm amusement settling there, “Get real quiet. Start lookin’ at me like you’re about five seconds away from either kissin’ me or cryin’.”

His hand slides firmly around your waist and pulls you against him until there’s barely space left between your bodies. Warmth radiates off him in waves, familiar and grounding and dangerously distracting all at once.

Then he kisses you, his mouth moves against yours with the ease of long practice. His thumb strokes slow against the curve of your waist beneath your sweater while your fingers drift upward into the slightly mussed hair at the nape of his neck.

God, you love kissing your husband.

Love the way he always sighs into it immediately.

Love the way his hand tightens subtly at your hips every single time, grounding himself to you.

The room dissipates from around you. Everything else fades away until…

“Again?”

Joel pulls back first, though only barely, forehead still resting against yours as he closes his eyes with exhausted resignation.

Sarah stands in the middle of the foyer holding a candy cane like she’s personally witnessed a war crime.

Artie appears beside her two seconds later, immediately far less interested.

Sarah keeps squinting suspiciously at the two of you, “You kiss a lot.”

Joel snaps his fingers playfully and points toward her without missing a beat, “Well, I like mommy a lot. That’s generally how bein’ married works, bug.”

Artie nods thoughtfully at this revelation while Ellie, still planted in your sister’s lap, watches the entire exchange.

Your mother waves a hand from the dining room, “Joel, if you still plan on taking those children outside before dinner, now would be an excellent time.”

“Yes ma’am, I’m goin’.”

The kids erupt instantly.

You bite back another smile as Joel starts gathering tiny jackets, hats, gloves, and boots with the efficiency of a man who’s done this exact routine a thousand times before. He crouches to zip Sarah’s coat while simultaneously stopping Artie from pelting Ellie with a mitten.

Then he looks up at you with that stupid, devastating tenderness that never fails to wreck you.

Joel sighs heavily through a smile before opening the back door, immediately getting blasted with cold air and shrieking children.

Within seconds the backyard is chaos.

Sarah starts organizing some elaborate puddle game that only she understands while Artie sprints through the yard like a feral woodland creature. Joel trails after them with Ellie right behind him, her hat slipping crooked over one eye while she watches her siblings with fascination.

You stand near the kitchen window with your mother and sister, pretending to help arrange dinner while mostly just watching your husband through the glass.

The porch light catches on the broad shape of him moving through the yard, bending to help Artie gather sticks that look the most sword shaped while Sarah tugs insistently at his sleeve trying to explain rules to whatever game she’s invented.

And even from across the yard you can see the grin that spreads across his face when he catches you staring again.

—

Dinner passes in the warm, chaotic blur family holidays always seem to become.

By the time the gifts are all exchanged and opened, and the kids are finally bundled into pajamas and makeshift sleeping arrangements, both you and Joel are running on exhaustion, affection, and several hours of quietly pretending you weren’t thinking about each other in entirely inappropriate ways all evening. Joel stands in the hallway doorway watching you adjust Sarah’s blanket later that night, your sweater riding up slightly over the curve of your stomach as you bend.

The look on his face when you straighten again is enough to make warmth coil low in your belly instantly.

His wedding ring glints softly as he hooks a finger through the belt loop of your jeans and pulls you into him.

There’s a pattern to the two of you now. One built over years of marriage and children and knowing each other too well. Lingering touches throughout the day. Stolen glances across crowded rooms. The gradual build of tension until eventually one of you finally caves.

Usually him, though not always.

You glance down the hallway toward the room where the kids are sleeping before looking back up at him.

Joel follows your gaze and immediately groans under his breath.

“Darlin’,” he mutters, forehead dropping briefly against yours. “We are absolutely not sneakin’ around your parents’ house like teenagers,” Joel mutters against your mouth. Even as he says it, his hands are already sliding beneath your sweater, warm palms spreading over your waist like he physically cannot help himself.

“Mm,” you hum against his mouth. “Married teenagers with a mortgage and four children.”

That rough laugh leaves him before he kisses you again, helpless against it despite himself.

Maybe it was the nostalgia of being back in your childhood home. Maybe it was watching Joel all night, warm and broad and endlessly patient with your children. Maybe it was pregnancy hormones or the rare opportunity to exist without tiny hands climbing all over both of you for five consecutive minutes.

Whatever it was, the second the bedroom door shut behind you, restraint stopped feeling particularly important.

The guest room, which was once your childhood bedroom, is dark except for the colored glow of Christmas lights filtering faintly through the curtains from outside. Soft reds and greens drift across the walls in muted washes, catching along Joel’s shoulders as he locks the door as quietly as possible before turning back toward you.

And then he just… looks at you.

His gaze drifts slowly down your body, lingering at the swell of your stomach beneath your sweater before climbing back upward again. Something about pregnancy completely rewires this man. Not that Joel had ever really tried to keep his hands off of you, but carrying his babies seemed to reduce whatever self-control he once possessed into ash.

He’s stepping toward you again and you bite your lip in anticipation, the heat already climbing your neck.

His mouth brushes yours, “Thought your mother was gonna catch you eye-fuckin’ me across the dinner table.”

A startled laugh escapes you before he kisses you again, swallowing the sound immediately.

The kiss deepens almost without warning.

Years together had made the two of you dangerously attuned to each other. Every inhale. Every shift of breath. Every tiny sound. Joel kisses you like a man who already knows exactly what makes you melt and still enjoys discovering it all over again anyway.

His hands slide beneath your sweater fully now, rough palms smoothing up the curve of your spine before settling at your ribs. You shiver when his thumbs brush the underside of your breasts.

“Joel,” you whisper.

The sound of his name alone seems to do something to him.

His forehead drops briefly against yours again, eyes closing as he exhales slowly through his nose like he’s actively trying to collect himself, “This is a terrible idea.”

Your fingers slide into his hair, “Y’wanna stop?”

Joel lets out a quiet, disbelieving laugh against your mouth.

“Sweetheart,” he murmurs, palms smoothing slowly down your sides, “if I ever stop touchin’ ya, it’s because I’m six feet under.”

Joel backs you toward the bed slowly, one hand spread protectively over the curve of your stomach. The backs of your legs hit the mattress and he follows you down with a quiet groan the second you pull him with you.

His beard scrapes lightly along your jaw before his mouth finds the sensitive spot beneath your ear.

“Y’have any idea,” he murmurs quietly against your skin, “what watchin’ you tonight did t’me?”

Your hands smooth beneath his sweater, palms dragging over warm skin and the firm planes of his back. “Probably the same thing watchin’ you with the kids does to me.”

That earns you a rough exhale against your throat.

“Yeah?” His mouth curves faintly there. “Me wranglin’ sugar-crazed children got you worked up?”

“So stern yet so gentle with your minis…” You glance up at him innocently, “yeah, very much so.”

His mouth drags down your throat and he immediately catches the tiny sound that escapes you, one large hand sliding up to cover your mouth before instinct can betray either of you.

Those dark chocolate eyes lift back to yours instantly, equal parts amusement and warning.

“Mind yourself, darlin’, got sleepin’ kids and a house full’a people who already know too much about what we get up to when we’re alone.”

Your fingers smooth through the hair at the nape of his neck, softening at the rough edge in his voice. It’s almost unfair how quickly this man unravels for you after all these years. One kiss and suddenly the steady, capable father downstairs wrangling over-tired children disappears, replaced by the version of Joel who still looks at you like he’s starving for every inch of affection you offer him.

His other rough palm skims over your ribs, your waist, the gentle swell of your stomach again, “Y’gonna be quiet f’me, baby?”

You nod your head pathetically, and he can feel your grin against his hand.

“Y’promise?”

You nod your head again, taking staggered breaths through your nose as he looks down at you with such fire that you swear you melt beneath him.

“Alright… but I won’t hesitate in gaggin’ ya if I have to, y’understand?” He takes his hand slowly off of your mouth, assessing your understanding and obedience, “use your words, hun. Be a good girl.”

“Yes sir, I… I’ll be good.”

He hums in contemplation, knowing you have good intentions, but also knowing how hard you try to be quiet and how rare it is for you to succeed in that endeavor. His hands finally grab the hem of your shirt and peel it off of you, quickly disposing of your bra as you arch your back for him.

“Y’are a good girl f’me, ain’t ya…” His lips trail lower, lingering and reverent one second before turning hungry the next. Leaving dark red marks in his path.

The colored glow of the Christmas lights from the house beside your parents’ catches across his shoulders as he settles between your thighs again, broad hands smoothing up the outsides of them before spreading them gently apart.

You bite your lip hard enough to stop the sound threatening to leave you and his eyes darken instantly at the effort.

His thumb drags slowly along your bottom lip before pressing gently against it. Your mouth opens for him without hesitation, your tongue instantly working around it in a way that threatens his own unraveling.

“Y’know what y’do to me carryin’ my babies?” he murmurs, eyes dragging slowly over you. “Walkin’ around lookin’ so damn sexy all day while I’m tryin’ to behave in front’a your parents.”

His mouth presses briefly against your stomach then, softer than before, lingering there for a second longer before he looks back up at you again. His mouth presses briefly against your stomach then, softer than before, lingering there for a second longer before he looks back up at you again.

He withdraws his thumb from your mouth much to your dismay, but quickly unbuttons your jeans and hooks his fingers beneath the waistband of your pants and panties and pulls them down with less self-control than he’d been showcasing thus far.

You lift your hips as he slides them off, his hands lightly trace back up your legs, his eyes following aptly.

“Fuckin’ gorgeous, and look at that…” his obsession with your baby bump is no surprise, and might also be one of the reasons you’d agreed to having one last baby in the first place.

“You get prettier every damn day, don’t’cha?” His eyes flick back up to yours with that devilish grin of his before he’s gripping your thighs apart and settling himself between them.

He crosses his arms and peels his sweater and undershirt off in a grand show of revealing his deliciously tanned skin to your hungry hands and eyes.

It doesn’t take long for your hands to unbutton and unzip his pants and start to shuck them down his thick thighs. He steps off of the bed to peel the final layers all the way off.

His cock springs free, leaking profusely at the tip as if he’d been neglected all day. And maybe he had been, unintentionally, due to the demands of wrangling three trouble-makers on Christmas. And so had you, you realize, as your legs spread wider as settles between them again. Then, his attempt to inch down the bed is thwarted by your heels anchoring behind his thighs.

You’re not one to deny his hungry mouth from getting its fill of you, but the entire evening all you’d been able to think about is how you’re carrying his baby and how you need him to melt into you. For his broad body to cage you in like a damn animal and fuck the ache out of you.

“Need you, Joel… need to feel you,” your arms wrap around him as he presses his exposed skin against yours.

“Awfully bold of ya to assume you’re ready to take me, darlin’,” he drags two of his thick fingers down the expanse of your stomach, watching the shivers erupting on your skin with a quiet reverence.

“Gonna need t’use my fingers first, baby… need to feel y’cum before I lose my damn mind inside this tight pussy,” His fingers cup your mound now, his middle finger pressing against your entrance and quickly sinking inside without much resistance at all because of how long you’d been worked up, “fuck…” Joel groans at how wet you are already, then slowly adds another finger before starting to thrust in and out.

The squelch of his fingers is obscene, betraying how needy you are for him, as if there’s ever really any doubt.

“Needy cunt, I know… I know,” he soothes, his thrusts quicken with the addition of his thumb nudging against your swollen clit.

A whimper immediately escapes you, followed quickly by a moan of relief as he finds that spot inside of you, curling his fingers into the spongy ridge that has you seeing stars.

Joel can tell that you are already oblivious to the sounds you’re making. Before you can even register what’s happening, Joel’s thick fingers are stuffed into your open mouth, stifling the sounds pouring out of you, “since y’can’t shut y’self up…” he doesn’t need to finish that thought, the purpose is clear.

You hum around his fingers in surprise, but your eyes tell him everything he needs to know… well, the clenching of your tight walls around his thick digits buried deep in your pussy tends to also be a tell-tale sign that you are getting closer to cresting over that wave of pleasure.

Your hands anchor themselves to some part of him. Your nails biting into the tanned skin of his biceps and forearms, desperately trying to ground yourself against the onslaught of stimulation.

You're enraptured by the sight of him expertly working your body. He’s added a third finger into the gummy walls of your pussy, scissoring you open for his cock, and his thumb continues its circles on your clit.

You’re a blubbery mess around his fingers as you suckle them and incoherently plead for him, he doesn’t need to hear your words to know what you’re saying, “cum f’me, baby, then I can fuck the ache away. Be my good girl…”

Not like you had much choice in the matter as your body keens, your back arching into his touch as he brings you over that edge. Your vision goes blurry, the pleasure is blinding, and all you can feel is him. All you can hear are his stifled groans of approval and his words of encouragement through clenched teeth as he works you through your intense orgasm, “fuck yeah…such a good fuckin’ girl f’me… that’s it…”

You can feel the throb of his cock against your thigh, the tip leaking profusely and swollen red with need.

You still can’t talk coherently through his fingers still stuffed in your mouth, but he can feel your tongue moving along his fingers and his eyes finally meet yours again after he brings you down from your much needed release and withdraws his fingers from your pussy.

He keeps his fingers in your mouth, his eyes dark and hungry as he brings the fingers that had just been buried inside of you to his lips, sucking and licking them clean with a low hum of approval and murmuring praises as he indulges his favorite taste in the damn world, “best pussy in the damn world, all fuckin’ mine.”

He keeps his fingers in your mouth as he grips his cock in his other hand, his head tilting back briefly in relief as he strokes it once before nudging your legs wider with his.

Your eyes say enough for him to understand what you want, and your body says what your eyes can’t. Your legs spread wider, inviting... begging. Your hands pulling him closer, the heels of your feet digging into the back of his legs and practically forcing his cock closer to where you need him.

“Alright, alright… I hear ya, needy thing, let me make y’feel better, yeah?”

You nod frantically, only now noticing the tears welling up in your eyes in sheer need to be filled by him.

Joel tuts mockingly at your desperation which only causes the tears to spill down your cheeks, “Y’need my cock to claim this sweet pussy like it ain’t what fucked ya deep and raw til it knocked y’up… again?”

His thumb traces your chin and cheek as your tongue works around his fingers as if they were his cock shoved deep into your throat. You do your best to swallow around them, the saliva starting to spill out and down your chin and he just watches, completely enraptured by the sight.

Much to your dismay…. surprise…. delight? you’re not really sure, he pulls his fingers out of your mouth. He then grips your face, with your mouth still agape, between his thumb and his soaked fingers, ensuring your full attention on him.

The next thing you know, his mouth is on yours, and the thick head of his cock is pushing into you.

You swallow each other’s moans, inhaling and absorbing every non-verbal confession of how badly you both needed this.

His tongue licks hungrily into your mouth and you greedily accept it, your hands finding purchase in his greying curls once more as he gives in to his own need.

The stretch is accompanied by a subtle burn as he works the girth of his cock into you. One of his hands grips the underside of your thigh, holding you open for him, while the other braces himself.

“Fuck,” he breathes against your mouth once he bottoms out. “Needed y’too, woulda kept teasin’ ya, but who the fuck am I kiddin’.”

He widens the stance of his thick thighs between yours, causing your legs to spread even more as he loses all abandon and begins fucking you into the mattress.

“Thank you, thank you… thank y…” you blabber against his lips, and you feel him grin against yours in response.

His pace picks up and his heavy balls slap against you with every thrust as he murmurs filth right into your soul, “take it, baby… this cock was made to fill this tight pussy, to fuck ya so hard and deep that y’can’t form a word in that pretty little head a’yours.” He keeps going, nestling his face into the crook of your neck and replacing his hand over your mouth to prevent your whimpers and moans from filling the entire house.

His lips are right up to your ear now, and you know he has no intention of stopping this spew of filth as he fucks you without reprieve, “this tiny body was made f’my thick cock to fuck my seed right into your womb… ‘n make it stick… over and over…” the sound of your bodies slapping together should’ve been more of a concern than whatever other sounds you could possibly be making, but Joel couldn’t care less at the moment.

The sound of Christmas movies carried throughout the house, so at this point it was more about making you compliant to the impact of his words, which he knows will have you milking his cock in no time, “fuckin’ ya in your childhood bed with our kids sleepin’ down the hall… what would your younger self say, huh? Before she knew what a greedy, desperate girl she’d become because a real man showed her how to fuck.”

You think about your eighteen year old self, finally eighteen, having indulged in endless fantasies of someday meeting an older man to show her exactly what Joel has shown you, but those fantasies could never compare to your reality now.

Joel’s words certainly have the desired effect, you can feel that coil tightening once more. That perfect mushroom head of his cock digging perfectly into that spot so so deep inside of you. His teeth and tongue are laying claim to the hollow of your throat. His grip tightens around your thigh, and you know it’ll bruise.

You fucking love when his hands leave a mark in the shape of his fingers. “Please…” you mouth the word against the hand still covering your mouth. Your nails rake down the muscles of his back, each thrust has you crying against his palm. You feel every detail of his impossibly hard cock as it repeatedly stretches you open around it and fucks deeper than you think is even possible, every time.

You can imagine every throb of every vein you’ve memorized with your tongue, your hands, your pulsating walls… his chest heaves against yours, the coarse, yet soft hair spattered across his broad chest rubs deliciously against your nipples and causes more whimpers to spill between his fingers. His skin melts against yours, the sweat of passionate bodies mixing together in a concoction of devotion and primal need.

He lifts himself up so he can see the way his cock splits you open and the foamy ring of your arousal forming at the base of his cock.

His brows furrow in concentration as he feels how fucking close you are again, “there it is, baby… give it t’me, my good fuckin’ girl,” he finally moves his hand from over your mouth in favor of strengthening your impending release. His hand moves between your thighs and his thumb finds that oversensitive bundle of nerves that instantly has you biting down on your own hand to stifle the noises from flooding out.

“That’s it,” his hips stutter as you begin to pulsate around him, he pushes his hips forward, tilting yours up slightly and then everything implodes, “fuck… fuck yes, milkin’ the fuck outta me, baby…”

Now, both of his hands grip the back of your thighs and folds you in half, his entire body pressing you into the mattress as he pounds mercilessly into you.

You’re free-falling off of the edge and Joel’s right there with you. Lips colliding in kisses meant to devour, hands grasping to pull him closer, but there’s no space between you left to fill, yet you ache to absorb.

A few more thrusts and he can’t hold back any longer. With a deep, guttural groan that vibrates so deep you can feel it in your own bones, he’s spilling his seed deep inside of you, “take it,” his forehead drops to your shoulder, his breath hot on your skin in soft grunts, emptying himself with thick spurts of cum painting your walls, “take it all.” His mouth claims every inch of skin he can reach, leaving little red marks and sloppy kisses in its wake. He slowly and messily trails back to your mouth, which he promptly pries open with his.

Your legs shake in the aftershock, your hands alternating between smoothing down the muscles of his back and tangling in his sweat-slicked hair.

You feel every pulse of his cock throbbing deep inside of you. With a few final and deep thrusts, he fucks his cum even deeper, and you can feel the mix of yours and his juices spilling out around his softening cock.

Right as you start to contemplate the consequences of making a mess on the guest room’s sheets, Joel understands exactly where your mind wanders to, “your parents ain’t dumb, they know we fuck like animals.”

Which does little to soothe your nerves. To know that your parents know how sexually active you are… as if a gaggle of kids and another on the way wasn’t proof enough… it went against your upbringing to really talk about that stuff with them. You and your sister are fairly certain they believe that she’s still a virgin, when you’d grown into your womanhood hearing about all of her sexual escapades. Her experience indirectly solidified your own preference for older men.

“Don’t worry, darlin’,” he presses gentle kisses to your forehead, your temple, your cheekbone…. the corner of your mouth, “I’ll rinse the sheets off in the mornin’ and leave ‘em to dry so there’s some benefit of the doubt… That work?”

You nod your head, but roll your eyes at the brown-eyed man staring so intently down at you, “thank you.”

He winks cheekily and you pull him into another sultry and sloppy make out.

“Anytime,” he replies.

You kiss his smug grin with a pleased hum.

A wandering hand finds your sore breasts with a soft sigh of relief against your lips, and he finally pulls out of you with a quiet groan, collapsing beside you. Joel presses gentle kisses to your shoulder and neck before settling into the soft mattress, allowing the exhaustion from the day to finally overtake you both.

୨୧ ⏔⏔⏔♡⏔⏔⏔ ୨୧ ୨୧ ⏔⏔⏔⏔♡⏔⏔⏔⏔ ୨୧

a/n: and yes, we are going to ignore the fact that this initially was going to be more of a Christmas chapter. fighting for my life a little bit (just being dramatic). my drive to do quite literally anything is minuscule to non-existent, but there is no better feeling than a blissful realization where I’m like oh let me do something I want to do and I actually do it. Throughout the past few months I have made like 20 drafts of general ideas for this fic and filled in plot holes/ did research for accuracy. that process is exhilarating for me as I scour pinterest, but that’s as far as I’d gotten til now. writing smut just wasn’t happening for me lol. soooo, here’s whatever this became! hope you enjoyed!

He was lying face down, his cheek resting against your chest just beneath your collarbone. His arm draped heavily over your ribs and the rest of his body followed that same diagonal line as yours.

You shifted slightly, extending your legs and reaching both arms over your head, but you had no intention of moving further; you were far too cozy. Joel’s weight was a welcome pressure and his body heat radiated like a furnace. He was wearing nothing but his pajama pants, leaving nothing but bare skin against you, while you remained covered in his shirt.

After one last stretch, you lowered your left hand to his back, letting it rest there for a moment. You leaned into him, just a fraction, and finally allowed your fingers to climb toward the nape of his neck, disappearing into his hair. Joel didn't stir in the slightest; he was out like a light.

Without a second thought, you hugged him, letting your chin rest on the crown of his head. Even with your mind still foggy, you knew the feeling washing over you was overwhelming; he was in your arms, alive.

No. Don't think about that.

You pushed the thought aside and let your breathing sync with his, surrendering to a long while of drifting in and out of sleep as the sunlight through the window climbed higher and higher.

Sometime later.

At some point in the middle of your idyllic dream, Joel climbed out of bed. You noticed immediately because, obviously, his weight disappeared from on top of you and suddenly you felt far too exposed.

Half asleep, you heard him shuffle to the bathroom; the toilet flushing, water running from the sink, and then, a couple minutes later, he was back beside you. He slipped under the sheets and blankets and, with one rough tug, hauled you against him again. You stayed there for a while, tucked against his chest, but you could only hold out for so long.

You seriously, seriously had to pee.

You shifted a little, trying to pry yourself loose; Joel pulled you right back against him. A quiet laugh slipped out of you.

Again, you started wriggling away.

“What’re you doing? Where d’you think you’re goin’?” he mumbled. His voice was low and gravelly with sleep and his eyes still completely shut.

“Gotta use the bathroom,” you whispered through a laugh.

Without another word, he let go of your waist, and you pushed the blankets off yourself too.

Oh, it was cold. The air wasn’t nearly as warm as it had been a week ago, and the floor beneath your feet felt freezing. That, and the fact that you were barely dressed. Your legs were completely bare, every inch of your skin prickling from the temperature.

“Oh, shit,” you muttered as you shut the bathroom door behind you. Sleep was making the cold feel twice as bad.

You rushed through everything as fast as possible, washing your hands and splashing warm water on your face afterward.

Jesus, your hair was a disaster. You fixed it as best you could with your fingers while staring into Joel’s tiny mirror, and the second you were done, you hurried back out.

On your tiptoes, you rushed back to bed and practically launched yourself onto him.

“It’s so freaking cold,” you whispered as you crawled beneath the blankets again, pressing your chest against his, sprawled on top of him.

Joel wrapped both his arms and half the blanket around you. The warmth of his chest seeped into yours almost instantly.

A sudden rush of happiness climbed from your stomach to your chest and burst right beneath your collarbone; you slid your hands along the sides of his head and pressed your lips to his jaw. You scattered little kisses there, trailing them up his cheek, then just beside the corner of his mouth.

His lips pulled into a smile that you kissed too.

“Gettin’ warm?” he asked, tightening his arms around you as his hands slipped beneath your shirt. On the way there, he hooked a finger under the elastic of your underwear.

“Yeah. Thank you.”

You kissed him again, but this time it was slower and deeper. Gradually, your right hand cupped his jaw, your thumb pressing against his chin and tipping it down, coaxing his mouth open wider for you.

You slid your tongue slowly into his mouth, grazing his lower lip with a lingering stroke before deepening the kiss; the lower part of your belly tingled at the taste. The sound that left him was a low soft moan.

The shift in Joel was instantaneous. His breathing hitched and his grip tightened until there was no space left between you. One of his hands slid down from your waist and his palm squeezed your hip, then moved lower to cup your ass. And driven by pure instinct, you shifted too, parting your legs to hook them around his hips.

You pressed yourself firmly against the lower part of his stomach, seeking more friction, and the contact drew another ragged breath from his lungs. Every point where your bodies met felt like it was suddenly sparking to life. Every point, wich basically was… every part of your body.

Your tongue keep exploring the heat of his mouth, sweeping against his in a slow, languid dance. He met you with the same unhurried hunger, his tongue tangling with yours as he tasted you deeply, because there was no rush, no world outside the four walls of this room; no one waiting for you, no one needing you, no looming shadow of duty. In the quiet safety of this room, the only urgency that existed was the pull of your own skin.

The kiss remained sensual and low, a long drawn out luxury you were totally entitled to.

Then, you pulled back just enough to graze your teeth against the soft swell of his lower lip, nipping it once, softly. The small bite broke his composure.

Joel’s breath hitched, and he brought his other hand down, both palms now heavy and big and commanding as they anchored to your ass. He squeezed firmly, his fingers digging in just enough to make you gasp against his mouth. And with a possessive grunt, he hitched you higher, dragging your body down against his as he ground his hips upward. The movement was precise, so precise, pressing exactly where you needed it most.

As he pulled you flush against him, you felt it; the unmistakable, rock hard weight of his erection through the soft fabric of his pajamas, pressing big and hot right against your center. The friction was enough to turn your knees weak even as you clung to his shoulders and the mattress under him.

You began to shift against him, a slow and rhythmic glide up and down, grazing yourself against his hard cock through the thin cotton. But you didn't break the kiss; you were too desperate to drink in the sound of the ragged groans catching in his throat.

Your body felt like it was nearing a boiling point. Skin to skin and heart to heart, your pulse was thundering in your ears; frantic, heavy and delicious beat that matched the insistent aching throb between your legs.

Joel’s hands abandoned his grip on your hips then, reaching up to fist the hem of the oversized shirt. He began to bunch the fabric upward as you straightened, sitting up to give him access and raising your arms to help him pull it off. He tossed the shirt blindly to the side, leaving you bared to him, wearing nothing but your underwear.

Suddenly, the cool morning air hit your skin, sending a visible shiver through you as your nipples peaked and goosebumps blossomed across your chest. But the chill was short lived; Joel’s hands were immediately back on you, his warm palms searingly hot as they settled on your waist.

You remained seated over him, looking down as you resumed that torturous, slow movement.

From this vantage point, you felt a surge of pure unfiltered power. What a beautiful sight Joel was, a beautiful wreck beneath you; his salt and pepper hair disheveled against the pillow, his cheeks flushed a deep, rugged red, and his eyes... they were blown wide, dark and glittering like black diamonds in the night. And scattered across his cheeks, forehead, chin, and chest, the cuts and bruises remained vividly visible as a reminder of just how fragile he could be. But not right now, not under your hand.

It was a feeling nearly impossible to put into words. You had never known yourself to be capable of this kind of intensity, or this kind of hunger. With him, and only with him, you felt like a version of yourself you’d never met before. A reclamation of your own body. It wasn't just lust; it was a vivid, electric sense of being alive, a hunger for life that burned brighter than the morning sun creeping across the floor.

You kept moving your hips, and even through the layers of fabric, his cock felt massive; a hard and pulsing weight that throbbed in perfect sync with the wet heat between your legs.

You leaned in, pressing your palms against the broad expanse of his chest, being mindful to keep your fingers away from the dark bruises on his skin. He was burning up, his body like a furnace radiating a heat that seemed to melt you so easily.

As you angled your body over him, Joel let out a wrecked sound and one of his hands traveled upward, his calloused palm sliding over the curve of your ribcage until it found your breast. He traced the swell before settling his thumb over your peaking nipple, rolling it with agonizing pressure until your back arched.

A broken moan escaped you, but he didn't let it fade. His hand drifted higher, until his fingers wrapped around the column of your throat for a fleeting second, just enough to feel the vibration of your next gasp, before his thumb pressed into the center of your jaw, coaxing your mouth open.

He slid his thumb inside, past your teeth, and you took him in without hesitation. You swirled your tongue around the pad of his thumb, tasting the faint salt of his skin and the heat of his touch, all while your hips never stopped their desperate move against him.

Looking down at him through hooded eyes, you watched the way his expression fractured into desperate need as you sucked on him. And then, he slowly withdrew his thumb, replacing it with his index finger. You took it into your mouth without hesitation, swirling your tongue around it until he slid his middle finger too; you sucked on them greedily, letting the wet, slick sounds filling the space between your heavy breaths.

Just after a few moments of watching you, he pulled his glistening fingers from your lips. He didn't let the moisture go to waste; he dragged his damp fingers down the length of your throat, then over the swell of your breasts, the cool air hitting the wet trails he left behind. His hands eventually settled on your hips, digging in with a possessive strength that anchored you to him.

"You're so beautiful," he rasped. "Just perfect."

A deep blush crept up your neck as you smiled down at him, but the sweetness of the moment shifted into something more commanding as he began to nudge your hips upward, sliding you further up his body toward his chest.

"Grab the headboard," he ordered.

You obeyed instantly, eyes locked on his as you reached to grip the wood of the bedframe. Joel adjusted you, dragging your body exactly where he wanted you, before he shifted himself downward until you were positioned right above his face.

"Joel," you whispered, letting out a shy breathless nervous little laugh. "Whare are you doing?"

He didn't answer with words. Instead, he leaned in to press lingering, warm kisses to the sensitive skin of your inner thighs, his hands gripping your hips and pulling you down firmly, silently demanding that you sit heavier against him. Then, he reached for the edge of your underwear, hooking his fingers into the lace and sliding them to the side until you were completely bared to him.

Joel went still for a moment, his gaze intense as he took in the sight of you, wet and swollen just for him.

"Perfect," he murmured, his breath hitching as he stared. "Look at you... look how ready you are for me."

The sound of his voice sent a jolt straight to you. You could feel the warmth of his exhales puffing against your folds, making you ache.

You lowered one hand from the headboard and brushed the curls off his forehead.

“Just for you,” you whispered softly. “Only for you.”

Joel went still for a few seconds, his eyes locked on your face. Gently, he turned his head and pressed soft kisses to the inside of your thighs. Your hand sank a little deeper into his curls, feeling the anticipation build as his mouth moved closer and closer to where you needed him most.

And then, finally, Joel leaned forward and let his tongue touch you. It was a slow, agonizingly long stroke from the bottom to the very top. He started at a crawl, tasting you with a flat tongued pressure that made your hips buck instinctively. He followed the line of your body, swirling his tongue around your clit with a gentle teasing flick before burying his face against you to drink in the taste of you. Every lap was steady and unhurried, a masterpiece of patience that had you whimpering his name into the quiet morning air within seconds.

But he didn’t break the rhythm. If anything, your soft and broken whimpers only anchored him deeper between your thighs. His tongue continued its steady kiss, flattening against you to drag another slow soaking stroke from bottom to top.

You couldn't stay still. Your hips began to roll in a slow, desperate circle against his face, chasing the pressure of his mouth and trying to sink yourself fully onto him. And the moment you moved, Joel’s warm hands slid down from your hips, cupping the meat of your ass. His fingers dug into your flesh with a possessive soft grip, pinning you down and silently forcing you to take every bit of it.

It was dirty, the slick heavy sounds of his mouth eating you, but there was an overwhelming tenderness to the way he was doing it. His mouth was so hot, so incredibly wet; he swirled his tongue right over your swollen clit with a teasing flick that made your entire body shudder against his face.

"Joel—" your voice broke, a strained sound as your fingers white knuckled around the wooden headboard behind you.

He let out a low vibration of a growl against you and his thumbs pressed hard into your bottom, lifting your hips slightly just to angle you better for his tongue. He began to lap at you faster now, his patience clearly fracturing into something a little more desperate as he drank you in.

The heat inside you was coiling tight, pulling into a heavy ache right where his mouth was working. You were so close; the friction of his flat tongue and the hot puffs of his breath against your folds were pushing you straight over the edge. Instinctively, your spine snapped taut as you leaned back, your head falling back as your neck strained. One of your hands pressed against his stomach to steady yourself, your fingers splaying as the first waves of the climax began to tighten violently around your core, leaving you completely at the mercy of his mouth.

The moment you broke, you broke completely. You clamped down in violent, desperate pulses against his mouth, a sharp, choked cry tearing from your throat as you rode the peak. Your hand buried hard into his stomach, your fingers digging in as your hips bucked helplessly into his face, forcing him to take the thick, soaking heat of your climax. Joel didn't pull away; he held you there with that bruising grip on your ass, drinking you in, his tongue catching every heavy tremor until the ripples finally began to slow.

Your chest heaved, every breath a ragged, costly struggle that rattled in your throat. Slowly, the possessive tension in his hands softened. He let out a low, satisfied exhale against your wet skin, pressing one last, lingering kiss right over your swollen center to seal his work, before sliding his lips to your inner thigh. You shifted your hips back, letting out a weak whimper as the cool air hit the slick trail he left behind.

His large hands began a slow soothing path, stroking up and down the length of your trembling legs, before sliding over your hips to rest heavily at your waist. Joel tilted his head back against the mattress, wearing a breathless smirk on his lips as he looked up at you.

"You okay, honey?" he rasped, his voice rough and incredibly deep.

You managed a breathless smile, your hand leaving his stomach to wipe at your flushed cheek.

"Give me a second," you whispered, feeling your poor little heart hammering like a trapped bird against your ribs.

Joel let out a soft chuckle and you felt the sound against your thighs.

You bit your lip, tilting your head back for a moment as you tried to catch your breath, before carefully shifting your weight. You slid your knees backward, moving off his chest and unstraddling his face.

That’s when your eyes fell on his lap.

Even through the soft fabric of his pajama pants, his cock was tenting the material so fiercely it looked ridiculous. It was massive, a thick rigid ridge pointing straight up toward his torso.

A purring sound escaped you. Crawling back up his body, you leaned over him, pressing a slow kiss to his mouth, tasting yourself on his lips. Your hand drifted down the broad expanse of his chest, tracing a path down his flat stomach until your palm cupped the hard length of him right through the cloth.

"And are you okay, Mr. Miller?" you whispered against his wet lips, your fingers tightening around the thick shaft.

Joel's thighs parted instinctively at your touch and a low hiss escaped his teeth.

"Take everything off," you commanded.

Without wasting a single second, Joel pushed himself up onto his elbows. He hooked his thumbs into the waistband of his pajamas and dragged them down his long legs, kicking them off the edge of the bed. He wasn’t wearing any underwear. He fell back against the pillows, completely bare, his chest rising and falling as you sat back on your heels and your gaze traced every inch of him.

Hooking your fingers into the lace of your underwear, you slid them down your thighs and tossed them carelessly to the floor before immediately moving over him again, knees framing his hips.

Looking down at him, you pooled a thick layer of saliva into your palm and shifted your hips slightly back to give yourself room, and wrapped your wet hand around the heavy head of his cock. You smeared the slick moisture over the crown before sliding your palm all the way down to the base.

Oh god.

He was stone hard, his shaft scorching hot and silky smooth under your wet grip. Along the side, a thick vein throbbed violently against your palm, pulsing with his heartbeat. You began to slowly stroke him, wearing a friction that coated his entire length in your spit, while you leaned slightly forward, teasingly rubbing him right against your soaking wet folds.

Joel’s eyes snapped shut and his head slammed back into the pillow; a deep groan ripped from the center of his chest, his jaw straining as your hand and your body drove him crazy.

Seeing him completely undone brought a wicked smile to your lips. You knew he was fighting with all his might not to grab you by the hips and sink into you right then and there. So while he stayed there, eyes closed and at your mercy, you guided his cock to your opening. You tilted your hips forward, aligning him perfectly, and began to sink down.

Slowly. Agonizingly slowly.

The sensation was so full of him, so intensely sweet, it made your vision blur. He stretched you completely wide, breaking you open millimeter by millimeter as you swallowed him inches at a time. Every internal muscle you had coiled up tight, wrapping around his thick pulsing width like a glove, gripping him impossibly close as you took him all the way in.

You froze, adjusting to the sheer size of him stretching you open from the inside, plugging you so completely that there wasn’t a single millimeter of empty space left between you. Joel let out a heavy, bottomless groan that seemed to echo from the pit of his stomach, his chest expanding as he took a ragged breath. And a long relieved sigh slipped past your lips; you leaned slightly forward, fixing your gaze on his face.

That was when his eyelids fluttered open and his dark eyes locked onto yours. Your expression instantly softened and your eyes filled with sugar and honey; unfiltered devotion as you took him in. His cheeks were flushed with heat, and his gaze was beautifully weighed down by the lingering remnants of the night; his eyelids were just a little heavy and swollen from sleep. His peppered hair was ruined, exploding in messy and wild peaks, little chaotic horns pointing in every direction where your fingers had gripped and tugged at the curls only minutes before.

And then, he smiled. His hands slid up from the mattress, tenderly stroking the curves of your hips and the smooth skin of your thighs. You smoothed your palms flat against his chest, caressing the warm skin as you began to lower your torso toward him, letting your hands slide up his chest until they wrapped around his shoulders. You leaned down and pressed your lips to his.

The moment your mouths met, Joel wrapped his arms around you, locking you against him with a squeeze at your waist. And then, he began to move.

He tilted his hips up, sliding out of you with agonizing slowness; he held himself there, teasing you for a suspended heartbeat, and then buried himself back inside you with one single, deep thrust.

You let out a muffled whimper straight into his mouth.

He pulled back again, dragging his cock nearly all the way out; paused for a agonizing second, and then rammed back in another sudden, deep thrust.

Another broken cry escaped you, but this time, the torturous pace was too much to bear.

Impatient and burning for a steady rhythm, you broke the kiss and pushed yourself up. Arching your spine, you planted your palms against Joel’s chest for leverage and took control.

You began to roll your hips in a slow tilt, rising up and sinking back down, feeling every ridge of him slide out and slide back in, filling you to the brim only to empty you again, over and over. But the slow torture was suffocating; the sheer hunger and raw need for more overtook you almost instantly.

Your pace quickened, your movements growing deeper, the friction escalating rapidly until the wet hard strike of your thighs crashing against his skin sounded loud and scandalous in the quiet room. Joel’s hands immediately clamped onto your ass, his fingers digging into the meat of your hips to help anchor your new found rhythm.

You looked down and completely melted into his gaze; his pupils had blown so wide his eyes looked entirely black, glittering with intense unvarnished lust, while a dark sudden flush crept rapidly up his neck and across his face.

Behind his head, the wooden headboard began to rattle, thudding against the wall with every frantic downstroke.

Overwhelmed by the sensation of him bottoming out inside you, you let your eyelids slide shut, throwing your head back into the morning air as you rode him.

Your hands stayed locked onto his chest, your fingers digging into his warm skin as you kept setting the pace, driving yourself down onto him with unyielding hunger. You were entirely in control, riding him with a desperate rhythm that had your head spinning from the delicious heat radiating from your core. Every single stroke was pure pleasure, a throbbing sensation that started deep between your thighs and rushed like wildfire all the way up your spine, leaving your skin tingling and your senses completely overwhelmed.

Joel was losing his mind beneath you too. His large hands clamped onto your hips, his thumbs digging into the bone to steady you, but he couldn't keep still. His hips began to roll upward, bucking his groin against yours with every stroke, using his own strength to shove his massive length as deep as it could go so you wouldn't have to work as hard for that agonizing depth.

"Ah... fuck," he whispered, a broken curse slipping past his lips. His jaw was clenched so tight the muscles in his face strained, his neck completely flushed as he looked up at you through those beautiful eyes.

You looked straight down at him from your height, your chest heaving, refusing to break eye contact even as a ragged whimper tore from your throat. Joel stared back, his teeth grinding together.

"Look at you," he rasped, his voice dropping into a whisper that was dripping with an overwhelming sweetness. "Taking every single inch... such a good girl. Ride it, baby, take whatever you want from me."

The adoring words sent a shiver through you, but before you could even gasp out his name, Joel’s right hand flew up from your hip.

Crack.

The sound of his palm striking the meat of your ass was loud and sharp in the quiet room.

A loud, shocked gasp ripped from your lungs, your hips freezing for a split second as the sudden, stinging heat of the slap bloomed across your skin. It didn't hurt; it was a delicious possessive claim that sent a jolt of pure electricity straight up your back, making your interior muscles squeeze around him in a tight desperate clench.

Joel’s eyes flared, a dark, knowing smirk tugging at the corner of his lips as he felt you react. He immediately brought his hand down again, landing another stinging slap on the other cheek.

"Yeah, you like that, don't you?" he growled. He squeezed your hips tight, tilting you perfectly before his hips bucked upward once more, burying himself to the absolute root. "Keep going, don't stop, just…"

"Joel, oh my God—please."

You leaned down, your face just inches from his. The stinging heat on your ass and the thick stretch inside you made you completely shameless.

"Look at what you do to me," you whimpered, right against his lips as you ground your hips down. "You're fucking me so good, Joel, I’m so full of you."

The effect was instantaneous; a deep crimson rushed up his neck, staining his cheeks as a tight, guttural sound ripped from his chest. His hands clamped onto your hips with a bruising desperate strength, and driven by his reaction, you shifted your weight, changing the angle. Instead of just the steady up and down, you began to move your hips forward and backward, sliding your slick warmth right against his root. The friction was so intense, so devastatingly good, that your eyes rolled back under your hooded lids.

Your body was boiling, sweat slicked and heavy, and you could feel him hitting every sensitive, swollen internal muscle with a terrifying precision.

"Tell me how it feels," Joel rasped, his voice breaking as he bucked his hips upward to meet your grinding slide, shoving himself deeper. "Let me hear you, baby. Tell me how good you take it."

"It's too much," you cried out, your voice fracturing into a desperate sob as you quickened the pace. "It feels so good, Joel... you feel so good."

"Yeah? You gonna come for me?"

You nodded.

He squeezed your hip, releasing your skin for a fleeting second before another sharp slap landed against your ass. A devastating desolate moan tore from your throat.

"Use your words, c'mon," he rasped, weak. "Let me hear it from that pretty mouth."

The headboard began to crash with violent erratic thuds against the wall as your movements turned frantic. Joel’s thumbs pressed hard into your bottom, helping you rock against him, his teeth bared as his own breath rattled in his chest.

"Joel, I'm gonna come," you gasped out desperately, your eyes snapping shut as a single bead of sweat rolled down the valley of your breasts.

Your fingers balled into tight fists against his chest, your nails instinctively scratching deep into his warm skin as the tension coiled into an intolerable knot. A moan tore from the absolute depths of your throat as the climax finally broke over you; your entire body shuddered, your legs trembling so violently that your rhythm shattered completely, leaving you helplessly riding the explosive waves.

As your strength gave out, you fell forward onto his chest like dead weight, your chest heaving against his. But Joel didn't let you rest. His grip on your ass never loosened; he simply took the control you could no longer maintain.

Shoving his hips up with a raw, relentless hunger, he began to move your limp trembling body to his own liking; driving you up and down his thick cock while you buried your face into the crook of his neck, letting out helpless, broken whimpers and wet sobs against his heated skin.

He was moving you however he wanted, penetrating you hard and incredibly deep, his own breathing fracturing as his groans grew louder, sounding more and more desperate with every heavy thrust that bottomed out inside your soaking warmth.

"Fuck, you're so tight," he groaned into your skin, as he felt your interior muscles pulsing around him in the aftershock. "You're squeezing me to death, baby... I'm right there."

Desperate for the taste of him, you forced your torso up just enough to find his mouth, capturing his lips in a messy kiss. Joel met you instantly, his hands sliding up your back, wrapping his heavy arms around you with crushing strength to lock you tight against his chest. He was fucking you like an animal now, his hips snapping upward in a fast, brutal way that had you gasping for air against his tongue.

You wanted it so badly—you wanted him to fill you completely to the brim, to release everything inside you and feel his thick cock pulsing against your interior walls as he came, wanting him to stay buried deep inside you long after it was over.

But the explosion caught Joel by surprise.

Just as he reached his peak, a rough almost pained groan ripped from his throat. He abruptly tore his mouth from yours, his eyes flying wide with a wild dark light, and before you could even realize what was happening, his hands flew down to your hips, his fingers dig in with an iron grip, and he lifted your body up and off him.

His thick cock snapped out of your tight cunt just as he broke.

"Fuck—!" Joel choked out.

Without the tight seal of your body, his release shot high and heavy thick white ropes splattering across the lower part of your thighs. He stayed frozen beneath you for a few seconds, his chest heaving violently, his hands still trembling where they held your hips.

Your eyes scanned his entire face; his closed eyelids, flushed cheeks, lips swollen from your kisses, and the thin sheen of sweat coating his skin.

You reached a hand to his cheek, holding him still just long enough to press a kiss against his jawline. Smiling softly as he blinked his eyes open and locked them onto yours, you spoke.

"You okay, honey?"

Joel huffed a laugh, his hand sliding up your back. His palm was sweaty, matching the curve of your spine and likely the rest of your bodies. It was a gorgeous disaster.

You rested your head in the notch of his neck.

The heat in your body lingered for about ten more minutes. While Joel got out of bed to grab something to clean you up, you lay face down in the open air, feeling the sun on your skin. It was warm and comfortable, lying there naked in the sunlight on top of his sheets, but the moment your body temperature began to drop back to normal, the chill returned.

Your body was exhausted and wanted nothing more than to go back to sleep, but at the same time, you felt sweaty and sticky. That was why, when Joel came back and climbed into bed with you, you resisted a little as he tried to pull you back under the covers.

"What's wrong?" he asked.

"Can I take a shower?"

He gave a lopsided smile, his eyelids heavy with sleep. He stretched his arms over his head and rested one hand against his forehead. "Sure. Right now?"

"I won't be long," you said, starting to get out of bed. You felt a sudden wave of shyness being completely exposed, so you yanked the top sheet off the bed and wrapped it around your body.

Joel laughed. "Hey, what're you doin'?"

Walking toward the bathroom, you looked back at him. "I'm naked!"

"Nothin' I haven't seen before, from every angle."

You pressed your palm against the door and started to push it open, but not before looking back at him one last time.

"Yeah, through the lens of lust!"

You rolled your eyes and stepped into the bathroom, feeling the cold floor beneath your bare feet. Unwrapping the sheet from your body, you carefully folded it in half and hung it on the hook behind the door. Then, you leaned half your body into the shower to turn on the water, adjusting it to the perfect temperature to take the chill out of your hands and feet.

Once you were fully inside with the hot water cascading over your head, you let your sore muscles relax. Your thighs and hips burned a little, and your abs felt pretty tender too. That was a hell of a workout you’d just had with Joel; you knew it was going to hurt a bit more in a few hours.

You washed up at your own pace, cleaning your neck, legs, thighs, back, arms, shoulders and everything. You ran your fingers through your hair and over your scalp, breathing in the scent of the shampoo you always smelled on him. You were just washing your face when the bathroom door opened.

You heard a few short steps approaching the shower, and a second later, the curtain was drawn back.

Joel’s face appeared through the steam. "Need a shower too."

You smiled. "Okay, come on in. I was just about to get out."

He slid the curtain open further and stepped carefully onto the wet floor. Moving forward, he walked right under the stream of water, trapping you against the wall. The cool metal handles pressed softly against the skin of your lower back.

Joel looked down and closed his eyes, water dripping from the wet strands of hair on his forehead straight onto your face. He shook his head, sending a spray of droplets over you.

Laughing, you lifted both hands and placed them over his brow. He smiled, and for a split second, you swore he looked completely different; a light transparent smile that brightened his entire face appeared on his lips. But a second later, your focus shifted to the bruises on his cheek, the cut on his forehead, and down toward his shoulders, his chest, his stomach. Joel had plenty of old scars there, but your eyes lingered on the fresh bruises, the scrapes along his ribs. It looked like it had to hurt.

Carefully, you reached out and grabbed the soap and the soft sponge next to it, working it between your hands until you had a good lather before you began to clean and massage his shoulders.

"You know," you started, running your palms over his collarbones, "if you wanted to shower with me, all you had to do was ask."

Joel closed his eyes. "Was fallin' asleep. But I got cold cause you stole my sheet."

"What about your comforter?"

"It's on the floor. But I was cold, and I heard the water, and I got tempted."

You moved your hands down his stomach.

"Mhm. Your skin is really soft."

Joel’s hands settled on your waist. "You think so?"

"Yeah. Which is funny," you said, gently touching just below his ribs, "because you wouldn't think so. Your hands are rough, but everywhere else is soft."

He opened his eyes. "They feel rough when I touch you?"

"Not really. They just feel… warm."

"Hmm."

Your hand settled over the bruise on his ribs. For a second, you remembered sinking your fingers into that exact spot just a few minutes ago.

"Does it hurt a lot? Did it hurt earlier?"

Joel shook his head. "Didn't feel it then. But it hurts now, that's for sure."

You crinkled your nose. "I'm sorry."

"No, ain't your fault. It's been hurtin' since before. Always hurts worse after the body relaxes."

"That's true," you said, sliding your hands back up to his shoulders. "You know what? I'm gonna go grab those oils I brought you. When you get out, I'll give you a massage."

Carefully, you nudged Joel aside a bit and squeezed past him. He turned toward you, tilting his head back and closing his eyes as he let the hot water wash down his back.

He sighed. "You're gonna turn me into a puddle."

Smiling and feeling a sudden wave of tenderness for how exhausted he looked, you stepped closer and wrapped your arms around him for just a moment, pressing a delicate fleeting kiss to his chest. His hand slid up to the nape of your neck, his thumb resting just under your jawline to tilt your face up. There, beneath the falling water, he gave you a brief kiss on the lips.

A minute later, you reluctantly stepped out of the hot shower. But it had to be done. You knew that if you stayed in there with Joel, you’d both end up leaving the bathroom at the same time, and by the time you finished getting dressed, he’d already be completely passed out on the mattress.

You found the t-shirt of his you’d slept in tossed to the side of the bed, along with your underwear, and changed while you listened to the shower still running. After drying your hair the best you could, you slipped back into the bathroom to run a comb through it. Joel was just stepping out of the shower as you headed downstairs.

The morning sun was pouring bright through the kitchen windows, and the early air carried that delicious fresh scent you loved. You took in the view through the glass for a quiet moment before grabbing the oils, then poured yourself a massive glass of water, drinking it down as if you’d spent days stranded in a desert. You poured a fresh glass for Joel and made your way back upstairs.

When you walked into the bedroom, he was already sitting on the edge of the bed, wearing his pajama pants. He’d gone ahead and changed the sheets for clean ones, and the comforter was no longer crumpled on the floor.

"Here," you said, holding the glass of water out to him.

He took it immediately, murmuring a soft "'Thank you" before draining the whole thing.

"You ready?"

He furrowed his brow. "For what?"

You smiled, climbing onto the mattress. "Lay down."

He eased himself down onto his back, and you settled in right beside him. Opening the small bottle of heartleaf arnica oil, you poured a tiny amount into the palm of your hand.

"Just a little bit of this, you'll see," you murmured, rubbing your palms together to warm it up. "You're gonna feel much better."

You gently began to work the oil into the bruised and battered parts of his chest and ribs, taking extra care around a few open scratches. You kept your touch light near those spots, massaging the skin around the scrapes to make sure you didn't press on anything that might sting. Joel let out a sharp breath just once, right as your hand passed near his breastbone. When you paused to ask if he was okay, he muttered:

"Yeah, yeah. Don't worry about it."

You smoothed your flat palm over the spot, barely applying any pressure at all.

"Okay, roll over."

He complied right away, letting out a soft groan as he turned over. You repeated the whole routine, pouring a bit more oil into your palms and working your way across his entire back, focusing heavily on his lower lumbar area. You’d noticed that was the spot he reached for most often whenever he sat down or moved a certain way; a familiar ache you felt yourself from time to time. And as you worked out the tension, you knew you were doing something right; Joel was making soft relaxed sounds he probably didn't even realize he was letting slip.

Next, you focused on his shoulder blades and shoulders, applying a bit of steady pressure with your thumbs. That was right when you caught the first faint sound of him snoring. Your movements softened into a light soothing touch, until you finally decided he was out for the count and that you were getting pretty sleepy yourself.

You tucked the bottle of oil back into its small pouch and left it on the nightstand, where the little clock caught your eye: 8:23 AM.

So many more hours left to sleep. You had absolutely nothing to do all morning but rest, and Joel’s bed looked so incredibly comfortable and warm, like a field of clouds.

You snuggled in right beside him, pulling the covers up over both of your bodies. Stretching your arms up over your head, you let out a long yawn, and a minute later, you drifted peacefully back to sleep: utterly exhausted, perfectly comfortable, and completely relaxed.

Still morning, close to noon.

It was a place you didn't recognize. Cold, with tall dark canopied trees that blotted out the meager light in the pale grayish sky. Ruins surrounded you; broken walls eaten away by a pervasive dampness that claimed everything, with green moldy vines bleeding into the old cracks.

Your heart hammered violently as your legs moved with frantic speed, trying not to trip over the clutter covering the ground. Rubble, branches, old trinkets, and fragments of machinery that looked like computers or something similar; you couldn't fully tell. You didn't really know what to do, only that you had to run and run and run, because something terrible was happening.

You could feel that sensation in your chest, that painful hollow that nothing can fill once it's already too late. Your bare arms were freezing, just like your cold neck and cheeks. Your entire body felt numb, and no matter how hard you ran and ran, you couldn't seem to make headway fast enough.

No, just the opposite. Your body could barely move, and you wanted to scream with all your might. But you couldn't stop, because you could hear it the entire time: thuds, noises, voices laughing and suffering. Louder and louder and louder, your legs straining until every muscle synthetic ached, until your body plunged forward and your palms struck the splintered ground.

You scrambled up, getting back on your feet however you could, and plunged into the dark room where the sounds and noise were coming from. A hallway to the right; you ran more, and more, and more, and more into the pitch black, letting yourself be guided solely by the small rings of light filtering through the cracks in the ceiling, until at the very end of the hall, your aching bloody hands slammed open the door and—

"No!"

A gut-wrenching scream tore from your throat like dozens of thorns piercing you from the inside out.

Men —so many men, you couldn't tell how many, only that there were man— filled the room, their faces hidden behind black cloth, and right in the middle of them lay Joel, unconscious.

No, not unconscious. Dead. His face was covered in blood, his clothes soaked through with it, and a massive wound tore through the flesh of his neck. Beneath him, a pool of blood expanded outward, swallowing up more and more of the old wooden floor, quickly reaching all the way to your feet.

You fell backward, unable to stand, and the pooling blood reached your scraped palms, his blood mixing with yours inside your trembling fists.

"No, no, no, no… Joel …" your shaky voice repeated, trying to get a better look at him, trying to reach him, but your knees kept slipping, and so did your hands and elbows. You couldn't…

You couldn't.

"Hey, hey, wake up."

A hand nudged your shoulder, rolling you over at the exact moment your eyes flew open and locked onto the ceiling.

"Hey, you're okay. You're okay."

You snapped your head toward him. Joel was sitting up, leaning his body over yours, his hand resting gently against your cheek.

You were in his room.

"Joel."

"It's okay. Breathe."

A shaky breath hitched in your throat. Your cheeks were soaked, and your chest physically ached.

He lay back down beside you and pulled you close. You buried your face into the notch of his neck, clinging to his body like a frightened helpless creature while a few lingering tears continued to track silently down your cheeks.

His arms wrapped tightly around you, and he pressed a kiss to your forehead.

"What happened?" he murmured, rubbing his hand up and down your back.

You closed your eyes, not wanting to talk about it.

Your hand drifted up his chest. "Nothing. Just a nightmare."

He squeezed you a little tighter against him. "You said my name. Scared me, thought it was somethin' else."

You opened your eyes and tilted your head back slightly, looking into his eyes.

"I'm sorry."

"No, don't go apologizin'. It's okay."

You tucked your face back into the notch of his neck, feeling your heart still hammering away, erratic and loud against your ribs.

"What time is it?" you asked.

He shifted slightly to check the clock, then quickly settled right back into place.

"Ten to eleven."

"Mhm. We should get up."

"You hungry?"

You nodded. "Starving. You?"

"My stomach was growlin' a little bit ago."

You let out a soft laugh, noticing how the sunlight was no longer focused right on the bed, but had spread out to wash evenly over the entire room.

He gave your shoulder a gentle squeeze. "Five more minutes. How's that sound?"

You pursed your lips. "Sounds good to me."

Joel's kitchen. Noon & afternoon.

Concerned that you’d get cold wearing nothing but a t-shirt, Joel insisted you put on a pair of pajama pants from his closet. They were huge, but they had a drawstring at the waist that let you tie them tight enough to fit. Then, he handed you a fresh warm pair of cotton socks.

Today was noticeably colder than yesterday. You could feel a crisp breeze drifting through the open kitchen window while he made breakfast (or was it lunch?) and you sipped a hot cup of coffee, sketching out a list of prep work for school. Joel was frying up bacon and scrambling eggs, having just dropped some bread into the toaster less than a minute ago. The kitchen smelled incredible.

On the notepad resting on the kitchen island, you had a brief breakdown of the material for the first few weeks, along with your reading plan and curriculum for the kids.

Classic fables. The Jackson library and the homes of a few townspeople held a solid collection of all kinds of stories, mostly the foundational ones. You figured it was the perfect starting point for the first group, who were right around five to seven years old. They had been born entirely into a different world, and you believed literature could provide a safe haven for them; a good way to spark their imaginations and give them the words to express them.

The morals could be incredibly useful, too. Lessons on survival, cooperation, cleverness, and above all, fear. As a community, Jackson felt like a safe place, but these kids had fear woven right into their DNA. Many of them had witnessed terrible things before arriving here, and many others had never set foot outside the walls. Fear was deeply rooted in both perspectives.

"And what're you gonna do about the books? Ain't exactly a lot of copies lyin' around," Joel asked, looking over at you for a moment as he pulled the toast from the toaster.

"Well, some of them don't know how to read yet. I'll read aloud to them. It's great for building listening skills," you smiled, "and really fun too. And if the stories aren't too long, we can make handwritten copies. I already talked to a couple of people who volunteered to help transcribe."

"That's great," he said, raising his eyebrows.

"Yeah. What about you? Would you like to help?"

Joel looked up at the ceiling, his mouth dropping open slightly. "Uh… I—I mean, sure. My handwriting's awful, though."

"That's not true. You have nice handwriting, it's perfectly legible."

"You think so?"

"I do. Besides, the copies need to be written in block capital letters," you said, looking down at your notepad to jot something else down. "I was also thinking it would be a cute idea if every kid brought in an object, and we came up with a story for each one. What do you think? Think that'd be fun?"

"Somethin' like, if a kid brings in a teddy bear, you make up a story for it?"

You nodded.

"Yeah," he replied. "That'd be fun. Mostly 'cause I imagine they're gonna show up with all kinds of strange objects."

You laughed. "Yeah, just imagine the possibilities."

Joel began removing the bacon from the skillet, placing it on each plate alongside the eggs, before grabbing another dish for the toast.

"And what about the older kids?" he asked, setting one plate down in front of you and the other right beside it. You murmured a soft Thank you. "Fables for them, too?"

"Oh, no. I have much bigger plans for the older kids," you said, raising your eyebrows.

Joel gave a lopsided smile and went to grab the toast, placing it in the center of the island before turning toward the fridge. "Is that so? Like what?"

A spark of excitement flared in your chest. While you were looking forward to working with the little ones, you knew the pre-teens and teenagers in Jackson were going to make for a much more interesting group when it came to discussions and deeper perspectives.

"Well, we're gonna read books too, but I was thinking it'd be a great idea to introduce the concept of diaries and chronicles. There are three copies of The Diary of Anne Frank and a few about the Lewis and Clark Expedition. They also brought in The Giver and Frindle. I think it's a good way for kids to learn a little more about what the world used to be like. Have you ever read that one? Frindle?"

Joel smiled faintly, pulling a tub of butter from the fridge and shutting the door.

"Yeah. Sarah liked Frindle."

It took you a moment to find your voice after that.

"Oh."

He sat down next to you, letting out a quiet sigh as he settled in.

"Called pens Frindle for a whole year," he added, shifting his gaze over to you. "I think it's a good idea."

You smiled. "Thank you."

"What else?" He reached out and grabbed the butter knife, digging it into the tub to scoop out a generous amount.

"Maybe they could write their own chronicles? Or diaries, just as an exercise. And they wouldn't necessarily have to read them aloud or show anyone," you said, lifting your mug to take a sip of coffee. "But it might be a nice way for them to express themselves or blow off steam, as long as it's not hurting them, of course."

"Think they'll all want to do it?"

You smiled and shook your head. "I doubt it. I don't know."

Joel hummed, bringing his mug to his lips.

You popped a piece of bacon into your mouth, and it was so delicious your eyes nearly closed. You tried the eggs right after. Then, after a moment of savoring, swallowing, and giving yourself a little more time to think, you asked:

"You think they'll like me?"

Joel had his mouth full and raised his eyebrows at the question. While you waited for him to finish chewing, you took a bite of toast.

"They're gonna love ya," he said finally.

"And how are you so sure? Teenagers can be..." Your eyes drifted up the walls and across the ceiling before landing back on him. "They can be complicated. And these kids, these kids have been through things. Maybe I show up with diaries and chronicles, and they just think, 'Who does this nobody think she is and what the hell is she doing'?"

He huffed a laugh. "Don't go lettin' them walk all over you. Let them know you're the one in charge."

"Okay, and how do I do that without being bossy in the process?"

"You gotta be bossy, but that don't mean you can't still be nice to them. You can pull it off, I've seen it," he said, raising his eyebrows. "Saw you orderin' the guys around on some of the construction sites before. Even me."

You furrowed your brow. "I am not bossy."

"Yes," he said, looking right at you, "yes, you are."

You frowned. "I'm—"

"And when you're in a bad mood?" He brought his mug to his lips and rolled his eyes.

Your eyebrows shot up in pure disbelief, your lips twitched into a tight smile.

"Excuse me?" You tilted your head. "And you're the one telling me this, Mr. Uncle Grumpy?"

Joel smiled and shook his head.

"That's literally what Benji calls you, isn't it?"

"That don't change a thing," he grumbled, furrowing his brow. "You are what you are. Might as well make use of it."

"Oh," you nodded, "okaay. I will. But don't you go complaining later."

He poked his fork into the eggs and brought them to his mouth, his eyes never leaving yours.

"Ain't complainin'," he said.

You ducked your head, hiding a smile.

Joel and you ate in comfortable silence for a while, occasionally making notes and chatting about your lesson plans.

The whole thing excited you for different reasons. The little ones had you looking forward to it because you just liked little kids in general; they were adorable and sweet, and their minds came up with a hundred interesting things. That was why you’d loved chatting with Sophie when she was that small; the conversations were always unpredictable and fun, and her imagination was endless. But of course, you’d always made a point to show her all kinds of books and stories, so she had a rich source of inspiration. You didn't know what some of the kids here would be like, or how much they’d interacted with the world, but you were eager to find out and, if possible, be useful to them.

The teenagers were a different story, since you hadn't had much contact with kids that age. But it was just as exciting, and you wouldn't hesitate to ask for help if you needed it. You had no intention of pushing past their personal boundaries and you kept a firm reminder in your mind to be careful with everything you wanted to teach them.

Overall, it was exciting.

After eating, you cleared the table and washed the dishes even though Joel insisted you shouldn't. And while you were doing that, he stepped out through the kitchen's back door, returning a few minutes later.

"Ellie's not out there," he said as he walked back in. "Don't know what she's up to these days."

The moody tone in his voice made you look up immediately. You were drying your hands with a dish towel as you turned around to face him.

"Have you asked her?"

He sighed. "She ain't exactly talkative lately."

"Well, I've seen her around with Dina," you said, resting both palms against the counter. "Just hanging out, nothing weird. They spend a lot of time together, maybe she's with her."

He nodded slowly, pursing his lips. "Keep an eye on her if you can, alright? She really likes you. Maybe... maybe she'd rather talk to you than me, about certain things, you know."

You nodded. "Of course, I will."

He ran a hand over the back of his neck and you watched him hesitate for a second before he moved toward the fridge and pulled it open. He took out a glass bottle about half filled with water and grabbed a clean glass from the drying rack.

You checked the clock on the wall, mounted right above the window next to the table. It was already a little past noon.

It was probably about time for you to head out, wasn't it? You didn't want to overstay your welcome, and you doubted Joel would ever be the type to tell you to leave. So, pushing yourself away from the counter, you walked to the other side of the room and stretched your arms behind your back.

"I think I should probably get going."

Joel turned toward you, the glass of water still at his lips. He swallowed and set it down carefully on the counter.

"Yeah? You got somewhere to be?"

You mentally scrolled through your imaginary schedule: no, you had absolutely nothing to do.

"Uh, not really."

He nodded and pursed his lips, shifting them to one side. "We could watch a movie if you want."

The offer caught you off guard, and it was briefly reflected in the few seconds it took you to answer.

"A movie?"

"Yeah," he said, stepping away from the counter and taking a few paces toward you. "Got a decent collection, if you wanna pick one out."

You smiled, lacing your fingers together behind your back. "I get to choose?"

"I'll give you some recommendations," he said, ducking his head slightly, "but yeah, you get to choose."

Joel's living room. A couple minutes later.

In Joel’s living room, tucked beneath the TV stand, were two players: one DVD and one VHS, both functioning and in perfect condition. Right below them were two small cabinet doors, and when you opened them, there was his collection.

His DVD collection was smaller than his stash of VHS tapes, but that didn't mean it was small by any means. Discs were harder to keep intact over time; most of the ones out there in the world were scratched or cracked, but Joel had stumbled upon a massive stash of DVDs in mint condition at an apartment complex near Jackson a while back. Good Will Hunting, Magnolia, Drop Dead Gorgeous, Seven, Wayne's World, Thelma & Louise, Fargo, Pretty Woman, The Green Mile… and more. There were so many options it was hard to choose. A lot of them you’d never even seen. Most of them, in fact. So, you asked him to give you a quick rundown of each one and which he thought was best for right now. He suggested The Truman Show and Pretty Woman.

"It's got romance and all that," he said, sitting on the couch as he held up the plastic case of his second suggestion, using the romance angle as his main selling point.

You inevitably remembered his harsh words about romantic comedies from many, many weeks ago.

"From the first damn second I saw you," he continued, "half-dead out there in the snow—I felt sorry for you. Everythin' I've done since then's been outta pity. That's all it was. I can't even look at you without thinkin' you're broken. And it makes me sick."

Your throat tightened, something forming behind your eyes. You blinked, hard, and swallowed down the heat rising in your chest.

"If that's what you think, then—"

"And that night? That was a mistake. A fuckin' embarrassment. I hate thinkin' about it. It won't happen again."

"Good. I hated it."

Joel looked at you, jaw clenched, eyes sharp.

"Yeah. Good for you. Cause this ain't one of those fuckin' pathetic romantic comedies you like so much. So give it up."

You took the movie from his hands and looked at the cover, running your thumb over Julia Roberts' face.

"We can watch something else if you want."

Joel’s eyes scanned your face. "No, it's fine. I think you're gonna like this one."

"You sure?" You gave a slow, lopsided smile. "Isn't it just another pathetic romantic comedy?"

His brow furrowed in a confused look, mixed with a faint smile. "What?"

A beat. You sighed.

"A while ago, after what happened at my place that first time, remember? You said this wasn't like one of those pathetic romantic comedies I like."

The expression on Joel’s face began to soften piece by piece, his furrowed brow relaxing as the memory clearly came back to him.

"Right," he said, ducking his head a little. He laced his fingers together for a moment, looking down at his hands for a second before looking back up at you. "I said that, huh?"

You nodded, pursing your lips slightly. "Yeah. You said a lot of things."

He looked at you in silence.

"Can I ask you a question?" you asked after a moment.

"I don't think romantic comedies are pathetic."

"Don't worry about it," you smiled.

"It was mean. I'm sorry. I know you and Sophie liked 'em."

Your eyes locked onto his in complete silence. He looked genuinely ashamed.

"It's okay. And I know we talked about this, but," you tucked a strand of hair behind your ear, "did you really mean it? What you said that day? Be honest."

Joel leaned back a bit and looked toward the coffee table, where several DVDs were piled up.

Maybe, maybe he didn't even remember it.

"Did you feel sorry for me?" you prompted him. "You said that every time you looked at me, you just thought I was broken and—"

"No." He shook his head. "I don't feel sorry for you, and I didn't back then, either."

A tight pressure gripped your chest. He looked back up at you.

"I needed to push you away," he confessed.

A beat.

"I know that. But… why?"

His eyebrows twitched. His eyes dropped down to your lap for a brief moment before tracing back up to your face.

"Because I ain't like this. Snow, I," he shook his head, "I don't do this. Not in a long time, I… For me, this is, this is new. That night at your place, things got out of hand pretty quick. I lost control."

You sat up a little straighter, your mind parsing through everything that had happened between you over the last few months.

You knew he wanted to keep his distance; you knew he had a tendency to shut down. But you had never considered it was about physical intimacy. It hadn't even crossed your mind that that would be an issue for him. He certainly hadn't made it seem like one.

"There wasn't anyone else before?" you asked. "I mean, in these last few years."

He squeezed one hand with the other, his brow furrowing slightly.

Yeah. There had been. He didn't have to say it out loud; you could read it plain as day in his body language.

"It's okay, you don't have to tell me."

Joel bit his lower lip, a rare hint of nerves, and watched you as you shifted further back into the couch until your spine met the cushions.

He hesitated for a moment, and you instantly resented yourself for throwing out such a blunt question without thinking it through.

"Tess," he said.

You froze. Tess. You turned the name over in your mind. Speaking felt risky right now.

"She was by my side for a long time, before I came to Jackson," he continued, keeping his eyes away from yours. "But it wasn't like this."

"How do you mean?"

He looked up at you. "Don't know. It was... We kept each other company for a lot of years, did a lot of things where we used to live. They weren't necessarily good things, but they were what was needed."

"Where did you live before?"

"Boston."

"Oh, right."

He rubbed his hands together, a nervous habit. "Yeah. Anyway."

"I'm sorry. I shouldn't have asked you something like that."

Joel gave a gentle shake of his head. "It's alright. Don't worry about it."

You dropped your gaze to your hands. "Well, if it's worth anything, this is all pretty new and strange for me, too. I've never really done this with anyone before. Not like this."

"And what're you thinkin' so far?"

You smiled little by little, lifting your eyes to meet his. "It's been pretty nice."

Joel nodded, a soft smile spreading across his lips as he reached out and took the Pretty Woman DVD case from your lap. He held it up next to his face.

"We're watchin' this one."

Unable to help yourself, you grinned and slid over toward him, wrapping your arms around his neck and pressing your lips against his. Joel seemed caught off guard for a fraction of a second, but his arms came around you immediately, pulling you flush against his chest.

You weren't going to tell him, but that tiny glimpse into his past meant everything to you. You knew he wasn't one for big words, and you knew how hard it was for him to open up about certain things, but he had done it in his own way, and that meant so much.

"Want somethin' hot to drink?" he murmured against your lips.

You hummed. "Yeah."

"Tea or coffee?"

You thought about it for a second. "Whatever you're having."

The sun poured warm and bright into Joel’s living room, even with the curtains drawn. At least with the fabric blocking the glare, the harsh rays weren't striking you directly.

It wasn't even two in the afternoon yet. Resting on the coffee table in the center of the room were your two empty coffee mugs and a plate scattered with crumbs from the blueberry pie you’d brought over yesterday, which you’d both finished off a little while ago.

With your stomach full and the quiet peace of the early afternoon settling in, your eyelids were growing heavier by the minute, even though you’d already slept for hours last night and earlier this morning. It didn't help that Joel was right there beside you; you were tucked into his side, wedged comfortably between the back of the couch and his outstretched body, your head resting on his chest while your eyes stayed glued to the TV screen.

You could tell he’d been drifting in and out of sleep because the second you asked a question or made a comment, he’d snap awake to answer before instantly passing out again.

"She is so gorgeous," you murmured at one point, watching Vivian appear on screen in that stunning red dress with the white gloves and her hair elegantly pinned up.

Joel’s eyes flew open. He stared blankly at the screen for a split second and muttered:

"Yeah."

A second later, his breathing went heavy again. He was already fast asleep.

By the time the movie neared its final act, you had formed a definitive opinion on it: you absolutely loved it. You deeply envied anyone who had gotten to live out their adulthood during that era. You would have loved to see a movie like this in a real theater, to let Vivian inspire you in a few ways; her hairstyles, maybe, or that radiant smile. Or maybe you'd have gone out to find your very own Richard Gere. Then again, right now you had a handsome older man of your own right beneath you. That had to count for something, didn't it?

Carefully, you slipped off the couch, trying not to disturb Joel, and walked over to the TV to take out the DVD. You tucked it back into its case and left it on the coffee table, where the other stacked discs caught your eye.

Inevitably, you ended up sliding another one into the player. The Bourne Identity. A man who can't remember who he is but possesses a lot of inexplicable skills. It caught your attention simply because it sounded interesting, and you remembered having a crush on Matt Damon back when you were little and your dad used to watch movies in the living room.

You took the disc out of its case, popped it into the player, and the moment the movie started, you hurried right back to your spot next to Joel, being careful not to press too hard against his chest or any of his sore spots.

As you rested your face against his chest, your eyes locked onto his neck, just inches from your face. He had that prominent mark running around his throat, purple and slightly greenish at the edges; the clear evidence of an act of violence you didn't even want to picture. It looked like exactly what it was: someone had bound him, choked him, or tried to do something worse.

Yesterday, the mark had been much more vivid, and while it still looked bad, it had softened just a fraction.

You let out a quiet sigh, your eyes continuing to trace his face and the marks left behind while Joel remained fast asleep. His breathing was steady, his chest rising and falling in total relaxation, while a hundred different thoughts and questions raced through your mind. Above all, you wondered: what on earth had happened to him in Ridgeway?

It wasn't like you were going to ask him, and it wasn't like he was going to tell you, but just thinking about it brought a dull ache to your chest.

Instinctively, you draped your arm across his chest, holding him gently as you closed your eyes.

The movie was barely ten minutes in when you drifted off to sleep.

A nap later

At some point in the afternoon, a few knocks at the door jolted you out of your comfortable nap.

Joel woke up instantly, and the sudden movement of his body jolted you awake too. You were still draped over him with your arm resting across his stomach, but you quickly pulled back as the knocking came a second time. The TV was still on, but the movie had already finished and the main menu had been looping for God knows how long.

Joel rubbed his face with one hand, giving your arm a gentle squeeze before he began to sit up.

"What time is it?" he asked, his eyes half-lidded and covered with sleep.

"I don't know."

He sat on the edge of the couch and looked back at you. His hair was a bit messy, his eyes glossy, and a faint smirk lingered on his lips as he stood up with a quiet groan.

"Be right back."

Lying back down, you watched him walk away and stretched your arms over your head. Then, you sat up on the cushions and grabbed the remote, muting the TV and leaning back to stretch your body one more time.

From where you sat, you heard Joel walk to the door and swing it open.

Were you even supposed to be here? Should you hide? Was he going to let whoever it was inside?

You didn't know. You weren't sure how careful you both needed to be with all of this; you’d never stayed over at his place for this long before. You’d already had that slightly awkward encounter with Ellie a while back, though of course, that was different. Joel trusted her, and you trusted her, too.

"Emily." Joel’s voice sounded flat and tinged with surprise as he said her name. You froze on the couch.

"Hey. Sorry, were you sleeping?"

"Uh—"

"I came by earlier this morning but I figured you were sleeping then, too. Just came to drop this off."

Footsteps, a few of them. Emily stepped inside the house. You pressed yourself harder against the back of the couch, though it was mostly pointless; it was positioned right in front of the archway separating the living room and the hallway.

"You didn't have to do that," Joel said. "Here, I'll take it."

Quick, get up and move to the other corner.

You shifted immediately and the hardwood gave a slight creak beneath your feet.

Emily laughed. "No, it's fine—Oh."

Her laugh stopped short.

You looked up toward the hallway, feeling a sudden wave of heat rush up your spine to the back of your neck and your cheeks, feeling completely exposed for a split second. She was looking at you.

And just like that, the cozy safe bubble you’d been sharing with Joel since last night had been abruptly shattered by the eyes of an outsider. Well, not an outsider. Emily. She stood there frozen, holding a glass baking dish with a white plastic lid. Inside, you assumed, was food. Obviously.

Standing entirely still, you became painfully aware that you probably looked like a creature caught red-handed; wearing Joel's t-shirt, Joel's pants, Joel's socks...

Not that she explicitly knew they belonged to him, but she could easily piece it together seeing how everything was completely oversized on you. And either way, everyone knew what pajamas looked like, or what someone looked like when they'd just rolled out of bed.

"Snow," she said, her smile turning tight. Her eyes scanned down and up your body, flicked over to the paused TV screen, and then landed right back on you.

Beside her, Joel stood just as still and caught red-handed as you were, wearing a white t-shirt and sweatpants with no underwear underneath.

But Emily didn't know that. You did.

"Hi," you said, smiling like an idiot. You crossed your arms over your chest to cover yourself up.

She opened her mouth to speak, but couldn't seem to find any useful words.

Turning back to Joel, she held out the dish. "Anyway, this is for you. And Maria said you can take tomorrow off too, if you want."

Joel’s eyes were fixed on you. He took the dish from her. "No, it's fine. I'll be there."

"Alright," Emily said, nodding as she stepped past Joel toward the front door. "Well, see you tomorrow." She glanced back at you, lifting her hand in a brief wave. "Bye, Snow."

"Bye, Emily."

She gave a faint smile and, in less than three seconds, turned and walked out the door. She left Joel standing in the middle of the hallway clutching the baking dish, and you, standing in the middle of the living room with your arms tightly crossed and an expression you weren't even sure how to label.

You looked over at Joel as a nervous, slightly baffled smile began to tug at your lips.

He raised his eyebrows. "Didn't know she was comin' by."

"Yeah, no shit," you said, shaking your head. "She saw me like this."

Joel’s eyes drifted down your body before he shrugged a single shoulder, completely dismissing your worried tone.

"She ain't gonna say nothin'."

Without waiting for a response, he turned on his heel and started walking toward the kitchen. Your mouth dropped open at the sight of him, and you followed right behind without a second thought.

"How do you know that?"

"Ain't none of her business."

You huffed a laugh. "And?"

"Eh, I don't think Emily's the type to go gossiping around."

Once inside the kitchen, he set the baking dish down on the counter.

You stopped right beside him. "Oh, because you know her so well."

Joel tilted his head and raised an eyebrow, as if to say of course I do.

You felt your cheeks flare up again. "And now she's bringing you food?"

Joel hummed.

You furrowed your brow. "Does she always just walk in like it's nothing? I could have been naked or something."

He snorted a laugh. "Naked, huh?"

"You know perfectly well that was a possibility."

"Yeah, well," he dipped his head, "good thing you weren't."

Without blinking, you stared him down and crossed your arms tightly over your chest.

"Yeah, lucky us," you said, pressing your lips together. "Next time, tell her it's rude to just barge into a house that isn't hers. Unless you don't mind it, of course."

"It's the first time she's ever come by here."

You raised your eyebrows in pure disbelief. "Worse then."

Joel laughed softly and leaned both palms against the counter. He shook his head gently, his eyes bright with amusement, and asked:

"You don't like her, then?"

You clenched your jaw slightly before forcing yourself to relax, letting out a sigh as your gaze drifted down toward the fridge and the magnets on it. Your eyes lingered on the photo of Joel.

Uh-uh. "No. No, I don't."

"No? Why not?"

You shrugged a shoulder and looked back at him. "I don't know. I know she isn't mean or anything, I just don't like the way she deals with people."

Joel furrowed his brow. "How's that?"

You searched your mind for the right words, but the only ones you could find were simple and honest.

"She can be a bit cold. Or dismissive," you said, raising your eyebrows. "Sometimes I've seen people go up to her to ask a question or request something, and I just don't like the way she treats them. She isn't mean," you lifted a hand, "but she's just a bit indifferent and detached."

He gave a slow nod.

"And I had that completely confirmed this past week," you continued. "Every single time I asked her if there was any news about Ridgeway, she wouldn't tell me anything, she wouldn't even look me in the eye. She just kept saying there was no news," you tilted your chin up a bit, "and then later I'd find out they'd gotten a radio call or something. Even Eliza didn't know about half of it because Emily just wouldn't tell her anything. And it's not like it was confidential information or anything like that. She needed to know, her husband was out in Ridgeway too."

Joel let out a slow breath through his nose. "Didn't know that."

"Yeah? Well, I'm not surprised. She seems plenty nice and attentive with you," you said, raising a single eyebrow. "Maybe she's just selective."

He narrowed his eyes slightly, and you bit the inside of your cheek when you caught the faint smirk on his lips.

"I just don't think it's right for someone in her position to look down on people or act like she can't be bothered," you continued. "Because I’ve been there too and I know people are constantly asking questions and looking for things they need. So, okay, it's her job," you crossed your arms again, "then she should do her job. I swear I cannot stand people who get the tiniest bit of authority and immediately turn their backs on everyone else. We're all in the same boat here in Jackson, anyway, even the ones making the calls."

Suddenly, he stopped blinking. He just stared at you, nodding slowly as he began to straighten up, leaning his hip against the counter. Mimicking your posture and never breaking eye contact, he crossed his arms over his chest.

"Well, you're right," he said. "And I believe you, 'cause you're gettin' so fired up you're actually blushin'."

You clicked your tongue. "I am not fired up."

"Really?"

"Really," you said, opening your eyes wider. "Just… just tell her to do her job. I know you can do that because you used to do it to me all the time."

He frowned. "That ain't true."

"Joel," you smiled, "come on."

"I never—"

"Yeah."

"I never told you to do your job because you did your job," he said, pointing a finger at you. "What I did tell you was to stop botherin' me with everything else."

You snorted, knowing he had a point. "That is not true. You used to get annoyed even when I was just in silence."

He pressed his lips together. "You weren't exactly in silence, properly speakin'."

"Why? Because I was breathing?"

"And those little sighs you'd make every few pages while you were reading," Joel said, gesturing with his hand. "Always made me wonder what the hell was happening in that book to make you react like that."

"Oh Jesus," you rolled your eyes. "How many more times are you going to bring up the sighs? Get over it, man. You were annoying too."

Joel furrowed his brow, but a lopsided smile broke through. "Was I? Not anymore?"

"I'm not so sure about that."

"What was it you called me once?" He narrowed his eyes, trying to recall. "The most insensitive, proud, arrogant man you've ever met?"

Mmm. Something like that. If you remembered correctly, he was actually leaving out a few choice adjectives.

You're the most insensitive, thoughtless, proud, arrogant man I've ever met. And believe me, I've met a hell of a lot of assholes. It was something along those lines, if your memory wasn't failing you.

"Yeah, well," you shrugged, "you told me I was the most unbearable, incoherent, reckless, and delusional woman too. But who's counting, right?"

A low laugh broke from his chest.

What was so funny, huh?

Uncrossing your arms, you turned back toward him and said,

"Why don't you use some of that attitude on Emily, huh?" You tapped his arm. "Maybe that way she'll actually do her job right."

Without waiting for an answer, you spun on your heel and turned your back to him, your legs moving with determination toward the hallway as you planned to head back to the living room. But before you could even take five paces, Joel caught you by the elbow. He arrested your movement, pulling you gently backward and anchoring you flush against him with one large hand wrapped just above your belly button.

He brought his chest right against your back, his mouth dipping down close to your ear.

"Well, I got a better idea. Why don't I just tell Emily we need her help somewhere else and you put that pretty little ass of yours back at the desk across from mine?"

Your mouth dropped open, completely caught off guard by the words. "Joel."

"What?"

You clicked your tongue. "I can't, and you know it."

"I know. And I get the school thing, but Erin’s got plenty of help from Fabrizio and everyone else, and you could still keep doin' your work at the greenhouse either way."

"I do patrols now, too."

He hummed. "Only two days a week."

The way he was talking (like a little red devil perched right on your left shoulder) was pretty manipulative. But you knew exactly where his insistence was coming from.

You were having a good time, and you were getting along well too. You’d be lying if you said you didn't want to spend more time with him. But that was exactly where a clear sharp line needed to be drawn. Because what kind of relationship would you even have if you saw each other almost every single day, and during the nights, too? Didn't he think about that?

Since this whole arrangement had started, you really did enjoy being with him. To be fair, you’d always enjoyed his company, even back when you got along terribly, and you’d actually told him that. You didn't know why, just that you felt comfortable around him. But now, there was a much deeper layer to it, because you were genuinely getting along.

You’d told him just last night: how long could a good streak like this really last if you saw each other every single day, and how long would it take before you or he completely got sick of each other again?

"We already talked about this last night," you said.

"I know, and I get it, alright?"

"Do you?" You turned your head a bit to get a better look at him.

He pressed his lips together, puffing out the top one the way he always did.

"It's just a suggestion. Think about it."

You bit your lower lip slightly, your eyes scanning his face as Joel leaned forward; you could feel him hanging heavy against your lower back.

Averting your eyes from his face, you leaned back, pressing harder against him until you could feel his outline perfectly defined against your backside. You felt him let out a soft huff against your ear.

"Talk to Emily," you said, placing your hand over his on your stomach before brushing it away and stepping away from him.

Joel chuckled low behind you, letting out a rough sigh.

Without looking back, you made your way to the living room.

The clock above the fireplace read half past four in the afternoon, and the light filtering through the curtain and the window was still bright, though just a fraction paler than before.

You sank into the couch and folded your hands in your lap, wondering if this was the right time to leave. You weren't entirely sure. Joel wasn't giving anything away, but then again, you couldn't really rely on his cues. Maybe he wanted you to go, or needed some time to himself and didn't know how to say it. But then again, had he ever actually held anything back?

"What're you doin'?" he asked, appearing through the archway a second later and dropping down beside you. Shifting his hips forward slightly, he took your outstretched legs and rested them across his lap.

A soft laugh escaped you.

Jesus, he truly could act like a needy man.

"Nothing."

"Watch Bourne Identity?"

"Only a few minutes. I fell asleep right away."

He nodded, looking at the screen where the menu was still looping on mute.

"Want to watch somethin' else?" he asked, looking over at you.

You stretched your legs out further across his lap, and he gave your knee a squeeze.

"Do you?"

He pursed his lips. "Sure. Choose somethin'."

You smiled faintly and straightened up a bit, resting your hands between your knees.

He clearly noticed your hesitation; his eyes locked onto your face, waiting for you to speak.

You gave a slightly uncertain smile, feeling your heart flutter with a touch of nervousness.

"You know, I was wondering just a minute ago," you swallowed, dropping your gaze down his chest, "is it really okay for me to stay here this long?"

"What's that mean?"

You looked at him in silence for a second, wondering if he genuinely wasn't understanding the question.

"Well, I mean, is it okay? Or, you know, maybe it's too much?" You frowned, frustrated with how you were phrasing your thoughts.

He lowered his gaze to his hand on your knee.

"You wanna leave?"

"No," you rushed to say, and his eyes snapped back up to your face. "It's not that. I just thought that maybe, I don't know, maybe you wanted some time to yourself? Or something."

Joel let out a soft, lopsided smile, looking at you out of the corner of his eye.

Gradually, he turned his head toward you, taking you in completely.

What could he tell you? He certainly couldn't tell you that he didn't want to be alone. Though that was a bit limiting; Joel didn't want you to stay just because he didn't want to be alone. He wanted you to stay because he wanted to be with you.

Was that wrong? Was it too much?

Every time he asked himself that (and it had been several times between yesterday and today), he answered himself in silence with the memory of the last seven days. Those five days of the journey to and within Ridgeway had nearly drained the life out of him completely. His body had been beaten and cut; his eyes had seen more violence in a span of days than during his last year in Jackson.

He really thought that was it. The first few times they pressed a gun to his temple, he was sure they would pull the trigger, and that time they wrapped a rope around his neck and pulled and pulled until he thought his bones would snap, he swore that was it.

But it wasn't, somehow. And he thought of Ellie, of the last hug she’d given him before he left the house; he thought of Tommy, of Benji perched on Maria’s lap. But he thought of you too, and how he’d only left a simple letter. Because he’d thought it wasn't necessary to wake you—what for? He figured he’d be right back. Two days at most. But the time dragged on, and so did the suffering.

Upon his return, his body began to ache. It was as if every muscle and nerve had stayed rigid and numb right up until he crossed the gates into Jackson. He didn't even know how he’d managed to make it all the way back without collapsing. But the moment he arrived, and after settling everything with the guys (even after Hale checked him over and patched him up) his body remained tense.

He didn't feel anything, just a strange ache that ran through him like a massive bruise, one so constant it had already gone unnoticed.

But when he saw you outside Hale’s place, he knew he must be broken. Because on your face, he found the pain he was feeling. You looked at him like he was a ghost; your glassy eyes pierced right through his chest, and he felt the urge to touch you. But before he could do much of anything, you left.

You left, and he didn't see you again until that afternoon, when you made him understand in a rather direct way that you wanted him to leave you alone.

And he wasn't gonna tell you, but he saw right through you. It didn't hurt that you pushed him away. Well, maybe a little; it was hard for him to admit he'd been excited to see you. But he knew your attitude under that weeping willow was a normal reaction. You were angry. And you’d probably been scared, too. So, in situations like these, he just had to give you space; that was a lesson he’d learned many, many decades ago.

The next day, when he ran into Zach at the dining hall and Zach told him you were heading over to his place, he wasn't surprised. He’d been waiting for it, though he felt a wave of relief knowing the wait had been short.

The night before, he hadn't been able to sleep much, but with you here, he’d slept so deeply his eyes were still a little puffy. You tangled yourself around him like ivy; arms, legs, fingers, every part of you intertwined with his, keeping him warm after so many cold and cruel nights.

And it might be selfish, this need to want you here. Surely you had other things you wanted to do, other people to see. Or maybe you didn't, but you had to leave anyway. Joel didn't care; selfishly, he wanted you all to himself, just for today.

So yeah, he wanted you to stay. Just a bit longer. Because he needed and wanted the tenderness of your presence. And the wasn't anything he could do against it.

"Don't need no time to myself," he assured you then. He swallowed. "Stay here tonight."

Your eyes widened just a fraction. Joel knew what he said had caught you by surprise.

"You sure?" you asked softly.

He nodded. "Yeah. And tomorrow mornin' we both go back to our own things, how's that sound?"

You smiled. "Sounds good to me. Though I don't have any clothes," you raised your eyebrows slightly. "I should go grab something to wear tomorrow."

"Alright."

You nodded. "Okay."

He nodded. "Yeah. I'm sure we'll find somethin' to keep us busy later."

That surprised a chuckle out of you.

You placed your hand over his on your knee. "You really are a dirty old man."

Joel rolled his eyes, feigning exasperation, and shook his head.

"I meant watchin' movies or cookin'. You're the one with the dirty mind."

You hummed, not buying it. "Yeah. Well, you're probably already tired anyway."

He clicked his tongue. "Don't be so sure about that. That nap was pretty revivin'."

Hours later

"See you in a bit." Stretching up on your toes, you gave Joel a quick peck on the lips.

A second later, he opened the front door and you stepped across the threshold, wearing the dress you’d arrived in, your boots, and one of his jackets. Today was much cooler than yesterday, and if you walked back to your place with nothing but what you'd brought, you were going to freeze.

Joel watched you walk away for a moment, closing the door only when you disappeared from his line of sight. Immediately, the house felt quiet again.

For a while, he distracted himself by tidying up and cleaning. He went up to his bedroom and made the bed, straightening things here and there, and left the pajamas he’d lent you neatly folded on the mattress. He dusted the dresser in front of the window, arranging the picture frames on top, and swept every corner of the room as best he could.

Downstairs, he wiped down the already clean kitchen counter. He cleaned the cabinets, then the windowpanes and the backyard door, and just as he was drying the glass, he noticed Ellie arriving at the garage.

She opened the door and slipped inside right away, and Joel didn't hesitate for a single second to seize the opportunity.

He stepped out into the yard, feeling the cool air raise the hairs on his arms, and hesitated for a second before knocking on the garage door.

From the other side, he heard a few muffled noises, and a moment later, the door swung open.

"Hey. What's up?" she said. Her cheeks were flushed and her hair was a bit a mess.

"Out early today," Joel said, stepping inside. The girl moved aside to let him pass. "Where'd you go?"

"Had plans with Jesse."

"Ah, Jesse," he rested his lower back against the desk and crossed his arms, smiling. "What kind of plans?"

Ellie frowned and shook her head. "Don't start. It's not like that. What're you doin' here anyway? Don't you got company?" She raised her eyebrows.

In a split second, the smile vanished from Joel's face, and he went completely still.

Ellie tilted her head and waited a beat. "Look, I know Snow's here. I saw you guys earlier."

Joel frowned but didn't say a word.

"I was hungry," she tossed her head back, "so I went into the kitchen to grab some food and heard the TV. You were wiped out."

He stepped away from the desk. "Ellie, look—"

"Please, just don't say anything," she said, holding up both hands and shaking her head. A faint smirk tugged at her lips. "I already knew. I mean, I knew there was something, I just didn't think it was so... you know—"

"We're just friends."

"Yeah, right," she rolled her eyes. "Great friends."

Joel hesitated as he tried to speak again, suddenly feeling really nervous. He rubbed the back of his neck and let out a sigh.

"Snow and I... we're gettin' along, and—"

"Joel, chill, you're not my dad," she cut him off, waving a hand. "You don't gotta give me some speech like you're tryin' to convince me to like my new mommy or whatever—"

"Ellie."

She stopped talking, and her eyes softened, but Joel still had his brow furrowed, his thoughts tangled up in his head.

"I like Snow," she said. "And I like that you guys are... friends."

Joel pursed his lips and watched her for a brief moment; the look on her face and the softness in Ellie's eyes held no lie or forced reassurance.

He knew she liked you. He knew the two of you had formed a bond while he was away. And suddenly, he wondered if his relationship with you would affect yours with her. Lately, Ellie hadn't been very expressive with him, but he’d seen how she was around you. He hoped that wouldn't change.

"I'm fixin' to make a good dinner tonight. Snow's stayin' over too," he rested a hand on his hip. "How's about you come on over and join us?"

Ellie smiled, but it didn't quite reach her eyes. "Sounds great. But… maybe another time? I'm pretty wiped, and I still gotta go see Dina."

"Yeah? What for?"

"She found a few parts we were missin' to finish some traps," she leaned back, dropping onto the couch. "We're headin' out early tomorrow to test them."

Joel nodded. "Rabbits?"

"Hopefully."

"Right. Well, I'll leave a plate out for you anyway, alright? We'll have dinner around eight, just in case you change your mind," he nodded. "I know Snow'd like to see you."

Ellie nodded. "Okay. Did you give her the portrait?"

Joel nodded. "And how're you comin' along with the herbs and all that?"

"Almost done with a few of them," she smiled. "I'm headin' to the greenhouse tomorrow to show Snow what I got."

"You could show her now, you know. She'll be back in a bit."

"Nah, I'm good. Don't wanna interrupt whatever's about to go down in there," she said, holding up a hand.

Joel clicked his tongue.

"What?" She raised her eyebrows. "I didn't know you were the type to cuddle up on the couch like that. Ugh," she shuddered, faking a chill.

Joel let out a chuckle, Ellie echoed it.

"Alright. Take care of yourself then," he lifted his chin. "And tomorrow, let's get some dinner, just you and me. How's that sound? Whatever you want."

She pursed her lips. "Can you make that meatloaf you do?"

"Course. An extra large one."

"Alright," she nodded.

Joel smiled and took a few steps toward her. Reaching out, he gave the crown of Ellie’s head a quick affectionate rub. She ducked her head, immediately clicking her tongue.

"Watch yourself out there, alright? And don't be gettin' back late," Joel said, moving toward the open door. "Don't go doin' anything reckless."

Ellie snorted. "You neither, Casanova."

Joel hid a chuckle as he turned around to head back inside the house.

Your house. Ten minutes later.

You got home around half past five in the afternoon. Stepping inside, you caught the scent of the flowers on your coffee table and the entryway stand, mixed with the soap you used for your laundry.

You didn't linger. You went straight to your bedroom, tossed your dress onto the small couch in the corner and kicked your boots to the side, wrapping your arms around your bare body.

The closet doors stood open, and your naked reflection stared back at you as you stepped closer to find something to wear.

Your cheeks were flushed from the walk, and your hair was a bit a mess. But there was a particular shine in your eyes that made you pause and just look at yourself for a moment. It was as if your skin were glowing, as if the expression on your face had suddenly softened.

On your neck, there were two small marks, faint and nearly invisible, that Joel had left either last night or this morning, you weren't entirely sure. But your fingers brushed up to touch them, and it was as if you could feel his mouth there all over again.

You smiled like a fool, your eyes drifting down your body; they passed over the scar on your jawline, the scars on your collarbone, just beneath your ribs, and further down on your right thigh, where several small but distinct marks barely revealed themselves.

You tilted your head, observing yourself and suddenly seeing a difference. As you did, a lock of hair fell across your face.

You caught it between your fingers and breathed it in, then gathered a handful more. Burying your nose in the strands, you closed your eyes.

You smelled like him. From the strands of hair between your fingers to your very skin; his soap, his shampoo—him. The same clean scent of his fresh sheets, the exact same scent that was woven into his skin. You carried it now, and the feeling brought a flutter to your stomach that made every hair on your body stand up.

Well, that, and the fact that you were naked and your house was freezing.

Jesus, stop being so corny, what's the point?

The more time you spent staring at yourself in the mirror, the longer it would take to get back to Joel. So you finally turned away, moved along, and headed into the bathroom.

You took a quick shower without getting your hair wet, since you'd washed it just that morning, and went through your usual routine. With your skin soft and clean and your body much warmer than before, you stepped out of the shower wrapped in a towel. Your feet weren't cold anymore, and neither were your fingers.

Back in the bedroom, you misted yourself with rosewater and put on a little bit of everything you owned, smelling like a dessert all over again and feeling like one, too. You ran your fingers through your hair, brushed it out a little, and reached for the small wooden box inside your nightstand. From it, you took your necklace and fastened it around your neck.

Opting for comfort and practicality, you pulled on a pair of straight-leg jeans that hugged you perfectly up top, thanks to some alterations Isa had done, along with a cropped white tee and a slightly loose black sweater. You were right on the verge of putting on sneakers, but you chose your boots again. There wasn't much use fighting against something both cozy and cute.

Okay, what did you need to bring for tonight?

You grabbed a tote bag and tossed in clean underwear, your hairbrush, and a few other small things. Carefully, you folded the jacket Joel had lent you earlier and slid it inside as well.

You didn't waste any more time. You bundled up in his other jacket (which, technically, was already yours) and went into the kitchen to grab the blueberry pie you’d left in the fridge yesterday. You’d only tried a tiny slice to make sure it tasted right. You packed it into a plastic container and carefully settled it into your bag, strategically arranging everything underneath and around it so it wouldn't shift in any way.

Giving yourself one last look in the mirror and knowing that at Joel’s place, nothing but a tiny little hand mirror awaited you, you stepped out of your house just as the sun in the sky began to turn that sea of blue into a field of orange and pink.

Joel's house. Late afternoon.

The second Joel opened the front door, a delicious aroma hit your nose.

"Mmm," you breathed in, stepping into the entryway. "What am I smelling?"

Joel took the bag from your hand and closed the door behind you. With a smile, he lifted his chin and nodded toward the kitchen.

He’d changed his clothes and wasn't in his sleepwear anymore, but in jeans, boots, and a flannel shirt.

He look so good.

"Go on and look," he said.

Smiling, you walked over as the scent grew even richer. Your eyes instantly locked onto the pot on the stove. You stepped closer while he carefully took the container with the blueberry pie out of the bag and set it on the counter.

Inside the pot, vegetables were simmering away, releasing a thick sweet steam, covered and surrounded by a dark glossy sauce.

"Is there wine in this?"

He nodded, and your mouth watered instantly.

"Started a good while ago," he came up beside you. "Seared the venison, took it out, cooked down the veggies with the wine, and threw the meat back in. It's been stewin' for a while now. You real hungry?"

Smiling, you looked at him out of the corner of your eye. "I didn't know you knew your way around a kitchen like this."

"I don't know that much," he shook his head. "Just a few things I'm fixin' to stick with forever."

You laughed. "Is this one of your specialties?"

"Yeah. This, and the meatloaf I'm makin' for Ellie tomorrow."

"Oh, did you see her? Is she here?"

"No, she left a while ago. But we talked for a bit," he nodded. "Said she was headin' to the greenhouse tomorrow to see you. Wants to show you what she’s done with the herbs."

You were genuinely excited to see what Ellie had been working on. You thought it was incredibly sweet of her to want to help you out with all of this, and you were sure you’d find a way to thank her properly. Favors are favors, and they ought to be repaid right.

"I can't wait to see what she's done."

Joel smiled. "You're gonna like it."

It was only fair that you set the table. While Joel cooked, you arranged the plates, silverware, and everything else, though you still felt like you had too much time on your hands. But you distracted yourself by picking something to listen to; Joel had a box full of cassettes and handed over the authority for you to choose the music. You picked a Fleetwood Mac compilation and spent the rest of the time keeping yourself occupied with the glass of wine he had left on the table for you.

You had rarely ever had wine. Looked like almost never before arriving in Jackson. But here, they had a decent amount of alcohol, both produced by the community and brought in from the outside. Cider was pretty common, as was whiskey, but wine was a much trickier thing to come by for some reason. Joel, being who he was and knowing the people he knew, had a few bottles tucked away in a small cabinet in his kitchen.

He wouldn't let you help with the cooking, insisting he had it under control. That left you with only one job: sitting at the kitchen island with a glass of wine, just watching him. It wasn't like he had a whole lot to do after a while anyway, since the meat pretty much cooked itself, only needing a quick check every now and then. During that stretch of time, he pulled up a stool next to you with his own glass of wine, and the two of you talked about everything and nothing, mostly just casual drift.

"Pet Sematary," he said, bringing the glass to his lips.

"Never read that one."

He raised his eyebrows. "You ain't ever read Pet Sematary?"

You shook your head. "No. I only read Carrie, and honestly it didn't really make me feel any better."

"You gotta read Pet Sematary. Reckon it’s one of the few books I actually finished cover to cover when I was a kid."

"Weren't you big on reading?"

"Preferred doin' other things," he said, tilting his head. "But I got that book for Christmas one year, and then I caught the flu and spent a week in bed. Read the whole damn thing. Let me tell you, havin' a fever dream after readin' somethin' like that wasn't nice."

You laughed. "Is it really that terrifying?"

"Well, I was eleven. Doubt it’d scare me none now."

"I remember my parents watching the movie once, but I didn't pay much attention. I wasn't really into horror. Either that, or it scared me and I just didn't want to look." You suddenly sat up straighter. "You know what book I know you’d love?"

He frowned just a fraction.

"Lonesome Dove, by Larry McMurtry," you said. "You ever read it?"

"Not that I recall."

"It's about two old Texas Rangers who decide to drive a huge herd of cattle all the way from the Mexican border up to Montana. But they run into just about everything along the trail. It’s a Western, so you can picture it. Storms, bandits, different towns. I loved it when I read it, it's incredibly entertaining and," you raised a finger, "deep. It’s not just about the adventure, you know? It’s about the fact that the whole world around them is changing. It's the end of the Old West."

He nodded. "Modernity."

"Exactly. And they’re old men from a generation that spent their entire lives chasing outlaws and living in places where the government had no control. But everything’s becoming obsolete, you know? Their whole way of life."

"Yeah," he smiled, "it happens."

"I've got it on my bookshelf if you'd like to read it," you raised an eyebrow.

"Yeah, I'd like that. I gotta give you my notes or somethin' afterward?"

You laughed. "Only if you want to."

Dinner turned out to be an absolute triumph. You sat with him at the table by the window, savoring every single bite. The venison was incredible; the meat was so tender it practically melted in your mouth, to the point where you didn't even need a knife; you could cut it with just your fork. The vegetables were delicious and just as tender, their rich flavors almost making you want to roll your eyes in pure bliss.

Joel, of course, got a little cocky about it. There was a smug smirk playing on his face that he was clearly trying to hide. Still, you secretly suspected the man hadn't even realized it was going to turn out this damn good.

Between the waiting in the kitchen and the dinner itself, the two of you finished the first bottle of wine without even noticing. Midway through the meal, Joel cracked open the second one, which turned out to be just as delicious. You were really starting to get a taste for it; the flavor paired so well with the food that you couldn't bring yourself to turn down another glass, and then another, and maybe another.

And you weren't sure if it was the alcohol or something else, but you’d gotten so hot you shed your sweater before your third glass.

By the time you finished your second helping, you knew the alcohol was starting to do its thing. You felt it first in your feet, in that pleasant buzzing warmth around your skin, and then in the floating lightweight feeling warming up your chest. But most of all, you knew it because your eyes started losing their modesty.

You caught yourself tracking the movement of his lips every time he spoke or took a sip from his glass, your gaze lingering without a shred of hurry. You got completely pulled in, watching his profile under the soft light; the sharp line of his jaw, the crinkles around his eyes when he smiled. Your eyes drifted down to his hands, tracing the veins standing out against his rolled up sleeves, and you couldn't stop a clumsy wine addled thought from taking over your mind: oh wow… his fingers are really, really thick.

But there wasn’t a thing you could do about it; the wine had already hijacked your filters, and your eyes stayed exactly where they wanted to be. You knew you were being obvious, taking way too many seconds to meet his gaze whenever he spoke, like a woman suddenly turned shy.

And Joel, of course, wasn’t any fool. He noticed.

You caught the shift almost instantly. He stopped talking so animatedly, and his rhythm eased into a lazy drawn out cadence as his voice dropped a register, turning deeper and huskier.

His posture in the chair relaxed, leaning just a little closer to your side of the table, cutting down the distance between you. His eyes, which had been fixed on yours, began making their own unhurried sweep across your face. They lingered on your wine flushed cheeks, dipped for a split second to your mouth when you bit your lip, and drifted back up. He held your gaze for a long stretch of time, sending a tingle straight down the back of your neck.

When he picked up his glass, his fingers traced the curve of the crystal. A tiny, barely there tug pulled at the corner of his mouth; he knew exactly where your attention was anchored.

Oh, Jesus... you wanted to tear him apart.

But not here.

Dinner having ended quite a while ago, you got up from your chair and gathered your plate and his. Joel was up right after you; he cleared the glasses and the rest of the table, tucking the used napkins between his fingers while balancing the wine glasses and the empty bottle in his other hand.

Weaving your way into the kitchen, you placed the dishes into the sink with extra care, trying to let the clatter of the stoneware drown out just how hard your heart was thumping, and turned on the faucet. The rush of running water filled the room for barely a second before you felt his heat right behind you.

Joel stepped up right against your back. You felt the solid pressure of his chest nearly brushing your shoulder blades a moment before his arm shot past your side, planting his palm firmly against the edge of the counter, trapping you completely against it. His other free hand reached up without a hint of rush, gripping the handle and shutting off the faucet, cutting the water dead.

"Later," he said.

You felt his breath hit your neck, and your head tilted back on instinct. Understanding the invitation, Joel pressed his entire weight against your back. The solid unyielding feel of him felt so damn good you squeezed your eyes shut and smiled shamelessly.

His hand shifted from the edge of the counter, sliding down to your lower stomach. He flattened his palm there, pressing gently into the soft heat of your belly, before his hand began a steady inching crawl upward. At the same time, his lips found your exposed throat; he kissed you right there while his hand kept drifting up, caressing your chest. And as his palm brushed over your chest, his thumb grazed your nipple through the fabric of your shirt, catching a quiet sigh in your throat.

Your eyelids felt too heavy to keep open. Joel’s mouth kept tasting your neck with short nipping kisses and soft suctions, his hand traveling higher until his long fingers and broad palm wrapped around your throat, squeezing firmly from the sides.

A muffled groan tried to break free, but his grip trapped the sound against your skin, making the vibration rattle right in your vocal cords.

With a tug, Joel pulled your head back, forcing your spine to arch as he locked his hips tight against yours.

His other hand traced down your side, mapping the curve of your waist and hip, squeezing your flesh with a hunger that was driving you out of your mind. The wine and the friction of your bodies sparked a desperate ache between your thighs, and you didn't know how much longer you could go without tearing his pants off.

Sensing your restlessness, Joel nudged one of his legs between yours. With a firm shift of his thigh, he forced your legs apart and hitched his knee right into your center. You let your weight drop, desperate for the pressure, grinding down against him, but the thick denim of your jeans blocked the full sensation and the partial friction only fueled your frustration.

Joel caught onto your desperation and surged even harder against you, and you could feel him fully hard, a rigid ridge pressing into your backside through the layers of clothes. Unable to hold back, you reached a hand blindly behind you until you found the front of his pants, and wrapped your fingers around his crotch, squeezing firmly through the fabric.

The sudden boldness caught him off guard; Joel let out a low groan right against the skin of your neck as his grip on your throat tightened just a little more.

With a sudden jerk, he hauled you away from the counter. His hands dropped to your hips instantly, digging firmly into your flesh as he started steering you out of the kitchen.

A breathless nervous laugh slipped from your lips, cutting through the silence of the house as the two of you moved toward the hallway. And before you could even plant a foot on the bottom step of the stairs, you slapped his hands away, spun around, and bolted up the flight.

Halfway up, curiosity got the better of you, forcing you to glance back over your shoulder. Joel was already tracking you; his posture was stiffer, his eyes so dark and locked on yours. You let out a soft amused gasp and scrambled up the rest of the way.

As you cleared the final steps, your fingers hooked the hem of your shirt, yanking it cleanly over your head and dropping it behind you like a breadcrumb on the trail. Right before hitting the doorway of his bedroom, your hands flew to your back, unhooking your bra and letting it fall, too.

Joel trailed you without missing a beat. You heard him pause for a split second below to scoop your shirt off the floor, and then he kept coming, completely unhurried, stopping to grab the bra next. He was giving you a head start. He was granting you the exact window you needed to slip into the bedroom, kick off your boots, and shed your pants.

Hearing his heavy tread approach the threshold, you padded silently on bare feet into the bathroom. From inside, you caught the low huff that rumbled from his chest when he stepped into the room and found the bed empty.

The cool night air drifting through the bathroom window instantly prickled your skin, making your nipples harden and the hair on your arms stand up, but you didn't give a damn about the chill. You planted both hands flat and firm against the edge of the marble sink, arching your spine completely and tilting your ass toward the doorway; right at the perfect angle for where he was bound to appear in less than a heartbeat.

And yeah, just a heartbeat later, Joel filled the bathroom doorway. He stopped dead in his tracks, going completely still, frozen under the frame.

A thrill shot through you just from watching his reaction. Joel held your clothes in one hand, his eyes locked onto your bare skin, tracking the curve of your hips and your exposed ass. His jaw was clenched so hard the muscle bunched, and that sudden paralysis of sheer awe and desire on his face let you know you had him exactly where you wanted him.

Joel tossed your clothes onto the bathroom counter without a shred of care, while you stayed completely still, watching him. He tightened his jaw and brought his hands down to his waist.

Slowly, he unbuckled the metal latch of his belt; the leather creaked and the metal clinked in this quiet bathroom as he whipped it through the loops in one clean yank. Your pussy throbbed just looking at him; so mean, so serious, so intensely focused as he popped the button of his jeans and dragged the metal zipper down with a harsh rasp, never taking his eyes off you for a single second.

As he began to close the final few inches between you, an intense flutter turned your stomach over. Joel settled right behind you, planting one of his big heavy hands flat against your hip, digging into your skin to anchor you in place, while his other hand went straight for your center, hooking the fabric of your panties to the side.

Your breathing was already ragged and heavy, and your throat felt so dry you could barely swallow. Trying to hold onto that thread of control from the game, you tried to look back at him.

"You should get yourself a mirror," you murmured.

Joel huffed a laugh.

His thick warm fingers parted your wet folds. "Yeah," he said.

You shut your eyes instantly, letting out a low moan as you finally melted into his touch. His fingers were soaked in you immediately, sliding top to bottom. He brought the pad of his index finger up until he found your clit, pressing and rubbing in firm circles that made you flinch and arch your spine even deeper against him.

The wet obscene sound of his fingers moving inside you filled the bathroom instantly. But Joel took his time to torment you, sliding his middle finger along your slit and stretching your wetness before pushing a single knuckle inside your pussy. He went in easy, stretching you open, and a choked moan escaped your lips. A second later, he slipped a second finger in, opening you up from the inside, and began to thrust into your depths, curling his fingers upward to hook the exact spot that made you lose your mind.

"Shit, baby... you're fuckin' soaked," Joel growled in your ear, and the sound of his dirty voice only deepened the spasms already starting to ripple through your walls.

Your hands gripped the edge of the sink so hard your knuckles turned white.

The wet sounds of friction between his hand and your pussy were loud, giving away just how ready you were; every time he buried his fingers to the hilt, your eyelids grew heavier.

You started to lose all sense of rhythm, rolling your hips back on pure instinct, begging for more and more and more. But Joel didn't give in; he kept his hand steady, pumping inside you, catching your dirtiest, most shameless whimpers right out of the air.

"Joel, please," you stammered, letting your head drop forward. "Fuck me already, don't make me wait."

He cut his movements instantly. With a dragging touch, he slid his fingers out of your wetness. You lifted your head and licked your dry lips, desperately trying to catch your breath.

"You gettin' bossy on me now?" he asked.

A small smile tugged at your lips, and you glanced back over your shoulder. Joel already had his cock in his hand, stroking it up and down, using the same hand that was coated in your own slick. The sight of his size and the heavy veins tracing his shaft made you swallow hard.

"Over the sink, now. Put your hands further out and lean down," he ordered.

You obeyed instantly. You stretched your arms across the surface, planting your palms firmly against the cold marble that clashed sharply against the heat of your body. You slid further forward, arching your spine to the absolute limit and pushing your backside out, offering yourself to him completely.

Joel stepped forward, erasing the space between you. You felt the burning tip of his cock hunt for your entrance, pressing right where the ache of your need was loudest. Easy, he broke into you in one controlled heavy push, burying himself deep, inching further and further until he filled you to the brim.

He stretched you so wide you choked back a cry against the marble. He went dead still, granting you a few agonizing seconds for you to adjust to his thickness and squeeze tight around him. Feeling his pulse throbbing inside you was pure heaven.

Then, he started to move. At first, they were short testing thrusts, but as the rhythm leveled out, a whimper of pure relief slipped from your lips.

Joel took you at your word; he fucked you with relentless consistency, driving deep into you with every single stroke, making the wet echo of his hips slamming against your cheeks ring out through the bathroom. The moans spilled uncontrolled from your mouth, impossible to hold back.

Bit by bit, any trace of patience melted from his movements, turning harder. Joel reached a broad hand up to your shoulder and, with a firm yank, forced your upper body back, arching your spine flush against his chest. And without giving you a second to catch your breath, he shifted that same hand straight to your throat, squeezing with just enough pressure to pin you tight against him while he kept hammering into you from behind.

The shift in the angle made him sink even deeper, ripping cries and sobs of pure pleasure that vibrated right against the flat of his palm.

And just when you thought you couldn't open up any wider, Joel used his boot to nudge your foot, forcing your legs further apart. With a quick heavy grip, he hooked his free hand under your thigh and hoisted your leg up over the edge of the sink, splitting you completely wide open.

Locked in that vulnerable position, he started fucking you hard and fast, a pacing that completely stole your balance. Desperate, your hands scrambled to find a handhold on the wall or the counter, but you couldn't reach a damn thing; the sheer speed of his thrusts was rattling your entire body.

Joel had you pinned so tight against him that the only thing you could do was cling to his arms, burying your nails into his skin. You held onto him, feeling your one steady foot on the floor nearly lift with every strike, suspended in the air by the force of his hips.

To say you didn't recognize the sound of your own voice was an understatement; you didn't think you’d ever made noises as broken as the ones Joel was ripping out of you with every single thrust. It was a completely new sensation, being entirely undone, unable to do a damn thing but cling to him so you wouldn't shatter completely.

Slowly, his movements began to lose their speed, turning heavier. You felt his chest heave hard against your back as he dialed back the pace, locking you tight in his arms. He let your dangling foot finally find the floor, easing the strain on your muscles, and softened his grip on your body, though he stayed buried deep inside you.

Driven by the lingering slip of pleasure, you reached an arm back over your shoulder, searching for the touch of his skin. Your fingers found the nape of his neck and sank right into his curls, tangling in that soft hair you loved so much.

You tilted your head back, offering your lips in a silent plea, and Joel caught your jaw gently and planted a deep dragging kiss on your mouth.

While kissing you, his free hand carefully guided your leg down from the sink, helping you find your footing. He steered you away from the marble counter, backing you up toward the bathroom door.

Only when you hit the threshold did Joel pull out of you all at once, leaving a choked whine on your lips at the sudden cold absence. Before you could even protest, he brought his palm down in a stinging smack against your flushed ass.

"Bed," he ordered.

You moved toward the mattress immediately, your legs shaking and a delicious ache pooling between your thighs. You collapsed flat on your back against the mattress, sinking into the sheets, and hooked your fingers around the waistband of your wet panties, yanking them off and tossing them onto the floor. All while you watched him shadow over you from the dim light.

Your eyes, completely blown out, tracked Joel’s body as he stripped down under the faint light. He yanked his shirt off in one motion, revealing that broad torso, then kicked off his boots, and finally shed his pants, letting them pool on the floor.

God, he was so big. Huge everywhere; the width of his shoulders, the thickness of his ribcage, his massive arms, and that tremendous length pointing right back at you, glistening and heavy with thick veins.

You spread your legs wide on the mattress, begging him back, utterly unable to look away.

Joel climbed onto the bed, making the springs groan as he settled immediately between your open thighs. He gripped your knees, pushing them back toward your chest to split you open even wider, and lined his cock up with your pussy.

He slid in inch by inch, savoring the fit, stretching your already sensitive walls, but the second he was buried completely inside you, he gave you no quarter. He picked his rhythm right back up.

You held onto him with everything you had, wrapping your arms tight around his neck and digging your nails into his broad back while he fucked you hard, deep thrusts making you bounce right against the mattress.

The wet friction of your bodies took over the room again, mixing with Joel’s pants directly in your ear and your own shameless moans.

"Joel, please," you cried out, squeezing him tighter. "Put all your weight on me."

He lifted his head, locking his eyes onto yours.

"Put all your weight on me," you repeated.

"I'm gonna crush you."

"No, you won't," the heavy impacts chopping up your voice. "Please."

Joel let out a rough pant and buried his face right next to yours as he slowly let his body drop over you. You felt his weight gradually press you down into the mattress; his chest flat against yours, his stomach against yours, blanketing you in sheer heavy man.

"Yes, yes, yes," you started to babble, letting your eyelids flutter shut as your arms wrapped around him and your fingers buried deep into the hair at the nape of his neck.

You were right on the edge, suspended in that eternal second where the pleasure gets so sharp it almost hurts. Your legs were wrapped tight around his waist and your nails were dug into his shoulders, feeling the coiled tension in every single muscle.

Then you felt it. You caught that subtle unmistakable shift in the vibration of his body; the way his cock went even harder, pulsing and throbbing inside you, expanding to its absolute limit. Joel let out a guttural grunt, a purely animalistic drawl of a sound that drowned in the crook of your neck as he completely lost his rhythm and his grip on control.

Knowing you had him right there, that he was about to fall apart for you, was the final push that shattered your gravity. Your own orgasm hit you all at once, a hot burst that clamped your internal walls in violent desperate spasms around his length.

Joel roared against your skin the second he felt you clamp down on him, completely trapped by your climax. He delivered a few brutal frenzied thrusts, driving so deep you felt like you were splitting in two, before cursing loudly and dragging himself back with desperation.

You unlocked your legs from his hips to let him clear, and he grabbed his cock, letting go right over your belly. He was so flushed, his face so raw and undone, that your eyes could do nothing but watch him, panting and silent, while your own muscles kept riding out the tail end of your release.

He leaned forward, planting one forearm beside your head, and brought his face down to yours.

You cupped his face; your fingers pressed gently against his jaw as you pulled his mouth down to meet yours.

Joel's room. Half an hour later. Night.

You flicked off the bathroom light and shut the door behind you.

The effects of the wine were still floating through your system, but now it was pure exhaustion weighing you down. You knew you were gonna sleep like a baby tonight, so before climbing back into bed next to Joel, you went straight for the alarm clock on his nightstand.

"Six thirty sound good to you?" you asked, turning the clock around to set the dial.

"What time is it now?" he wanted to know. He was lying back with his hair still a little damp from the shower, wearing a dark blue cotton t-shirt and sweatpants.

"Quarter to ten."

"Ain't as late as I thought."

You smiled. "Right. I figured it was at least eleven."

"Six thirty's fine."

You set the alarm and slipped the clock back into its spot.

Carefully crawling over Joel’s legs, you slid under the covers as he pulled the sheet and the comforter up over you. You dug your toes into the mattress, stretching out on pure instinct just from the happiness of being comfortable, warm, and knowing you were in for a perfect night of sleep.

You draped your arm over Joel’s chest, and he leaned into you, shifting onto his side to blanket you with his body heat.

"Oh," he murmured, pulling back for just a second to click off the lamp on his nightstand before wrapping his arms right back around you.

The bedroom fell into darkness, but the moonlight streamed through the window; pale, soft, and soothing. It was a full moon tonight.

"Goodnight, Joel."

He let out a low sigh. "Goodnight, Snow."

divider by: omi-resources

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In, and out.

Repeat.

In, out.

You count them.

One, two, three…

Eyes falling to your lap where your fingers anxiously pick at the other, you find you’d picked completely through the skin by the side of your thumbnail. Blood builds and smears along your nail fold where the skin had given in to the small assault, but you can’t stop. Your other thumb still picks at it, its blunt nail scratching through the sticky warmth and spreading the blood further. 

Breathe.

In, out.

It’ll be okay.

It’ll—

You grind your teeth as tears begin to sting behind your eyes. You don’t think you’ve ever felt this shaken, this terrified, in your entire life. Not when you’d been a part of this world all that time ago—you were on a different side back then. Not when you’d been arrested—you’d been scared, sure, but at least they were the so-called ‘good guys’.

They wouldn’t kill you just because you were an inconvenience to business.

You’re going to die.

It sinks into you, heavy and relentless. You wonder if what they say about a warm bright light is true, if you do get a few moments of reliving memories before falling into the inevitable abyss. Would it hurt? Be quick? The fear of death is nothing compared to the fear of not knowing all that could happen before the end. Maybe they’ll drag it out, make it a punishment for getting in their way before showing some mercy with a bullet. 

No. No crying, you tell yourself. 

This is it, and whatever happens… well, there’s no changing it.

A voice echoes in your ears—warm, familiar, stubborn. 

I won’t let anything happen to you.

You can’t be mad at him for breaking his promise. It was your own stupid self that got you into this position. If you had just waited at his apartment, endured the safe walls of his home and the waft of his cologne after he left… if you had just listened, you wouldn’t be here. 

It was heartache that had you all but running out of that door. You needed air, needed something to clear the sudden onslaught of memories and the way his voice swirled in your mind. It was always real to me.

It had been real.

The soft spoken words, the gentle touches, the way he had looked at you, the way he had made you feel, the way he said those three little words that had been your ultimate undoing…

It wasn’t all a lie.

At least if you die, when you die, you’ll know that. You’ll have that to reflect on. You’ll go knowing the love you had felt had been accepted, and returned. It still hurts, the scarring left from how everything had changed permanent and lasting deep in the very core of you, but at least, while it was happening back then, it had been real. 

The car rolls to a stop, and your heart briefly along with it. You don’t know where you are, where you’re being taken to next. You don’t move until they gesture you to. The hand that curls around your arm when you awkwardly make your way out of the backseat is tight, an unspoken promise that there was no easy way out of this.

There was no running.

In, out.

Maybe he’d find you in time. Maybe he was already close.

You comfort yourself with that as you’re moved into a new vehicle, the sound of liquid being thrown about and splashing behind you. You look back out the open door in time to watch one of the men throw a small lit match into the now vacant backseat, eyeing the flames that engulf the interior of the car you had been in, thankful they didn’t decide to just leave you in it.

For now, there was still a bit of time. 

—

His heart still beats thickly in his throat. Sweat had gathered on his palms as soon as he saw you exit the elevator, and had slowly built along the back of his neck with every moment in your presence. He's surprised he's been able to keep control over his voice so far, a barely there tremble threatening to break free in his words and cause him to stutter under your attention.

You were hard, and completely closed off. You listened throughout his little debriefing, and understandably been pissed when he told you just exactly what they were asking of you. It was hypocritical, even he had to admit.

Even with your evident and spoken anger and borderline disgust, a part of him still warms at the sight of you. He doubts that will ever fade. 

“Are we done here?”

He sees how you struggle to look at him, feels the hollow echo of what once was before getting hit with harsh reality.

“Yeah. Yeah, we are.”

He feels weak as you move to leave the room, you couldn’t move quick enough.

It all hits him like a punch to the stomach and he folds from it, bracing his hands on the cool top of the conference room table and letting his head hang low. He drags in a breath, catching the smell of your perfume as you pass. It’s new, so different from your old one.

A reminder of how everything had changed, of what he did to you.

He exhales quietly, eyes slipping shut and seeing the hatred that had swam in your eyes behind his lids. The door slams shut behind him.

—

He gets it over a call.

The car was found, torched and completely destroyed, but he doesn’t care. He doesn’t care that any potential evidence has been destroyed, doesn’t care they weren’t quick enough to intercept before whoever took you fled again. He doesn’t care because he’s relieved at the following information provided to him.

No body was found within the vehicle.

The immediate thoughts that had assaulted him of seeing your body, twisted, unmoving and burnt beyond recognition, vacate to the depths of his mind, and he finds he can breathe a little easier. His tie sits a little more comfortably around his throat, and he’s able to focus a little better on the road as he drives to the office.

You’re okay. For now, you’re okay.

They still want you alive, and that’s good. That means he has time.

“There’s a security camera around the corner from the lot,” Wilson’s voice continues to fill the car.

Marcus didn’t comment on it at the time, too busy swimming in his own thoughts and the sheer relief flooding his system, but he had heard the edge in the young agent's tone when he had answered the call. He’s thankful Wilson wouldn’t be forever haunted by the sick images his mind had conjured. 

“It's old, but we’ve been able to get a rough image of the vehicle. Black SUV, tinted windows so we weren’t able to get a look at the occupants. Also got a slight partial plate, but it’s barely readable. I’ve sent it through to forensics to see if they can do anything with it.”

“Good. I’m sending a team your way, make your way back to the office once they arrive. I want you with me.”

If anyone on his team would understand the depth to this, it’s Wilson.

“Yes, sir.”

Marcus knows the agent has some experience at this kind of shit, having previously read over his history within his file before confirming his success at getting the position he was so eager for, but this time it was a little more personal.

You two had spent quite a bit of time together during the start of this case, would go as far as to call you two somewhat friends, and so the softer, less Special Agent Pike, more Marcus side of him feels the need to ask, to focus on something other than his own emotions.

“How’re you doing?”

The line falls silent, before the younger agent clears his throat quietly. “Can I speak freely, sir?”

“Always.”

It comes out in a quiet rush. “I’m so fucking relieved she’s not in that car.”

Marcus makes a low noise of agreement. “You and me both.”

—

“0800, on the dot. Not a second after, understood?”

The young agent before him nods, his enthusiasm evident. Marcus remembers that enthusiasm, the excitement at finally being where he wanted to be, where he worked so hard to get to.

This new guy… Marcus liked him. He knew watching over his interview that he’d be a good fit within his team. The kid was eager for an opportunity, had gall, and Marcus knew you’d be safe in his agent’s hands.

“Any questions?”

“No, sir.”

“I don’t expect trouble along the way, but I’ll note it now that her safety is paramount. She’s—” he stops, looking down at an older photograph of you sitting amongst the various bits of paper pulled from the file and feeling the familiar ache creep around his heart. 

She’s important to me.

The words had almost slipped free, danced so easily, so naturally, on the tip of his tongue it had taken his mind a moment to catch up and stop them from leaving his mouth. He clears his throat softly, tucking the image back into the manilla folder so he doesn’t have you smiling up at him.

He didn’t want to use your mugshot for the file made for Wilson. He didn’t want the agent to go into this with a preconceived idea of who and what he would assume you are. After everything, the least he could do was give you a chance to be known as you are, not what they made you to be.

“She’s integral to the case. Should anything arise, her safety is your highest priority.”

Agent Wilson straightens in his seat, a cool wash of determination settling into his features. Yeah, Marcus thinks to himself, he’s a good fit.

“Understood, sir. She’ll be in good hands.”

Marcus nods.

He thinks you’ll like him the most out of his team. His other agents are great, but you’ll be on your guard. The others will be quiet, and will keep to themselves more often than not. That wouldn’t help you. Wilson’s a talker, though. Sometimes, relentlessly so. It might help you find some comfort in this shitshow, might make things a little easier for you, a little less lonely. 

—

He studies your photo where it’s pinned on the board, only a little ways away from one of the murder victims' post mortem images. The images are a stark contrast from each other, one warm in hues, brightness swimming throughout the image and bursting from the wide spread of your smile. The other is cold, clinical. Void of life.

The more he looks, the more his mind twists and runs, swapping the features of the two women until it’s painted a version of your own post-mortem photograph. Skin sunken beneath your open eyes, pupils fixed, unseeing. A cold measuring tape held next to the gaping hole in your skull.

He blinks, and the images are as they were.

Jane is damn near adamant they want you alive, but without definitive proof that you’ll be okay, it does little to settle his mind.

Marcus turns away from the board with a new wash of nausea he swallows down, flicking through the notes provided to him by Lisbon’s team from the interrogation and marking the noted locations of addresses on the map spread out before him. 

He can hear the work beyond the conference room, a part of him comforted by the sheer amount of effort put in by both his own and Teresa's agents.

They’re close.

That familiar feeling swirls in the pit of his stomach, knowing that with every new bit of information that comes through by the hour, they’re closing that gap between them and you. It overrides the worry, pushes his anxiety to the side until all he feels is brute determination, the urge to get the job done and retrieve you swiftly and safely.

You’ll be okay.

He’ll make sure of it.

Marcus feels the presence of someone hovering just inside the door of the conference room, and fights the sigh of annoyance threatening to break free from his lungs. He doesn’t want to entertain niceties, doesn’t have time for idle chit chat and useless empty conversation, so he cuts straight to the chase with a sharp edge in his tone that says just that.

He’d feel ashamed by the bluntness of it if his mind wasn’t working so damn hard to absorb every possible bit of information given to him in an effort to get any closer to you.

“Can I help you with something, Agent Van Pelt?”

He sees her move in his peripheral as he shuffles through more notes, more paper, more satellite images of warehouses and shop fronts and galleries. She shifts slightly, almost unsure as her eyes glance back to the open door to the conference room before they roll back to settle on him.

“I just wanted to say that it’ll be okay,” she says finally. “We’ll find her.”

It’s spoken so surely, so warmly sincere, it completely cuts through the icyness that had settled in his chest and worked its way through his nervous system. He feels his shoulders slacken slightly when he eventually meets her eyes, the tightness of his features softening when she gives a small reassuring smile.

“Thank you,” he murmurs, giving his head a little shake to settle the mess of emotions swirling through him. “I’m sorry, I don’t mean to be—”

“It’s okay,” Grace’s smile widens . Her eyes fix on the board behind him in open interest, but it doesn’t hit him like it did with Jane and Lisbon. It doesn’t get his hackles up in defence with a need to shield you from potential judgement.

“Seems like she’s really something.”

He looks over his shoulder, gaze swiping one more time over your image. “She is.”

—

It’s a warehouse, empty save for the leftover pallets, a few odd pieces of old machinery from previous companies and the van you had been driven in.

You’d lost track of the route they had taken you, not wanting to risk anything by making it obvious you were trying to decipher your location by looking out of the windows. There was no point. You doubt you’d make it very far if you chose to run.

Playing along, doing what these people ask when they ask it, it’d hopefully buy you some time. Hopefully the time Marcus and his team needs if they were looking. No, you know he is. You can feel it.

Before all the recent developments, you probably would’ve resigned yourself to your uncertain fate, and accepted that you were just another pawn for the FBI. A nobody, just mere collateral damage in the wider grand scheme of things.

You lost track of how long you’d been standing in the one spot, almost scared to move. The small group of men had shown you out of the van and onto the main floor of the warehouse, and then moved to the sides. They stayed quiet, sometimes talking quietly amongst themselves, but otherwise leaving you alone.

A welcome relief.

“You’ve certainly been working away, haven’t you? Piece after piece. Surely you’re tired.”

The men take their cue and start their exit, leaving you alone with the newcomer. The one pulling the strings and keeping them in line, if their quick and quiet departure was anything to go by. They clearly deem you no threat whatsoever.

You turn to the voice, eyes sweeping over the familiar face of Edward Thomas. You recoil a little in surprise, almost expecting someone else to be with him because of how out of character something like this was for the older man, but he remains alone, and you are left standing corrected.

“Didn’t really have much of a choice,” you murmur.

You don’t think openly admitting you had readily agreed to helping the FBI wouldn’t work well in your favour.

“How’d you know it was my work?”

“I didn’t,” he admits quietly, “in the beginning. We actually thought you were still in prison.”

“We?”

Edward smiles, though it lacks any warmth or sincerity. He looks tired, older. “Asking for yourself, or your FBI boyfriend?”

You ignore the goad, glancing carefully around the vacant space with a barely concealed shiver down your spine. Now what?

“What am I doing here?”

He sighs, rubbing a tired hand across his weathered features.

“This whole thing, it’s—it’s turned ugly, and quite frankly I’m tired of it. I had no intention of being this involved. I needed something to offer in return for my… retirement, let’s call it. After all, after a few of your pieces had been discovered by myself, interest has grown in your particular… area of expertise. You have a few curious in what you can offer.”

A sick feeling turns your stomach, but you keep a hold of your expression.  “So you’re not auctioning off my pieces anymore, you’re just auctioning off me.”

“In a manner of speaking.”

“Throwing me to the highest bidder so you can, what, run away to a sunny beach somewhere? That’s not like you, Edward.”

“Yes well, as I said, it’s turned ugly.”

“By ugly, you mean the people that have been killed.”

“You’re quite naive if you didn’t think that was happening before your arrest. People died then, and people will die now. It’s simply a part of the world you so readily jumped into.”

“Can’t really blame the girl.”

A calm and collected voice takes you off guard, and you quickly school your stunned expression into something a little less obvious as the one and only Patrick fucking Jane all but waltzes into the room, looking completely at ease as he slides his hands into the pockets of his slacks.

“She wasn’t exactly given a brochure on the workings of an underground art ring upon her application.”

If he’s here, then his team isn’t too far behind.

And if his team isn’t too far behind, surely that means Marcus would be with them, too? A slight twinge of hopes grows to life in your chest, your heart picking up with the possibility you’d be walking free from this.

Edward frowns at him in confusion, eyes darting to the direction of the van and where the three men that had bought you in had disappeared to.

“How the hell did you get in here?”

“The door,” Jane comments as if it were obvious, and you can’t help the eye roll, pinning him with such a look of disdain it makes his lips twitch.

“And what are you doing here?”

He has the nerve to look bored, eyes observing the empty warehouse in false interest. The sheer ease he remains in has Edward’s frown deepening with every step he takes further into the room.

“Checking out industrial real estate. What’s the going rate for one of these?” His hand leaves his pockets to gesture vaguely about the open room. 

“Mr Jane, I must admit I do tire of your little games.”

You startle, eyes widening as you glance between them.

“You two know each other?”

“We met at the museum,” Jane shrugs. “When I said I was following my own leads, I was. It just wasn’t you. I did have to get you out of the way, though. Sorry about that.”

He doesn’t sound sorry in the slightest. You stare at him, at a complete and utter loss, your mind struggling to piece together all of the events that had led you here. Did he intentionally upset you at the museum? To get you to leave?

It’s all a big fucking game to this man.

“You knew,” you realise slowly, your brows coming together, “you knew I’d leave the investigation.”

“I expected. Just like I expected Mr Thomas here to make a move as soon as he knew you weren’t being monitored anymore,” Jane explains easily, unbothered by the way your face twists with his little reveal.

You had been a pawn.

Just not the FBI’s pawn.

You were Patrick fucking Jane’s pawn.

“What I didn’t expect, was you running off, and.. you know, all that happened after,” he trails off with a slight wince. “That was inconvenient, I’ll admit.”

He, at the very least, has the grace to look apologetic at that. So he didn’t mean for it to work out like this. He knew Marcus would flip and put you into protective custody. He counted on Marcus getting you out of town and finding you somewhere safe to lay low while they worked out the rest of the case.

What he didn’t count on, however, was the mountain of emotional baggage he was undoing and letting loose during his little playtime pretending to be an FBI agent.

“Inconventient?” You grind out, anger simmering beneath your skin. “I got fucking kidnapped, Jane!”

“Like I said—inconvenient.”

“Enough.”

“Oh my God, I can’t believe you. Marcus was right, you really are a fucking dick.”

“Things could’ve gone smoother, yes—”

You jump at the sudden firing of a gun, wide eyes immediately flying to Edward where he stands unimpressed, holding the weapon towards the ceiling. He then levels it between you, your undeniable anger at the consultant melting steadily into fear.

Jane takes a step towards you automatically, his arm outstretched as if he could reach you despite the distance between you, but he stills when the gun is aimed for him.

“I said enough.” 

—

“North entrance is covered,” Rigsby reports as Marcus arrives on scene mere moments after them. “South’s free—they’re not expecting company.”

“Good,” Marcus nods, eyes scouting the area around the warehouse and the flashy expensive car Thomas had left parked along the side. Might as well be a flashing neon sign in an area like this. “How many on the north?”

“Three,” Cho replies plainly, checking over his weapon.

“You certainly work quick. We’ll send a small team to cover both exits for now, when—”

“We need to wait for back up, we don’t know how many are inside yet.”

He fights the frown threatening to dig between his brows as he looks at Lisbon, her expectant gaze already fixed tightly on him. He knows that. He doesn’t need to be told that like he’s some freshly graduated baby agent, let alone by someone who’s not even on his team. He bites back the sarcastic words building on his tongue.

“When SWAT arrives,” Marcus continues as if she didn’t interrupt him, “we make the call to move in. How far out are they?”

“Four minutes,” Cho provides again, looking between the two superior agents with a look he couldn’t quite decipher, but otherwise keeping quiet.

Anything could happen in four minutes.

Marcus presses his lips together, eyes raking over the structure they suspect you’ve been taken to and its wider surroundings. His hands find his hips as he studies the high windows, wondering if Wilson would be able to find anything to climb up on to find a point to look in to until backup arrives.

“Uh, where’s Jane?”

Rigsby’s carefully posed question pulls Marcus's attention from the building, his teeth quickly mashing together as he attempts to reign in the hot flood of irritation that sweeps over him. Sure enough, the consultant is nowhere to be found when the team looks, and the irritation morphs into something a little stronger, something with a bit more of a kick.

He can’t help it.

Marcus smiles at Lisbon, stiff and sarcastic. “I see that tight leash is working well.”

She sighs, barely sparing him a glance. “Don’t.”

“If he does anything to—”

A single shot echoes from the warehouse and he jolts as if it had come straight for him and pierced right through his chest. Seconds of silence pass, and with each slowed tick of time in his mind, there you are. On the autopsy table, a bullet through the head. Cold. Lifeless.

Someone speaks, reporting to the incoming team that shots have been fired and he doesn’t care to look at who calls it in. His eyes dart over the building, waiting for movement, a yell, a scream, anything—

He doesn’t, he can’t, wait any longer. Logic, strategy, training—it all blends and settles at the sound of nothing. It’s instinct, it's pure adrenaline. Marcus takes off towards the building while reaching for his weapon, the thought of you bleeding out on the filthy floor, losing precious time with every moment he wastes standing around, pushing his legs harder as he comes up upon the back entrance.

“Marcus!” Teresa shouts after him, already following. “Cho, on me. Rigsby, Van Pelt, you’re on the north entrance. Wilson, wait for SWAT and direct on their arrival!”

—

Your ears ring from the gunshot. The piercing echo of it threatens to stop your heart then and there, the tremble in your hands obvious as you quickly and carefully raise your hands in an effort to show you’re of no threat. Jane mirrors you, studying the way the gun ever so slight shake in Edward’s hand as the barrel of it bounces between the both of you.

“FBI, put your weapon down.”

You almost choke on a sob at the familiar voice.

He’s here. 

You feel Marcus move step up and next to you, his own weapon held steady and pointed directly at Edward . You watch the recognition, the panic, the indecision, the urge to flee play out on the older man’s face, the shake in his hand increasing under the presence of Marcus. 

“You’re surrounded. Don’t go doing anything stupid. This is your one and only chance to walk out of here, so put it down, and we’ll talk. We can figure something out.”

“I just want this to be over,” Edward mutters with a distinct tone of irritation, flustered by the sudden presence of an actual FBI agent and having their weapon pointed at him, “it wasn’t meant to go this far… I didn’t want any part of this.”

“I know,” Marcus soothes carefully, his voice smooth and calm. “Put the gun down, and we’ll talk about it.”

“You know, it’s your fault,” Edward continues, completely absorbed in the stress of his thoughts, and the gun changes direction to land directly on you, “if you had just stayed aw—”

“Hey,” Marcus snaps immediately, “if you’re going to point that at anyone, you point it at me. She got dragged into this because of me. All of this? It’s on me, do you hear me?”

You jump in fright at the echo of two gunshots towards the front of the warehouse, and in a split second, you watch Edward jump in surprise too, and give way to the panic that overrides the logic of a negotiation.

It all happens so quickly. You feel a shove from the right, the direct force of a body moving and colliding with you just as more shots ring out throughout the warehouse and you stumble back and away from where you had just been standing.

Edward falls back from the shots Teresa and another agent direct at him, the pair suddenly appearing from behind you and quickly advancing towards him, while Jane jumps forward to kick the gun away from the hand that weakly reaches for it.

The body that had collided with you is sprawled on the ground and your heart drops to the pit of your stomach at the familiar hand swept dark hair of Marcus. He doesn't get up. He doesn't move.

Bile builds in your throat as you drop to your knees, uncaring as the rough floor scuffs the skin of your knees through the thin material of your dress. You tug desperately at his jacket, rolling him over and clawing at his body until he sprawls over your lap, heavy and unmoving.

“Marcus? Marcus, look at me,” you beg softly, a strangled sob falling from your throat when his eyes eventually flutter open languidly and focus tiredly on yours. “What did you do? God, what did you do?”

His lips part, words building on his tongue, but before they can fall from his mouth he jolts in your arms, heaving and coughing and sputtering. It sounds fucking horrible.

You watch the blood ooze from his lips, creating a stark trail of bright red that melts into his faded stubble and slides down along his jaw. You push at his jacket and feel your heart plummet to the floor at the deep maroon patches outwardly soaking the crisp white shift from the holes in his torso.

“It’s okay,” you soothe shakily, wiping the blood away from his lips with your thumb and feeling your stomach jolt with the wet sticky feel of it. “It’s okay. Keep looking at me, okay? I’m here. Somebody help me! Marcus, please—hold on, please—”

“Pike!”

Someone takes him from your arms, lays him on the ground and covers the bullet wounds with their hands. Teresa is yelling out orders, something about getting medics in and SWAT and soon more people swarm the warehouse. You sit on your knees, hands warm, and when you look numbly down at them, you see the glisten of his blood coating your skin.

There's so much blood.

“Marcus?” You whimper quietly, his name sticking to the inside of your throat.

“Hey, come on,” a female voice speaks from the side of you, her hands winding around your arms and pulling you from the ground. Your widened eyes find hers as you stumble to stand on two feet, her red hair previously pulled into a ponytail slightly ruffled and out of place as strands fall across her face.

“Let’s give them some space, let them help him. Are you okay? Are you hurt?”

“I don’t—I don’t know,” you reply hoarsely, eyes falling back to where Marcus lay on the ground as even more people surround him.

“Look at me,” the redhead speaks, a gentle smile pulling at her lips as you do as she says. “Good. Do you feel any pain?”

“Uh, I don’t… I don’t think so.”

“Okay,” she says softly, winding an arm around your back and gently leading you from the warehouse. “We have people out here that are going to help you—”

Why are you shaking so much? So damn hard?

Your breath gets stuck in your throat, and your hand moves to cover the length of it in confusion, hoping the press of your fingers would help the oxygen move more freely into your lungs.

Instead of helping you find your breath, you feel the smear of blood along your skin and the heady metallic ring of it sinks into your senses, the urge to vomit suddenly curdling your stomach.

The shaking increases as you jerk your hand away from your neck as if it had cut you. You make a noise, something small and choked, and your knees weaken from the spin of your head. 

“Hey, I need you to take a deep breath for me, can you do that? I’m here, I’ve got you.”

“I-I’m trying,” you choke out, suddenly aware of the hot tears spilling down your cheeks as the wind hits with a sharp bite as soon as you step out of the building. “Is—is he going to be okay?”

The redhead briefly glances back at the warehouse, and you think you find a small edge of uncertainty shine in her eyes, but it’s gone within a blink. She gives you another small, reassuring smile though it does little to steady the tremble sitting within your limbs.

“The medics are onsite, he’s in good hands.”

—

The plastic chair is uncomfortable beneath you, the thin scratchy blanket wrapped around your body doing very little to cushion the solid surface of it, yet you don’t move. You don’t think you could if you tried. You hate hospitals. You hate the sterile smell, the cold white walls, the rush of staff and the endless ring of alarms and codes.

This room isn’t too bad, though.

It’s a smaller waiting room, away from the hustle and bustle of the main hospital corridors, and away from the half dozen pairs of eyes that seemed focused on studying your every move. It’s nicer in here, both in style and temperature. The walls are a softer, more welcoming cream colour and a little wall mounted heater keeps the space filled with a nice warmth, but it does very little to calm you.

Your tea had long gone cold next to you, delivered by a startlingly quiet member of Lisbon’s team, Rigsby was it?, before he left you to your thoughts again. You didn’t reach for it once.

Instead, you stare blankly ahead, mind turning over with worry as Marcus is off somewhere in the hospital, somewhere bleeding and hurt and possibly dying. No one comes to talk to you. No one had come to comfort you since Grace had found this room and put you in here, and you think you prefer it that way.

You think she knows you would prefer it that way.

He’s hurt. Severely so.

He’s hurt because he pushed you out of the way, because he took the bullets that had been meant for you, whether they were accidental or not. He had moved with very little regard for himself, instinctively putting himself between you and potential death.

You should be the one in theatre. You should be the one broken and bleeding on an operating table. And yet, you’re not. Here you are, with nothing but bruised, scraped knees and a shot to shit nervous system on the brink of collapsing in on itself.

“Hey Picasso,” Jacob murmurs softly, his face appearing in your view as he crouches down before you, “I think we should get you home—”

Your head is already shaking before he can even finish. Leave? No. No, you can’t do that. What if something happens during surgery? What if he deteriorates and he has no one here to beg them to keep trying? What if—what if he dies on the table and you’re not here for it? 

His face creases in sympathy, his hand warm as it comes to rest over your knee. 

“Listen to me, alright? You with me?”

His head tilts, waiting until he’s sure you’re fully locked in and focused on him.

“He’s lost a lot of blood. He’s got a collapsed lung, and quite extensive internal bleeding. They said he’s gonna be in there for a while—hey, look at me.”

He ducks his head to help your eyes meet his, and you do your best to swallow down the lump quickly building thickly in the base of your throat.

“While he’s in there, getting the help he needs, I’d like to get you home so you can shower, and get into something more comfortable. Lisbon’s under strict instructions to call me if anything changes, and we’ll come right back once you’re done, alright? How does that sound?”

“Sounds like he could die,” you mutter, voice rough and hollow. “Is he going to die?”

His thumb softly swipes at the stray tear on your cheek.

“I have been assured they are doing everything in their power to make sure that doesn’t happen.”

“It should’ve been me. It should be me.”

He gives a small, sad smile. “I may not have been a part of this team for very long and know him very well, but I think we both know that was never an option for him.”

“Is it my fault?”

“Absolutely not,” he says firmly, shaking his head, “and you know damn well he wouldn’t want you thinking like that. Now come on, the quicker we go and do this, the quicker we can get back.”

“You promise we’ll come straight back if… if he—”

“If I happen to get a call to say he…” he trails off, eyes dropping to where his hand rests on your knee before he gathers the strength to meet your eyes again. “If I get that call, we’ll come straight back, alright? Even if you’re all shampooed up and half naked. I swear.”

Your eyes dart between his, searching the soft forest green depths for any trace of a lie. You find nothing but sincerity. Your fingers wrap around his hand, briefly comforted by the steady warmth of it as he turns it in your hold and interlocks your fingers carefully.

“Okay.”

“Okay.”

He helps you stand, releasing your hand in an effort to keep the blanket wrapped around your frame. He tucks it back under your chin, giving you a little grin.

“Hell, you being here half naked would probably bring him back before any crash cart could—”

“Jacob,” you half sob in surprise, unsure whether to be horrified or angry. Your face must display it all openly.

He flinches, face creasing from shame. “I know, I know. I’m sorry, I don’t know why I said that. I get weird with this kind of shit, let’s just go.”