Gunnersaurus Rex

You meet him at your friend’s art show, he’s handsome, funny, and instantly charms you. He at least pays attention to you and even knows your name.

You’re feeling bold, maybe it’s the negronis, your lilac short skirt and crop top, or the fact that you haven’t gotten off in over two weeks. You don’t hesitate to ask Oliver if he’d like to go back to your place.

The car smells like stale lemon, and the Uber driver’s playing some sad, twangy country song you can’t stand, but Oliver’s hand is warm as it rests on your leg. He tells you about his dreams of being a professional comedian. He’s cute, but not too cute, the kind of handsome that if your friends saw him, they’d send you a nod of approval. Good enough for a quick fuck.

As the car turns on your street, Oliver’s hand now rests at the top of your thigh, and you actually feel yourself begin to ache in anticipation. You’re giggly by the time you reach your bungalow, and Oliver’s palm stays on the exposed skin of your lower back as you dig through your purse for your keys.

Your hand stops when you hear the echo of footsteps behind you. Soft and rhythmic. You look up and over, just in time to see a shadow.

Alex. In a black tuxedo, holding his cello case, all debonair and gorgeous. You haven’t seen him since that night, and now he’s here, haloed by the streetlamp. He looks at you, and the only thing that gives him away is the split-second clench of his jaw before he begins to move again.

You turn back to your keys, unlock your door, and pull Oliver inside.

A joint is split between the two of you, kissing in between, sharing smoke and tongues as you try not to think of your tuxedoed neighbor just on the other side of the wall. Oliver’s grunts and groans as your hand runs up his leg tell you he really wants you, so you lead him to your bedroom.

You let him undress you, let him take in your body and call you beautiful. It feels… nice. Fine, really. The heat of his glare is a little warming, but it pales in comparison to the way Alex looked at you from the first time you knocked on his door.

You lie back on your bed, open your legs, and Oliver runs his fingers through your folds, definitely slimmer and clumsier than Alex’s thick, efficient hands. He’s hopeless at finding your clit, but you ooh and ahh him, hoping his cock will be a good enough lay to help you get off.

Oliver eagerly and clumsily undresses. You reach into your drawer and fetch a condom. Oliver rolls it on, and when he guides his dick in, it’s definitely slimmer than you wanted. He grins, like he’s been blessed by your pussy, and gently asks you, “Is this okay?”

You moan a yes for him, and he begins to move. Slow and savoring, not quick, passionate, desperate like the way Alex fucked you. Honestly, it’s so milquetoast and forgettable, your mind wanders off. No matter how much you want to be present, want to be here in your bedroom under cute Oliver, your thoughts are on Alex. He’s probably still in that tux, maybe he’s undone his bow tie, popped open the first few buttons of his crisp, white shirt.

It’s then that you hear the soft, muffled whine of cello through the thin drywall. The notes rise and fall on the other side of the wall. You close your eyes and open your thighs wider, as if you can let the notes slip in, past Oliver and fuck you. You moan, way louder than usual. Oliver believes your moan, and fucks you faster, desperate to be the one who’s making those noises escape you. But it’s not him. Of course it’s not. It’s Alex’s, keeping a tempo that makes each note drag you closer and closer to the edge of bliss.

Your moans duet with the music, and though your body lies in your bed, your mind and heart might as well have drifted past the thin drywall and into Alex’s home. It’s not the way Oliver moves in and out of you, or the sound of his slight whimpers and groans, but the faint music played by your handsome neighbor that nears your orgasm. You’re close, your eyes clenching shut, only picturing the ethereal glimpse of Alex you saw earlier. The memory of how full he made you, the rasp of his grunts, the warmth of his cum as it splashed across your skin. Alex, Alex, Alex.

Oliver feels you getting close, tries to seal his mouth over yours, but you tilt your head and move. Moaning loudly into the air as you orgasm.

The cello stops as soon as you let out the first, long moan.

Oliver finishes inside you, with a long gasp, then rolls away. You get up, clean yourself, and tell him there’s a trash can by your dresser, almost feeling bad about how clinical you make it, but you just want your guest gone now. You’re already resigning yourself to the fact that nobody’s going to beat your hot neighbor.

When you return, now covered in the silk of your robe, he’s at the edge of your bed, still naked. Before your new neighbor, you probably would’ve invited him to stay the night, let him hold you all night, then wake up and get breakfast. Maybe you’d see how it all plays out and date him for a while. But that’s just not going to work now.

You smile, touch his arm, and say, “This was really fun.” His grin is full of pride, and he looks at you like he’s almost in awe of you. “So, I’ve got such an early morning tomorrow,” you say.

You see a hint of disappointment before he smiles at you. “I totally get it. You’re busy. I’m busy.”

He gets dressed quickly, like a good one-night stand.

Maybe you’ll text him; maybe you won’t. Either way, when you walk him toward the door, you kiss him on the cheek and thank him for coming. The door clicks shut, and there’s a moment of quiet.

Until your siren song starts to play again.

The cello.

It summons you.

You open your door, cross the small strip of grass, barefoot and only in your robe, hair still mussed and sex still on your skin. There’s barely enough time for you to ask yourself what the fuck you’re doing here before you knock on the dark wood with 2B in gold letters. It’s like he was expecting you, it takes Alex no time to answer the door.

You were right. He’s still in his tux… and the top buttons are undone. That cocky grin is there again, but there’s a hint of ferality and maybe… possessiveness as his deep brown eyes assess your barely clothed body.

“Play for me?” you ask.

He nods and lets you in.

You float to the couch on the waves of lust and need, skin burning hot as you feel him watch you. The couch dips, the buttery leather forming around your heated skin when you settle atop it. Alex picks up his drink from the table, a scotch on the rocks, big clear ice cubes tinking against the glass when he takes a drink.

He sits in his chair across the room from you, pulling the cello into his hold. He almost looks out of place, bare feet planting against the oak floor, tuxedo pants riding high. He’s the confusing mix of cocksure and casual as he plays the first note.

It’s lush, full of longing, and you bite your lip because he’s not looking at the cello. He’s looking at you.

You can’t even pretend you’re here for the music, and Alex knows that. You untie your robe, silk parting to reveal your collarbone, your breasts, and the way your thighs are already pressed together. He watches intently, playing his instrument flawlessly. So you keep going, letting your robe fall to the couch, spreading your legs to let him get a good look at you.

The cello keeps time with you, your fingers dragging over your soft mound, through your folds, brushing against your clit. You move with the music, let it overtake you as your hips grind against your palm and you dip your finger lower. Every whimper you breathe is for him to play against, and for his greedy, predatory gaze.

God, you’re so fucking wet, leftover from your orgasm from just fifteen minutes ago and the searing heat of your neighbor’s attention. You slide two fingers into your cunt, flutter them inside, and drag them along the gushy walls in time to the tremolo of his bow. The music pulls you, spreads your legs wide, cants your hips in the air as the cello player soundtracks your desire.

He plays fast now, the loose curl on his forehead springs up and down as his eyes stay planted between your legs. Every note is perfect, but you can see the way you’re affecting him… the unsteady breaths he’s breathing, the tremorous rise and fall of his chest. You’re so fucking close, one hand petting yourself, middle finger circling your clit, the other hand, two fingers deep in your pussy. You start to chase and chase, your orgasm floating with the notes just above your reach. You’re a trembling, wet, and loud mess, stretched out on your new neighbor’s couch.

It’s obscene how bad you want this, how bad you want to put on this show for him. You’re panting, lungs singing “close, close, close” when Alex stops the song suddenly, and you freeze, holding yourself right on the brink.

“Don’t stop,” he growls.

You listen, but go slower now, and rebuild your bliss. He stands, cello set aside, and takes his scotch with him. His bare feet move across the room to you, lowball glass hanging from one hand. He comes to the couch, looms over you, and you have to tilt your head back to look all the way up at him, all domineering in the low, golden light. He watches, sipping, as casual as ever in his only slightly off-kilter tuxedo.

You whimper, and he catches your jaw, tilts your face towards him. He presses the glass to your lips, and you taste the smoke and warmth when he pours it into your mouth. You swallow every drop, even if it burns, because the afterglow is so smooth.

He takes one last gulp, taking an ice cube into his mouth. He spits it into his palm, then traces it over your burning skin, a delicious shock of cold against it. The trail of wet and cold runs down your chest, circling each nipple until droplets fall down your breasts. A cold path is left down your ribcage, down your belly, past your mound until he runs the melting edge between your spread lips and right over your clit.

You gasp and laugh and moan all at once, breath catching when you see the wild devotion in his eyes. The ice falls to the floor, and Alex parts your knees wider, fitting his thumb against your clit. You’re nothing but heavy breaths, ache, and want. You feel like you’re going to melt just like the discarded chunk of ice when he brings his face low, flicking his tongue over your nipple, teeth scraping against it. You try to speak, try to tell him you’re close, but you’re so fucking powerless, especially when his long, thick finger joins yours. You almost sob, a perplexing gratitude for the pressure of his hand guiding your own further. He presses the tip of your chin with his other hand and makes you look at him, as if he wants your eyes wide open for this, wants you to remember just how fucking humiliatingly desperate you are for him.

“Go on and take it,” he gruffs in that frustratingly still velvety smooth voice.

You do, bucking into his hand, soaking his palm as the pressure builds and sends sparks up your spine. Your whole body seizes up in one long, almost-endless orgasm. He doesn’t even let you recover before he pulls your fingers out and raises your hand to his lips, tasting you, licking the sweet, sticky webs of your soaked desire off your fingers.

You reach for him, finding the outline of his cock, thick and hard through the expensive black pants. You slide your palm along the impressive length, squeezing him, savoring the way he grunts into the air.

He’s already ragged and wrecked sounding when he tells you, “Take it out, if you want it.” Your clumsy hands are at his belt, fumbling and trembling so hard you nearly snap the black, pearl button off. He stands, towering over you, yanking his pants open, and pulls his cock out. Jesus Christ, he’s gorgeous, all golden brown and huge, a fat vein latticed down the shaft, leaking crown so fat your pussy clenches at the promise of being stretched again by it. His hand wraps around his base, stroking it once, you fight your eyes from rolling into the back of your head at the sight of the drop of precum that he squeezes out.

“Fuck me,” you beg. “Fuck me.” You’re a broken record of need and desperation, wanting to be played by this beautiful, broad man and his big cock.

He hmphs, cockily getting off at the way you plead for his dick. You’re shoved back against the couch, and Alex splits your legs open, lining himself up with a hand on each of your knees. He presses his cock against your soaked, dripping core, running the thick head of it against your swollen clit. You’re so restless, yearning for the stretch and ache of him that you’re keening, almost crying out prayers of his name as he teases your cunt with his cock. And then, when his cock finally bestows heaven into your needy hole as he enters you in one thrust, filling your glossy pussy, you scream. He holds you there, splitting you open as he’s buried in you to the hilt. You’re locked at cliff, just breathing hard, as if savoring the impossibility of feeling this way again. You hook your ankles behind his waist, and he begins to move, slow at first, then faster, fucking you with the same furious, controlled tempo as he played the cello.

You don’t know if you’ve ever felt more alive, vibrating like a string as he plays you, every nerve screaming loud. His pace is brutal, his balls slapping against your ass as he curls you even more into him, his weight pressing against you. A curl falls onto his sweaty brow, and it springs just like before, up and down, up and down, keeping tempo with the way Alex slams himself in and out of you. He grabs your head with both hands, his fingers tight at the nape of your neck. His eyes are locked to yours, pinning you down, narrowing your world down to just him. There’s something in the way he’s cradling your head, rough and careful at the same time, that makes you burn even hotter for him. There’s an almost exposed tenderness in his eyes as he holds you and grips you, giving you no choice but to meet his black-coffee gaze.

You can barely breathe. But why would you ever need to? Not when you want this man to inhale you, consume you, and destroy you.

“You let that boy fuck you earlier?” he growls.

“Y-yes,” you shudder.

He slips his cock out and freezes, heavy breaths puffing against your face.

“You like it?” he asks, eyebrow arching slightly.

“N-no.”

It’s borderline uncomfortable the way your pussy is aching for him as he teases you with the heft of his tip against your eager hole.

He hmphs, trusty cocky grin showing up again. “He get to cum inside you?”

“N-no. C-condom.”

“Can I cum inside you?”

You nod, eagerly. “I have an implant.”

That’s what Alex wants to hear. He slams into you so hard it almost hurts, but fuck, the pain is exquisite, it’s exactly what you needed. Tears are leaking from your eyes as Alex owns your pussy. He reaches around, splays his hand across your throat. The grip isn’t tight, but just enough to make you utterly surrender to him.

You orgasm again, not because he tells you to, but because you can’t not. Every part of you twists and detonates, your pussy clenching and spasming around him. The sight and feel of you shattering makes Alex join your euphoria. He thrusts once, twice, then lurches and his cock erupts inside you. You swear you can feel every pulse and drop of him paint your walls. He stills, tremors wracking his arms as he balances above you, then nuzzles his face into your neck, sucking greedy mouthfuls of your skin.

Time stops. You unwrap your still-shaking legs from around Alex, as he settles over you, his weight pressing you deeper into the soft cushions. You don’t know how long you stay like that, both gasping, stunned by the hedonistic display shared between the two of you. He presses a kiss to your jaw, and you try to ignore the way it makes your heart race. He stands, tucks his cock away, and excuses himself, blinking a look of awe away before he turns.

You’re already back in your robe when he comes back out, holding a dark gray towel. He offers it to you, eyes moving down to your exposed, sticky thighs, but you wave it off and tell him you’ll just shower at home.

There’s a slight tilt of his head, as if nobody ever tells him no, or maybe it’s just an awkward bobbling of a nod. Either way, you tighten your robe and head for the door. “See you around, Alex.”

“Wait.”

You turn, and almost get mad at how frustratingly gorgeous he is standing in the middle of his living room with his sex tousled hair and furrowed eyebrows.

“I have a question for you," he says.

“Yeah?”

“What’s your name?”

—-

You meet him at your friend’s art show, he’s handsome, funny, and instantly charms you. He at least pays attention to you and even knows your name.

You’re feeling bold, maybe it’s the negronis, your lilac short skirt and crop top, or the fact that you haven’t gotten off in over two weeks. You don’t hesitate to ask Oliver if he’d like to go back to your place.

The car smells like stale lemon, and the Uber driver’s playing some sad, twangy country song you can’t stand, but Oliver’s hand is warm as it rests on your leg. He tells you about his dreams of being a professional comedian. He’s cute, but not too cute, the kind of handsome that if your friends saw him, they’d send you a nod of approval. Good enough for a quick fuck.

As the car turns on your street, Oliver’s hand now rests at the top of your thigh, and you actually feel yourself begin to ache in anticipation. You’re giggly by the time you reach your bungalow, and Oliver’s palm stays on the exposed skin of your lower back as you dig through your purse for your keys.

Your hand stops when you hear the echo of footsteps behind you. Soft and rhythmic. You look up and over, just in time to see a shadow.

Alex. In a black tuxedo, holding his cello case, all debonair and gorgeous. You haven’t seen him since that night, and now he’s here, haloed by the streetlamp. He looks at you, and the only thing that gives him away is the split-second clench of his jaw before he begins to move again.

You turn back to your keys, unlock your door, and pull Oliver inside.

A joint is split between the two of you, kissing in between, sharing smoke and tongues as you try not to think of your tuxedoed neighbor just on the other side of the wall. Oliver’s grunts and groans as your hand runs up his leg tell you he really wants you, so you lead him to your bedroom.

You let him undress you, let him take in your body and call you beautiful. It feels… nice. Fine, really. The heat of his glare is a little warming, but it pales in comparison to the way Alex looked at you from the first time you knocked on his door.

You lie back on your bed, open your legs, and Oliver runs his fingers through your folds, definitely slimmer and clumsier than Alex’s thick, efficient hands. He’s hopeless at finding your clit, but you ooh and ahh him, hoping his cock will be a good enough lay to help you get off.

Oliver eagerly and clumsily undresses. You reach into your drawer and fetch a condom. Oliver rolls it on, and when he guides his dick in, it’s definitely slimmer than you wanted. He grins, like he’s been blessed by your pussy, and gently asks you, “Is this okay?”

You moan a yes for him, and he begins to move. Slow and savoring, not quick, passionate, desperate like the way Alex fucked you. Honestly, it’s so milquetoast and forgettable, your mind wanders off. No matter how much you want to be present, want to be here in your bedroom under cute Oliver, your thoughts are on Alex. He’s probably still in that tux, maybe he’s undone his bow tie, popped open the first few buttons of his crisp, white shirt.

It’s then that you hear the soft, muffled whine of cello through the thin drywall. The notes rise and fall on the other side of the wall. You close your eyes and open your thighs wider, as if you can let the notes slip in, past Oliver and fuck you. You moan, way louder than usual. Oliver believes your moan, and fucks you faster, desperate to be the one who’s making those noises escape you. But it’s not him. Of course it’s not. It’s Alex’s, keeping a tempo that makes each note drag you closer and closer to the edge of bliss.

Your moans duet with the music, and though your body lies in your bed, your mind and heart might as well have drifted past the thin drywall and into Alex’s home. It’s not the way Oliver moves in and out of you, or the sound of his slight whimpers and groans, but the faint music played by your handsome neighbor that nears your orgasm. You’re close, your eyes clenching shut, only picturing the ethereal glimpse of Alex you saw earlier. The memory of how full he made you, the rasp of his grunts, the warmth of his cum as it splashed across your skin. Alex, Alex, Alex.

Oliver feels you getting close, tries to seal his mouth over yours, but you tilt your head and move. Moaning loudly into the air as you orgasm.

The cello stops as soon as you let out the first, long moan.

Oliver finishes inside you, with a long gasp, then rolls away. You get up, clean yourself, and tell him there’s a trash can by your dresser, almost feeling bad about how clinical you make it, but you just want your guest gone now. You’re already resigning yourself to the fact that nobody’s going to beat your hot neighbor.

When you return, now covered in the silk of your robe, he’s at the edge of your bed, still naked. Before your new neighbor, you probably would’ve invited him to stay the night, let him hold you all night, then wake up and get breakfast. Maybe you’d see how it all plays out and date him for a while. But that’s just not going to work now.

You smile, touch his arm, and say, “This was really fun.” His grin is full of pride, and he looks at you like he’s almost in awe of you. “So, I’ve got such an early morning tomorrow,” you say.

You see a hint of disappointment before he smiles at you. “I totally get it. You’re busy. I’m busy.”

He gets dressed quickly, like a good one-night stand.

Maybe you’ll text him; maybe you won’t. Either way, when you walk him toward the door, you kiss him on the cheek and thank him for coming. The door clicks shut, and there’s a moment of quiet.

Until your siren song starts to play again.

The cello.

It summons you.

You open your door, cross the small strip of grass, barefoot and only in your robe, hair still mussed and sex still on your skin. There’s barely enough time for you to ask yourself what the fuck you’re doing here before you knock on the dark wood with 2B in gold letters. It’s like he was expecting you, it takes Alex no time to answer the door.

You were right. He’s still in his tux… and the top buttons are undone. That cocky grin is there again, but there’s a hint of ferality and maybe… possessiveness as his deep brown eyes assess your barely clothed body.

“Play for me?” you ask.

He nods and lets you in.

You float to the couch on the waves of lust and need, skin burning hot as you feel him watch you. The couch dips, the buttery leather forming around your heated skin when you settle atop it. Alex picks up his drink from the table, a scotch on the rocks, big clear ice cubes tinking against the glass when he takes a drink.

He sits in his chair across the room from you, pulling the cello into his hold. He almost looks out of place, bare feet planting against the oak floor, tuxedo pants riding high. He’s the confusing mix of cocksure and casual as he plays the first note.

It’s lush, full of longing, and you bite your lip because he’s not looking at the cello. He’s looking at you.

You can’t even pretend you’re here for the music, and Alex knows that. You untie your robe, silk parting to reveal your collarbone, your breasts, and the way your thighs are already pressed together. He watches intently, playing his instrument flawlessly. So you keep going, letting your robe fall to the couch, spreading your legs to let him get a good look at you.

The cello keeps time with you, your fingers dragging over your soft mound, through your folds, brushing against your clit. You move with the music, let it overtake you as your hips grind against your palm and you dip your finger lower. Every whimper you breathe is for him to play against, and for his greedy, predatory gaze.

God, you’re so fucking wet, leftover from your orgasm from just fifteen minutes ago and the searing heat of your neighbor’s attention. You slide two fingers into your cunt, flutter them inside, and drag them along the gushy walls in time to the tremolo of his bow. The music pulls you, spreads your legs wide, cants your hips in the air as the cello player soundtracks your desire.

He plays fast now, the loose curl on his forehead springs up and down as his eyes stay planted between your legs. Every note is perfect, but you can see the way you’re affecting him… the unsteady breaths he’s breathing, the tremorous rise and fall of his chest. You’re so fucking close, one hand petting yourself, middle finger circling your clit, the other hand, two fingers deep in your pussy. You start to chase and chase, your orgasm floating with the notes just above your reach. You’re a trembling, wet, and loud mess, stretched out on your new neighbor’s couch.

It’s obscene how bad you want this, how bad you want to put on this show for him. You’re panting, lungs singing “close, close, close” when Alex stops the song suddenly, and you freeze, holding yourself right on the brink.

“Don’t stop,” he growls.

You listen, but go slower now, and rebuild your bliss. He stands, cello set aside, and takes his scotch with him. His bare feet move across the room to you, lowball glass hanging from one hand. He comes to the couch, looms over you, and you have to tilt your head back to look all the way up at him, all domineering in the low, golden light. He watches, sipping, as casual as ever in his only slightly off-kilter tuxedo.

You whimper, and he catches your jaw, tilts your face towards him. He presses the glass to your lips, and you taste the smoke and warmth when he pours it into your mouth. You swallow every drop, even if it burns, because the afterglow is so smooth.

He takes one last gulp, taking an ice cube into his mouth. He spits it into his palm, then traces it over your burning skin, a delicious shock of cold against it. The trail of wet and cold runs down your chest, circling each nipple until droplets fall down your breasts. A cold path is left down your ribcage, down your belly, past your mound until he runs the melting edge between your spread lips and right over your clit.

You gasp and laugh and moan all at once, breath catching when you see the wild devotion in his eyes. The ice falls to the floor, and Alex parts your knees wider, fitting his thumb against your clit. You’re nothing but heavy breaths, ache, and want. You feel like you’re going to melt just like the discarded chunk of ice when he brings his face low, flicking his tongue over your nipple, teeth scraping against it. You try to speak, try to tell him you’re close, but you’re so fucking powerless, especially when his long, thick finger joins yours. You almost sob, a perplexing gratitude for the pressure of his hand guiding your own further. He presses the tip of your chin with his other hand and makes you look at him, as if he wants your eyes wide open for this, wants you to remember just how fucking humiliatingly desperate you are for him.

“Go on and take it,” he gruffs in that frustratingly still velvety smooth voice.

You do, bucking into his hand, soaking his palm as the pressure builds and sends sparks up your spine. Your whole body seizes up in one long, almost-endless orgasm. He doesn’t even let you recover before he pulls your fingers out and raises your hand to his lips, tasting you, licking the sweet, sticky webs of your soaked desire off your fingers.

You reach for him, finding the outline of his cock, thick and hard through the expensive black pants. You slide your palm along the impressive length, squeezing him, savoring the way he grunts into the air.

He’s already ragged and wrecked sounding when he tells you, “Take it out, if you want it.” Your clumsy hands are at his belt, fumbling and trembling so hard you nearly snap the black, pearl button off. He stands, towering over you, yanking his pants open, and pulls his cock out. Jesus Christ, he’s gorgeous, all golden brown and huge, a fat vein latticed down the shaft, leaking crown so fat your pussy clenches at the promise of being stretched again by it. His hand wraps around his base, stroking it once, you fight your eyes from rolling into the back of your head at the sight of the drop of precum that he squeezes out.

“Fuck me,” you beg. “Fuck me.” You’re a broken record of need and desperation, wanting to be played by this beautiful, broad man and his big cock.

He hmphs, cockily getting off at the way you plead for his dick. You’re shoved back against the couch, and Alex splits your legs open, lining himself up with a hand on each of your knees. He presses his cock against your soaked, dripping core, running the thick head of it against your swollen clit. You’re so restless, yearning for the stretch and ache of him that you’re keening, almost crying out prayers of his name as he teases your cunt with his cock. And then, when his cock finally bestows heaven into your needy hole as he enters you in one thrust, filling your glossy pussy, you scream. He holds you there, splitting you open as he’s buried in you to the hilt. You’re locked at cliff, just breathing hard, as if savoring the impossibility of feeling this way again. You hook your ankles behind his waist, and he begins to move, slow at first, then faster, fucking you with the same furious, controlled tempo as he played the cello.

You don’t know if you’ve ever felt more alive, vibrating like a string as he plays you, every nerve screaming loud. His pace is brutal, his balls slapping against your ass as he curls you even more into him, his weight pressing against you. A curl falls onto his sweaty brow, and it springs just like before, up and down, up and down, keeping tempo with the way Alex slams himself in and out of you. He grabs your head with both hands, his fingers tight at the nape of your neck. His eyes are locked to yours, pinning you down, narrowing your world down to just him. There’s something in the way he’s cradling your head, rough and careful at the same time, that makes you burn even hotter for him. There’s an almost exposed tenderness in his eyes as he holds you and grips you, giving you no choice but to meet his black-coffee gaze.

You can barely breathe. But why would you ever need to? Not when you want this man to inhale you, consume you, and destroy you.

“You let that boy fuck you earlier?” he growls.

“Y-yes,” you shudder.

He slips his cock out and freezes, heavy breaths puffing against your face.

“You like it?” he asks, eyebrow arching slightly.

“N-no.”

It’s borderline uncomfortable the way your pussy is aching for him as he teases you with the heft of his tip against your eager hole.

He hmphs, trusty cocky grin showing up again. “He get to cum inside you?”

“N-no. C-condom.”

“Can I cum inside you?”

You nod, eagerly. “I have an implant.”

That’s what Alex wants to hear. He slams into you so hard it almost hurts, but fuck, the pain is exquisite, it’s exactly what you needed. Tears are leaking from your eyes as Alex owns your pussy. He reaches around, splays his hand across your throat. The grip isn’t tight, but just enough to make you utterly surrender to him.

You orgasm again, not because he tells you to, but because you can’t not. Every part of you twists and detonates, your pussy clenching and spasming around him. The sight and feel of you shattering makes Alex join your euphoria. He thrusts once, twice, then lurches and his cock erupts inside you. You swear you can feel every pulse and drop of him paint your walls. He stills, tremors wracking his arms as he balances above you, then nuzzles his face into your neck, sucking greedy mouthfuls of your skin.

Time stops. You unwrap your still-shaking legs from around Alex, as he settles over you, his weight pressing you deeper into the soft cushions. You don’t know how long you stay like that, both gasping, stunned by the hedonistic display shared between the two of you. He presses a kiss to your jaw, and you try to ignore the way it makes your heart race. He stands, tucks his cock away, and excuses himself, blinking a look of awe away before he turns.

You’re already back in your robe when he comes back out, holding a dark gray towel. He offers it to you, eyes moving down to your exposed, sticky thighs, but you wave it off and tell him you’ll just shower at home.

There’s a slight tilt of his head, as if nobody ever tells him no, or maybe it’s just an awkward bobbling of a nod. Either way, you tighten your robe and head for the door. “See you around, Alex.”

“Wait.”

You turn, and almost get mad at how frustratingly gorgeous he is standing in the middle of his living room with his sex tousled hair and furrowed eyebrows.

“I have a question for you," he says.

“Yeah?”

“What’s your name?”

—-

The way Joel fucks you can never be labeled as anything other than exquisite. His breath is hot against the sensitive skin of your neck, his mouth closing over the pulse point just below your ear so as to taste the salt of your sweat. The coarse scratch of his chest hair drags across your breasts as he leans in close, the low rumble of his groan vibrating through your ribcage. The muscles in his back shift and flex under the featherlight touch of your fingertips. A large hand pins your wrist above your head, the other gripping your hip hard enough to bruise, his thick fingers digging into the soft flesh in a way that makes your stomach flutter.

Despite being lost in the throes of pleasure, you can tell how dangerously close Joel is to coming. His thrusts are no longer the steady, rolling grind that he started with, but desperate and choppy. The thick head of his cock grazes against your cervix with every sloppy snap of his hips. The veins along his shaft throb against your stretched rim, his balls slapping against your ass with each stuttered movement. “Joel…” you warn.

He shakes his head fast, jaw tight and teeth clenched as he fights his impending orgasm. “I know, baby. I know. M’pullin’ out, I promise.” 

That had always been the deal between the two of you – he could fuck you bare like he wanted, but he had to pull out – and until tonight, Joel had always been overly cautious. He’d pull out earlier than he needed to, stroking himself those last few seconds before spilling across the backs of your thighs.

Tonight though, Joel seemed to be struggling to hold up his end of the bargain. He rises onto his knees and hooks one of your legs over his broad shoulders. The new angle lets him sink into you further, grinding against that spongy spot inside you with merciless precision. Your body clenches around him, squeezing his cock in a way that makes him break with a choked sound. “Fuck, baby. M’gonna come–”

He rips out of you at the very last second, cock throbbing in the cool summer air. His hand wraps around the thick, slick shaft as he jerks himself with fast, desperate strokes. With an exasperated groan, the first hot rope of come shoots out of him, landing exactly where he wants it - splattered perfectly over your swollen clit. Before you can even react, a second spurt follows dripping down your folds in a sticky, pearly streak. 

The sight of his release painting your pussy flips a switch in him instantly. That primal urge in him that is usually kept locked down roars to the surface. Joel’s chest heaves, his entire body going rigid as every civilized thought gets wiped clean and is replaced with the need to be inside you. “Fuck. Fuck, baby–” He drives into you in one brutal, instinctive thrust, thrusting every thick inch of his cock back into the heat of your cunt. The stretch is sudden and overwhelming despite him pulling out only moments earlier.

“Joel–” you manage to breathlessly exclaim as he turns his head and groans against your ankle. His orgasm hits him harder now that he’s buried where he knows he shouldn’t be, the guilt and wrongness only seeming to intensify everything as he continues to spill inside you.

His whole body shakes with the force of it, completely lost in the rush of filling you when he promised he wouldn’t. “Oh fuck–” he chokes out, gasping and moaning as he grinds himself impossibly deeper, pushing his spend as far inside you as he can. 

Your leg slips from his shoulder and Joel’s body collapses forward with a groan, his weight pressing you into the mattress. He trembles above you, arms braced on either side of your head, too weak to hold himself up fully as he attempts to catch his breath. Even after the last powerful aftershocks ripple through him, Joel stays buried to the hilt, his hips giving a tiny, involuntary roll, unable to stop chasing the euphoric feeling. His cock twitches inside your come-filled pussy, his body refusing to accept that it’s over.

The room falls silent, the gravity of what just happened settling over you until it’s almost suffocating. Joel finally slumps over you, his forehead nudging into your shoulder, arms wrapped tight around your middle like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he lets go. His breath is shaky as he burrows his face into your neck and you sense the tension and unease radiating off of him.  “...baby. I–I fucked up,” he admits, voice wrecked from both exhaustion and nerves. 

You can feel the warmth of his release slowly leaking out around his softening cock and you try to lift your head to see, but Joel is heavy over top of you. You tap the side of his ass, urging him to get up and thankfully he understands the gesture. He eases himself out of you, his cock slipping out of you with a wet noise, and falls back onto the mattress, covering his face with his forearm. “Jesus…” you breathe, having propped yourself up on your elbows to look down at the mess he made. The sheen of your slick is smeared glossy across your inner thighs. Joel’s come is everywhere – seeping out of your hole in thick, pearly white streaks and dripping onto the bedsheets beneath you. 

Joel sits up, leaning back on one hand as he takes in the sight of your spread thighs, watching as his come slowly trickles from your entrance. The guilt of breaking his promise to you starts to eat at him; but, alongside the shame is a dark, hungry satisfaction that he can’t push away. The conflicting feelings weave together into some fucked up shame spiral and he lets out a heavy sigh, flopping back onto the mattress. 

He hears you say his name, but the sound barely registers. He’s too lost in his own head, trapped somewhere between regret and disgust. You call out again, this time a little louder, and he rolls onto his side to face you. Without a word, he leans in, one hand cradling your cheek as he kisses you. It’s not rushed or desperate, but rather sweet, as if his lips were trying to say everything he was having difficulty putting into words. There’s an apology in the way that his thumb gently strokes the side of your face. There’s hunger in the way his tongue slides against yours. And, there’s relief in the quiet sigh he breathes into the kiss, like touching you is the only thing keeping him grounded. “M’sorry, baby…” he murmurs against your lips. 

His eyes flick back down to the mess between your thighs, brows furrowing together. “Fuck…look at what I did to you,” he whispers. “As soon as I can feel my damn legs, “we’re gonna get in the car, okay? I’ll drive you to the pharmacy and we’ll see about gettin’ you the mornin’ after pill.” Joel shakes his head, disappointed in himself, but even more so at his cock which twitches with interest. “I promised. I fuckin’ promised and I just…” his voice cracks, “the second I came, I lost it. Buried myself right back in like some goddamn animal.” There’s a short pause, Joel swallowing down a dangerous thought, “Jesus Christ, baby…what the hell did I do?”

You grab Joel’s face with both hands before he can spiral any further, pulling him into a kiss that shuts him up and steals whatever apology was about to tumble out. His lips quiver against yours, unsure if he should even be allowed this kind of forgiveness. It isn’t until the tip of your tongue slides slowly over the seam of his lips that he melts. He lets out a breath he hadn’t realized he had been holding and the tension in his jaw finally eases. His hand comes to rest on your waist and he kisses you back, trying to convey his gratitude for not pushing him away.

When you break apart, you rest your forehead against him and brush your thumbs over his stubbled cheekbones. “Should make you go by yourself,” you mumble against his lips, no malice in your voice. “Explain to the pharmacist what you did.”

Joel looks at you with wide, pleading eyes, knowing he deserves every bit of shame and reproach that would come from confessing it aloud. His Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows, his face starting to heat up. “Baby…” he breathes out, voice barely above a whisper. 

You smile softly, eyes locked on his, “She’s going to take one look at this guilty face and just know that you couldn’t keep your cock where it belonged.” Joel makes a ragged sound, somewhere between a laugh and a groan. “She’ll make you say it too,” you add, dragging your thumb over his bottom lip. “What you did. Out loud.”

Joel’s eyes flutter shut, cheeks burning hotter under your gaze, his forehead dropping to your shoulder in an attempt to hide his embarrassment. You’re not exactly sure what prompts you, but you find yourself sliding your fingers into Joel’s hair, gently tugging his head back up so you can see his face. “Tell me what you’d say to her,” you whisper. “Tell me like you’re standing at the counter.”

Joel shakes his head weakly, attempting to resist your request, but his pupils are blown wide, lust swallowing his irises. His cock twitches with interest, blood rushing to where he’s already growing half-hard between his thighs. 

You let your gaze drop, catching the sudden movement in your peripheral vision. Joel lets out a small, miserable whine and tries to bury his face in your neck again, but you keep your grip firm in his hair. “Joel,” you say, slightly amused but with a strangely cruel undertone to it. “Are you getting hard while apologizing?”

Your question lingers in the air, and the real shock of it hits you, because Joel is not the type to be brought down to his metaphorical knees. He is always the one in control – bigger, stronger, unmistakably male – and seeing him like this almost feels surreal. You can’t help but think that it looks good on him for a change. 

Joel’s breath stutters, his cock betraying him as it twitches under your gaze. His blush deepens until he’s red all the way up to the tips of his ears. He feels exposed, ridiculous and so fucking turned on that it’s making his head spin. “Baby, I–I’m trying not to.”

You tilt your head and let out a disbelieving laugh, glancing down at his cock steadily thickening between you. “Doesn’t look like it. Looks like you’re getting big and hard just from thinking about having to talk to the pharmacist later.”

A shiver zips up Joel’s spine and he barely restrains the groan that wants to escape. He fucking loves it when you call him big. Not just because of the way it strokes his ego – though he loves when you admire his dick – but because the way you say it makes him feel powerful. Hearing you use that word against him, teasing him while he’s exposed like this, makes his stomach tighten. The contradiction of being called ‘big’ while feeling so small and humiliated fucks with his head in the best way. Because no matter how big he is – how easily he could pin you down and take control – here he is, rock hard and almost submissive for you. His cock throbs, heavy and flushed dark, curving up towards his stomach as the tip glistens with a fresh bead of precome.

“Answer me,” you say, voice low and commanding as you give his hair another firm tug until his eyes are trained on you.

“...fuck,” he mumbles under his breath, unable to keep himself in check as you stare down at him. “Yes…okay? Yes, I’m gettin’ hard. I hate it and I can’t fuckin’ help it.”

Joel looks completely mortified, but his hips twitch upward anyway, like his body is begging for attention. His big, guilty brown eyes stay locked on yours, glassy and desperate. A long moment stretches between you while you watch him squirm, shame and arousal practically eating him alive. You lean in closer, lips brushing the shell of his ear. “That’s because you liked it,” you whisper. “You liked filling me up when you weren’t supposed to. You liked fucking up.”

His whole body tenses, his cock jerking with another helpless twitch. “Fuck…baby,” he whispers. “So fucking much.”

You let the silence sit for another beat, just to watch him sit with his admission. His hand flexes at his side like he’s dying to reach out and touch you – to grab your hips, pull you closer, bury his face between your thighs, and eat you out until you’re shaking and pushing him away.  Anything to distract from the embarrassment of telling someone else how much he enjoyed coming inside you. 

When you’re satisfied that you had made him wait long enough, you loosen your grip on his hair and slide your hand down to cup his jaw. “Joel,” you say softly. He responds with a hum, leaning into your touch. “Say it.”

Joel blinks, his breath shallow. “Say what?”

You lean in until your lips are barely an inch from his, “What you’re going to tell the pharmacist.”

Joel’s eyes flutter shut for a second, his lips parting slightly as he half-expects you to lean in and kiss him. When you don’t, he lets out a huff. After a moment, he relents,  “Sorry ma’am,” he says, barely above a whisper. “Can I bother you for Plan B? I…I accidentally…” His sentence tapers off, embarrassment and arousal tying his tongue while you look at him expectantly. “She–she told me to pull out, but I couldn’t help myself.”

You tsk at him, a low, disappointed sound that makes his shoulder tense. You trail your fingers from where it cups his cheek, down the side of his neck, over the rapid thud of his heartbeat in his chest, until you reach his navel. You trace his happy trail with the pad of your pointer finger, purposefully keeping away from his more than interested cock. “Keep going,” you state, more demand than request. “You weren’t finished."

Joel looks at you wrecked, completely at your mercy as you continue teasing him with featherlight touches. “Baby…I–”

You cut him off mid-sentence, wrapping your fingers firmly around the thick base of his cock. He goes stock still, his eyes flying wide open as he lets out a sharp gasp, “Fuck–”. You hold him there, tight and possessive, feeling his cock throb hot and heavy in your palm, but refusing to stroke him. 

“Keep going,” you say calmly, your thumb brushing lightly over the prominent vein on the underside of his shaft. “Don’t stop just because I have your cock in my hand.”

Joel licks his lips, eyes glued to yours, his thighs trembling as he fights the overwhelming urge to thrust up into your fist. “She told me to pull out,” he starts, your grip tightening. “…but I saw how pretty she looked on my cock and I–” He groans softly, enraptured by the way you’re looking at him. “I couldn’t help myself, baby.  I–I just needed to feel you feel you full of me.”

You lean in close, nose brushing against the shell of his ear, and whisper, “Pathetic.”

A broken groan tears out of Joel’s chest, shame flooding his face. He jerks his hips involuntarily, eagerly chasing the heat of your palm. His body shakes – the big, strong man who’s always in control, trembling from a single whispered insult.

“Go on,” you purr in his ear. “Repeat what you’d say to the pharmacist. Word for word.”

Joel’s eyes squeeze shut, his voice is wrecked, cracking with every humiliating word. “...Sorry, ma’am. Can I get a Plan B? I accidentally came inside my girl. She told me to pull out but I…I couldn’t help but fill her up anyway.” His hips twitch helplessly, precome drooling from the tip and leaking over your fist.

“And why not,” you ask softly, adjusting your grip, your thumb swiping over the flushed, sensitive head.

Joel keens, his back arching off the bed. “Because–” he starts, swallowing down a shaky breath,  “because she was squeezin’ me so good that I lost control.”

“I told you to pull out,” you remind him, thumb continuing to move. 

He nods quickly, shame tightening in his throat. “I know, baby. I know. I did at first but…” Joel lets out a strangled whine, only furthering his embarrassment, “...fuck.”

“But what, Joel?” you ask, lips still brushing his ear in a tease. “Finish your sentence.” Your hand slides up his length in one smooth stroke, then back down to the base. He’s so fucking big in your grip, your fingers barely meeting around his shaft due to the sheer size of him. His cock is a complete mess, glistening and still slick with his earlier load. 

Joel’s hands fist the sheets, needing to hold onto something, the fabric pulling away from the edge of the mattress as he fights for control. “I didn’t listen,” he grits out through clenched teeth. “Stuffed myself right back inside.”

You pull back just enough to see his face, his pupils blown with lust, his lips parted as he pants, desperate for more – desperate for something. “Good boy,” you praise. Joel’s entire body seizes up, his cock surging with want, as he attempts to push himself deeper into your grasp. You keep stroking him, the pace excruciating, letting your thumb swirl over the messy come-slick head on every upstroke. “Now tell her why you’re there,” you murmur.

Joel lets out a broken whine, hips jerking helplessly. His voice cracks as he forces the words out, shame and arousal twisting together so tightly he can barely speak.  “ ‘Cause she needs the morning after pill,” he breathes out. “And it’s all my fault.” Joel shoves his hips up, spearing his cock into your grip as he starts fucking your fist in short, needy strokes. “All my fucking fault.” 

The big, dominant Joel Miller is officially gone. In place is this desperate, leaking, shame-drenched version of him who can’t stop confessing how badly he fucked up – how badly he needed to come inside you – and how much he loved it.

“Greedy boy. You just can’t help yourself, can you?” 

He doesn’t answer you. You let him use your hand to get off, watching his face go slack with pleasure before urging his hips down and slowing your hand. Your fingers tighten around him, just enough to control the pace, forcing his thrusts to become shallow and frustratingly restricted. Every time he tries to move, you ease off, keeping him right on the agonizing edge without letting him tip over.

“That’s it,” you croon softly, “Tell her exactly why you need it.”

Joel’s hands fist the sheets tighter, knuckles white as he bunches the fabric at his sides. “‘Cause–fuck…’cause I came inside you, baby,” he groans. “Pussy looked so good covered in my come that I just had to get back inside.”

You feel him swell impossibly bigger in your hand, the thick shaft pulsing in time with his heartbeat, as he teeters dangerously close to the edge. His balls draw up tight, the first warning of his impending orgasm.

Joel’s breath catches, his eyes starting to roll back, inches away from satisfaction. You let go, your hand pulling away completely, leaving his cock twitching and bobbing angrily in the air. He lets out a broken sound as his orgasm crests and then crashes without release. His cock kicks hard, pulsing uselessly, a thick bead of precome dribbling pathetically from the tip and sliding down his shaft. His hips buck in the air, every muscle straining as everything fades into a cruel, aching denial. He collapses towards you, his body practically shaking  as he presses his forehead to your shoulder. “Fuck…baby…please…” he begs. 

You let him ache, his chest heaving with quick, uneven breaths, his denied cock twitching and leaking against his stomach. Every heavy throb is visible as he attempts to gather himself. He tries to tamp down his arousal, but underneath is something deeper  – raw, aching need. 

You press a hand gently to his chest, urging him to lie flat and Joel obeys instantly, falling back onto the mattress fully and without protest. You swing a leg over him, straddling his hips, your slick folds parting around him. His head falls back with a guttural groan as you start to rock against him, the fat head of his cock dragging hot and slippery over your swollen clit making you both moan. You feel him shudder underneath you, a low groan vibrating through his chest as he curses silently, “...fuck, baby. Just like that.”

Joel’s hands fly to your thighs, fingers digging into your flesh like he’s barely holding himself together. His breathing is ragged, eyes half-lidded and desperate as he watches you use him. You tease him like that for a few more torturous seconds without giving him what he really needs, a needy whine slipping out before he can stop it. 

Without hesitation, you take his cock in hand, lining him up with your entrance and sinking down all the way to the hilt. The stretch is perfect, your walls squeezing tight around him, greedy for more. A broken moan escapes both of you at the same time as Joel springs up, sitting up beneath you in a rush, one arm wrapping around your back as he pulls you into a messy, desperate kiss. Joel licks into your mouth like he’s starving for you. One hand slides up your back, while the other stays wrapped around your middle as he guides you harder onto his cock. 

“Fuck, baby…” he pants between kisses, “you feel so goddamn good.” Joel’s forehead drops to your shoulder, breath hot against your skin as he lets you take complete control, utterly lost in the feeling of being buried inside you again. 

“Keep going,” you say, pulling off of him until only the tip of him remains inside you, then slamming back down until he’s fully sheathed again. “Tell the pharmacist what you did.”

Joel’s brain is barely coherent. “Fuck–I–” His hands dig into your skin, almost like he’s afraid you’ll leave him ruined and desperate again. “M’sorry, ma’am,” he begins, his words somewhat slurred as you continue to mercilessly ride him, the wet heat of your cunt enveloping him over and over again. “Need a plan B for my–fuck– girl.” His voice cracks as you grind your clit against his pelvis, the coarse hair on his groin prickling into your skin. “I’m sorry,” he groans, starting to babble, the confession spilling out in desperate, shattered pieces. “So fucking sorry. Felt so good. Fuck, baby…you feel so good. Needed to fill you up.”

Joel is embarrassingly close already, his hips stuttering up to meet your rhythm. “Fuck, baby. Hop off–fuck, I’m gonna–” he gasps, starting to panic. His hands scramble frantically at your hips, trying to lift you off him to avoid further incident. 

But you don’t let him. You slam down onto him one last time, taking him as deep as you can, rolling your hips in tight circles that eke him closer to the finish line. Your walls clench around him like a vice and Joel’s eyes widen in shock. “No–baby, wait–I can’t–fuck!”

His panicked warning dissolves into a guttural groan as his cock pulses violently inside you, his eyes rolling back into his head, vision going white, as thick, hot ropes of come flood you for the second time that afternoon. His entire body trembles beneath you, his fingers bruising your skin where he grips you as if you’re the only thing anchoring him to Earth.

The wet warmth of his spend spills from your cunt and drips down his shaft, coating him in his own mess. Joel’s face is slack, experiencing what one can only assume to be pure bliss – like nothing in the world exists except the tight, slick heat of your cunt milking him dry. 

You ride the high right alongside him, your bodies in a perfect, filthy sync until your own orgasm crashes into you without warning. Your thighs lock tight around his hips as white-hot pleasure rips up your spine. You cry out, your head lolling back, his name slipping from your lips as every muscle shakes with wave after wave of mind-numbing pleasure. 

Joel starts to slowly soften inside of you but doesn’t dare look down at the mess. “Still gotta go to the pharmacy, baby.”

The fluorescent lights of the pharmacy feel way too bright as Joel stands at the counter, posture rigid like he’s waiting on his own execution. The pharmacist, a no-nonsense type of woman in her fifties, offers him a polite smile. “How can I help you today?”

Joel’s face immediately burns red, his blush crawling all the way up to his ears. He rubs the back of his neck, glancing over at you like maybe you’ll save him from utter embarrassment, but you don’t. He clears his throat, an attempt at keeping himself from stuttering which immediately backfires as soon as he opens his mouth to speak. “Uh–I–I–uh…I need the, uh…the Plan B pill.”

The pharmacist doesn’t even blink, she just nods calmly and types something into the computer, “One moment, sir. I’ll grab that for you.”

Joel lets out an apprehensive breath, muttering under his breath while his fingers tap nervously on the counter. He prays the ground will just swallow him whole. “Jesus Christ,” he mumbles to himself.

The pharmacist returns with the small blue box and sets it on the counter, scanning the barcode. “Alright, if that’s it for today, that’ll be–”

“It’s my fault,” Joel blurts out, far too loud, before realizing his blunder. “I–I messed up.”

You watch the pharmacist’s eyebrows slowly lift. In truth, your hand reaches for him like you’re going to stop him, but the words tumble out of him quicker than expected. “She told me to pull out but I just lost my head.”

You bite down hard on your lip to keep from laughing, your face heating with a mix of second-hand embarrassment and delight. The pharmacist blinks, completely unfazed. “Oh. Well…it happens. That’ll be $54.11.”

Joel looks like he’s two seconds away from melting into the floor. His neck and ears are bright red, jaw clenched so tight you’re afraid he’s going to pop a vein in his forehead. He fumbles for his wallet, dropping his debit card with a loud clatter, cursing quietly under his breath. You place a steady hand on his bicep and he manages to swipe the card with shaking fingers, refusing to look at you.

When the transaction is complete, the pharmacist hands him the bag, telling him she hopes he has a good day. He can’t even respond with words. He raises his hand, nodding his head and gently takes you by the arm, leading you out of the pharmacy as quickly as he can. When he reaches the sidewalk, he turns towards you, the bulge evident in his jeans, his voice dropping into a hushed whisper only you can hear. “Baby…I swear I ain’t ever been that embarrassed in all my life.”

The minute the front door clicks shut behind you, Joel lets out a heavy exhale, dropping the keys to his truck on the entryway table. You barely make it two steps before he reaches for you, grabbing your hand and pulling you into him, your back flush against his broad chest. His face drops into the crook of your neck, lips brushing your skin like he needs the contact to steady himself. 

He turns you to face him and his eyes are soft, filled with adoration and love. The flush of humiliation hasn’t fully faded, his ears tinted pink as he cocks his head to the side and then leans in to kiss you. The kiss starts slow, as if he’s asking for permission, but the moment you kiss him back, it deepens – slow and hungry in the softest way. His hands slide down your back, palms warm and steady, pressing you closer until there’s no space left between your bodies. “Baby…”, he whispers, his lips not leaving yours. “...you were real mean to me.”

You smile, humming in agreement, “Yeah, you gonna let me do it again?”

Joel swallows, eyes dropping to your mouth, his response somewhat shy, “Jesus…I–yeah,we’ll talk about it.”

His forehead rests against yours and he breathes you in for a long moment, then kisses you again. His arms tighten around you as the tension starts to bleed out of his shoulders. “Thank you,” he murmurs, the words barely more than a breath. “For helpin’ me take care of it. For not bein’ mad. For…hell, for everything.”

It seems like Joel is incapable of stepping away, constantly hovering for the hours to come— Never interacting with you directly, but always paying you undivided attention. You spend the afternoon and early evening on the couch with Sarah, watching cartoons and then watching as she played with her dolls, colored her little books and ran around the couch pretending to be a shark when she got hit with a particularly strong case of the zoomies. He sits down eventually, close enough that you can feel his body heat but not close enough to touch— Sarah is passed out on the rug in front of you, surrounded by pillows and blankets in something that is a mix between a pillow fort and a nest. 

“I’m sorry.” Joel says, his voice gravel-like. He doesn’t look at you, stares instead at his hands fisted over his thighs. “For everything.” 

You think he’s not talking just about what has happened to you. There’s a weight to the world ‘everything’ that makes you think back to his wife, to the scar on his temple and how he tried to kill himself over it. 

“I know. I’m sorry too.” You open your hand, palm up. Joel takes it almost immediately, fingers interlacing with yours. “I was scared.” 

“I was too. Had no idea where you were, what happened—” He swallows quickly, the raspiness of his voice thickening with emotion. “I shouldn’t have sprung none’a that on you. And I’m sorry about— I didn’t mean to call you—”

“It’s fine.” You shake your head. The hurt is still there but dulled, muffled by everything else: In the grand scheme of things, getting your feelings hurt by being called a dead woman’s name seems like the least of your worries. “Thank you for saving me.”

You don’t realize how much you mean it until you say it. You had wanted to die. You thought it’d feel like relief, finally letting go of all the hurt and pain and hopelessness but those few seconds of the car swerving off the road— The panic and the desperate desire to survive makes you realize that, deep down, it’s not death that you seek. 

It’s comfort. 

Joel brings your hand to his mouth, pressing a kiss to the back of it. He looks you dead in the eyes, his often sorrowful eyes now clouded with a different emotion. Devotion. Love. Kindness and pain and everything in between. 

“I’ll always save you.” 

You kiss him. His lips are dry and chapped but his hands are warm when they cradle your face, a brief hesitation on his part before Joel kisses you back. One of his hands moves to the back of your neck, tangling with the hairs at the base of your skull; you crawl through the distance between the two of you, climbing on his lap without breaking the kiss. It’s nothing like any other kiss you’ve ever had— Your body molds against his with perfection, his hands gripping your body and pulling you close, his tongue pushing into your mouth. 

You’ve never been much of a kisser— It always felt like a means to an end, something to signal that you want more and you actually often find your mind wandering off, your thoughts running away from the situation but this time all you can think and feel is Joel. He kisses you slowly but unhurried, exploring your mouth and whatever he can reach of your body, trying to figure out what makes you tick. It is too much and not enough all at once, and Joel shushes the desperate little noise you make with a concerned look towards the toddler sleeping a couple of feet away. 

“Bedroom.” You beg against his lips, drinking down when his breathing falters in your mouth. “Please.” 

Joel’s hands grab both of your asscheeks, raising the two of you from the couch as if you weighed nothing— You bite down on your lip to hold back the squeal, not wanting to wake Sarah up as he quietly pads down into his bedroom. He lays you gently on the bed before coming back to lock the door; the tent on his sweatpants is impressive when he turns back to you: You’ve seen Joel naked a couple of times now and you know he’s big but you hadn’t seen him hard before and, even with his clothes on, you’re intimidated. He stands by the edge of the bed, fingertips running slowly up your calves, drinking you down just as you do him. 

The wolf never made you afraid before. Even with blood on his snout, even as you watched him tear a grown man apart, you were never scared— You were never afraid of Joel either, not in the true, primal sense of the word. But now, laying back on his bed as he watches you, you finally see the danger that ripples beneath his skin. His brown eyes are nothing short of predatory when he kneels on the mattress, aquiline nose running up the inside of your calf, his breath ghosting over your skin light enough to leave goosebumps in their wake. 

“Been dreamin’ of this.” He tells you, big hands locking around your ankles. You’re putty in his hands, giggling when he pulls on your legs, tugging your ass further down the bed. “Havin’ you on my bed. My mate. My girl.”

You open your mouth but whatever witty response dies before you can conjure it, Joel’s mouth latching into the inside of your thigh— He bites down hard and your hands fly to his hair, though you’re unsure whether to pull him away or pull him closer. Joel soothes the bite with his tongue, lapping at the indent of his own teeth before he crawls higher, pushing the soft material of the boxer shorts out of the way so he can bite again, closer to the junction of your thigh. 

You’re about to pull the shorts down yourself when Joel moves just a little higher, the bristles of his mustache tickling the softness of your stomach as he pushes your shirt up, kissing the skin as it is exposed. It’s involuntary, your body curling in and pulling away from him as you laugh, the noise pure instinct to soothe the bluntness of your movements as you shove your shirt back down.

“Ticklish?”

“Yup.” It’s true but not at the same time. Sure, you’re a little ticklish, but not like that— It’s a gut reaction, instinct telling you to hide and pull away as if he isn’t already aware of your size. Joel’s head cocks to the side and he leans back a little, searching your face.

“Okay. I won’t touch you there.” He breathes out, and you can tell Joel doesn’t believe you entirely. He doesn’t push it, however, choosing instead to bring his mouth back to yours, thick fingers playing with the elastic band of your shorts. “Can I take these off?”

You wonder if you should be offended that he’s all of a sudden walking on eggshells but you don’t; if anything it makes you a little giddy when you nod and Joel smiles against your lips as if you’ve just given him a gift. He tugs your shorts and underwear in one go, discarding them to the ground without taking his eyes off of you. Joel sits back on his knees, his hands running up and down your calves. 

“You’re beautiful.” He whispers, voice reverent as he drinks you in. “Spread your legs f’me.” 

In any other instance, you might’ve felt self-conscious about letting someone look at you so intimately but Joel stares at you like you’re the single most divine thing he’s ever seen. It fills you with enough courage to do as he tells you, your bent legs falling apart. 

“I need to taste you.” Joel says, leaning forward to press a kiss on the inner side of your knee. His eyes find yours, darkened with desire. “Will you let me?”

“Please.” 

He doesn’t need to be told twice. He makes a V with his fingers, spreading your pussy open before latching his mouth to your clit. Joel makes out with your cunt, slow and messy, the pressure of his tongue and the scrape of his teeth enough to have you squirming but not enough to properly get you off; you tug at his hair, fingers tangling with his curls, whining. 

“I want you inside me.” You breathe out, eyes rolling to the back of your head when Joel suckles against your clit. “Please, Joel, I need your fingers.”

He hums against you, a single digit twirling your entrance until you’re pushing your hips against him, bucking on the bed. Joel chuckles as he finally relents and pushes a single finger inside; even a single digit is a stretch, both from the thickness of his fingers from the amount of time you’ve gone without, desire curling low on your stomach. 

“Joel—” 

He shushes you, then, and the sound brings a new wave of wetness between your legs. “Calm down, sweet girl. Let me take care of you.” 

You try to do as he says, letting your body melt against the mattress; Joel looks entirely pleased as he dives back into your pussy, his eyes sparkling with mirth as he flicks his tongue this and that way— You can tell that he is exploring you, trying to figure out the best rhythm and pressure to have you shaking and that’s not really something you’ve ever experienced with a man before: Most of them simply assume that their moves are a universal like, always too pleased with themselves even if most of the sounds you make are fake. 

Joel is a quick, eager learner. He suckles on your clit when he sees the way your chest heaves at that, crooking two fingers inside of you and slowing down their thrusting when you bring both of your hands to your face, trying to stifle your moans. Your thighs clamp down the sides of his head when he pushes a third finger in, rubbing them slow and steady against that single spot inside of you that has you seeing stars; you choke down the noises threatening to escape from your mouth, one hand on his hair and the other trapped between your teeth, not wanting to wake up the other residents of the cabin. 

His blunt nails dig into the soft flesh of your hips, holding you down on the mattress as his fingers push in and out of you, his tongue running circles on your clit; the ball of your feet knock into his ribs as you come, body shaking underneath him— Your jaw goes slack as pleasure shoots down your spine, going fully silent as you get lost in it. Joel slows down but doesn’t stop, licking you through your orgasm before he finally pulls away. 

You tug on his hair before Joel can pull away entirely, yanking on his curls as you breathe his name. 

“Joel—” You say, and his nose crinkles a little with the harshness of your tug but he still smiles, the lower half of his face glimmering in the pale bedroom light. “C’mere. I need you.” 

Joel kisses your arm, the only part of your skin that he can reach, before gripping your hips and flipping you over; it makes you bounce on the mattress and you cackle, half from glee and half from surprise— You’ve never been with a man strong enough to manhandle you like that, and you bite down on your bottom lip, arching spine, ass in the air. 

“Jesus fuckin’ Christ, sweetheart.” Joel mumbles behind you, the tone of his voice sending a shiver down your back. “Look at ya. Drippin’.”

The tip of his cock brushes against your entrance, catching for a second before Joel slides his cock down your slit and it has you whining, pushing your hips against him. You call out his name a little louder and Joel shushes you again, pushing just the tip inside before pulling back out; the sensation is enough to drive you crazy, biting down on your thumb to keep you from complaining again. 

When Joel finally plunges inside of you, it’s blissful. He makes a choked sound between a moan and a groan, holding himself very still. The stretch hurts at first but you wiggle against him, trying to signal for him to move— His fingers dig into the fat of your hip, his other hand coming to steady you on the small of your back. 

“Fuck— Just— Gimme a sec, darlin’.” Joel says, his voice strained. “ ‘S been a while.” 

He starts slow, his thrusting as exploratory as his mouth had been, pulling out halfway before sliding back in with enough force to punch the air out of your lungs. You arch your spine a little further, nose buried in the pillow that smells so much like Joel you feel entirely encompassed by him. All you can hear, feel, smell— It’s him, the little grunts he’s trying to stifle, the calloused hands on your skin, his scent on the pillow and in the air. You reach back without thinking, grabbing Joel’s wrist and pulling him towards you. 

Joel topples on top of you, breathy laugh against your ear before he rearranges himself, one arm next to your head, the other sliding between you and the mattress, wrapping around your hips and pulling you backwards just enough— The new angle hits different, deeper somehow, his entire weight settling on your back.

“Fuck,” he pants near your ear, chest hair brushing against your back. “You feel so fuckin’ good, sweetheart. So sweet. Made f’me.”

His thrusts have you wailing, Joel’s teeth scraping the side of your neck whenever he’s close enough— Never biting down, but teasing is enough to drive you crazy, one hand reaching back to grab at his hair, fists of curly grey and brown locks between your fingers. The arm by your face comes forward, Joel’s thick fingers closing your mouth shut: His hand is big enough to cover the lower half of your face entirely, your breathing erratic behind his glammy fingers. 

“Can’t wait to have you screamin’ f’me, pretty girl.” Joel whispers, knees digging into your thighs, spreading you even further. He stops moving, buried to the hilt inside of you. “But I’m gon’ need you to be a good girl and keep quiet, ‘kay? Don’t go wakin’ up the whole house.”

You nod and, even though Joel starts moving again, he doesn’t pull his hand away from your lips; he uses the leverage of holding your face hostage to pull your head backwards, bending your spine in a way that makes him feel even bigger inside of you. Joel whispers a string of dirty praises in your ear as his cock pistons in and out of you, telling you how much of a good girl you’re being, how much he loves your sweet pussy and all of the nasty little things he has planned for the two of you. 

You feel the change in the air before you can properly recognize what it is. Joel feels heavier against your back, his chest pressing down on your back to the point of becoming just shy of suffocating, the hair on his chest coarser, rubbing against your shoulder blades with such friction you think you might get beard burn, his thrusts sharper and not as rhythmically. 

But, above all, Joel goes silent. His breathing is still heavy, still stuttering after a particularly hard thrust, but he’s not moaning anymore, isn’t saying your say or the dirty, sweet nothings he’s been whispering in your ear all night. 

You turn your head, trying to catch a glimpse of him so you can check in and make sure everything is okay but the image reflected in the window makes you stop— Joel looks like himself and yet, at the same time, he doesn’t. His face is buried on the back of your neck, hidden away from view, but his shoulders seem broader, his hips and thighs thicker, his biceps even more defined than they already are. His hair, the soft curls still trapped between your fingers, seem thicker like this, fuller and longer.

You tell yourself that you’re seeing things. It’s the warping of the window pane, it’s the soft lighting, it’s your brain turning into mush because Joel’s cock keeps hitting repeatedly into the deepest parts of you. And then Joel’s teeth scrape against the back of your neck and he growls— A noise that doesn’t sound human at all, deep and rolling and menacing, the sort of rumbling sound human anatomy shouldn’t be able to produce.

Your cunt spasms around his cock and you shake, the orgasm hitting you like a freightrain. It’s too much and not enough all at once, your entire body set ablaze; you push back against him, head thrown back, yanking at Joel’s hair with far more force than you ought to be using. 

Your body is soft and pliant when he shifts positions, pushing one of your knees higher up on the mattress, leaving you even more open and exposed; Joel’s cock punches in and out of you with rapid precision, now chasing his pleasure more than yours in deep, long thrusts that have you drooling on the pillowcase, unable to catch your breath. 

Joel pulls out with a pained whine and you’re too tired to turn around, fighting to keep your eyes open as you listen to the slick sounds of him fisting his own cock, followed by the sticky warmth of his spend as it covers the roundness of your ass. He presses a kiss on the space between your shoulderblades just as you start to recover your breathing.

“I’ll be right back.” He says, his voice soft like you’ve never heard before; you just give him a thumbs up, smiling when you hear him laugh.

Joel cleans you with a warm towel and so much care it makes you almost embarrassed, peppering kisses to your clammy skin and saying how well you’ve done for him. He helps you redress, fixes the place where the fitted sheets came loose, and then pulls you to his chest. You slide a hand underneath his shirt, fingertips playing with the wispy hair on his chest.

“Joel?” You call out, wanting to ask him about what had happened before — how you’re fairly certain you’d seen him half-way into shifting before he somehow got it under control — but you’re unable to, because the only response you get is a loud, reverberating snore.

Tommy brings a bag with your belongings two days later. He doesn’t say anything, just drops it by the bed, pats you on the shoulder, and says ‘the old bastard reckons it’s time ya start wearin’ yer own shit again’ before he steps out of the room; you haven’t seen either Miller men all day, with Tommy busy trying — and failing, because it seems like the damage you've done is mighty permanent — to fix up the truck and Joel at work. You go through the bag carefully, pulling out your clothes — the clothes that Joel chose from your closet — and finding them a home next to Joel’s flannels. 

You wonder if you should feel like it’s some sort of violation, that Joel had gone to your house while you took care of his kid and picked out your underwear, but you don’t. 

If anything, it makes you feel seen. 

It’s the pounding on the door that wakes you up. Your mouth is parched, muscles pleasantly sore, too warm from Joel’s steady presence behind your back; Joel grumbles, not fully awake, but Tommy’s insistent knocking drags the both of you up. 

“Joel— For fuck’s sake, Joel. The cops are here.” He says through the door, his voice so panicked he can barely hide it. “They wanna talk to both of ya.” 

It’s ludicrous, but the first thing you think about is the pens you stole from the pharmacy— The used, old pens that you stole out of pettiness and you think the police are here to arrest you for it. But then, as you hastily get dressed, you think of the car accident you were in and panic sets even deeper; you’d been driving while drunk, and you fled the scene— You don’t remember any of it, maybe you injured or killed someone. Maybe you drove into some ancient protected tree. Maybe they’re here to charge you for the damage you did to the cement safeguard next to the road. 

The truth is, somehow, a lot worse. The cops — Josh McKenley and Chad Hobbs, one of them who you went to school with, the other who is a year older than you at most — kindly ask you to step outside while one of them stays inside with the men; Tommy has Sarah perched on his hip, distracting her with breakfast but you can see just how worried he is. 

McKenley steps out with you, Hobbs stays inside, arms crossed over his chest while he stares at Joel as if he is some sort of deviant criminal. 

“Josh, what the fuck is going on?” You ask, hugging yourself. You almost want to ask if this is about the car but you don’t, biting your tongue at the very last minute; the last thing you need is to incriminate yourself. 

Josh, on his part, shifts from one foot to the other, his bovine eyes scanning every inch of your body. 

“Céline called.” 

You lean back against the cruiser when your knees threaten to give out. “What do you mean?”

“She’s worried about you. Been trying to call you—”

“I lost my phone.” You bring a hand to your forehead, hating the way your fingers shake. “This is a wellness check? How did you even find me?”

“We didn’t know we’d find you here, but we figured we should look ‘round after we realized you hadn’t gone home in days. Honestly, after what Céline said, I thought we’d be searching for a body.” 

Your stomach churns unpleasantly. You can barely remember what you said to her, far too drunk to make any sense of it but you know, you know it had been bad. Josh looks at you more carefully, and you know what he sees: The scrapes and bruises that remain from your accident, fading but still there, and the way you tremble like a leaf in front of him. 

“I’m alright.” You say and, even though it’s true, it sounds like a lie. Josh cocks his head to the side. 

“We can help you. We’re going to help you. Céline told us that the guy is dangerous, that you were scared, but we’re here now.” 

“Josh—” You shake your head, but he keeps talking over you. 

“We’ll pretend that we’re bringing you in for something else, and then we go down to the station, you report him and he won’t be able to keep you here anymore.” 

“He’s not holding me hostage. I’m here because I want to.” You push the heels of your palms into your eyes. “I appreciate the concern, I really do, but Céline doesn’t know what she’s talking about. I lost my phone and I lost my job, and Joel’s letting me stay here with him while I figure something out, that’s all.”

“You’re hurt. Are you going to tell me you just… What? Fell down the stairs?” 

“Car crash, actually.” You huff. “I was driving from Céline’s place and lost control of the car. It’s fine now, nobody else got hurt and Joel and Tommy already brought the car back.” 

Josh’s eyes turn into narrow slits and you can’t tell he doesn’t believe you, but you’re sure there’s not much else he can do. There’s a heavy moment of silence while he stares you down, maybe waiting for you to crack, before he eventually nods. 

“Okay.” He says in a tone that doesn’t make anything seem okay— It’s half a challenge, half a threat. “Do you want to explain why you told Céline that he’s the one killing people ‘round town, then?”

“I never said that.” 

He hums, shifting from one foot to the other, effectively blocking your view of the house. 

“That ain’t what Céline said. She said—”

“I don’t care what she said. Do you even hear yourself? You think, what— That Joel faked the animal attacks? Josh, that’s crazy talk.”

“What I think it’s that it’s mighty interesting that folk only started dying after he came into town. And I think it’s mighty interesting that you are the only person that’s seen the animal and got out alive. If you’re not being held against your will, and if you know what happened— That’s accessory to murder.”

You laugh, then, because you can barely believe what you’re hearing; it’s not a funny, happy laugh but rather the noise of pure despair. 

“Holy shit, you’re so fired.”

“Is that a threat?” He asks, eyebrows raising high. 

“Are you seriously thinking about charging Joel for murder because Céline said so? You can’t just— Humans don’t do that. They don’t eat and tear each other apart like that. If there was a single chance that it was a person faking an animal attack, don’t you think the coroners would’ve caught it?”

There’s just a hint of uncertainty on his chubby cheeks before Josh puffs his chest again, clearly trying to seem taller and more in control than he has ever been. 

“I think it’s part of my job to do my due diligence when an accusation is made. And if you and Mr. Miller don’t have anything to hide, then you shouldn’t be so upset about me asking a couple of questions.”

“Does your dad know about this? That you’re here harassing me and my boyfriend over gossip?”

“The Deputy will be informed of our official investigation as soon as—”

“That’s fucking fantastic. Alright, go in there and ask Joel if he’s the big bad wolf that has been eating people.” You wave at the front of the house, and then promptly shove your hands into your pockets once you notice just how badly you’re shaking. “Please do. And then go home and tell your daddy what you did. You’ll be the joke of the entire fucking town, Officer McKenley.”

You sidestep him and it’s only then that you realize just how loud you’ve been, with Officer Hobbs and Joel both standing by the front door; the police officer seems uncertain, torn between coming closer and staying with the suspect, and Joel looks like he’s a split second away from rushing down the stairs. 

“Hey, Hobbs!” You yell, giving what you can only hope is a smile that is more acidic than you truly feel. “Did you know your partner here thinks Joel Miller is a werewolf?! Is that what you idiots are up to nowadays? Monster hunting?” 

By the look on Officer Hobbs’s face you can see that he, indeed, was not aware of the murder accusation Josh decided to throw. The man’s eyes fly from Josh’s face to yours and then to Joel, who simply raises both of his eyebrows. Josh is already speaking a thousand words per minute trying to explain to his senior the conversation he had with Céline but you don’t pay any attention to it; all you can do is focus on the officer’s face, the way he burns red and how you can tell he’s trying to show an united front even though he clearly feels like an idiot. 

“This is just a wellness check.” Hobbs says to you eventually, having all but dragged Josh back into the cruiser. “A friend of yours was concerned.” 

“I know. And I appreciate it. But going from that to saying that my boyfriend is killing people? I mean…” 

Hobbs nods, once, his mouth pressed into a thin line. He looks like he’s agreeing with you, but his eyes linger on Joel’s figure behind you for a beat too long before he finally drives away.

You, Joel and Tommy reunite after you help Sarah brush her teeth and then Joel pulls out a fairly large collection of crayons and papers, enough to keep the little girl occupied while the three of you talk things through by the kitchen table. 

“They can’t… They can’t do anything, right?” You ask, watching as Tommy paces back and forth— Joel is leaning against the table, his body entirely still even though you can feel the nervous energy radiating from him. “I mean, even if they try to say you faked the animal attacks, that’s easily disproven.”

The silence that settles is full of answers you don’t like. Your head snaps towards Joel, who is looking intently at the wall. 

“The DNA could match.” He says, at last, just as you open your mouth to beg for the reassurance that isn’t coming. “If there’s any saliva left, or— Maybe the fur, I don’t know.” 

“You don’t know.” You don’t mean to sound as judgemental as you do, but— Considering he’s the one that has been murdering people for almost three decades, you figured he should know at least how much risk he’s been putting himself in. 

“No, I don’t. This shit didn’t come with a manual.” Joel snaps. He doesn’t yell, and he’s not aggressive, but the words are still much sharper than he’s ever spoken to you. Tommy’s pacing falters for a moment as his eyes bounce between the two of you. You preen, ready to snap back at him, but—

It’s your fault, really. 

You close your mouth shut with so much force your teeth clack. If you hadn’t said anything to Céline, if you hadn’t sent the e-mail and if you hadn’t had your little outburst at the bar, none of this would be happening. Joel and Sarah and Tommy would be safe, their lives completely undisturbed; and now here you are, all but squatting in their house, bringing the cops to their front door. 

Your head falls forward, burying it in your hands. 

“We’re panicking over nothing.” Joel says. “The Deputy is never going to open an investigation on you ‘cause of what some lil’ girl had to say.”

“Officer McKenley is his son.” You say, your voice laced with defeat; the heels of your palms dig into your eyesockets, little flashes of brightness popping behind the darkness of your closed eyelids. 

“Even better for us. He ain’t gon’ let his kid embarrass himself like that.”

“We should just pack up and leave.” You raise your head at Tommy’s voice, the first time he spoke since the conversation started. His arms are crossed over his chest, mustache twitching. “The truck won’t take us long before it shits itself out again, but I can get us a new car today, we pack our shit and get out of town in the middle of the night. If we leave before they can properly open an investigation we’ll be down in Mexico by the time a judge allows them to exhume one of the bodies.” 

“Runnin’ is only going to make us look more suspicious.” Joel shakes his head. “They ain’t got anythin’ on me. We stay put, keep workin’ and goin’ about our business. And you—” Joel pulls his cellphone from his pocket, the black glass square tumbling on the table when he throws it at you. “Call your friend and tell her you’re fine. We need her to think she overstepped and overreacted.” 

You don’t want to call her. You don’t want to talk to Céline at all, even though you understand why she did what she did— You would’ve done the same in her shoes. Hell, you probably would’ve driven yourself back home to check in on her. So, while your brain understands the logic, understands she was just looking out for you, your heart doesn’t seem to agree. 

You pick up the phone anyway, though, because you’re the one that fucked everything up in the first place. 

“I don’t know her phone number.” You say, swiping left and right trying to find the Instagram app. Joel doesn’t have much other than the pre-downloaded apps, a guitar tuning app and some games that are clearly meant for Sarah. “Where’s your Insta? I need to message her there and ask her to FaceTime me.” 

There’s a beat of silence where Joel blinks at you, his face entirely blank. Tommy snorts, which turns into a full blown cackle when Joel turns to stare at him. 

“You might as well be speakin’ Greek to him, kid.” Tommy shakes his head, checking his watch before he looks back at Joel. “You sure you want to play this by ear? If we’re goin’ to keep on movin’, we gotta be at the Arlington’s by ten to get started on their bathroom.” 

“Yeah, I’m sure.” Joel gives a final nod, tension radiating off of him. He turns back to you then, the tip of his tongue pressing against his upper teeth as he hesitates. 

“I got it.” You tell him, waving a hand. “Go play in someone else’s bathroom, I’ll find a way of contacting Céline, and then I’ll take Sarah for a walk.” 

Joel kisses both of Sarah’s cheeks before he leaves, promising that he’ll be home by dinner with a treat if she behaves. You don’t think Sarah is capable of misbehaving, really, but she gives him a toothy grin and requests Reese’s as her bribery of choice. He kisses you too before he leaves, a long kiss on the lips, his big hands cradling your hips like the last thing he wants to do is let you go. 

“Do I also get a good girl treat?” You ask, voice low and teasing. Joel’s teeth nip at your bottom lip, fingers squeezing your hips. 

“I left my card and cell on the counter.” Even though Joel doesn’t answer your provocation with words, the fire that burns in his eyes is more than enough. “Call Tommy’s phone if you need anything, okay?” 

“Can you—” You hesitate, fixing his flannel even though it’s not out of place at all, unsure if you even should voice your request. Joel squeezes your side again, head cocking to the side. 

“Anything.”

“Can you check in throughout the day? Whenever you’re free.” 

You burn hot with shyness by the way his eyes soften at that, and Joel presses a kiss to the top of your head before stepping away. “Yeah, of course, darlin’. I’ll call on my lunch break.”

Céline answers your Instagram message in less than ten minutes, and the two of you settle on a FaceTime call just as Sarah goes down for her afternoon nap. You’ve cleaned up a little, wearing a shirt that you don’t think she’ll be able to tell is Joel’s, and you’ve even added just a little bit of make up to the still fading bruises on your face; it’s not the make up or your hair being done that strike you as the most odd when you look in the mirror, though— It’s the fact that you look healthy, no bags under your eyes or ashiness to your skin, your cheeks rounder and even your eyes seem lighter, not in color but in brightness. 

You don’t remember ever looking this good before, and it makes your smile a little wider when Céline finally answers the call. 

It’s every bit as uncomfortable as you expect it to be: Céline is surprised and suspicious, and you can see her craning her neck to look over your shoulder as if she’d be able to tell if you were being held at gunpoint. You tell her about the car crash, about losing your job and your phone and about staying at Joel and Tommy’s place because you didn’t feel well enough to be by yourself. You walk around the house as you speak, trying to make it seem casual as you grab a pre-made iced coffee from the fridge — the expensive brand, the one you never would’ve gotten on your own money —, but it’s mostly just so she can see you’re truly by yourself, minus the toddler that sleeps in the little tent in the corner of her bedroom. 

“You… Look good.” Céline says at last, after the both of you have apologized for everything that went down in Jackson— You know it takes a lot for a woman like Céline to admit defeat, always so used to people bending at her every whim, always ignoring and overlooking any of her flaws. “Happy.” 

“I am.” You bite down on your lip, giving the camera a small smile. There’s a lull in the conversation, the first one since she picked up the phone, and you take the opportunity to bring up the real reason for the call. “Josh came around. Though he’s going by Officer McKenley now.”

Céline’s face goes from its normal color to incredibly pale before burning bright red. 

“I was worried about you.” 

“I know.” 

The two of you fall silent again, though it’s heavier this time, pregnant with all the things you want her to say.

“I’m not going to apologize for caring about you. You left drunk and crying, wouldn’t pick up your phone. And then there was the whole thing about him killing people. And the stalking.” 

“Like you said, I was drunk and stoned. I was just saying bullshit for the sake of it.” You shake your head, trying to steer the conversation where you need it to go. “Did you send him my e-mails?”

“The e-mails where you describe the terrifying, weird old man that has been breaking into your house? Of course I did. I don’t care if the two of you kissed and made up, I thought you were in danger. Thought they were going to find you raped and killed somewhere.” 

“Did you— Was it, like, an official report or something? Because if it’s official then— Shit, I don’t know, they’ll probably have to look into it even if I said I’m fine.” 

“I called Josh’s personal phone. I don’t know if he ever filed a report on it.” Céline shrugged. “Just tell them you lied to me. If he didn’t kill anyone, then they’ll investigate a bit and drop it when there’s no evidence of anything.” 

Céline’s face remains impossibly blank, her tone entirely diplomatic, but you can see the way her eyes scan your face and you know she’s trying to catch you in a lie. She still thinks Joel is the killer, you realize, and you’re not certain there’s much you can do now to change her mind. 

“You know how people gossip in this fucking town.” You pinch the bridge of your nose, mostly to hide your face from her scrutiny than anything else. “People are going to show up to our house with pitchforks and silver bullets the second they hear he’s a person of interest.” 

“I’m not going to apologize—”

“Yeah, you said that already.” You cut her off, your tone clipped and sharp. 

Céline offers you a small smile. “Just handcuff him to a radiator during the full moons and you’ll both be fine.” 

Her words, although they’re not really funny, pull a snort out of you. “He would look good in handcuffs.” 

Céline’s face twists, but she still laughs. 

“Is he good to you? Treating you right?”

“Better than anyone.” You say, having to bite down on your tongue to hold back a bitter remark about how she’d basically called you an attention seeking whore the last time the two of you were together. “He’s good with his daughter, and his brother. Takes care of everyone. Hard worker, too.” 

“Yeah, okay, well— My door is always open if things go south, alright?”

You think back to how horribly it ended the last time you saw each other but you still smile and nod. 

You don’t know what the future really holds, your relationship still so new and fragile, but you don’t think you’ll need her charity ever again.

For the next few weeks, you watch as Joel grows antsier and antsier. He agrees to lay low, to not hunt while there’s still a chance the police are looking for a reason to pin the killings on him, but you can see just how much it affects him. Joel gets snappy, his words clipped and short, fucking you rougher and rougher every time— Never staying still for too long, fingers tapping on his thighs or feet tapping on the floor whenever he’s sitting down, always finding something to fix around the house when he’s not working. 

He’s hungry, you can see it in the burning of his eyes and the tension of his muscles. 

“Can’t you just have a raw steak or something?” You ask him during one of the few afternoons in which he’s home, the house finally falling silent after you spent forty minutes trying to get Sarah to go down for her nap. “I’m sure it’s not the same as a person, but it might help you hold on for a couple more days, right?”

“It’s not the meat that the wolf is cravin’.” Joel shakes his head, his fingers tapping on the back of the couch as if he’s playing the piano. “It’s the hunt. The chase.” 

An image comes to the forefront of your mind, the wolf with his teeth bared and nostrils blown wide, and it makes desire churn in your stomach. For the first time in weeks, Joel’s body goes entirely still, his sharp inhale reverberating through the two of you. 

“You’re not thinkin’ —”

“He wouldn’t kill me, right?” You ask, thighs squeezing together, cutting him off because you don’t think you can handle it if he says it out loud.

“I don’t think so.” 

His words aren’t all that reassuring, but they only make you wetter. 

“Are you— Sweetheart, are you sure?”

You finally look back at him, holding his gaze. 

“You’re the one that told me he could come out to play sometime.”

Joel growls. He’s sitting there, fully human, but the sound that leaves him is one that you don’t think human vocal chords would ever be able to produce— Similar, but not the same, as the one he’d done the first time the two of you had sex, when he was starting to lose control over himself.

“Go put on your shoes.” He tells you, voice low and full of gravel. “I’m givin’ you a forty second head start. Make ‘em count.”

Your underwear is fully damp by the time you finish putting on your boots, Joel standing in the kitchen with his back turned to you. You can feel the heat radiating off of him even from afar, his back muscles rippling underneath his cotton shirt as he sips from a water glass; you only hesitate for a moment before reaching underneath your dress, pulling out the pair of black cotton panties you’re wearing and letting it fall on the ground. You think of those cadaver dogs, the ones who can find a person just by the smell of their clothing alone, and goosebumps erupt all over your body as you turn on your heels and run out through the backdoors into the darkening woods. 

In hindsight, you probably should’ve prepared better. You don’t have your phone, and you don’t have a flashlight, or a coat— It gets dark incredibly fast as soon as you’re past the treeline, the old trees tall and imposing, blocking the fading sunlight just the same as it blocks the house. You’re not planning on making it too difficult for Joel to catch you, maybe a little dodging him before the wolf finally catches up to you but, the further you go into the darkness, the more it becomes real. 

The forest falls silent all of a sudden, the birds and the toads and the crickets silencing so fast you hold your breath; it’s almost as if the animals can sense something you can’t, as if they’ve all been warned of the predator that has entered the territory, every living thing going into hiding as Joel takes the reigns of nature. 

You hesitate for a moment, eyes darting around before you find a small pathway between the trees. The man-made kind, the grass stomped over, tree branches carefully removed out of the way; it’s narrow, not visible unless you’re really looking for it, but you rush forward just as you hear the first branch creaking and snapping behind you— Too close. 

Your legs push you forward, instinct taking over as you run through the small pathway before taking a sharp turn to the left, mingling with the trees; the space is so small that branches scratch against your face and you think momentarily that you’re safe, that the path you’re on is too closed off for the wolf to follow.

Above your labored breathing you hear the heavy and fast sound of his footsteps— You wonder if it’s on purpose, if he’s being loud to scare you, and it surely works. It makes you panic, in fact, heart hammering inside your chest. You think the sound is coming from your left so you run to your right, jumping over rocks and almost falling over when you step on a moss-covered root; it leads you to an area where the trees aren’t as clumped together, more space for you to see and less claustrophobic. The moonlight shines above, peaking through the top of the trees, and you narrowly miss a depression on the ground that would’ve absolutely sprained your ankle. Air becomes harder, your lungs and thighs burning as you duck underneath a thick branch, skidding to a halt as you hide behind a giant, imposing willow tree. 

You drop down, knees to your chest as you try to take a proper breath. You can hear the rustling of the trees, the barely audible creaking of twigs and loose leaves under Joel’s paws as he stalks closer to you; your throat tightens, trapping the air inside your lungs. You can tell that he is right there, just on the other side of the tree, his breathing loud and controlled. 

One, two, three— You count his steps, measured and certain, approaching you from the left. You fix your stance, hands on a thick tree root as you prepare to run.

It all happens so fast you barely have time to understand what is going on. You launch yourself to the right just as you hear another creaking from the left and you make it exactly four steps before you’re lunged forward and down; You spin, trying to escape the animal’s grasp but all you manage to do is land on your back, Joel’s heavy weight settling on your chest. His body covers yours like a weighted blanket, wet nostril bumping against the sensitive patch of skin just behind your ear. You push his head away like Tommy had done the night of the accident, trying to wiggle yourself from underneath him but, unlike last time, the wolf doesn’t pull away kindly. Instead he growls, low and long, his chest rattling against yours. 

Your muscles freeze, much like they’d done that first time Joel hijacked your body— There are no words this time, no audible command other than the growl but your body responds as if it understands the wolf’s orders, laying pliantly underneath the stars.

“Joel—” You start, trying to call his attention, but the wolf doesn’t seem to mind; it nuzzles the side of your neck and then your collarbone, wet nose tickling against your sternum as it travels lower and lower. You open your mouth, ready to try again, but the words are cut off by the sound of the wolf’s teeth tearing through your dress. The cold air hits your chest for barely a second before his warm breath takes over, tongue impossibly large and unbelievably soft as it laps at your nipples. You shift again but, this time, it’s to accommodate him better between your legs; his belly is warm and soft against you, soft fur that you know you’re soaking with your wetness as you grind up into him. His tongue travels lower, teeth scraping against your stomach as he tugs at the scraps of your dress until you’re fully nude.

You look down, the wolf’s giant head between your legs, but all you can focus on are his eyes. 

Joel’s eyes. Warm and kind and human, staring up at you in a way that is uncannily similar to his human form when he checks in on you— You nod, unsure if you even have it in you to give him any sort of verbal consent, but the small movement is more than enough; his tongue is so large that it encompasses your entire cunt in a single swipe. It’s so different from anything you’ve ever experienced but, at the same time, you can still recognize Joel’s movements in the way he laps at your clit, the tip of his tongue toying against your entrance in sharp, certain circles. It’s just a little clumsy, his teeth and snout getting in the way but it makes your eyes roll to the back of your head, hands gripping the grass until chunks fall out as you try to ground yourself. You bite down on your bottom lip, awfully aware you’re in a public setting even though there’s no one around, but you think back to Joel’s words that first time you had sex. Can’t wait to have you screamin’ f’me, pretty girl.

You come with a scream of his name on your lips, tufts of grass and dirt underneath your fingernails, hips pushing up into his mouth. 

You’re still trying to regain your breath when Joel crawls back over you, whining softly as his snout bumps into your cheek. The fur sticks everywhere, glistening with your slick the way it had done with your blood so many moons ago, and you giggle, scratching the space between his eyes.

“I’m okay. That was—” You giggle again when he starts to purr, chest vibrating where it presses against yours. You feel the head of his cock bump against your thigh, scorchingly hot and leaking, and a fresh new wave of wetness dribbles down your thighs. “Do you want me to turn around?” You ask, still petting his head. “On all fours?”

Joel whines again, and the way he presses his body even more against yours seems like enough of an answer. You press a kiss to his snout, legs spreading even further when you feel his cock pressing against your entrance. 

He’s even bigger like this. Joel in his human form had already been a task to take in, but this is something else— You take a deep breath, your fingers digging into the soft fur of his pectoral, your body screaming to push him away but you remain still. He pushes himself inside in two strokes, and the second one has you wailing; for a horrifying moment, you think you won’t be able to handle him, the burn of the stretch and just how full you feel not subduing as quickly as you expect it to. 

“Gimme a second.” You say when he starts grinding, legs clamping around him. “Just— please, just a second.” 

You bring a hand down to your clit, forcing your tense muscles to relax, rubbing soothing circles until the pain melts away, his thick cock pressing against that perfect little spot inside of you even when he’s not moving making you hungrier. Joel runs his nose down your cheek to your collarbone, sharp teeth scraping against the soft skin of your shoulder. You clench around him, his cock feeling impossibly warm inside of you— He growls, the noise reverberating between the two of you before his hips pull back ever-so-slightly, snapping harshly against yours. It makes you wail, the tip of his cock hitting against your cervix with every fast, jerky thrusts that he gives you; You’re babbling, begging for more and crying that it’s too much, your hand falling away from between your legs. You hold onto him, clutching the fur as Joel ruts into you, his thrusts so harsh they push you upwards on the grass. It doesn’t take you more than a couple of minutes to come, head tilted to the side, drool pooling on the side of your mouth and down your cheek as your body convulses underneath him, clamping down on him so tight that he might’ve slipped out if he wasn’t buried so deep inside of you. 

Joel comes with a growl on his throat and his teeth sinking into your shoulder painfully enough that you think he might snap a bone— You scream, both from pain and from pleasure, his cock swelling and throbbing inside of you. He grinds against you as he comes and comes and comes, his pelvic bone pushing against your clit and hurtling you into a third orgasm, the sort of wave of pleasure that has your throat constricting and your eyes rolling back, pebbled nipples rubbing against his chest as your spine twists up. Joel remains locked into you even as you tremble from the overstimulation; he feels even bigger, swelling inside of you and stretching you even further, a mixture of growling and whining rumbling in his throat. And when the aftershocks of your orgasm start to subdue, you realize he’s still coming, still filling you up, teeth clamped down on your shoulder as your lower stomach swells. It’s an odd sensation, feeling his come leak from where he’s still buried inside of you, feeling it push against your bladder in a way that makes you feel him all the way up to your stomach; you think he’ll be leaking out of you for days, thick and warm where he fills you up. 

He doesn’t move, caging you protectively when he finally calms down, his head tucking above yours. His neck is soft where you nuzzle into it, so satiated and exhausted you can barely keep your eyes open.

You wake up to Joel’s face — his human face — hovering above yours. His hand is cradling your jawline, and he’s covered in his own blood, curls darkened and sticking to his forehead; a thick glob of congealing blood slides down the beautiful curve of his nose and plops on your cheek. 

“Honey, I’m so sorry.” He says, wiping something from your cheek— It leaves behind a wet trail that you can’t recognize whether it is blood or sweat. “I’m so, so sorry. I shouldn’t have— I should’a shifted back earlier— How bad does it hurt? ‘M gon’ get you home, or— Or a hospital if you need, alright?”

You frown, pushing yourself up on your elbows. Your body is sore, maybe a little more than it should be, but it doesn’t feel hospital worthy. The worst pain is from your shoulder, in fact, the bite mark throbbing and irritated.

Above all, though, it’s hard to miss how you’re covered in blood. It’s like a scene from Carrie, thick deep red blood dripping down your body, lathering you in it— It’s too much to be yours, and it’s everywhere, from your neck all the way down to your shins. There is a gunk of fur stuck to your left thigh, which Joel pulls away hastily when he notices you staring down at it. 

“I had to—” He stalls and, although you can’t see the color of his cheeks underneath the blood, you’re willing to bet he’s blushing. “I had to shift still inside— Would’a hurt you even more if I didn’t.” 

“Thank God I wasn’t here for it.” You snort, wiping a hand over your eye— Between the remnants of blood and grass on your fingers, you don’t realize you’re making it worse until after you’ve done it. “You didn’t hurt me, Joel. I’m okay. More than, really.” 

He leans forward, bumping his forehead against yours, shoulders sagging with relief. 

“Thought you were gonna hate me.” 

“Joel,” You shake your head, a small laugh escaping your lips. “You eat people and I don’t hate you for it. This is nothing.” 

Joel’s head snaps to the right just a second before you hear the snap of a branch. 

There, between the trees, is a man. Officer Josh McKenley, at the two of you with wide eyes and a raised rifle. You can only imagine what it looks like, two people naked and bloodied in the middle of the woods, embracing in a pile of torn clothes and gore. 

“Step away from her.” He demands, the gun pointed at Joel. “You okay, miss?”

Even though it would seem that he’s trying to protect you from Joel, you don’t miss the way his eyes rake over your body— Slower than they need to, taking in details more than searching for injuries. You curl in on yourself, trying to hide your body from view. Joel growls, and McKenley’s attention snaps back at him. 

 Despite being fully naked with a gun pointed at him, Joel doesn’t seem worried; he has two hands stretched out in front of him, legs slightly bent, ready to pounce. He waits, though, stepping away from you as instructed. 

“I’m going to call for back up.” The man warns, fumbling with the gun as he reaches for his left pocket. “If you move, I’ll shoot you.” 

Joel moves. He jumps on the man so fast it makes you shriek, the loud noise of the rifle going off ringing in your ears and drowning out the way McKenley screams, both from surprise and pain as the two of them topple to the ground.

You expect Joel’s shifting from human to wolf to be as slow and gruesome as the deshifting, perhaps the bone-breaking and agonizing process like a scene from An American Werewolf in London but it’s not: It happens in the blink of an eye, the hair on his head growing thicker and spreading, the muscles on his black rippling as his skin stretches and his bones shift into something else. And then you blink, and McKenley is crawling backwards, mouth open in terror, the wolf’s head down to his shoulders as he stalks his prey. 

It’s only then that you finally feel the pain. It tears through your bitten shoulder, burning, a small round hole that pierces through one of the teeth marks that gurgles fresh blood. 

“Joel?” You call out, hand shaking as you bring it to press down on the bullet wound. It hurts too much, pain searing and blinding, making you pull your hand away instantly. “Holy fuck.” 

The wolf’s head turns, staring at you— It’s the split second that McKenley uses to run away, his rifle forgotten in the overgrowth as he flees through the path he came from. Your vision swims, the wolf coming in and out of focus as you lean back, scraping your arm against a tree before you manage to put yourself in a mostly upright sitting position. Joel howls, that same deep and loud noise he’d made to call out for Tommy after the car accident, before coming to your side. He gives the wound a single lick before you manage to push him away; he whines, trying to get you to move your hand out of his snout. 

“Unless that tongue can pull out the bullet, I don’t think you should be doing that, buddy.” You say, your voice sounding slurred and foreign in your ears. “Just— Fuck, Joel, it hurts. Just shift back and get me home, please.”

Tommy is in charge of packing while Joel patches up your arm in the bathroom. You’re not proud to admit that you almost pass out as he digs through your shoulder for the bullet, barely hearing the string of apologies that leave his mouth as he works as fast as he can. It’s clear that he’s done this before, a well-stocked first aid kit in the bathroom cabinet and precise movements from his hand. 

You keep your eyes averted from the wound, trying to stay as still as you possibly can. 

“Do you think it’ll stick?”

Joel hums, distracted. “What, honey?”

“The bite. Am I— Am I gon’ turn into a wolf too, now? You said it spreads through biting and genetics, right?” 

“No, ‘s not a full moon tonight.” He runs a finger close to the bite mark, stopping his stitching for a moment. “I’ll fix it as soon as I can shift again, okay? Reckon I can make sure it won’t scar.”

You don’t want it fixed— You don’t want to be a werewolf either, but you like the idea of Joel’s teeth-shaped scar a little too much. But you simply hum, ending the conversation, too tired to voice any of those feelings. He kisses the stitches once he’s done with them, and then helps you into the shower— It’s the first time you’re in the shower with him and it’s certainly not what you pictured, both of you rushing through wiping each other clean while Tommy rushes from room to room, trying to gather as many essentials as he can without waking Sarah up. 

You’re not sure at which point they’ve decided to flee. You’ve run into Tommy on your way back to the house, Joel carrying you in his arms. ‘Cop caught me mid shift.’ is the only explanation he gives but that seems to be enough to enable some sort of crisis protocol. 

There’s a single, curt knock on the bathroom door just as Joel helps you into your sweatpants.

“Can you wake Sarah up f’me?” He asks you, knuckles brushing softly over the bandage on your shoulder. “Don’t pick her up, can’t have you strainin’ yourself. Just tell her to pick out her favorite toys, that we gotta go on a trip.” 

You do as you’re told, arm placed in a sling that Joel pulled together out of gauze and sheer willpower, hair still dripping wet down your back. Sarah is curled up on her toddler bed, a protective wall of stuffed animals between her and the safety guard, her little thumb stuck inside her mouth. 

“Sarah?” You call out, softly, trying not to spook the little girl as you push the curls away from her face; her hair is wild and frizzy and you make a mental note of telling Joel to buy her one of those toddler bonnets. “Wake up, puppy. We gotta go.” 

“Mama?”

It breaks your heart, watching her little doe eyes blink without recognition— It almost hurts more than Joel calling you by her mother’s name, the cold proof of a little girl that still yearns for someone you could never be. 

“Hi, sweetie.” You coo, pushing down the safety rail. “Y’wanna go on an adventure? Your daddy planned a trip for us.”

You sit by her bed as you watch Sarah toddle around the room, collecting her toys and shoving them inside a purple backpack covered in sequins, her little brow furrowed in concentration. She doesn’t ask the million questions you expect from a child so young, she just accepts what you tell her and then gets to business. 

It takes Tommy exactly fifty-five minutes to leave the cabin with the half-functioning truck and come back with a fully-functioning car. You’d be impressed if you didn’t have the sneaking suspicion that he prepared for it even though Joel told him not to. 

Joel doesn’t let you help with anything other than carrying one of Sarah’s stuffed toys that didn’t fit her backpack and, if you’re being honest, you don’t try too hard to help— Your shoulder throbs even after you’ve taken a couple of painkillers, your muscles sore from… Well, everything. Instead, you sit inside the champagne-colored sedan with Sarah, trying to distract her from what is happening; there is a nervous energy in the air, both Tommy and Joel wound up tight, and you can see the moment she picks up on it, fussing when Joel buckles her into the car seat. 

“Where are we going?” You ask, pushing your head between the two front seats. Tommy is driving, and Joel holds a map that looks so old you think it might be close to you in age. 

“North.” Joel responds at the same time that Tommy says: “South.”

They both look at each other for a split second before Tommy continues. 

“Mexico. I have to, Joel.” His voice is tight and urgent, hands flexing against the steering wheel. “Been feelin’ it for weeks now.”

“Mexico it is.” Joel nods before he turns to you; his face is now so close you can see the different shades of hair on his mustache, his bottom lip marred with teeth marks. “Tommy’s feelin’ the pull.”

“Pull?”

“That’s where my mate is. Somewhere in Mexico.” Tommy is the one that answers. “‘S why we came here of all places. Joel felt you callin’ out to him.” 

Despite everything, your lips pull into a small smile.

“I’ve always wanted to go to Mexico.”

EIGHTEEN MONTHS LATER. 

Rainy season means stuffy, warm days and unpredictable downpour of rain showers in the middle of the afternoon just when you think the heat is finally going to get you. You’re slowly learning how to adapt, your body craving the rain just as much as it craves the sun. The rainy days are usually easier to handle during the week, while Sarah is in pre-k and you’re at work all afternoon— During the weekends it means Joel has to stay at a job site for longer, and that you’re trapped inside the house with a tiny, bored little girl. 

“That boyfriend of yours is coming to pick you up?” Joel asks, leaning against the kitchen sink. Disdain drips off of the word ‘boyfriend’ but, at this point, you think he does it mostly to annoy you and not really because there is any jealousy. 

Your ‘boyfriend’ is Raúl, a single father to a little girl around Sarah’s age. The girls met on Sarah’s first day of kindergarten and even though Ellie doesn’t speak English and Sarah doesn’t speak Spanish, the two girls attached to each other’s hips— They share toys and food and are even starting to trade words in their languages; Sarah has taken the habit of pointing out every perro she sees on the street (her uncle Tommy included, once) and you know that didn’t come from her. 

“Yup.” You say, pulling the glass of mango juice from between Joel’s fingers just as Tommy bursts into your home— He’s been living on the floor above yours, but it seems like your kitchen is the Central Station. “He’ll pick me and Sarah up in, like, fifteen minutes. G’mornin’, Tommy.” 

“Morning.” He says, stealing a slice of bacon from Sarah’s plate. “Who’s coming to pick you up?”

“Mommy’s boyfriend.” Sarah pipes up, licking honey from her fingertips.  

“Raúl.” You correct her, elbowing Joel when he cackles at the look on Tommy’s face. “Who is a friend and a boy, but not my boyfriend. His daughter has a playdate with Sarah.”

“Don’t forget it.” Joel taps the little pill container on the counter before he moves back to the living room. The kitchen is small and, although the brightly lit windows make it seem bigger than it really is, the place gets just a little crowded as Tommy shoves his head inside the fridge. 

You roll your eyes, but you pick out the antidepressants and swallow them with the mango juice anyway; truth is, even though you keep complaining about the pills, the wonders that they’ve done to your life are something you don’t think you’ll ever take for granted— The pills and Dr. Canul, the therapist that has been seeing you ever since settled down in Puerto Morelos. 

It had taken your little family — your pack — about eight months to figure out a town to finally settle roots, living in cars and cheap motels for so long you thought it might affect Sarah’s development; Tommy was the one guiding the four of you, never settling anywhere for longer than a month before his mate started to pull him somewhere else. It got to a point where you were certain he was making it up, or perhaps confused by his feelings, but Joel had blind faith in his brother so every other month you packed up your car and left for a new place. 

Puerto Morelos had been your home for almost ten months now, and it was such a dream you feared the day Tommy decided his mate wasn’t there anymore— Sarah is thriving in kindergarten, Dr. Canul is the nicest doctor you’ve ever met, and your little house near the beach is everything you’ve ever dreamed of. Your job, too, at a local artisan shop where you get to sell your paintings while manning the register; the owner is an old woman that had been kind and patient, teaching you how to weave baskets and huipiles, never faulting you or making fun of the way you still tripped over your ever-growing Spanish vocabulary. She simply corrects you with a soft ‘no, mija’ and, during one particularly exciting afternoon, threatened to beat a teenager with the bat she keeps in the back of her shop after he made fun of you. 

Life is good, more than— Life is everything you’ve ever dreamed of, in the community that embraced you and your family, with the ocean breeze and the hot sun and the sense of belonging that you’ve never found anywhere else. 

The thought that Tommy might take that away at any moment keeps you awake at night. You understand his connection to Joel, understand that their need for each other goes much further than simply a sibling bond: They’re a pack, and their wolves are social creatures that need each other to be fully at peace. Still, you fear the day you’ll have to mourn your home. 

Raúl knocks on the door just as Tommy shoves the last piece of bread in his mouth, his tanned cheeks full like a chipmunk as Sarah runs to yank the door open. 

“Hola, cielito.” Raúl says but she’s barely listening, already grabbing Ellie and yanking her inside. They squeal together and run to the back of the house. “Hey. Front gate was open, I figured I could—”

You don’t really understand what happens at the moment but, in hindsight, it’s pretty obvious. Raúl freezes halfway through his sentence, his eyes glued to the looming presence over your back; he stares at Tommy for a second too long before plastering a smile that is visibly fake. 

“Joel, right?” He asks, offering a hand. Tommy doesn’t answer, mouth still full, not really chewing anymore. You resist the urge to elbow him, choosing instead to answer. 

“Tommy, actually. Joel’s brother. Say hi, Tommy.” You finally give in and elbow him in the ribs when Raúl’s fake smile falters, his hand already halfway down before Tommy spurs into action, grabbing it between both of his. 

It only dawns on you what is actually happening when Tommy brings Raúl’s hand up, pressing a kiss to the back of it before dropping entirely. Raúl’s eyes dart to you, shoulders visibly relaxing when he sees the way you’re tying — and failing — to hide your smile. 

“We kinda had a change of plans.” You tell him, neck craning as you try to catch Joel’s attention— He has his back to you, lacing his boots and mumbling something on the phone. “I have some errands to run, my prescription expires today so I really need to go get it and I forgot to defrost the chicken so I can’t make lunch and, uh, Joel needs my help with some stuff. Tommy’s chaperoning the girls with you today, if that’s alright?”

Tommy frowns at you, his eyes fleeting to your face before rushing back to the man still in front of him. “Joel said we—”

“Like I said, change of plans.” You cut him off. “Can’t go into work with all this rain, so you both get the day off. Well, he gets the day off. You get to babysit your niece.” You smile at Raúl, who is biting down on his bottom lip and you can tell you haven’t been able to fool him. “Tommy’s great with kids. Loves them to death. Always wanted one of his own, right?”

“Uh—” 

“And Sarah loves him.” You go on, not letting Tommy get a word in. “Ellie will love him too, you’ll see. He’s kind of a dumbass sometimes and he charms all of the old ladies wherever he goes, but he’s a sweetheart. And— Uh— A great chaperoning partner. You guys should go grab some ice cream later.”

“Ice cream sounds nice.” Raúl agrees, eyes shining with mirth. 

Tommy nods a second later. “Yeh— Yeah, it does.”

“Great!” You say, clapping your hands. Joel is finally looking at you, both of his eyebrows raised. “Now off you go. I want a day off with my boyfriend.” 

The house is all but empty before Joel can finish lacing up his boots. From the kitchen window you watch as Tommy opens the car door for Raúl, giving him a thumbs up when he looks back at you for a second; Tommy offers you his middle finger, but he’s smiling from ear to ear. 

“Is there a particular reason why you just gave my brother a day off without tellin’ me first?”

“That’s his mate.” You say, surprised Joel didn’t pick up on it. “I’ll handcuff them together if I have to before I move out of Puerto Morelos.”

He laughs, his hands coming up to wrap around you. 

“And here I was thinkin’ it was because you wanted the house all to ourselves.” 

Your arms settle on his shoulders on their own, leaning back so you can look him in the eyes. Joel seems happier too, more at ease than he did when the two of you met— His eyes shine more, his smile brightening more often. That sadness you’d noticed when you first saw him is completely gone, his face constantly sunburnt and his hair frizzy from the salt air. 

“That sounds pretty neat too.” 

THE END.

To calm the buzzing in your chest, to hold you together, to make sure you reached that faraway place safely instead of getting lost in it.

And that someone was Joel. 

'Daddy' you called him sometimes, voice tiny and unsure, even though you weren't supposed to. Your glassy eyes always found him first. Your hands always fisted his shirt. Your thighs always around his waist while he rocked and rocked you to sleep. 

'Little babygirl' he'd answer, even though he wasn't supposed to. A stern face guiding you, big hands holding you and that strong frame of his making you feel safe as if it was his only mission in life. 

Tonight, Joel is deep asleep. Breathing slow, steady, calm. Exactly that quiet rhythm you know by heart.

And you're standing there in the doorway, small and overwhelmed, staring at the only place that had ever felt like shelter.

Little you is drifting. 

The edges of your vision are soft, your thoughts wrapped in that familiar, thick cotton of subspace. You don't want to think; you just want to be held.

Carefully, you peel back the heavy blanket and slide into the heat of his bed. You press your front against his back, your small frame curling into the curve of his body. You let out a tiny, broken whimper, the sound vibrating against his skin, and bury your face between his shoulder blades. 

Oh, how warm he is. 

And Joel stirs. 

A slow awakening—a gradual return to consciousness that starts with the feeling of something soft and trembling pressed against him. And even though he freezes just for a heartbeat, your daddy recognises you immediately. 

But he can't. He shouldn't turn around and wrap his arms around your little frame until all those bad thoughts drifted far away. He shouldn't. 

"No," he murmurs, his voice thick with sleep. He doesn't turn around yet, but his muscles tense. "No...we said we weren't doing this again. You can't just...you can't just slip in here, babygirl."

He tries to sound stern, tries to maintain the boundary you both agreed upon, but you only press closer. You cling to him, your fingers bunching the fabric of his shirt, a sob catching in your throat.

"You can't always just crawl into my bed," he says, voice firm. "I mean it."

He didn't mean it. 

He knows what this state of yours means.

He knows exactly where it's heading, knows exactly how it's gonna end. He knows so well.

"Go to your room," he says again, sharper this time. "You hear me? You can't be doin' this. We said we weren't…we weren't gonna let this happen again."

And oh how it stings your small, tender heart when Daddy's voice turns stern like that.

He exhales hard. "Sweetheart, don't make me say it again."

You can't help but let a hot tear escape, soaking into his shirt. The sound of your quiet weeping is the breaking point for him. 

Joel closes his eyes, a pained flicker crossing his face as his resolve finally cracks. He can't leave you drifting out there alone. Can't leave his little babygirl all by herself. 

With a heavy, quiet exhale, he shifts, rolling over and letting one steady arm find your waist, guiding you upwards and into the safe space of his lap—the place that's always only meant for you. 

He settles you there, your legs draped over his thighs, and begins to stroke your back in long, grounding sweeps. You immediately bury your face into the warmth of his neck. 

"You're slipping away, huh?" he asks softly, his voice losing its edge and turning into that nurturing, honeyed tone that always makes you feel safe. "All gone in the head? Just a little babygirl who can't handle the world today?"

You nod, nuzzling into his shirt, breathing him in, and a tiny whimper escapes you; a sound so small and pitiful it's barely a breath. Your hand fists in his shirt, and you mumble against his chest, your voice thick and slurry, like you're talking through a mouthful of cotton.

"Want your cock, Daddy."

He releases a breath, your words making his mind spin. His grip on your hip tightens, his fingers digging slightly into your soft flesh. You respond by grinding your aching center against his thigh, a soft, desperate moan escaping your lips.

"No, babygirl." His voice is soft, gentle but firm. "We've talked about this, didn't we?"

You feel the frown pull at your brow, and you lift your head, your eyes hazy and unfocused, struggling to find his face in the dim light. 

"But I need it," you whine, the sound dragging out. "Please, Daddy. Please. I need it so bad."

He cups your cheek, his thumb stroking over your cheekbone, his skin rough and warm. "Sweet girl. You're so far under I can see it in those pretty eyes. You ain't in a place to think straight right now."

"I can—" you start, but he shushes you with a soft click of his tongue.

"I know you think you can, honey. But I'm your Daddy, and it's my job to know what's best for you." 

Your mind drifts, foggy and unfocused, to all the times he told you he couldn't be your daddy—that you shouldn't call him by that name, that it wasn't right, that it wasn't allowed. But now…in this confused, hazy state, you don't question a single word he says. You just accept it, soft and small, because everything feels too far away to fight.

He adjusts you on his lap, and he feels it then: the wet heat of you against his thigh, the slick slide of your bare cunt leaving a glistening trail on his pants. 

You'd taken your panties off hours ago, wanting to feel the chill on your skin. And now his breath hitches, just a little, and his hand drifts down to rest on the curve of your hip.

You're leaking. 

You can feel it, a slow, steady drip that soaks into the fabric, and you squirm, rubbing yourself against him just a little, chasing that friction. 

He groans low in his throat. "None of that, babygirl."

"Just the tip, Daddy." The words tumble out in a rush, desperate and breathless. "Please. Just the tip. I'll be good. I promise I'll be so good."

He sighs, long and heavy, and you can see the war in his eyes—the stern, responsible daddy who wants to tuck you into bed and keep you safe, and the daddy who aches to give you exactly what you're begging for. 

"No, honey. We had just the tip last time, and you didn't behave." 

You remember. You remember the way you'd bucked against him, trying to take more, the way he'd had to pull out mid-thrust and hold you down until you calmed down. But this time it's different, you swear.This time you're so soft, so pliant, so utterly lost in the haze that you know you'd be good. 

You'd be so so good for him.

"I'll be good, Daddy. I swear on my heart. I'll be so still and quiet. I just need to feel you—just a little. Please, Daddy. Please, please, please." Your eyes find his, limpid and pleading, tears pricking at the corners. "I'm so empty. I feel so empty without you."

He stares at you for a long, long moment, his thumb still tracing lazy patterns on your hip. His gaze is tired, heavy, searching, and you hold your breath, your whole body trembling with the effort of staying still for him. 

"Alright," he murmurs, and the word is like a key turning in a lock. Your heart stutters. "Alright. But you gotta promise me, babygirl. You let Daddy control it. You let me take care of you."

"I promise, Daddy. I promise I'll be good. I'll be your good girl."

He shifts you off of his lap, laying you down gently on his bed, your head sinking into the blanket. 

The mattress then dips as he moves, positioning himself between your thighs, his weight settling over you. 

You look up at him, all hazy in adoration, and spread your legs wider in invitation.

"I ain't hard, baby. But it'll work." He mutters under his breath, more to himself than to you. "We can make it work. You're tight anyway...it'll fit right in. Just a little bit, honey. Just enough to make you feel better."

You watch as he takes his cock out of his pants. 

It's soft, just as he said it would be, but even like this it's thick enough to make your mouth water. His tip the size of a small lime, flushed in a reddish undertone, and wet at the slit. He wraps his fingers around himself, giving himself a few lazy strokes, and you squeeze your thighs together instinctively.

"Please, Daddy," you peep, voice small.

He chuckles again, warm and fond. "I know, honey. Just a little babygirl, huh? My sweet, sweet girl."

But then he shifts, reaching for the nightstand, and a tiny, needy whine crawls out of your throat before you can stop it, fingers curling into his shirt, tugging him back.

"Hey…hey…shh." His voice drops like warm honey, slow and soothing. "Daddy's here. Just needed my glasses to see your pussy better, hon. Nothin' happened. M'here."

You blink up at him, and he's sliding those wire-framed glasses onto his face, the moonlight catching the lenses for a moment. 

He looks down at you, and through the glass his eyes are even softer, even more focused on his babygirl. 

"Desperate baby," He hums almost to himself, as his fingers find your folds and part them gently. 

You gasps at the touch, the cool air on your slick skin, and he lets out a breathy chuckle.

"Oh, you've been real needy, hm?" He hums. "Pretty little pussy, all soft and swollen for Daddy. Yeah, honey?"

You nod frantically, a little moan escaping you. 

He strokes through your wetness then, gathering it on his fingertips, and brings his hand to his cock. 

With a gentle squeeze, he guides his cockhead to your entrance and presses slowly in.

Even that single inch is a stretch, a slow, burning fullness that makes your eyes roll back in your head. Your mouth falls open, a breathy "oh" escaping you, and you feel every ridge, every vein as he sinks just barely inside. He stops there, his hips flush against yours, and you can feel him pulsing, feel the slight give of his flesh inside you.

Your head falls back, whimpering, hips twitching, trying to take him in. But he pulls back, just a fraction. 

"What did we say, hon? Behave."

You pout, bottom lip jutting out, and a fresh tear slips down your cheek. But you still, your body trembling with the effort, wanting to be good for your daddy.

"That's my good girl." Joel rewards you with a slow, gentle press of his soft tip further into your hole. 

You cry out, a high, keening sound, and he hushes you, his voice a low purr.

"Ain't even need to be hard, honey. Look how pretty you take me. Just the tip, babygirl. Just a little taste. You feel that? You feel Daddy's cock in your sweet little pussy?"

"Mhm—" you nod, glassy eyes watching as he plays with your cunt.

While he looks down at your cunt, his reading glasses slip to the bridge of his nose, hanging there stubbornly. Your hand rises without thinking, pushing them back up with a small, clumsy touch.

"Thank you, honey," he says gently. "Barely here, and you're still takin' care of me." Joel shakes his head, fond and tired.

"Always daddy..."

He breathes out a soft laugh, and strokes your cheek with a slow, careful touch.

Oh, how Joel's heart ached. Even while you were far away, those tiny words slipping out of you like instinct. God, how he wished that he didn't care this much. 

"I don't wanna hurt my little girl. You're too far gone for your own little good. You tell me if it's too much, yea, honey?" He asks gently.

"Yes, yes daddy," you babble, your words running together.

Then he starts to move, the shallowest of thrusts, just the thick head of his cock pressing in and sliding out of you with a pop, each pass catching on your rim. It's a tease, a tantalizing brush with something more, and your hands fly up to grip his shoulders, your nails digging into his shirt. 

Joel watches intensely how his tip gets covered in your juices. Every slow thrust makes your cunt react: growing wetter and wetter, entrance clenching and gripping his head like it wants to suck him deeper. 

"Daddy..." The word is a whimper, stretched out into a plea.

"I know, babygirl. I know." His voice is ragged, strained. "Just let daddy feel you. You're so tight. So perfect. So warm and wet for me."

His eyes move from your face down to your arms, noticing the goosebumps racing across your skin.

He halts his movements, frown on his face, murmuring a small: "Cold, honey?" He doesn't wait for an answer before he pulls his thick blanket carefully over your legs and tummy, tucking the edges so the warmth traps against you.

The sudden cocoon of heat makes you melt under him. Your muscles loosen, your breath evens, and the fuzzy, floaty feeling you've been chasing settles deeper. Joel watches your face soften, watches your lashes flutter, and a small, fond smile tugs at his mouth.

Then he starts with his thrusts. 

He rocks, rocks and rocks into you, slow, agonising, sweet while staying true to his promise: just the tip. 

Each tiny thrust is measured, patient, meant only to keep you drifting. His free hand slips under the blanket to rest over your belly, thumb rubbing soothing circles while he keeps the rest of you covered and safe.

His hand then slides lower where your bodies meet. His thumb finds your clit, circling that swollen nub with firm, steady pressure that matches the pace of his shallow thrusts. The dual sensation makes your breath hitch, your hips twitching towards him.

"Oh, my sweet babygirl," he whispers. "You're so close, aren't you." 

And you were. So so close.

His thumb presses harder, rubbing tight circles while his cockhead continues its lazy, teasing slide. You hiccup, the praise hitting you like a spark, heat flooding through your core as your muscles clench around him. 

Your orgasm builds fast, faster than you can realise—cresting without any warning. Your thighs tremble on either side of his hips, your back arching off of the bed as pleasure crashes over you. Soft, whiney whimpers spill from your lips: "daddydaddydaddy," while your walls pulse and squeeze around the tip still nestled just inside you.

"That's it. There you go, honey," Joel murmurs, his voice steady and encouraging. His thumb doesn't stop its relentless rubbing, drawing out every wave. "Squeeze it...yes, juuust like that. You're milking me without even having me inside. Such a good, needy little girl."

Your body responds to every word, clenching tighter around his head as the aftershocks ripple through you.

Joel keeps the slow, shallow movements going, letting you ride it out while his thumb gentles on your oversensitive clit. The warmth of his body surrounds you, his free hand stroking your hip in soothing circles as your breathing slowly evens out.

But then his hips start to tremble too, you can see the muscles in his forearms cord as he holds himself back, his knuckles white where they grip the bed on either side of your head. 

Your sweet daddy was getting hard...and he was trying his oh so best to not fill you up in one, quick thrust. 

With his now hard tip pressed inside you, his thumb leaves your clit to hold into your hips. 

Joel groans low, his eyebrows furrowing together. 

The head of his cock feels hotter now, thicker, the veins along his shaft pulsing against your entrance as he gradually swells inside the tight ring of muscle.

You feel the change immediately—his tip stretching you wider, the pressure building deeper even though he still refuses to push past that first inch. 

A soft whimper slips out before you can stop it.

"Daddy...I'm gonna...again...I can't...please... please just fill me..."

Joel shakes his head gently, his free hand stroking your thigh in soothing circles.

"No, no. You stay right there," he murmurs, voice warm and steady. "Just feel it, babygirl. Feel how big Daddy's getting for you." 

His cock throbs harder inside your entrance, the flared head catching on every flutter of your walls as he rocks forwards again, teasing without giving you more.

Your impatience grows fast. 

Your legs kick lightly against the mattress, your hips rolling up to chase more of him, desperate to pull him deeper. 

Joel clicks his tongue softly and pulls out completely, his wet cock slapping against your mound. 

"Hey. Hey. Oh, honey. It's okay," he soothes, gathering you up into his arms before you can protest. "Didn't you promise me you'd behave tonight, hm?" 

He shifts back against the headboard and settles you into his lap, your thighs straddling his hips, your face pressed to his chest. 

"M'sorry, daddy...i'm tryin' but I need you..." you mumble into his chest, tears already falling from your eyes. 

"Shhh, easy now, it's okey." he whispers against your hair, one big hand rubbing slow circles on your back while the other reaches down to grip his cock again. 

He lines himself up beneath you and then—oh. 

He starts to lower you, inch by careful inch. 

The thick head parts your folds once more, but this time he sinks deeper, stretching your walls open around his full length. 

"There you go...easy." he whispers into your ear while he moves so so agonisingly slow that you feel every ridge, every pulse, every vein dragging along your sensitive insides until he's buried to the hilt inside you.

"Too much, daddy..." The words comes out muffled against his shirt as you bury your face further in his chest, overwhelmed by how completely he fills you. Your body trembles around him, adjusting to the deep stretch, your arms wrapping tight around his torso.

"I know, babygirl...I know. Big stretch." He murmurs into your hair. 

He holds you close, rocking his hips in tiny, shallow movements that keep him seated deep without thrusting hard. 

"Bet that feels real good now in your pussy, hm? All deep inside now." He murmurs. 

Your face comes up from his chest to look at him, cheeks flushed, mouth gaping open. A soft "mhm,"comes from your lips before your face goes into his chest again. 

With every gentle thrust your whimpers—those tiny, little broken sounds—grow louder and louder the longer he keeps that steady pace. 

Joel watches your face the whole time, eyes soft with that sweet mix of concern and affection. When another shaky whine slips out of you, he slows even more, one hand leaving your hip to brush your cheek.

"Open your mouth, babygirl," he murmurs. His fingers trace your lower lip, then nudge gently between your teeth. "Mhm. Open, there you go, that's it. Daddy knows what you need, honey." 

He slides two thick fingers past your lips, letting them rest on your tongue while his hips start to rock up into you in those same tender thrusts. 

The weight of his cock fills you completely with every slow push, and the fingers in your mouth give you something to suckle on, something to ground you while little you floats away. 

"That's my good girl," he whispers, eyes never leaving yours. "Just like that. Keep sucking on Daddy's fingers while he takes care of this pretty cunt." 

His thrusts stay soft and steady, the wet sound of your bodies meeting barely louder than your muffled whimpers around his fingers. 

Joel chuckles when he feels you biting down his fingers, kissing the top of your head. His hand strokes slow circles over your lower back, steadying you.

"So full of Daddy's cock. You want Daddy to cum in you, baby?" 

You nod hazily around his fingers, your walls fluttering around him. 

But Joel shakes his head with a soft, teasing pout. "We ain't using any protection, bug." His hand slides down to grip your hip, guiding your movements gently as he continues those slow, shallow rocks. 

Your mouth leaves his fingers and you pout too, all soft, all floaty, mumbling, "M'gonna cum, Daddy."

"Yeah, baby? You're gonna cum?" His voice stays gentle even as his hips pick up the pace just a little, small thrusts turning quicker.

Your whimpers grow louder, turning into broken little whines as pleasure coils tight in your belly. 

"C'mon then, show your Daddy how good you can cum, bun," Joel sweetly encourages, thrusting steadily until your walls clamp down around him again, creaming and pulsing along his length. 

Your soft moans and cries stay muffled against his chest, your body shaking in his arms as the pleasure rolls through you in long, sweet waves.

Each squeeze sending warmth around his cock, each clench sucking him deeper and milking him until Joel couldn't take it anymore. 

He pulls out quickly once you're spent, stroking himself fast until hot ropes and ropes of cum paint across your tummy and thighs. You look down hazily, still overstimulated from your orgasm, wrapped up in a blanket of clouds. 

He keeps you tucked against him, one hand stroking your hair while the other rubs slow circles on your back. You're already soft and heavy in his arms, eyes fluttering closed as sleep pulls at you. 

"You did so well, babygirl." Joel presses a kiss to the top of your head, holding you close. "All worn out now, aren't you, honey?"

The last thing you hear is his voice, low and sweet, humming a lullaby you don't recognize, and the steady, strong beat of his heart beneath your ear.

Tomorrow will come with its own heaviness.

You both know that. The guilt will settle in quietly, embarrassment will whisper untrue thoughts, and neither of you will quite know what to do with it. You'll avoid each other's eyes, speak in short, careful sentences, pretend the night didn't happen the way it did.

But that's tomorrow.

Right now, wrapped in his arms, the world feels small and warm and so so gentle. Right now, his heartbeat is steady under your cheek, and your breathing finally matches his.

For this one quiet moment, you let yourself rest.

And your daddy, with his old, tired ache in his chest, lets himself hold you just a little closer, wishing he could have this forever. 

Phewwwww. I don't really know if i like this or not my brain is such a mush bc of this heat and stress so excuse my lack of proofreading!

When you climbed into a taxi, Joe sat down in the first seat and didn't scoot down, forcing you to climb over him. Grabby hands. Around your waist, firm grip of a thigh, and then very lightly, but definitely there, a hand grazed your bum as well.

When you plopped down onto the leather backseat, you were sort of in between two seats, and Joe used both hands to pull you into the middle one. Closer to him. Fumbly hands helped you into the seatbelt before an arm snuck around your neck again. The whole ordeal was a mess of flirty limbs, pretend annoyance and bit back giggles.

"Smooth," you joked, and then slapped a flat hand onto his leg which he then immediately trapped as he crossed them, one over the other. Joe held your hand there with his, firm fingers wrapped around your wrist in a strong grip.

Oh no...

Something kind of pulsed inside you. Down at the very base of your core.

Were you going to fuck Joe?

You were going to fuck Joe, weren't you?

You probably shouldn't.

The arm that Joe had slung around your neck found your free hand and you pushed your fingers into the gaps of his. They kind of fit perfectly, you thought.

Wait, what did you mean 'probably'? Were you mad? You definitely shouldn't!

But with one hand intertwined with his, and the other slotted in between his warm thighs, you kind of wanted out of clothes. Wanted to climb onto Joe. Straddle him, and unbutton his shirt. Get down to business right there, in the back of the cab.

You looked up at him, knew you really fucking shouldn't, but you never wanted to kiss anyone more in your entire life.

Joe noticed, must have somehow felt it in the air, and leant in, rubbing his nose to yours. You clenched your thighs together, pushed back into the seat a little more, totally unable to hide the effect Joe had on you. The control over your own breathing slowly ebbed away from you as you nosed each other - not kissing, but so very close..

You desperately wanted to tip your face enough to bring your mouths together. To taste him, to let your instincts guide you - that was all you wanted. It was sort of all your brain was telling you to do, especially when Joe's grip on you tightened.

Joe had let your noses touch, and then, he waited. Waited for you. He kind of couldn't breathe with the anticipation of what was to happen next.

But you couldn't. It wasn't right.

You tipped your face, but the other way, and let your foreheads touch. You copped out, swallowing thickly, and Joe released a shuddery breath.

"I don't..." you started, but had to clear your throat for the words to come out audibly. "I don't want to make mistakes,"

Joe moved back a little, lifted his chin to place a chaste kiss on your temple. It was slow enough for you to close your eyes to it, to lean into it, but it was just a touch of his mouth close to your hairline. Nothing more, nothing less.

"If this is a mistake, I think it's mine to make, not yours,"

Full responsibility just got lifted from your plate. Still, it didn't feel right. For more reasons than you were willing to dive into.

"Don't want you to make mistakes either,"

I don't want to be a mistake, is what you meant, but didn't say.

Joe leant back a little, chin tucked in all the way to be able to scan your face. Your features. Your expression. And then the frowned.

"You're not a mistake,"

Fuck. He was onto you.

"You're the opposite of a mistake, actually. Kind of the best thing that's happened to me in a long time,"

Oh no.

You were definitely going to fuck him.

"Yea?"

"Are you joking? I went to a place called Swingers without even second guessing that for a second. I don't think I've ever put that much blind trust into someone- into anyone, I don't think. Especially not some random girl," Joe copied your words from earlier, when you called him a random guy.

You smiled bashfully, found it a bit difficult to look him into the eye, stared at Joe's hand still wrapped around your wrist with your hand in between his legs and thought Joe must think you were just being shy. That there was no other inner turmoil going on.

You saw how Joe's fingers unwrapped themselves, and moved closer towards your face. Joe softly touched you by the chin and guided you to look at him.

"You're not a mistake," he whispered, his nose bumping into yours again. It stupidly all tugged at your heartstrings a little, made your chest swell and you thought, it's just the drink. You saw how Joe's eyes shot down, looked at your lips real close. Joe was just drunk.

"This bird is flying south and is taking you with him,"

Okay.

That was enough.

Joe's eager words persuaded you to close whatever little distance there was left between the two of you. Your lips brushed lightly at first, but as the taxi turned and pushed you into each other more, your kiss automatically deepened. Joe kissed you with an open mouth, all wet heat, all hot breath, and it kind of made you want to climb, push up more into him. Joe felt it, helped out immediately by hooking his arm around your neck more. He pulled you in, kissed you harder, and refused to break from you to breathe.

You let Joe devour you, and found that your seatbelt was too restrictive for your liking. It kept you in place too much. You wanted to sling a leg over Joe's lap, wanted to tip your hips, wanted to rock back and forth, wanted that- no, needed that with all your might.

Your seatbelt locked as you tugged on it too abruptly, tried to lean forward too choppily, and little sounds of frustration fell from your lips right into Joe's. Joe, moving in a calmer manner which meant his seatbelt gave way easily, chuckled softly as he curled into you, pushing you back into the seat.

"Nearly there," Joe spoke into your mouth just before licking across your lips, recognising just from the movements of the car where you were.

When the car finally stopped, you didn't.

You knew that everything was about to become even better the second you'd leave the car, but this bubble you'd created on the backseat felt safe. Joe unbuckled his own and then your seatbelt, releasing you with loud clicks and you instantly took advantage, pulling yourself up by Joe's neck, your kiss unwavering.

It look literal seconds for Joe to push you back until you were laying down, Joe on top of you, tonguing each other like it was of the utmost importance that you left each other's mouths wet with each other's saliva.

It was all just a hair removed from turning sloppy, from hands undoing buttons, from removing clothes, when suddenly, the cabby cleared his throat and announced how much it was going to be.

You scrambled to get inside.

Joe kept a firm hold of you, but you escaped his grip just for a moment as Joe had to lock up behind you. And, holy shit, look at this place. You stepped further inside, peeked into the living room, but didn't get much time to snoop because suddenly, you were flying. Joe lifted you by the waist from behind and your throat released squeals before you could stop them. Picked up from the floorboards, Joe carried you, pressed up against his front, and made his way into the kitchen where he plonked you down in front of the island and you thought it was going to go one way, already wanted to bend over for him, but then, Joe turned you around, and latched onto your mouth again.

Joe was good at kissing, the weak knees type of good at kissing. They were the type of kisses that pulled soft moans from your throat, and little grunts from his.

Fingers started tugging on your jeans, reminding you of your urge to get out of them. Joe helped you squirm free of fabric confines before hands found the backs of your thighs and you grabbed onto Joe's shoulders by instinct, letting him hoist you up onto the counter. When Joe broke from you, you assumed it was for him to undo his trousers, to get out of them, to take you there, but instead, he kneeled.

"No," you said a little shaky, a little panicked, and you grabbed him by his collar. For just a second worry shot over Joe's face.

You didn't really mean no, don't go down on me. You meant no, you don't have to.

Joe was close enough for you to feel his breath, which in turn made you realise how fucking wet you were.

Then he devilishly smiled, confidently said, "Oh, yes," with his full chest and placed a spread out palm right over your sternum.

"Lay back a little, let me take care of you," he pushed you all the way back until you were perched up on your elbows, spread out before him on the kitchen island.

"You don’t have to, I don’t– ohh," you couldn't even finish your sentence, Joe's mouth already on you, tonguing with just as much frevour as he'd kissed you with seconds earlier.

"Trust me," Joe's said, his voice a low bass, "This is more for me than it is for you,"

You didn't even catch his last words. With your head thrown back, moans tore from the pit of your stomach as Joe went to town. And Joe went to town. Completely lost himself in you. Licked, nipped, suckled, kissed and latched wherever he saw fit. Wherever you made the most noise. Wherever he wanted to taste. And there was no stopping him. You were a writhing mess, a thin breathe of a thing, and he just kept going. Wanted more of all the things you were giving him, all the hair-pulls, the nail-scratches, the thigh-squeezes and the sounds.

Fuck, you made such pretty sounds.

Joe panted harshly, hummed approvingly, and kept up until a clipped, almost pained sound erupted from you, and you were loud, but couldn't do anything to stop yourself. Joe could, but obviously didn't, and instead made you gasp for air. He kept going until he felt your orgasm overtake you wholly, turning you into a shuddering puddle of a girl.

Time stopped. It didn't just halt, time stopped existing entirely. There was no longer a need for silly little frivolous things like time, not when you felt like this.

You kind of wanted to cry a little.

Have a little sniffle break.

You could feel Joe reach for your hands, pulling on them until you were sat all the way back up. You didn't let you head tilt forwards until gravity did it for you and you crashed right into Joe's face.

Joe was kissing you again, all fiery, his tongue deep in your mouth. Then his arms wrapped around your back in a strong hug, lifting you up and off the island. With his hips suddenly pressing into yours, you couldn't help but melt into him and your legs nearly gave out completely.

"Bed?" you exhaled into Joe's mouth.

"Bed." he confirmed.

Joe's bed was silky, soft, and felt luxurious to the touch. You didn't have the faintest clue what it looked like, but it didn't matter. His touch was what mattered, but it was too slow. Joe was in his clothes still, and his face was in your neck, and he had one arm holding him up, and the other was on your waist, and he was grinding, but all of it was too slow. Not enough.

"Enough stalling," you panted, and Joe felt fingers tangle up into the back of his hair, gripping, tugging him back a little.

"Yea?"

Oh, Jesus. That panty little restrained yea? triggered you, turned up all dials in your body and something tangible stirred inside you.

"Mmhm," you nodded, confirming that yes, you'd stalled enough now, and followed, "How do you want me?"

You'd let Joe have you any type of way, and your fumbly fingers were trying their very best to undo buttons of Joe's outfit.

Joe moved back in, nuzzled his nose around yours and hummed before he said, "Just like this, close,"

Something snapped and sparked in your head before leaving it in full echoing empty darkness up there. It made your eyes glaze over in an instant. You weren't able to really process what Joe just said - couldn't spare a moment to stop and examine that this definitely felt like it was more than just dripping lust.

This was the type of shit that you would whine in the deepest heat of the most intimate of moments - the type of shit that would make men grow awkward and then they'd never call you again afterwards.

And here Joe was, openly admitting that he needed you close, pushing your hair back from your forehead and then pressing a soft kiss onto the tip of your nose.

What the fuck.

Joe pushed off of you, gave you a little time to collect yourself as he undressed and found a condom.

"Yea? Can I have you close?" Joe grinned, knew exactly the effect it had on you.

You groaned, a little annoyed at how smug he looked. "Don't– you can't just be saying shit like that,"

Joe moved back onto the bed, knees planted firmly into the mattress in a wide stance, sitting back on his heels. You took a moment to look at him in the low light, and you couldn't help but gulp. This was going to be a stretch.

"C'mere," Joe held out a hand, and you let yourself be pulled up. Joe maneuvered you, guided your legs and pulled you in by your waist until you were sat on his lap with your thighs spread wide.

Joe took a second to squeeze the air out of your lungs as he pressed you chest to chest and held you there for a moment, all firm and all sticky.

"Close," he whispered into your ear and it made you tip your head back, almost practically making you come untouched.

Two hands lifted you slightly underneath your ass, and Joe let himself slowly slip into you.

You were right before. It was a stretch, and Joe struggled to control his breathing as you gasped, because it truly was a tight squeeze.

Discomfort quickly made way for pleasure. And then pleasure built, and it built fast, because Joe started moving and oh my God, close was good. Close was perfect.

The pace increased so slowly, you only realised you weren't being carefully held and caressed when Joe was quite literally making you bounce up into the air with his pounding.

You were so lost in all of it. So gone for him. Joe had you arching your back as he fought to keep you in his arms and all of it worked together so heavenly well.

You came again whilst Joe bit into your jaw, grunting, breath fanning and sweat dripping, and you nearly moved your feet to stand up from Joe's lap when it all became too much.

And it was a little scary because you thought your vision had gone for a minute. Squeezing them shut for a few seconds, you made yourself see static before blinking your eyes back into focus. Then you saw Joe, all blissed out, eyes closed and jaw lax. You only noticed then that he'd climaxed too, and you let your foreheads fall together as you collected yourselves mentally and physically.

Before Joe helped you climb off him, he kissed you again. Soft and tenderly and you'd already started drifting a little when you felt hands carefully lay you down onto the bed.

Then, hands were moving sheets. Moving covers. Pulling, tugging, and then draping, followed by a body that slipped in behind you. Then, skin-to-skin cuddling, snuggling, and nuzzling. Not soon after, what followed was complete, beautiful darkness and soft, warm dreams.

Out. Gone.

You woke up a couple hours later because you felt Joe stirring behind you. Two gentle hands reached out and tugged you close in the darkness of the morning. Instinctively you knew that the sunrise wasn't far off, and that getting up and out of bed was hours away still. Heavy with sleep, and ready to drift off again, you felt Joe press a kiss into your shoulder. He then shifted against you further, nosed along the back of your neck and then slipped a hand around to touch where you were still a little sore, sensitive.

Joe touched you tenderly until you started letting little moans slip out, and slowly, just before the break of day, you had sex again. You gently moved underneath the covers together, eyes barely opening throughout any of it, arms holding you like they were made for it. Pleasure pounded, rhythmically and tidally. It was the earth, it was the moon, it was ebb and flow and it was gorgeous. Entirely unaware if either of you even orgasmed at all, you didn't realise you'd fallen asleep again until you woke up in a bright, sunlit bedroom.

Joe was asleep still, and you drifted for a little bit until you couldn't anymore. You peeked over your shoulder and saw his soft face, pressed into his pillow, mouth slightly agape, and you thought, somehow, he looked even cuter in the morning.

Which was bad news.

Because what the fuck did you think you were doing in Joe's bed in the morning?

You weren't meant to be there.

Should've stopped it when you had the chance. When you were in your sound mind still. Probably should've never even gone with him after leading him into that alley behind the restaurant.

Shit.

You looked at Joe again, pondering. Yes, this was all wrong. Very wrong. But then, could someone come in and explain to you why the fuck it all felt so natural then? If it was all meant to not have happened, why did it kind of feel like everything had slid right into their perfectly shaped slots? Like this actually all made perfect sense?

Joe moved in his sleep a little, and it startled you, so you quickly slipped out of bed and tiptoed your way over to his bathroom. You could think your thoughts and feel your feelings in there, privately and safely. Stare at yourself in the mirror until you absolutely hated who was staring back at you. And then, but only then, could you go home.

You blessed a God you didn't believe in that today was a work-from-home day as you washed your face with a questionable cleanser you found in Joe's medicine cabinet, focussing extra on the mascara that had migrated halfway down your face in the night.

Fucking hell.

Last night was good. There was no denying it.

You tried to think of bad things, but the only thing that came to mind was the fact that you did actually lose at crazy golf, even if Joe insisted you didn't, and then there was the bad cocktail you made the waitress at Duck & Waffle mix for you.

Everything else had been sort of... glorious.

You had drank a lot, but were able to remember almost all of it. Thinking things over, you decided that you probably wouldn't do anything different if you got to do all of it over again. Given the chance of making different choices wouldn't change a single thing - you'd pick this weird hung-over morning of slight-regret over missing out on any detail of every second you got to spend with Joe.

You snooped around cabinets until you found an opened multi-pack of toothbrushes, two left in there still, and got to brushing your teeth.

That's when the door, which you'd left slightly ajar, opened further and revealed Joe on the other side.

Morning-Joe was different from evening-Joe, and you'd been right earlier: this Joe was cuter. In a T-shirt and a pair of boxer briefs, hair all over the place, Joe squinted at the bright light, one eye shut entirely, and a wide grin slowly grew on his face. He seemed happy to have found you, might have been scared for moment, maybe thought you'd left without having said goodbye.

"Morning," Joe rumbled, his voice rough and raspy with left-over sleep.

You brushed your teeth and smiled back at him via the vanity mirror and saw how Joe padded over to you before pressing himself lightly against your back. Then, two arms slipped around your waist and suddenly, it became a little difficult to breathe. Joe let his head dip down and curl around to kiss your neck and fuck, it made your heart do somersaults.

You almost dropped your toothbrush into the sink, eyes closed and far too hungover for this, every muscle in your body wanting to relax fully. Joe could hold you like this for a lifetime and it'd be too short.

Joe then reached an arm over, took his own toothbrush from its holder and let go of you. It almost made you whine, the loss of his grip, but you powered through. Could make it seem like you were just tired still. Hungover. Whatever.

You brushed your teeth side by side, and Joe nudged into you for no reason, his shoulder bumping into yours. It made you smile at each other as you made eye-contact in the mirror.

This shit was fucking adorable. The type of stuff you'd tell your mum about. Maybe not. Although, if she were to pry, you might just spill all.

"What have you got going today?" Joe asked as you stepped into the kitchen a little while after him. You felt a bit grubby in the same outfit you'd worn the day before, but you definitely weren't in the position to ask Joe if you could borrow some of this clothes. That was day-time-intimacy. You'd only had night-time-intimacy, and you decided it should remain that way.

He passed you a mug of coffee along with a glass of water, asked if you wanted any milk or sugar, which you declined with a small wave of your hand before you sat down on a stool.

"Um, not a lot. I'm meant to work from home today, so I guess... nothing really," you huffed a laugh through your nose before taking a small sip of coffee.

Fuck, that was good. Coffee could really fix anything, couldn't it?

"Tell me," Joe said, chuckling slightly. "What kind of job permits employees to view working-from-home days as days off?"

"A job that's not actually a real job yet,"

You made eye contact over your coffee mugs, elbows perched on the island. The same island Joe'd eaten you out on hours earlier.

Joe raised his eyebrows in question.

"I'm an undergrad, and I have this... this boring internship at a boring office, and half the time they don't even let me into the building and made me work from home," you waved a hand, implying it wasn't important.

"It's fine. I'll do actual work if I get an actual job there,"

Joe nodded, completely unfamiliar with office jobs or internships. He was more the type of guy who understood small TV roles and local theater runs as stepping stones into a career.

Different worlds, Joe thought.

"Well, in that case," Joe paused, took a sip and watched you grow impatient fast. Made him laugh a little. "Wanna go see a film this afternoon?"

Joe said that way too casually, and it made you narrow your eyes at him in suspicion.

"See a film? Like... like, a cinema date?" you raised your eyebrows.

Joe shrugged, looked into is coffee mug, said, "Sure," and took another swig.

The door to the office swung open, knocking completely foregone because, this was important.

"Guess what just happened?"

"... I... what do you mean?"

"Joe just phoned to confirm. Not to cancel, but to confirm."

"You're joking,"

Josephine looked at her phone, found the proof of Joe's incoming call and turned her phone to show it. Neither of them could quite believe it.

"He really confirmed? For this afternoon?"

"And he sounded fucking chipper,"

"Oh my God?"

"I can't believe it's actually working..."

"Well, calm down, it hasn't started yet. There's still time, he fucking ran off yesterday, who knows what he'll do this time,"

"But he confirmed,"

"Don't... just, don't get your hopes up yet,"

"He confirmed."

---

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It had been at least a few days since you’d last seen Joel. He had left before you’d woken up the other night. His absence had left you feeling empty and lost. You missed the usual relief that accompanied his leaving. When you rolled over in bed this morning, there was a bouquet of fresh flowers on your nightstand. A small square envelope was propped against the glass vase with your name written on the front.

Your heart thumped as you reached for the piece of paper, slipping your finger under the flap and sliding it open. A notecard was tucked inside.

Morning, angel. Coffee and breakfast is on the counter. Check your closet and I’ll see you later.

You had no idea he’d even been here. It felt odd that he’d come inside and leave you undisturbed. You looked over at your closet. Your anxiety started to bubble up as you swung your legs out of bed and crossed the room. You held your breath as you slid open your closet doors. The reveal brought instant tears to your eyes.

It was the dress – the one you had so desperately wanted before that Joel had already surprised you with, just to ruin it later that same day. You started crying as you took a step back. The thought of putting that back on your body made you feel nauseous. You could see some of the stitching on it where it had been repaired. It made you envious. 

This dress had started out as something beautiful, something hopeful. It went through hell – dragged through the dirt and leaves, ripped, stepped on, spat on, degraded and made to feel like nothing special. And then it was taken somewhere new. It was given another chance, another life. It was cleaned, sewn back together, repaired. And now, here it hangs in your closet, looking beautiful. You had half a mind to rip it off the hanger, stomp on it, dirty it all over again. But instead, you slammed the closet doors shut and went to the kitchen. 

Of course, your favorite iced coffee sat on the counter beside a breakfast sandwich wrapped in foil. You chewed on the inside of your lip, just staring at the food for a moment. You were growing tired of being at war with yourself. 

Your fingers gently unwrapped the foil, as you thought about the previous night. Taking a bite, you thought back to how he cared for you – the pizza, the groceries in the fridge, your clean laundry that he’d already folded and put away, how he held and cuddled you. You sipped your coffee, now remembering the harsh way that he grabbed your hips, the cruel things he said to you, how he took advantage of your exhaustion and vulnerability to violate your body in a way that you’d already asked him not to. Your stomach suddenly turned and you ran to the bathroom, falling to your knees as you vomited into the recently-cleaned toilet bowl. 

When your stomach was emptied, you stood up, rinsing your mouth out in the sink and looking in the mirror. Your eyes looked lifeless, with dark rings around them. Your lips were chapped, your skin was breaking out, and your hands trembled as you dried them off on the hand towel. You couldn’t bring yourself to look in the mirror again before walking back out to the kitchen.

You made sure to wrap up the sandwich and bury it in the bottom of the trash, anticipating how angry Joel would be if he knew you hadn’t eaten it. You carried the coffee to the back patio, along with a book. You were hoping that maybe fresh air would help you feel more normal. 

It seemed to work. Your body started to relax, allowing you to actually read for the first time in weeks. You sipped on your coffee, allowing yourself to get lost in the book. Time slipped by quickly, and you had no idea how long it had been when you heard the back door open and looked up to see Joel with a smile on his face. 

“Hey, angel,” he said as he stepped forward, sitting down in the chair opposite you. 

Your chest tightened a little as you tried to smile back and answered with a weak, “Hey.” 

“What’ve you been up to?,” he asked, tilting his head to try and read the cover of your book. 

“Just this,” you replied as you lifted the novel. 

Joel squinted to better read the title. “Wide Sargasso Sea? What’s it about?” 

“Umm,” you pondered as you looked down at the book. “I’m not that far into it, so I’m not sure how much I’ve grasped yet.” You looked back up at him. “What…uh, what have you been up to?” You weren’t sure if you were allowed to ask him a question in return. This casual chatter wasn’t common for the two of you. 

“Wanna see?” Joel stood up from the chair, extending a hand out towards you. 

You took it uncertainly, standing up and letting him lead you back into the house. On your way in, you stole a quick glance at the woods behind you. Memories of him chasing you through the trees flashed through your mind and made your stomach turn once more. Still, you allowed him to hold your hand as he pulled you through the back door and into the living room. 

There was a white box on your kitchen island that looked to be from a bakery. As you got closer, Joel’s hand still in yours, you saw the box was stamped with the name of your favorite patisserie downtown. You gave a meek smile and looked over at him. “Thank you, Joel.” 

“Open it,” he encouraged, an uncharacteristic smile on his face.

You let go of his hand, walking toward the counter and lifting open the lid on the smooth white box. From the scent alone, you knew it was your favorite triple berry cream cake, but instead of the top of the cake usually being covered in whipped cream and berries, the berries were in a ring circling the top of the cake with the words, “for my angel,” written in pink icing across the center. 

The cake was clearly a kind gesture, but with the mixture of emotions you’d been feeling all day, you weren’t exactly in the mood to dig into it. You hoped your smile was convincing enough when you looked back over at him and thanked him once again. You made sure to make your voice as sweet as you could when you responded, “It looks great.” 

“It’s your favorite, right?,” he asked, looking somewhat confused by your reaction. He looked at the cake and back at you.

“Yeah! Yeah…it is.” You gave another forced smile then closed the lid, carrying it to the fridge and putting it inside. “Maybe we can eat it later?” You looked back at him as you slowly closed the refrigerator door. 

“What?” Joel watched you carefully. His face started to change. “You…know what today is, right?” 

You looked at him blankly for a moment, having no idea what he was getting at. Your mind reeled, trying to land on what it might be. You chewed your lip, contemplating. The longer it took you to answer him, the more impatient he started to look. 

“Um…your…birthday?” As soon as the answer left your mouth, you were sure that you were incorrect. His expression continued to darken and when he turned away from you, you realized you’d made an even bigger mistake than you thought. “Joel, I-” 

The words were ripped from your mouth when he spun around, finger pointed at you as he gritted out, “You’re a spoiled fuckin’ brat!” The venom in his words was enough to anchor you to the floor – too afraid to move or speak. 

He looked from the refrigerator back to your face. You could see in his eyes that he was contemplating something, something that you were sure was not going to be good. All you could do was swallow the lump in your throat and shake your head. You weren’t sure if you’d ever been so desperate for an answer as you were right now. 

You watched as he moved toward the fridge. Your stomach tightened, a pit forming as you tried to wrack your brain for what he was referring to in hopes that you could prevent whatever was about to happen. Tears formed at the corners of your eyes as you tried to speak again, prepared to beg, “Joel, I’m so sorry. I really-”

He cut you off again when he slammed the fridge door, cake now in hand, and shot a threatening look in your direction. “Shut the fuck up,” he said as he set the cake back on the kitchen island, unceremoniously lifting the lid and then motioning with his hand for you to take a seat. 

By now, you’d learned your lesson about disobeying him, so you hesitantly lifted yourself up onto the stool, resting your feet on the bar and glancing at the cake then back to Joel. He was standing beside the counter, shoulders squared and the crease evident between his brows. With the tips of his fingers, he slid the cake box towards you. 

“Eat.” 

It was a simple command, but you immediately felt your stomach revolt. You were entirely too unsettled to eat a dessert right now. Still, you looked at the cake, preparing to take a bite. You looked at Joel plainly and asked, “Can I have a fork, please?”

He shook his head while maintaining eye contact with you. “Don’t need one, angel. Eat up.”

You drew in a breath. It was shaky and incomplete, leaving you feeling slightly lightheaded as you took your pointer finger, swiping it across the whipped frosting and then dipping it into your mouth. You immediately salivated at the sugary taste and looked at Joel for approval. 

“Eat it.” 

You took two fingers now, using a scooping motion at the edge of the cake, gathering a generous bite, including a raspberry. Blush crept across your cheeks at the slight humiliation and you once again brought your hand to your mouth, sucking the dessert off your fingers. 

Joel nodded this time, clearly pleased with the vision in front of him. Normally you’d feel relief, maybe even satisfaction with making him proud. But right now, all you wanted was for him to leave. You could feel yourself shutting down again, wanting to get away. It was no use because after you’d swallowed down the dessert, Joel lifted his own hand. With his two fingers, he scraped up another bite of cake. His eyes were on your mouth as he demanded, “Open up.”

You had to fight the shudder that threatened to work its way through your body. Instead, opening your mouth as he asked and then moving your tongue against his fingers once they were pressed against your tongue. His eyes softened at the sight and he moved his body closer to you. You continued sucking until the cake and frosting had dissipated, leaving just the salty taste of his skin. 

“Good girl.” Even though his features weren’t as dark, his eyes didn’t carry the same twinkle they usually did when he praised you. It was clear he was still upset and your heart started racing again when he slowly slipped his fingers from your mouth. 

“I’ll give you one more chance t’guess the significance of today,” he spoke calmly, despite the storm you could see brewing within him. “But if you don’t get it right, I’m gonna be very upset, angel. Y’understand that?”

You didn’t. You didn’t understand it at all, in fact. But you didn’t know how to tell him that. So all you could do was nod and respond, “Yes, Sir.” The honorific left your lips before you could even realize it. There was a natural submission that Joel pulled from you and you hated how normal it felt. 

He looked at you expectantly and you played with your fingers in your lap, trying to conceal your nervousness from him. His lack of patience was palpable as you tried to think of the significance that the day could hold. 

You exhaled before giving your final guess, “Are we…did we have plans for today? Something you…something you wanted to do?” 

Under normal circumstances, you were sure that you could think of a better guess. But your mind had not been working normally for quite some time. You still found that you were losing chunks of time and that you often had no idea what day it was. Doing anything felt like moving your body and your brain through molasses. So all you could do after giving Joel your weak attempt at an answer was look at him pleadingly, hoping that some shred of him might take pity on you. 

There was a moment of silence and that foolish part of you thought that maybe Joel was just giving you another chance. But then he moved toward you, his hand slid along the countertop, stopping right in front of where you sat as he now loomed over you, large and imposing. 

His face neared yours, as though he was going in for a kiss, but before your lips could meet he gritted out a rough, “Happy anniversary, darlin’.” 

Your mouth dropped, not expecting to hear those words come out of his mouth. Before you could utter anything in response, Joel’s lips collided with yours in a sloppy, aggressive kiss. His hand moved to the back of your head, anchoring your face to his as his teeth, lips, and tongue roughly claimed you. 

To maintain your fragile balance on the stool, one of your hands rested against the countertop as the other gripped Joel’s bicep. The hungry kiss took your breath away. When Joel finally pulled away from you, you were prepared for him to drag you into the bedroom, but instead your body startled when you saw him swipe the cake off the counter and onto the wood floor beneath you. 

The box sprang open, the cake sliding out and onto the floor in a gloppy mess. You looked down at it, your racing heart sinking slightly at the sad sight of the ruined dessert. Joel stood beside the mess, looking down at it then back at you. Some of the whipped cream had splattered across his worn, brown boots. 

“Gonna say it back?” His expression was serious as he regarded you.

“Happy…anniversary, Joel.” The words left a sour taste in your mouth, your body rebelling at the idea that you would celebrate a year of pure misery with him. You felt your eyes start to water. Somehow, him making you say that sentence was the most humiliating thing he had done to you yet. 

The corner of his mouth lifted and then he spoke, “Good girl. So now you know why I fixed your dress up…got you your favorite cake.” He looked down at the cake mess again and when he looked back at you, his eyes were a shade darker. “I don’t feel like you’ve adequately appreciated the gesture.” 

Not wanting to upset him, you responded in a panic-stricken tone, “N-no! I do appreciate it. V-very much. Thank you, Joel.” 

“Yeah? That right?” His head cocked to the side slightly and a smirk spread across his face. “Show me, then.” 

“What…do you mean?” You felt your entire body become rigid in anticipation of what cruel thing he was sure to make you do. 

His smirk stayed on his face as he responded, “Think you know exactly what I mean, angel.” 

“If this is your favorite cake…eat it.” With a simple command, he nodded toward the cake on the floor. His expression was stoic now – showing no signs of this being some sort of joke. 

Your cheeks burned with humiliation and you shook your head. “Joel…I don’t…” You trailed off, not quite sure what you were going to say in protest. 

Joel leaned forward just slightly, looming over you. “I suggest you do as I say. Next time I ask…may not be so nice…” 

You gulped, looking up at him then back down at the sad cake. On your knees, you reached out toward the cake, ready to scoop another bite in your hand, but before you could even touch the frosting, you heard Joel say, “Tsk, tsk, angel…didn’t tell you to use your hands.”

As if things couldn’t become even more humiliating, you hung your head, bending forward and trying to carefully take a bite of the cake. Joel’s hands took hold of your arms, pulling them back behind you. 

“Hands behind your back, sweet girl.” It was hard to keep balance, so he helped by holding your wrists together for a few seconds, then slowly releasing. You did your best to clutch your hands together, fingers intertwined, while you continued to lean forward and take a bite of the cake.

You sat back a bit, chewing the small bite you managed to get. Too nervous to make eye contact with him, you kept your eyes trained on the floor in front of you. The taste of the cake was ruined by the fear and bitterness in your mouth. 

Joel was quiet as you ate, just watching with rapt attention as you leaned forward and took another bite, wobbling just slightly from being a little off balance with your arms behind you. The corner of his mouth lifted as he watched you sit back again, chewing with your head down. You made it so easy sometimes. 

“While you’re down there, angel, looks like my boots got a little dirty in the mishap. Mind cleaning ‘em up?” 

That caught your attention, drawing your eyes up to him as you nervously swallowed the last little bit of cake in your mouth. You could feel the frosting that was smeared on your chin and the tip of your nose, feeling humiliated once more. But the look in Joel’s eyes wasn’t entirely mocking like you had expected. There was a prideful twinkle in them that spread warmth in your lower tummy. And while the thought of cleaning his boots with your mouth made you feel sick, there was something else inside of you that was eager to please him.

So without putting up a fight, you simply nodded your head and leaned back down. 

“You can use your hands now, darlin’,” Joel offered out of the kindness of his heart. 

You released your hands from behind your back, your arms slightly sore as you set your hands on the floor in front of you. Tears pricked your eyes but you continued to bend forward, moving closer to the ground and tentatively sticking your tongue out. Joel’s breath caught in his throat. His jeans grew tighter as he saw you lick your first stripe across his boot. 

His voice came out gravelly as he said, “Good fuckin’ girl.” 

You didn’t look up when you heard his voice. Your face was so hot with shame that you couldn’t even stand the thought of needing to look anyone in the eyes right now. His boots were clearly worn. Dirt combined with the white cream as your tongue smoothed over the surface, licking up the degrading concoction. You weren’t sure if you’d be able to continue if it wasn’t for the consistent praise he was offering you.

“Doing such a good job, sweetheart…just like that, get ‘em all clean f’me.” 

The humiliation had settled deep in your gut, but the longer you licked his boots clean the more normal it started to feel. His soft words twisted inside of you, creating a pull between your legs that was shocking. 

When he was satisfied with your performance, he took a step back, garnering your attention as you peered up at him, lifting your hand and wiping your mouth with the back of it. 

“Good as new, angel,” he said with a wink. Your eyes dropped down, noticing his prominent bulge for the first time. “Think I got somethin’ else that could use your attention, sweet girl.”

You didn’t have to think about what it was he was referring to. Your heart was racing in your chest and your entire body felt taught. Your eyes peered up at him wearily as he nodded down toward his crotch.

Closing your eyes for just a momentary escape, you opened them a second later and began to unzip his jeans with shaky fingers. He wasn’t wearing boxers, so his dick popped out at you, earning a chuckle from him as he saw you startle.

You took a deep breath and then held the base of his cock in your hand, sticking your tongue out and licking a stripe up the underside of his cock, feeling the thick vein run along your tongue. You were immediately aware of how dry your mouth was. Pulling back, you closed your mouth, trying to gather saliva, but it didn’t work.

Joel looked down at you impatiently. “The hell are you waitin’ for?”

You didn’t answer him, simply opened your mouth and tried to wrap your lips around him. Sliding back up, your tongue twirled around his head, just how you knew he liked. It drew a groan from him as one of his hands moved to the crown of your head, following your movements. But when you tried to take more of him in your mouth, it proved to be difficult with what little saliva you had. You pulled back with a cough and Joel frowned at you.

“What’s wrong with you?” He had a look of disgust on his face when you finally gathered the courage to look back up at him.

Stammering, you tried to answer him quickly, “I-I don’t know. My mouth...feels dry.”

He was still scowling at you, clearly trying to rack his brain for a solution. You knew he found one when his signature smirk crept across his lips. Joel looked down at the cake and then back at you. “Looks like you gotta get creative then, sweetheart.”

You hesitated, the threat of further humiliation starting to rear it’s ugly head again. You were disgusted with how long this was dragging on, and hoped that the sooner you could get him off, the sooner he would leave. That seemed to be his modus operandi anyway.

Scooping a handful of the disheveled cake, you brought it to his cock, watching how the cake and icing created a sticky lube. Dragging your hand up and down, you smeared the sweet substance all over his shaft. Joel moaned softly, clearly satisfied with his idea and reaping the benefits of it.

“Mouth too, angel,” he spoke softly as he watched you stroke him.

The cake was gathering between your fingers, creating a sensory nightmare that you couldn’t even think about. You were surprised at how well it was working to jack him off, though. Bringing your mouth to the head of his cock, you began to suckle as your hand continued working his throbbing shaft. Joel’s hand found the top of your head again as you tasted his precum that was slowly leaking out onto your tongue.

You continued sucking, moving your head up and down as your tongue swirled around his smooth tip. Your hand matched the pace of your mouth and you started to taste the icing mixing with his precum. It was sweet and tangy and you didn’t mind it.

“Fuuuck, jus’ like that...mhhm…” Joel’s grip on your head tightened and he started to move his hips back and forth, eagerness grabbing hold of him as he neared his euphoric peak. “Keep goin’, keep goin’, angel...shit.”

You cupped his balls with your other hand and Joel grunted, snapping his hips forward. His fingers moved through your hair, holding for leverage so that he could fuck your mouth. “Fuckin’ take it, dirty slut.” You worked to open your throat, allowing him in deeper as his balls contracted in your hand. “Messy lil thing. Should see yourself. Pathetic.” Your nose smashed against his curly hairs at the base of his cock. “Made t’be used by me, huh? Bet your fuckin’ dripping right now. Filthy fuckin’ whore.”

It was clear he was getting close with the intensity of his degrading words and the unforgiving snapping of his hips. Tears pricked your eyes as he continued abusing your throat.

“So beautiful...shit…” He pulled out of your mouth quickly and gripped his cock. He aimed the head of it down toward the cake on the ground as he furiously pumped himself.

You watched, somewhat slack-jawed, as he fucked his fist until his cum spurted all over the cake in thick ropes. Some of it missed, landing on the box or the floor, but the majority was now strung across the cake in thick, milky-white ropes. Joel groaned the whole time, his eyes dark as he already knew what he was going to make you do.

You shrunk under his gaze when he finally looked over at you and spoke, “Still got some cake t’eat, angel.”

Your mouth tasted sour at the thought of it and you had to work to suppress the sudden nausea. But when you bowed down, hands planted on either side of the cake as you lowered your face and took your first cum-laden bite, you were once again surprised at the pulsing sensation between your legs. This was humiliating, degrading, even disgusting. And yet, as you took bite after bite it was without Joel’s encouragement.

Even he watched in awe as you used your tongue to sweep across the frosting, gathering the sweet and salty mixture in your mouth. His neck was red and his pulse hammering within him as his arousal grew. You’d eaten nearly every bite of cake that his spend had touched. And when you finally kneeled back, looking up at him like a lovesick puppy, he couldn’t help but to drop to his own knees, taking your face in his hands and kissing you passionately.

You leaned into his affectionate touch and wrapped your arms around his neck. The cake smeared against his lips and chin as he kissed you. He continued holding your face as his tongue prodded into your mouth, tasting you along with the mixture you’d just consumed. When he finally pulled away, his eyes moved back and forth between yours and he smiled at you softly.

“You should go get changed. We’re gonna be late.” He let go of your face, standing up and reaching down to pull you up with him. He wiped the cake off his face with the back of his hand, then leaned forward, using his mouth and tongue to clean the rest off of yours.

You stood on slightly wobbly legs, looking at him with a confused yet still cock-drunken expression. “Late?”

He nodded, taking your hand and leading you towards the bedroom. “Course, angel. It’s our anniversary...what sorta guy would I be if I didn’t take you out to dinner?”

“D-dinner?” You hadn’t been on a date with Joel since your first time meeting him. Images of that date flashed in your mind. He had seemed so normal, so sweet. He had brought you flowers when he met you at the restaurant. The conversation had flowed well, despite him being on the more quiet side. He had asked you lots of questions and you remember being flattered that he had seemed so genuinely interested in you. It hadn’t been until later that night when he was blowing up your phone, calling and texting asking when he would see you next, that you realized something was off. It didn’t take long for your friends to convince you to leave him behind. Those same friends that no longer reach out anymore after so many failed attempts at reaching you. You’d completely isolated yourself.

You look up at the only person you had left in this world. He was smiling down at you as he held the dress. “Go freshen up, I’ll be waiting on the couch,” he said as he handed you the dress, kissing your cheek and then closing your bedroom door on his way out.

Standing in front of your full-length mirror, you moved around in the dress, admiring how it hugged your curves. You’d put on some simple makeup and fixed your hair into a half updo. You slipped on your shoes, put on a pair of earrings, and then stood at the door with your hand hovering over the handle.

The emotions within you were a confusing concoction of excitement, dread, appreciation, and fear. This particular mixture was not new to you. Joel pulled these emotions from you frequently, but there was a new sense of apprehension about going out with him in public. You had trouble picture how he was going to treat you. Behind closed doors, it was a constant whiplash effect. The idea of him embarrassing you in a restaurant was nearly nausea-inducing.

“You about ready in there?,” Joel called from the other room. He didn’t sound irritated thankfully, but you knew that you didn’t have much more time to stall.

Opening the door, you looked over at Joel standing near the couch. His face lit up when he saw you and he crossed the room, reaching for you and pulling you close to him by your hips.

“Goddamn,” he remarked, staring down at you with admiring eyes. “You look incredible, angel.”

A true smile flashed across your face for just a moment. He had the ability to make you feel like the most beautiful and special woman in the world. But the reality came rushing back in readily, reminding you that he frequently made you feel worthless, stupid, and small.

Joel didn’t notice the shift in your expression, too busy walking you out the door and toward his truck. He got you situated, even leaning in to buckle your seat belt and giving you a quick kiss on the cheek. His hand rested on your thigh for the drive, occasionally moving up toward your center in a claiming reminder.

Your stomach dropped when he pulled up to the same restaurant that you’d had your first date at. You hadn’t been back since then because you had started to avoid it when you were trying to rid yourself of him altogether. He parked the car and looked over at you with an expectant look.

“Recognize it?” He turned the truck off, holding the keys in his hand as he unbuckled his seat belt.

You did the same, unbuckling and glancing at the restaurant then back to him. “How could I not?”

Joel took it as a statement of affection rather than an obvious acknowledgement of the trauma you’d experienced. You steeled yourself, prepared to put on a brave face throughout the dinner. It was already dark outside and when Joel walked around the truck, opening up your door, you were hit with the cool November air as he took your hand.

You stepped out, letting him guide you toward the Italian restaurant. It was situated downtown in what used to be one of your favorite areas to frequent. There was a boutique hotel attached to it that supposedly had some of the best views of the city. As Joel escorted you inside, you looked around, noting that it looked the same as before. You took a breath and smiled at the hostess as you neared.

“Good evening, do you have reservations tonight?” She gave a pleasant smile as she looked at Joel.

Joel nodded and said, “Miller.”

“Oh! Wonderful.” Her voice perked up as she walked around the stand. “We’re excited to have you tonight. I hope everything will be to your liking.”

You gave Joel a look, cocking your head slightly and trying to see if he was up to something. He grinned back at you, following the hostess as she continued walking toward the back of the restaurant.

He placed his hand on your lower back, guiding you through the sea of other patrons as he lowered his mouth to the shell of your ear, whispering, “I’ve got a surprise for you.”

AO3 | masterlist | YSFL masterlist

Let me know if you'd like to be added or removed from list!

♡

you don’t realize your shoes are on the wrong feet until you’re three blocks from the building. (it tracks. you’re not exactly making stellar choices this morning.)

the hoodie isn’t yours. it swallows your hands and smells like something expensive you don’t recognize—clean, sharp, a citrus bite you’ll remember later when you’re trying to fall asleep (like his teeth on your neck, you remember, you swear you remember).

you’ve done the walk of shame before, but not like this. not with your pulse trying to jump out of your throat. (he was in the shower when you left. you didn't want to see his face.)

you swore you weren’t this person. you didn't do one-night stands. you didn't get drunk off tequila that cost more than your salary. you didn't let the man across the bar pick up your tab. and you didn't go home with him.

your phone buzzes as you pass a florist setting buckets of tulips on the sidewalk. you don’t look.

(not at first.)

you let the vibration settle, spurring a fresh wave of nausea. buzz. buzz. buzz. three consecutive texts. fine.

come pick up your clothes. i have them folded. you left in a hurry. should've asked me to call you a car.

you stop dead in front of a window full of wedding cakes and ironically laugh—one short, ugly sound that fogs the glass. there's a couple inside, pointing at the sixteen-inch red velvet. you want to throw up.

the number isn’t saved, because why would it be? it's not like you were expecting him. there's no name next to the contact. no photo, either. your fingers shake as you type three letters and delete them. your reflection stares back at you from the window. (there's mascara smudged under your eyes, and a sneaky shot of electricity goes down your spine as you realize there's a purplish bruise right under your jaw.)

you switch to your camera roll. there’s a photo from last night you didn’t mean to take—your manicured hand on a marble countertop, his wristwatch in the corner, out of focus. black face, steel bracelet. you tap the time stamp like it’ll tell you something useful. 1:07 am. your brain does the slow crawl of connecting dots it should’ve connected twelve hours ago. the apartment building (too nice). the elevator (keyed access). the watch (oh god, his hand had been around your throat—). the magazine-catalog bedroom.

the citrus bite catches in your nose again.

you switch back to messages, holding your breath.

i'm really sorry i really wasn't expecting last night could we just pretend it never happened?

you resist the urge to empty the contents of your stomach on the street when bubbles emerge.

do you remember who i am?

he doesn’t send a name. of course he doesn’t. he's going to make you ask. (he likes that. making you squirm.) you take the bait, responding within seconds.

who are you?

he doesn't respond to that. instead, he says:

you also left your earrings in the bowl by the door.

your free hand lifts, grazing the end of each earlobe. bare. you swallow. your thumb hovers over the keyboard. you could ignore him. you could block the number. you could go home, shower until your skin feels new, and pretend the last ten hours didn’t happen.

you open your email just to have something to do with your hands.

your editor's name greets you first. the subject line (ASSIGNMENT: Red Bull feature: season open) makes your head spin.

he included a list of due dates, bullet points, interview targets. a note at the bottom: we’ll try for on-the-record with MV if PR allows—play it straight, keep your distance, you know the drill.

you reread those two letters like they’re not a full person. like they’re not a face on every screen, a set of stats you could recite half-asleep. his fastest lap time, his season points, his grand prix wins.

your phone buzzes again.

did you make it home?

you swallow thickly.

i can't come back i have work

you pause, because your hands won’t stop shaking. you lean your forehead against the cool glass. on the other side of it, a woman in a hairnet places sugar flowers along the edge of a tiered cake with steady hands. you want to break something. you want to sink into the ground. you want his fingers in your mouth and his tongue doing that thing against your neck—

his response is short.

what do you do?

you could lie. you don’t.

i'm a journalist

a beat passes.

for what exactly?

your heart slams so hard you feel it in your teeth.

sports

longer beat. then:

motorsport?

you picture last night. the quiet, assessing way he listened like he was cataloguing you, like he’d separate you into sectors and hunt blood in each one. the way you didn’t ask a single real question because you didn’t want to hear a real answer. then again, you weren't exactly focused on finding answers.

there had been one thing you wanted. (you'd gotten it.)

you don’t respond immediately. you open a new tab and type max verstappen watch into the engine like a lunatic. you don’t even have cell data turned on for safari because you’re trying not to blow your whole paycheck, and yet, here you are, standing in the middle of the city sidewalk wondering if a watch worth your entire life had been pressed to your neck last night. the page buffers, then loads.

the logo in the pictures matches the blur in your photo. your heart snowballs into your stomach.

you type, delete, type again. then:

how did you know?

he's quick with his response.

you know how.

you let your head hit the glass very gently. okay. there it is. no denial left to hide in. you slept with max verstappen last night, and you liked it, and now his number is in your phone. your assignment's number is in your phone.

and he folded your clothes.

did you really fold my clothes?

you imagine him laughing.

of course i did. you were in a hurry, evidently.

(a mercy. or an insult. you can’t tell which.)

you shake your head as if he can see you.

i can’t come back now

when?

you stare at the blinking cursor like it’s a live wire. your editor’s email sits in your skull like a loaded gun. keep your distance. you lock your phone, then unlock it. lock. unlock.

your phone lights up again before you can decide.

come back tonight. i'll be expecting you.

♡

you're late to your first meeting of the day. you don’t usually get nervous on calls, but when the red bull comms coordinator joins the zoom, your throat closes just as suddenly as your editor rushes to introduce you. you mute yourself, try to even out your breathing as the PR voice reigns bright and flat in your headphones. media windows, no personal questions, keep to racing topics, we’ll let you know about one-on-ones.

"and max's availability?" your editor asks, and you want to bury yourself under the track to keep from hearing that name ever again.

"ten minutes after FP2 if the run plan allows. no promises. and please submit your topics in advance."

you hear your voice like it belongs to someone else. "understood."

the black screen you're left with after you hang up highlights the bareness at your earlobes, the tiredness lingering in the subtle shift of your shoulders. you stare at your reflection in silence, wondering about the state of your earrings, in a bowl by some stranger's front door. (but he's not a stranger. stop saying that.)

you open the document you'd been working on: RB – SEASON OPENER – DRAFT 1. you always write the boring sentences first. car looks planted. long run pace. tire deg. your fingers find autopilot the way they always do. your brain keeps slipping—back to the countertop, the watch, the hand braced beside your hip when you said you should go and didn’t move.

the way he didn’t crowd you. the way you wanted him to. the way his hands lingered in your hair, the way he leaned in to smell the perfume you'd dotted on the column of your neck. the way your eyes had rolled back in your head when he'd moaned.

you last twenty-four minutes before you retrieve your phone.

can i come by at 7?

there is relief in your exhale when he responds.

i’ll have the door open.

you should say no. you should say, leave them with the doorman. you should say nothing at all. the best you can manage is:

thank you

i didn’t do it to be thanked.

you don't ask what he did it for.

♡

the paddock smells like rubber and sunscreen and coffee that’s been burned since dawn. it’s louder than you want it to be (and you’re too aware of your own hands. nothing fits right in them anymore).

you flash your pass, and you're in. (but not even ten seconds later, you feel him. not touch—just awareness. that small tilt in the air, the way everyone else orbits without meaning to. you feel sick. you're wet. you're wearing lace panties. you wish you didn't know why.)

you focus on your job. you ask a mechanics lead about updates. you record quotes. you smile, and wave, and ask your coworker about his new baby. your editor texts a thumbs-up when the comms girl waves you into a scrum. ten minutes or less, she says. you stand where you always stand: second row, third person from the left, recorder angled up. his cap blocks his eyes for the first few answers. neutral. efficient. he says the usual things in the usual tone.

then he looks at you.

not a double-take. not a scene. just a direct, unblinking look that pins you to the asphalt. you feel it in your spine. he doesn’t smile. he doesn’t look away. he answers the next question like you’re not there and like you’re the only person there. (stop looking at me, says the angel on your right shoulder. keep looking at me, says the devil on your left.)

a gap opens. nobody jumps on it. you do.

"you said after testing the car feels 'predictable,'" you start, steady. “isn’t predictability exactly what kills adaptability in race trim?”

(your editor will love this. you love this. max, however, looks like he wants to shove his fingers down your throat.)

the cap tips a fraction. "depends who’s driving it." his voice is low. clear. you want to strangle him.

"that would be you," you respond.

"yes, it would be."

"so what do you think?"

the corner of his mouth twitches. "i think i make the car do what i want." the group laughs politely, eyes darting between the two of you. you don’t join them. you can’t look away. (were his eyes always this blue? was his hair always this gold?)

PR thanks everyone, calls it. six minutes, fifty-three seconds.

your phone buzzes before you’ve even stepped aside.

nice to see you again. in daylight.

♡

you tell yourself you’re only going for your clothes. nothing else.

you tell yourself that again in the elevator, watching the numbers climb—17, 18, 19, 20. your heart overpowers the chime of each floor: you still haven’t changed out of the paddock clothes, press badge clipped to your lanyard, hair stiff from sun and lazily-applied dry shampoo. the irony isn’t lost on you; this is your job, and you’re walking straight into its worst complication.

the hallway is quiet, carpet soft enough to swallow your shoes. his door is already cracked open, just like he said. (like he'd promised. you give yourself a moment to collect your shaking breath, finding that even your hands mirrored the shattering quiver of your diaphragm.)

he’s at the counter when you step inside, henley sleeves pushed to his elbows, glass of water sweating onto the marble. same watch. no cap this time.

"hi," you manage.

"you’re late." no smile. not unkind, either. just fact.

"traffic," you lie. (you're getting good at it, the lying.)

he nods once, tilts his chin toward the folded pile on the leather sectional: wine-red dress, lace tights, your bra laid in half on top, neat as origami. the sight is obscene in its politeness. you stiffen, deepening each breath that enters your lungs.

you cross the room, shove the bundle into your tote. (you're going to burn these clothes later.) "guess that’s it, then."

"guess so." he leans back against the counter. it would take you five steps to be right in front of him, to lean up and nip at the junction between his neck and jaw. to have your lips be exactly where you want them to be even though it's the worst idea you've ever had—

"you ask good questions."

(you wish he'd just let you leave, because every word that comes out of his mouth pushes you closer and closer to a bad decision.) "that's your professional feedback?"

"it’s my personal one."

you turn too quickly, pulse scraping your ribs. your shoes squeak as they drag across the floor. "well, i try not to mix the two."

his mouth twitches again, that terrible half-smile that never reaches his eyes. you want to bite it. "uou already did."

the air goes thinner, if that's even possible. he takes one step off the counter, then two. not threatening. deliberate. like everything he does. like how he drives, like how he kisses, like how he fucks. you should walk away. instead, you let him come close enough that you can count the flecks of green in his irises. (one, two, three—)

"i'm serious about my job," you say. it sounds smaller than you meant.

"i know that." you never realized just how soft his voice goes when he speaks to you. like he's coaxing a spooked animal. "i do."

"okay," you whisper, and you swear his eyes flutter. "that's good."

he’s so close the air tastes like his cologne, the same sharp citrus that’s been living in your lungs all day. he reaches out, and for a beautiful second, you think he’s going to touch you. he doesn’t. his fingers stop an inch from your shoulder, flexing like he’s arguing with himself. (don't do it, you tell yourself. don't lean in. don't, don't, don't.)

then his hand makes a detour, and presses to the bruise under your jaw.

you go catatonic. his thumb stays there, a light pressure against the skin he left marked. recollection comes into his face at the same time it does into yours, vivid images of the night before testing the space between you. you forget how to breathe for a whole second, and when you finally exhale, he watches the column of your neck expand with it.

"does it hurt?" (he's clinical with it, but you know better.)

you shake your head. "not really."

he hums, thumb moving once, slow, like he’s making sense of your answer. making sense of you. "you didn't cover it earlier."

you wince. "rough morning."

"yeah?" he clicks his tongue. "wonder why."

you bristle. "i can handle myself."

“i know.” his breath catches on your collarbone. "you did last night, too."

(his hands on your hips, rough and sure, steering you backward until your spine hit the wall. the shock of cold plaster, his dominant huff of laughter against your throat. his fingers sliding under the strap of your dress, under your bra, under your panties. the wet drag of his mouth down your jaw. the ache crawling up your throat as he pressed his fingers to it, muffling the wet sound of your mouth making room for him. he wasn't even halfway down and you were already choking on it, "poor girl—")

you blink hard and the image is gone. except it isn’t. he’s still there, watching your pupils flicker, watching your breaths shallow. his gaze drops—once, twice—to your mouth, remembering what it felt like. what it could still feel like, if he just... came closer. the thought hits you so hard you nearly sway.

"you should go," he says finally. it's almost kind. almost. his hand drops, and you resist the urge to whimper. he’s still close enough that you can see your reflection in his eyes—wanting. waiting. how easy it must have been for him to have you back here. how easy it must have been to make you want him.

(you just can't help yourself.)

he steps back first. (of course he does.) the space he leaves behind is cold, buzzing with everything unsaid. "good luck with the article."

you freeze. "that’s the job," you suddenly feel the need to clarify. "it’s not personal."

he exhales through his nose, half-smile cutting deeper lines into his cheek. "everything with you feels personal."

you shake your head, insistent. "it doesn’t have to."

"no," he says, voice low. "but it already does."

♡

the club lights strobe hard enough to sear your retinas, all blue and green and acid pink, hundreds of bodies pressed too close, someone’s elbow digging into your ribs. you really shouldn’t have come out: you’re on your third drink and the second occurrence of your left shoe in some ancient, sticky patch on the floor.

but it was better than sitting at home staring at your empty document. you'd gotten three sentences in this morning before excusing yourself to take a forty-five minute, ice-cold shower. which, in your opinion, did nothing to quell the breathtaking urge you had to march right over to max's apartment and slap him in the face.

(and then kiss him. in that order.)

you make an excuse to your friend ("i gotta pee, gimme a second") and escape to the bathroom. the thick bass from outside punches through the walls, fluorescent bulbs flickering just in time to catch you ugly—cheeks splotchy, mouth bitten raw, mascara wet and smudged under your eyes. (no surprise after the week you've had.)

you drop your bag sideways onto the counter beside the sink, and everything inside spills: lipstick, phone, crumpled receipt, those damned silver hoops. you curse under your breath, dragging a hand down your face so hard you nearly scrape mascara onto your chin. you're tempted to burn it. you're tempted to scream. how the things you wish you could do haunted you.

the burning in your throat is a warning: do not text him, do not let him see you like this, sweating out the ghost of his hands.

you open his thread anyway. type:

are you awake

(delete)

where are you

(delete)

come get me

(delete)

god. have some pride. have some self-respect. of course you get dicked down once and can't function for the rest of eternity. of course he's out there fucking god knows who, god knows when—your inner monologue is rudely interrupted when the door swings open, then falls shut. you glare at yourself in the mirror, and there’s no max there. just you. just you, and this viscous want swirling in your irises like a taunt.

your phone throbs in your hand. you don’t think—you haven’t been all night—and before you know it you’re pressing the 'call' button beside his number, pressing the speaker to your ear so hard it aches.

it rings. and rings. and rings.

(you should hang up. you never should have called.)

but he picks up.

fifteen fucking seconds later, he picks up.

static breath, then: "hello?"

your whole body locks, frozen from the neck down. you almost hiccup, swallow a sound that might be a sob, might be laughter, might be his name. you have absolutely nothing to say. you have everything to say.

"hello?" he says again, voice sleep-rough. you imagine someone else's mouth on his, someone else laying next to him, and almost smash the phone on the cracked ceramic next to your shaking hand. you suck in a breath. now or never.

"i—" your voice catches. "i’m sorry. i shouldn’t—this is really—" a laugh crackles out of your throat, hoarse and broken. "this is really stupid."

he doesn’t laugh in return. (somehow, that’s worse.) "where are you?"

you swallow. "out," you say. "doesn’t matter."

another beat, longer this time. "did something happen?"

your exhale is pathetic. "no—not really. i just—" miss you. want you. need you so bad i can't sleep at night, and when i try, all i do is dream of you, so come back and make me see stars. come back and put me to sleep. come back and just be with me.

he says your name into the receiver, just once, and you nearly melt into the floor. "do you need me to come and get you?"

that certainly gets your attention. "what?"

his breath fuzzes through the line. you picture his fingers tight around his phone and remember what they felt like around your throat. your mind floods with shame, then defiance. "no, i’m—i’m not drunk." a lie, technically. "i’m fine."

there’s barely a pause. "then why are you calling me?"

silence follows. why were you calling him? (because he’s the only thing that’s felt real all week, because no one else even comes close, because you’d risk your pride and your job and every last shred of dignity just to be near him, to maybe—no, not maybe. you’d do anything. anything to have him.)

"i don’t know," you whisper, voice smaller than you meant. "i couldn’t—i couldn’t help it."

even through the phone you know he’s already smiling, that impossible almost-smile that drives you up the wall. you hear him shift with a low rustle, the sheets shuffling as he sits up.

"come over."

“now?” you ask, shocked by how quickly you gather your things, slinging your bag over your shoulder.

"yes, now." he doesn’t tease you for it. the line goes dead before you can respond—you're left standing with your phone slipping out of your sweaty hand, your body a traitorous mess alongside it. shame settles sweet at the base of your neck as you stumble out of the bathroom, shuffling toward the exit sign blaring warning-red. you want to blame the vodka, the week, your own lack of willpower, but there’s no point.

there's no one to blame but you.

♡

he's just... there.

you hover inside the doorway, half in and half out, silence stretching between you. max is across the room—back to you, pouring water at the counter like nothing in the world could hurry him. (because he's so damn unhurried, he could care less—)

"come in, at least."

your heart skips. you set a single toe further inside, nerves slicing through your center. your fingers fumble for the lock, the bolt thudding home too loud in the dark. (you wish he'd turn on on a light. you wish he'd look at you.) he doesn’t move. doesn't give any indication that he even knows you're inside his house save for the slight tightness of his fingers around his glass.

"put your bag on the couch." voice flat, a cool command—like you’re interviewing him, not about to fuck him.

you do as he says. the bag drops, leather sighing. your hands hover around your thighs, unsure what to do next. (he's trained you to wait for a command, you realize.)

"shoes too," he says, and his eyes flick up—one glance, blistering. "leave them by the door. you'll track dirt."

you kick them off, sucking in a sharp breath. the floor is cold, nerves raw along the arches of your feet. you tense then relax them, feeling for the cracks in the hardwood. you're barely two steps in when he holds up a hand.

"coat, too." (you could scream. you're not a houseguest, for god's sake—)

"what else do you want me to do?" you lament (to no avail) as you fuss with the buttons of your coat, slipping the fabric off to lay it beside your bag. "come closer? kneel? crawl, even?"

max stills, and for a single second, you regret having said anything at else. he sets the glass down, turns at last—full height, full attention. calm on the surface, of course. he always is. but you know better.

"do you want that?" he asks half-seriously. "kneeling? crawling?"

you huff, righteous all of a sudden. "of course not."

"you had no problem the other night."

you want to slap him. you want to kiss him. "that was different," you snap, arms crossed, chin up. "i was drunk, and you were—"

"what was i?" he cuts in, crossing the room in two slow, deliberate steps. "go on. say it."

beautiful. dangerous. mine, mine, mine. "i-i don't know."

he hums, slow and mean. "i think you do." he takes another step, crowding into your space—not touching you despite the fact that every cell in your body was nearly screaming for him to. you wondered if he could hear the goosebumps emerge on the exposed skin of your arms, the back of your neck, the base of your spine.

"maybe you'd rather leave," max continues, and he could be talking to air with how still you were standing, how slowly you forced yourself to breathe. "maybe you want to fight instead of fuck."

the word lands between you. (so he knows, too. he knows what you want, he knows what you need, and yet, he's making you work for it. a stronger woman would hate him for it.) you glare at him, hope he sees the tremble in your jaw and knows you blame him for it. "yeah. i came all this way to yell at you."

he snorts, mouth ticking. "as expected."

your fists ball at your sides. "you don't know me."

"no." his voice is soft, almost taunting. you could trick yourself into believing the look in his eyes was kindness, sympathy, but you knew exactly where that would lead. you'd traveled this road once—only god knew why you wanted to do it again. "but i want to."

"this is unprofessional," you say to avoid kissing him right then. "a hundred versions of wrong."

"true."

"i just needed my earrings back." you jut your chin, arch your back to stand taller than you are. (it's of no use.) "you didn't need to make it into a thing."

"you're right."

"and—" you inhale when a lock of hair falls across his forehead, train of thought lost. (he needs a haircut. you hope he never gets one. you hope he lets you pull it tonight.) "and you should sit down for a one-on-one with me next week, because my—"

he moves, quick, hand catching your jaw. not hard. not soft, either. his thumb at your cheek, the warmth of his palm sinking into your skin, laced with something mean. "do me a favor," he murmurs, too close. his breath ghosts your lips. "and shut up now."

"don't tell me what to do," you manage, but your voice is barely a whisper. taken. caged.

he leans in, nose brushing yours, and you swear you see stars. "take off your shirt."

(you want to argue. you want to win. you also want to let him fuck you halfway to hell. the choice is easy.)

you tilt forward, balance tipping as you grab fistfuls of his shirt, teeth scraping against his as you pull him towards you, and he grins against your mouth, because he lives for the anger in every slip of your tongue against his, every ugly snarl he muffles with his mouth. he's wearing his watch, the watch, and you shiver when the face meets the underside of your throat.

(he likes that. you know he does.)

one second his hand is on your jaw, the next his other hand is sliding around your waist, dragging you backward until the back of your legs hit the couch. you gasp at the sudden change in height, his palms resting flat on the curve of your hips, pushing you downward, forcing you to stare up at him.

(blue, are his eyes. blue as the ocean, blue as the sky—)

"shirt," he murmurs, almost condescending. "don’t make me say it again."

your fingers tremble, but the lace of your shirt meets the leather of his couch cushions in one pull. (you swear he's categorizing you, then—will you listen? will you fight him? will you make him work for what you both already know you'll give him if he asked?) you barely have time to breathe before he’s lowering himself between your knees, thumb pressed into the delicate 'v' of your trachea. not to cut off your circulation, no, he'd never do that, he likes hearing you talk. (more than he'd like to admit.) your eyes roll back—because you like this. because he remembers what you like.

"no more attitude?" he asks, laugh a broken breath at the back of his throat. "how sad."

"i wasn't giving you attitude," you snap. "you were being a—"

"—polite host." he finishes, mouth meeting your sternum first—open, hot, deliberate. (god, he's doing that thing with his tongue again, that swirling you swear you can feel everywhere.) he's slow enough to make you dizzy, fast enough to make you clench around nothing. (you're so empty, so lonely, so needy, and you're not ashamed, because he's going to fix it, he's going to fix everything—)

his free hand slides up your thigh, slow, almost lazy, until his fingertips find the edge of your skirt. he doesn’t lift it yet. he just toys with the hem, brushing the fabric over your hip. "shaking," he mutters under his breath, a light tsk underscoring your humiliation. "after all that talking."

"i wasn’t—"

"talking?" he arches a brow. "you're right. you were whining. different."

you glare at him, chest rising too fast (too much, too quickly, he's playing with you like a stupid puppet on a string, snap out of it, goddammit). "i wasn’t whining."

"you are now," he says, breath warm against your bare stomach. "poor thing." his knuckles just barely brush between your legs, skimming right over the damp spot he hasn’t even touched properly yet. your exhale leaves you in a rush, unexpected.

"hm," he muses. "all this for me?" you think he's finally going to touch you when your hips twitch upward toward his hand, but he only laughs once, a sharp, incredulous sound. he's delighted. "god, you’re easy."

you shove at his shoulder—more offended than you should be—but he catches your wrist mid-air, grip tightening just enough to make your breath hitch halfway out of your mouth. "bad idea," he warns softly. "very, very bad."

your knees weaken. fast. “i’m not scared of you.”

"i know.” his eyes flick up, intoxicated. you gradually realize he's flushed cherry in the dim light, color lining his cheekbones. “that’s why this is fun.” (fun for him. fatal for you. if he gets any closer you’re going to do something really, really stupid—)

"open your legs."

"what?" you make a broken sound you definitely did not authorize (mortifying) as he pushes your skirt up to your hips, bunching the fabric in his palm like he owns it. like he owns you. (he doesn’t. he shouldn’t. too late.)

"you heard me." max's thumb drags up the inside of your wrist, slow enough to count the seconds, slow enough to make you want to sink right to your knees in front of him. "c'mon." he taps the inside of your thigh, like he's berating you. "you can do it."

(you are fighting him. you really are. you're trying, but the air is so thin, and you can barely inhale without drinking down the citrus scent of his skin.)

two seconds.

that’s all it takes for every reasonable thought to vanish. you obey before you process the command, shifting your hips to open around his like he’s wired straight into your spine.

he makes a low sound of pleasure, hooking a finger under the lace waistband of your panties, tugging it aside just enough to expose the soft, soaked center. then he stares. and stares. he stares so long you lift your head to peer down at the way his eyes darken under his mused hair, the way his entire body has gone pointedly... still.

"max?" you whisper, gripping the couch so hard your knuckles ache. "what are you...?"

he doesn't answer you. not at first. not for a solid, terrifying, dizzying five seconds where he just… stares. (stares like he’s trying to memorize you, like he’s trying to solve you, like he’s trying to bite you—)

his brows draw together, faint at first, then deeper, like want, then disbelief, then something darker, heavier, something you can’t name.

"max" you repeat, softer this time, chest tightening. you shift, suddenly self-conscious, thighs twitching inward, but his hands fly to your knees in an instant—firm, holding you open exactly how he had you. (you don't even realize how quickly he'd moved until your breath catches. motorsport reflexes, you manage to remember.)

"don’t," he says, and it's the first word he's said in nearly a minute. "just... stay like that."

(you’ve broken him. you've actually broken him. dear god.)

"you’re staring," you whisper.

"I know." his eyes flick up, wide and unbelievably blue, pupils blown enough to swallow half the color.

you flush deeper. "you’re—you’re staring like you haven't already—"

"don’t finish that sentence."

his gaze snaps back to your cunt, breath falling out of him on a sound you’ve only ever heard from him inside you. he bites down on nothing, jaw locking. (you want to give him the invitation to bite you, instead, but you know he needs no permission.)

"are you—" your throat bobs with your swallow. "are you gonna eat me out, or are you gonna just sit there and stare?"

silence.

electric silence.

max's eyes lift, just barely, and the look on his face is hunger carved into bone, offense lining the crevices of his mouth. (oh, you think faintly. oh, i've done it now, haven't i.)

"say that again," he whispers, voice wrecked quiet.

you regret every decision that brought you to this very point in your life, resisting the urge to bolt. "max—"

“no, no.” his fingers tighten around the insides of your knees, thumbs pressing hard enough to bruise. “go ahead and say it again."

your mouth goes dry. "are—are you going to—"

his jaw ticks. once. twice. it’s the only warning you get.

"—eat me out, or—"

the air punches out of your lungs when he grabs your hips, yanking you forward so sharply your spine curves off the couch. the friction of the leather squeaks under you, his watch smacking lightly against the inside of your thigh, cold burning a path over overheated skin. his mouth is an inch from where you need him, so close you swear you can feel the slick slip of his tongue running over his bottom row of teeth.

his voice is mean when it hits you. "you came into my house," he says, low. "then you picked a fight—" his palms slide higher, brushing the crease of your thighs, holding you open wider than before— "and now you want to rush me?"

your face burns. "that’s not—"

"yes, it is." the phrase is worse than mean: it's tender. affectionate. as if he expects a fight from you. as if he wants it, too. "poor girl, thinking she can tell me what to do." (you're not sure if he's even talking to you at this point.) "she should've just kept her mouth shut."

you're about to respond when his mouth finally seals over your clit.

just like that.

the sound you make isn’t human. you clamp a hand over your mouth on instinct—mortified, overwhelmed—but his fingers wrap around the breadth of your wrist with a warning squeeze. stay, you can swear he whispers into your cunt. stay, sit, that's a good girl—

he sucks your clit between his teeth—slow, deep, obscene enough that your spine arches violently off the couch, head snapping back against the armrest. he groans as you shove weakly at his shoulder, scrambling for hot, immovable muscle before your hand flies to his hair, tugging at the strands at the base of his neck.

(he moans. the bastard.)

he pulls back just enough to speak, lips wet, his breath hot against your cunt. "you have a smart mouth," he says quietly, almost conversational. "but this—" his thumb drags through your slick, circling your clit with humiliating precision. "this is what shuts you up."

your throat goes tight around a sound you don’t release in time. "don’t stop," you gasp, and he laughs, a low, dark, fuck-you of a sound that you feel between your legs.

he slides one hand up your stomach—slow, deliberate—until his palm rests flat between your ribs, holding you down with humiliating ease. he clicks his tongue when you whimper, slapping the flesh of your inner thigh with an acute flick of his wrist. (like you're misbehaving.) you yelp, residual embarrassment singing sweetly down your spine.

"i—" (oh, desperation makes you easy.) "i think i'm—"

"no." he licks you once—slow, long, dragging the tip of his tongue along your slit so carefully you feel every microsecond of contact—then pulls back again.

"but—"

"no." his thumb taps your clit twice—scolding, precise.

your breath breaks, vision whiting out. “max, please—” his tongue slides inside you mid-sentence, sudden enough that your mind goes blank—a bright, electric short-circuit behind your eyes. "oh—!"

"god." his tongue freezes mid-kiss to your slit, lifting to huff a breath against your thigh. "you really don’t listen."

"i'm gonna come—" your hips jerk (habitual, at this point), and he immediately places a palm flat on your lower stomach, pressing you down into the couch like he’s pinning a trembling animal.

he opens his mouth, and for one, devastating second, you think he's going to appease you.

he doesn't.

he wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, smearing your slick across his knuckles. then he stands. "get up."

your pulse stutters. "…what?"

"up." he gestures once with two fingers—sharp, impatient. "now."

you want to listen to him. you do. but your legs don't work. you pitch forward as you push yourself upright—vision spotting—and max's hand snaps around your upper arm, turning your body with zero effort, guiding your back straight into his chest. (oh, right. motorsport reflexes.)

"careful," he murmurs behind your ear, infuriatingly calm. "don't fall."

your palms slam flat into the wall as he settles a knee between your thighs. your cunt throbs (painful, perfect) against the cotton of his pajamas as he positions his naval to your spine, and you almost choke on your own saliva. his and snaps to your stomach when you twitch, and you swear you can feel his smile.

"relax," he mutters into the curve of your neck. (it’s not a suggestion. it’s a reprimand.)

your breath catches when he presses closer—chest to your back, the weight of him undeniable, the heat of him dangerous. he fits himself along your spine like he’d planned this exact angle, this exact contact. this exact moment, a million times.

"max—"

"that's my name." he nudges your cheek forward with his jaw, guiding your face back toward the wall. his other hand slides lower over your stomach, then your navel, then the waistband of your panties still stretched awkwardly around your thighs.

"these," he says, fingers slipping lazily beneath the band, "are useless."

he drags them down to your knees with one smooth pull.

your pulse skids into overdrive, fingers clawing at his forearm in response, nails catching in the soft fabric of his sleeve. he tsks, gathering your wrists to press them against the plaster of the wall once more. "stay here."

you nod too fast, too eager. pathetic.

max scoffs, pressing a soft, too-tender kiss to the base of your neck. his hands toy with the elastic waistband of his pants, and you nearly shiver hearing the fabric hit the floor. "say, 'yes, max.'"

a shot of something electric goes down your spine. "yes, max."

"say, 'yes, max, i'll keep my hands on the wall.'"

you swallow. "y-yes, max, i'll keep my hands on the wall."

there’s another rustle of fabric behind you, soft and efficient, and even without looking you know he’s stripping with that same maddening calm he applies to everything else. no hurry. no nerves. just decisions. he makes them; you live with them.

you feel him before you see anything—heat at the small of your back, the bare drag of his chest against your shoulders, the solid line of his thighs bracketing yours.

"stand up straight," he says.

you force your spine to lengthen, shoulder blades pulling tight, fingers stretching against the wall. (tight, tight, like a live wire, like a puppet. you squeeze your eyes shut.)

"wider." a tap of his knee between yours, guiding, not gentle. "don’t make me do it for you."

you shuffle your feet, muscles trembling with the effort. the position is obscene: you're presenting for him, and he's making you, and you don't have a single bone in your body that has the right mind to turn him down.

"there we go." you hear the smile in his voice more than you see it. “look at you.”

your cheeks burn. "don’t—"

"don’t what?" he crowds closer, his hand flattening at the base of your spine, nudging your hips the tiniest bit back until you’re perfectly aligned with him. (oh, god, he's molding you.) "don’t look at you? don’t touch you?"

your breath stutters. "you’re being—"

"honest," he decides for you. "for once."

his palm slides up your back, vertebra by vertebra, until his hand presses your shoulder blades, holding you there. pinned. placed. exactly where he wants you. your breath leaves you in an exhale as your upper chest meets the wall, hips angled toward him. he rests his cock against the curve of your ass as you tilt back, and your mouth falls open on a silent gasp. (oh. my god.)

"you want to come?" he asks softly, almost dangerously. his hand slides down your stomach, over the faint tremble in your navel, lower, lower, lower—

"i—yes. yes," you whisper. he hums against your shoulder in response, a sound you feel more than hear. a sound you know means good. a sound you know means finally.

"you want me to help you?"

his fingers tighten at your hip, pulling you back a fraction more until the head of his cock slips between your thighs—bare skin to bare skin—cruel and dizzingly hot. his mouth brushes your ear, a lethal intimacy you only let yourself enjoy for the moment. (you're addicted to him now. you can't help it.)

"yes," you breathe just as the heat of his knuckles brushes over the rounded curve of your cunt. "yes, please, help me—"

you're barely done with the phrase before he's tilting your hips upward, angling your shoulder blades towards the wall, and sinking all the way inside in one, devastating thrust.

the sound that rips out of you is high, strangled, punched from your lungs by the force of him. your hands slap harder against the wall, fingers splaying, searching for something to grip that isn’t there. max groans, like the breath has been knocked out of him, too.

"fuck," he mutters into your nape, voice wrecked and angry about it. "you’re—" he stops, inhales once, hard. "—tighter than I remember."

"no—i can't—" you gasp, the stretch burning you open from the inside, filling you so acutely you could barely feel anything but the space where his body met yours.

he chuckles shakily—cruel and approving. "you can. you have." his fingers dig deeper into the crescent-moons of your hip bones, anchoring you in place as he pulls out, the entire length of him dragging against every raw, trembling inch of you. you nearly choke, palms curling into fists.

you whine lowly (embarrassing. humiliating. involuntary), and max's breath stutters. your cunt tightens around nothing, fluttering like it’s trying to pull him back in. "oh," he murmurs, fascinated. "she’s trying to kiss me."

then he thrusts again.

hard.

your forehead hits the wall, a broken moan scrambling for purchase in the column of your throat. "max—!"

“too much already?” he asks, already pulling back for another. "that's a shame." you don't answer—you can't—and your voice breaks clean in half when his hips slam forward again, the slap of skin reverberating through your spine. his hand slides from your hip to your stomach, flattening you against the wall with his entire body weight behind it.

"keep your hands up," he murmurs, and it's then that you realize you're gripping his forearm for dear life. "or i stop."

that’s all it takes. your arms shoot up, looking above your head. (useless, obedient.) he rewards you with a slow, devastating grind—his cock dragging deep, kissing the spot inside of you that makes your vision spark white at the edges.

he hums in approval, fingers sliding lower until he finds the swollen bud of your clit, and you jolt violently when he circles it once, practically vibrating in his hold.

"oh?" he breaths. "sensitive."

"max," you gasp. (you can barely talk, he's got you so dumb, you wished he fucked you like this every night, you'd never have to think again.) "i—i’m close, i can’t—"

your walls flutter around him helplessly as he thrusts deeper, deeper than he's ever been. "i know," he punches out, hair tickling the base of your neck as his head bows forward. "can feel you." he presses a hand into your lower stomach for emphasis, feeling for himself underneath your skin.

your vision flickers white, tears gathering in your lashes. your whole body trembles as his rhythm turns punishing—perfect, relentless, cruelly timed to the way your walls seize around him with every drag of his cock. "max—" your voice cracks. "i’m—i’m gonna—"

"ask."

your breath fractures like glass. "what?"

"ask. me." the command slices clean. he leans in—mouth to your ear, panting against your skin. "ask me to let you come."

(you hate him. you love him. you want to cry. you want to come so bad it hurts. you'd do anything, everything.)

"please," you manage, barely a sound. "max, please, i—i need—"

"wrong." his hand slides up your front, palm closing gently—obscenely—around your jaw, tilting your head back until you’re breathing open-mouthed against the wall. "that’s not what i asked."

your pride dies right there on his floor. "max," you gasp, high and breaking and involuntary, "let me come. please. please, let me—"

max pulls out an inch before sinking deeper in response, shifting to spread your legs further. your cunt clenches then releases as you force yourself to breathe through the intrusion. (don't come, don't come, don't come, maybe the punishment is worth it, oh, god, i'm going to come—)

max looks down at the slick swallowing his shaft, breathing out a low, astonished laugh. “look at her." his hips snap forward once, brutal. "she heard you.”

you barely open your mouth before you're shaking, orgasm hitting so violently your knees buckle, vision blacking out at the edges, palms smearing down the wall, useless. a high whine leaves you as you tilt your head back, just in time to catch max's mouth in yours. your whole body clenches around him like you’re trying to pull him inside your lungs, heart beating a war-drum in your chest.

“fuck—” max gasps behind you as he thrusts once, twice, then folds over you completely, breath crushed into your shoulder. warmth spreads inside your cunt, and you shiver at the familiar sensation. (inside, you'd begged him last time. come inside, always come inside.) you're still twitching when he drags his hand from your stomach to your mouth and forces two slick fingers past your lips, pulling at your inner cheek.

you're not sure if you imagined it. but you could swear he whispers 'god, i love you' into the crook of your ear as your cheeks hollow.

♡

A Weekend with Max Verstappen: Red Bull's Season Opener is One to Watch. By: [Your Name]

There’s a particular stillness around Max Verstappen that you don’t notice until you’ve spent enough time in the paddock.

When I spoke to him after Friday practice, he called the RB21 “predictable.” The word is deceptively boring. He used it casually, as if describing a weather forecast, not the machine he relies on at more than 200 miles per hour. But watching him drive, you understand that predictability, for Verstappen, is not about ease. It is about obedience.

The car doesn’t just respond to him; it anticipates him. Most drivers adapt to instability. They learn to feel the tremors in the floor, the twitch in the steering column, the subtle warning signs that a corner might bite. Verstappen reads those signs, too, but with something closer to disdain than fear. It is not aggression. Aggression is sloppy. What Verstappen does is assured. He takes the track in pieces—sector by sector, curve by curve—until the circuit becomes something he understands viscerally.

You get the sense he does this with everything in his orbit.

Even in interviews, his restraint is not caution—it’s confidence. He doesn’t waste words. He doesn’t elaborate unless he chooses to. He gives nothing he doesn’t intend to, and somehow, it feels like enough.

That control—measured, unhurried, unapologetic—is what sets Verstappen apart. Not just as an athlete, but as a presence. You walk away from him with the distinct impression that he knew exactly what you were going to ask before you opened your mouth. That he’d already decided which parts of himself you were allowed to see.

And perhaps that’s the most telling thing about him: the certainty. The quiet, unnerving certainty of someone who has mastered not just speed, but himself.

♡

The woods were still crisp for early summer. It was something you'd come to appreciate about Wyoming, after all. No matter how bad winter had been, or how slow spring had sprung, you could always count on a beautiful summer, and even better summer mornings.

But this morning was far from beautiful.

You were sitting with a few others from town, mostly newer folk who'd settled in and were looking for work to do. The woods were quiet around these parts, a couple miles out from Jackson, where the trees thinned just enough to make room for the patrols to see into the valley. It had been a lookout since the beginning, or so you'd heard. A small cabin with a slanted roof, a fire pit out front ringed with blackened stones, a target range cut into the dirt nearby, and guns and ammo stored in the basement in case of emergency and training.

Why you were here, when you could be baking loaves of bread for folks getting out of Sunday worship or sending actual lookout shifts off with their breakfast freshly made, was, well…because you'd started to feel a little useless.

Not useless exactly. That was probably unfair. You did have multiple jobs. You were a part of the community of Jackson. You had a few close friends and plenty of acquaintances. You got along with almost everyone. It was nice, feeling like you knew who took their coffee black, who liked the butt of the bread, who always tried to sneak an extra roll into their coat pocket when they thought you weren't looking. You gardened and sometimes even helped with the horses or the livestock.

But still.

There was a part of you that knew, if anything ever went to shit, you'd never be able to defend your town, let alone yourself. So you'd come out with a group to train up on an early summer morning.

But you sure as shit were terrible at it.

Luckily, the ammo you used on the training grounds were empty shells, nothing actually being wasted on your awful, awful aim.

Because an hour later, the glass bottle in front of you remained whole and smug on the fence line, catching slice of sunlight along its shoulder while the wood of the fence several inches to its left had suffered greatly.

It didn't help that the man that was meant to be teaching you was a grade A Asshole.

Joel Miller was many things. Strong, capable, brave. So many epithets that could be used to describe him. You'd even dare to add handsome if he wasn't always frowning at you or cursing under his breath every time you managed to miss something standing perfectly still.

But the main thing you wanted to call him, was Asshole. Though…you thought if you ever did to his face, it might just be the last thing you ever do.

He was helping a kid down at the end adjust his stance when you heard an argument from beside you about a bet.

“Bullshit,” one of the boys hissed. Matthew, you thought. Maybe Michael? He was one of the kids from town you'd seen around the stables with hair too long, cheeks still a little chubby, and an ego too big. “You did not get Maisie Bell to kiss you.”

“I didn’t say kiss,” the other one said, and in the corner of your eye you watched as he lined up his shot, one eye squeezing shut. “I said she would’ve.”

“That ain’t a bet.”

“It is if I’m right.”

“You’re not right.”

“Two ration cards says I am.”

“For Maisie?”

“For Maisie,” he said, then nodded toward the line of town below the ridge, where you could almost see the church roof through the trees. “And the redhead from the kitchens. Sheesh what I wouldn't do to my hands on 'er. Oh, and that new girl Dina?" he let out a low whistle, "She is so goddamn fine I could—"

The heat that went through you had nothing to do with the morning sun. It rose hard beneath your collar, crawling up your throat until your jaw clenched around it. It pissed you off. Dina was funny and charming and more than a hot piece of ass for some stable boy to run his mouth over. Maisie and Riley were nice girls too, both in your book club, both worth knowing for more than the curve of their mouths or the sway of their hips.

“Maybe you two should spend less time betting on girls who wouldn’t touch you for a warm bath,” you spat, turning toward them, “and more time actually practicing—”

But you'd turned without lowering your gun.

Worse— you'd turned without taking your finger off the trigger.

A loud sound cracked through the clearing.

It wasn't like a typical gun shot, just a sharp, quick pop that punched the rest of your sentence out of your mouth.

Michael grabbed his shoulder and stumbled back, knocking into the rack behind him. A glass bottle tipped from the table and burst in the dirt by his boot, spraying green shards through the dust.

For one second, no one moved.

Then he said, “Ow—fuck!”

Your hands were still around the shotgun, finger still squeezing the trigger, your body stuck in shock.

The kid beside him lowered his own gun in a hurry. A low muttering started to rise from around you— someone else asked if Michael was all right, and Michael, pale and furious and embarrassed, said, “She shot me!"

"Think it's more of a graze—" someone was saying, pulling at the torn cap of his sleeve.

More voices began to overlap as people clustered around him, worry amplifying the noise until you couldn't hear anything because of the panicked buzzing in your ears.

"Give me that."

You blinked to your right. Joel Miller was looming next to you, a thunderous look over his features.

You looked down at the shotgun still in your hands, a gasp running through you.

Your fingers opened at once as if you'd been burned by the wooden barrel. The shotgun dipped toward the ground, and Joel caught it before you could swing wrong again. He took it from you with a look that made your stomach hollow out.

Your mouth open and shut, your voice quiet and lost to the rising murmur around you: "I'm—I'm so sorry—"

Joel didn’t answer. He checked the shotgun with a hard jerk of his hand, jaw tight, eyes not leaving the chamber until he was sure. Then he bent down, grabbed your pack from the dirt, and pushed it into your arms.

“Go.”

You froze with your hands around the straps. A burning, icy thrill ran through your spine, your skin lighting up in humiliation.

“I got no use for kids who don't give a shit about rules or make habits of gettin’ other people killed,” he said. “Go on now. No use to me here.”

You didn’t even think you could speak if you wanted to. You looked down at your backpack, torn and duct-taped in spots, the top strap sewn back down at least ten times since you'd gotten it.

You'd shot someone. What if it hadn't been a blank? What if it hadn't just grazed?

“I—”

“Don’t wanna hear it,” Joel cut in. “Go tell Jesse you're done for the day. He’ll take ya home.”

You bit your lip so hard you tasted copper and nodded, turning away.

For the next two weeks, you went back to being useful.

That was the word that seemed to dig its way into your head, after all. Useful. You baked loaves in the morning with flour dusted up your forearms and dough stuck beneath your fingernails. You wrapped bread in cloth and stacked it on the front table before the church bell rang. When you were done, you gardened the weeds that to creep into the squash beds and watermelon patch, and spent the late afternoons mucking stalls. You went to bed so exhausted you barely thought about what happened at the range.

Michael was fine, of course. He'd come by to apologize for his words the next day with Maria's stone face behind him. You apologized too, made sure he was really okay. Offered him a free bagel or two in exchange for maiming him.

Sometimes you saw Joel.

He didn't laugh or pat your arm understandingly the way the others did when retelling the story that of course made its way around town like wildfire.

He hardly looked at you at all, really. And at first you were grateful for it, too embarrassed to even meet his eye if he ever came by the stables for the horses before training or patrol up in the mountains. You'd run and hide before he even got the chance to spot you, truth be told. And when he came by the bakery, you'd disappeared into the back so fast that one time you’d knocked over an entire sack of rye flour in your haste to vanish.

But by the third week, it'd began to piss you off. Because it was one thing to be ashamed—and you were. But Joel was walking around town like you were something to be scraped off the bottom of his boot. It began to put a sour feeling in your stomach, the fact he had so much power to make you feel so small. Fuck him. Fuck him and his stupid glare and his silent brooding.

You stopped hiding.

The next time he came into the bakery, you were at the front counter with your sleeves rolled up as usual, tying string around a parcel of bread. Ellie was next to him as they entered, talking with her hands, telling him some story about Dina and a loose chicken that morning.

“Morning,” you said when they sidled up to the counter.

Ellie looked over, her green eyes brightening. “Hey.”

Joel said nothing.

You pulled down the ration bread from the shelf with their name and house number written across the paper wrapping.

Ellie grinned as you handed it to her, "Do you have any of those sweet rolls from last week?"

You hazarded a glance at Joel, who said nothing again.

"Sure do. You staying for breakfast? I could make some coffee."

Ellie perked up, looking at him. “Can we?”

“No,” Joel said stiffly.

“Oh, come on—didn't you hear her say your favorite word, old man? Cofffeeeeeee!" she sung out before huffing a breath, "Do I need to get your ears checked by the nurse again?”

“We got work.” he grumbled, ignoring her jab.

“You always have work.”

“Funny how that happens.”

You reached for the tray beneath the counter and set a couple rolls out, taking your time. “There’s fresh icing too from this morning, I just need to drizzle it on.”

You went into the back, grabbing the small bag of sugary sweet icing you'd made, and began letting it fall in a steady cascade onto the sweet buns.

Ellie leaned both elbows on the counter. “See? Now we have to stay. It would be rude not to.”

You pretended not to notice how Joel's jaw ticked under his beard.

“She makes a good argument,” you said, sliding the small plate toward Ellie next to their wrapped weekly bread loaf.

Finally, those dark eyes landed on you. It was quick and could almost pass off as an accident. A muddling of color that shown in the morning light, his mouth flat. The same hard set to his face as always. But you smiled back anyway.

Because fuck him.

Ellie took one and barely hesitated before taking a giant bite, delighted. “Thank you.” she said with her mouth full.

You looked away quickly, back at Ellie. “Anytime.”

Joel reached into his pocket and set the ration slips on the counter. His hand was close enough that you could see the scar across one knuckle, the dust caught in the creases of his fingers. He took the parceled bread from the counter, leaving the second sweet bun untouched.

"Let's go, Ellie." he said stiffly. Before you could even call goodbye, they were walking out the shop, Ellie throwing you an apologetic glance and a wave of her hand as she stuffed the roll into her mouth.

You picked up the rations he left, and for a moment, thought about chucking that leftover roll at the back of his head as he disappeared from view.

Instead of learning how to shoot guns, you began learning how to take care of them.

Learn it from the inside out, you told yourself.

And to be fair, you picked it up rather quickly. Quicker than you’d picked up aiming, anyway. There was a comfort to it that shooting never gave you, all the pieces laid out on an oil-stained cloth in front of you, metal pins and springs and screws set in neat little rows beneath your hands. There was no bottle on a fence line waiting to make a fool out of you here in the small rec room of the cafeteria after the dinner shift had come and gone.

Tommy Miller taught the class every other night, his sleeves rolled to the elbows and voice patient and kind as he showed you and a few others how to take a handgun apart and put it back together. He had a way of teaching that was so different than his brother. He was patient, never made you feel stupid for asking questions. If a piece didn't fit, he'd simply say: “The gun’ll tell you what it needs most times. You just gotta quit arguin’ with it long enough to listen.”

And maybe, a small mean part of you liked the fact that the first time Joel Miller saw you there, he stopped dead in the doorway.

You'd bitten your cheek so hard to keep the smug smile from tugging your lips as he made his way across the room with a box of empty shells the night you were learning how to make ammunition. His eyes moved across the room to his brother, who patted him jovially on the back, and then the elder Miller's eyes came back to you. And you knew you didn't look very nice—smudge of grease across your cheek and your hair pulled haphazardly away from the gunpowder, thick work gloves that hardly fit and your plaid sleeves rolled up.

But he'd stared long and hard anyway. And then, as if nothing was amiss, his face went back to its hard, frozen state, and he walked out.

It was that night that you woke from an awful dream.

A horde of infected had broken through Jackson, tearing through everything you'd always loved and cared for. The gate was splintered open, the watchtower burned down to the ground. People were running through the street in their nightclothes, slipping in mud and blood, screaming names you knew.

You woke in a drenched sweat, feeling every bit as useless with a gun in your dream as you did in waking life.

But it was the kind of dream that didn't really feel like a dream at all. You'd felt like you were there, like the chill of night was actually on your face, like the roars of infected in your ears were truly bone-chilling. Your chest had filled with so much doom as you tried to fight back. But you couldn't. Every shot went wrong, every squeeze of the trigger sent another round into a fence post, a doorframe, the packed dirt beside an infected's rotting foot.

You could load the gun. You could take it apart and put it back together. You could clean the pieces until the metal shone beneath your fingers. You'd done it a hundred times now.

But you couldn't shoot.

In the dream, it had been all your fault. The deaths. Friends, loved ones, people who had waved to you from the church steps and leaned over the bakery counter telling you all about their latest town gossip.

Even Joel Miller.

He had died in the dream too. Because of you, and your awful aim, and your utter uselessness when it came to defending anything you cared about.

So, instead of trying to fall back asleep— afraid the dream might return—you got up and headed downstairs. Making your way through your dark house that was a small thing in the middle of town, you heard the floorboards creaking beneath your socks until you stepped into your boots properly.

You threw on your Carhartt over your nightclothes, fumbling with the zipper in the dark. It was just the start of summer now, but the mornings still could be biting. The mountains liked to keep their cold weather as long as possible, holding to it until the sun finally dragged it out when summer solstice came.

On the kitchen table, the shotgun you'd been working on for Tommy’s class sat wrapped in an old cloth, its oiled barrel catching a thin line of moonlight from the window.

You stared at it for a moment.

Then, decision made, you slung the strap over your shoulder and headed out.

Surprisingly, Joel Miller was awake at the odd hour as well.

As you walked down Rancher Street, you spotted him on his porch in the old rocker, one boot planted against the floorboards to keep the chair steady. A steaming cup of something was in his hand as he looked out onto the empty street. No one was up at this hour. You shouldn’t've even been up either. You wouldn’t have to open the bakery for another several hours, and the whole of Jackson seemed to know it. The curtains of the houses you passed were still drawn in the houses along the street, the chicken coops were quiet. Even the dogs that usually barked from behind fences must have been sleeping away the dawn with their owners still in bed.

It made your boots sound so loud on the road.

When his eyes caught the movement of your form coming toward the house, you saw him pause. His brows shot up high, then narrowed back into their usual glower. As you got closer and closer, it seemed so did his brows, threading deeper, causing harsher lines to form between them. The sun was just barely beginning to peek over the east mountaintops, the sky beginning to let go of its inky blackness with only a pale line of light touching the surrounding rooftops.

Joel Miller didn’t say anything as you stepped up from the street onto the path to his house. Or as you walked through his front yard. But his eyes never left you.

You tried—very hard and very much in vain—not to care what he saw as you walked up to the porch. He was an asshole, after all. An asshole who had told you he had no use for you, dismissed you for one mistake, and ignored you for weeks after. You shouldn't care if he saw some clumsy girl with a gun too big for her hands, or the bags under your eyes, or the matching floral sleep set beneath your jacket, long sleeves buttoned to your wrists and matching cotton pants tucked messily into your boots.

"Good morning, Mr. Miller." you said, stopping just at the bottom step of his porch.

He took a long sip of his steaming cup before resting it between his hands on his lap.

"To what do I owe the pleasure of your company, kid?"

In any other circumstance, that could’ve been a polite greeting. But the flatness to his voice, the utter disapproval or contempt that threaded through it, made it sound exactly as he meant it.

You stared at him for a long, long moment.

He just stared back.

The rocker gave a faint creek under his weight. You could just smell the contents of the mug—coffee, for sure then. Bitter and dark how he liked it. You shifted the shotgun off your shoulder and set the butt of it into the dirt beside your boot, one hand rested at the top so it pointed up towards the sky.

Finally, it was Joel who broke the silence as he sighed, getting up to stand at the railing, setting one large, calloused palm against the wood as he looked down at you.

"Kid, I don't know what yer—"

"Shut up."

Joel Miller, for the first damn time since he'd met you, seemed to be stunned. His eyes went wide in disbelief.

"Excuse me, young lady?" he scoffed, standing still on his porch.

"Shut up—" you said, and if your voice shook a little, he made no notice, "and listen."

His eyebrows lifted. Then he looked down the empty street, like maybe someone else had heard you speak to him that way and he needed a witness. But there was no one, of course. Not at this hour. Only the closed houses, the pale line of morning over the rooftops, and a dog two porches down watching through the fence with its nose pressed between the slats.

When Joel looked back at you, he only gave a small shrug, one palm tipping up from the railing.

Go on then.

"I am a baker," you said curtly, taking in a shaky, deep breath, "I am a gardener, I am a sewer, I've become a damn good gun cleaner. I've been in Jackson for two years. I deserve to be here."

"Never said—"

"—and I deserve to learn how to defend it too."

Joel's eyes never left you as he heard your case. His face didn't change much, but at least it wasn't glowering anymore. He made no move to dismiss you or walk back inside even if he'd have enough reason to.

"Just because I had a shit first day doesn't mean I can't still learn, old man." you said. It wasn't a term of endearment. "Just because I'm not shooting bullseyes or killing infected yet doesn't mean I can't try, alright? I— I'm brave and—and—" you took another deep breath, "And you're going to teach me how to shoot."

"Like hell—" he stopped, scoffing again, and then went on, shaking his head: "Kid, you and I—clearly, we ain't jivin', why don't you ask another—"

"No."

Joel clicked his teeth, shifting his weight between his feet behind the wooden balusters.

"No one is as…" you glared up at him, the words searing your tongue before you could force it out, "No one is as good as you. If anyone is gonna teach me, it's you Mr. Miller."

There was a long pause, and Joel set down his mug, the steam wafting in the chilly summer morning. You almost wished you hadn't come, that you could go back to ignoring each other for weeks. What was it to you, what this man thought of you? You knew you looked ridiculous standing here, asking for help. You should be shouting at him, telling him he's mean and grouchy like a dog.

"Christ," he sighed, "you don't give up do ya?"

"Nope."

He pulled in another deep breath, looking up and down the road again for a long moment, before his eyes found you once more. You saw how they roved over your figure, over the muck boots and the white blue floral set, over your tan Carhartt, and then onto your face, where he paused for a moment before saying:

"Well first thing, don't hold the damn gun like that."

You looked down where you were leaning your palm over the muzzle of the shotgun.

"Gonna blow a hole in your palm, then I wouldn't be able to teach ya shit."

Your face burned, but you moved to grip the barrel lower and pulled the gun carefully across your belly, holding it with both hands now, pointed well away from either of you.

He nodded, lifting his mug and taking another sip of coffee, watching you, The slurp of the drink filling his mouth held the silence while the birds began waking up around you.

"You sure you'll be warm enough?" he asked finally.

You nodded.

"Alright. Let me get my shoes and we can hit the trails. Stay put."

You nodded again, and then—

"Joel?"

He turned.

"I um... I promise I won't let you down."

He took one more look at you, the harsh line of his mouth eased, eyes settling in a way you hadn't seen before.

He nodded once, and said: "I know, kid."

The sun was well over the mountain top by the time you made it to the ridge.

He hadn't taken you back to the training ground, whether it was to save you the humiliation of seeing the leftover shards of green glass on the ground, or because he liked the view better by the forgotten ranch, you weren't entirely sure.

It sat a few miles out from Jackson, tucked up where the land opened into a long slope of yellow grass and thin fence posts. One of the old checkpoint places, Joel had told you on the ride over. Not one people used much anymore, not unless they were cutting through on patrol or needed to seek shelter from a storm. There was a little graying house at the top of the rise with peeling paint along the porch rail and a tin roof gone dull from years of snow. Beside it, an old barn leaned slightly into the hill, its red paint worn down to bare wood in places, its door hanging open on a rusted hinge.

You barely registered the bird song that filled the skies as he set up a training course, the beautiful view of the mountainside and your horses grazing in pasture of the barn. Every now and then you saw one lift its head to look at you, ears flickering around, before bending down and resuming its peaceful morning loitering.

Joel was beside you, close enough that you could smell the pine of his body wash and the musk of sweat lining his shirt. He had been mostly quiet on the ride here, but not in the punishing way, you began to realize. Just quiet and focused as his is eyes kept moving over the land, the fence line, the barn, the empty windows of the little ranch house behind you.

“Lean just a little over now,” he said from behind your shoulder as you got into position by the wooden posts. “Use the fence as a brace. Easier when you got something steady under the stock.”

You shifted forward until the gun found the flat part of the top of the wood. The air was still chilly through the sleeves of your sleep set, the fence rough enough to catch on the ribboned cuff of your pant leg when you moved into it. Ahead, he’d pinned a target to the trunk of a tree, three rings and a bullseye in the center.

“First thing,” he said, “you don’t point that barrel anywhere you ain’t willing to put a hole through. Don’t matter if you think the thing's empty. Don’t matter if I told you it’s empty. You treat it like it’s loaded every second it’s in your hands.”

"I know, Joel."

"Repeat it," he said, a little firmer, and the way his breath brushed the side of your neck, it made you shiver. You didn't reaalize he'd gotten so close.

"Treat it like it's loaded." you muttered, leaning over the stock, looking down the line of the barrel.

"Good." he grunted. "Finger stays off the trigger til you're ready, keep both eyes open."

"You sure are bossy." you said under your breath.

"'Scuse me?" he chuckled, "Ain't you the one who dragged me out here at the brink of dawn?"

You rolled your eyes, but bent forward.

“Careful with that,” he said. “Eyes are useful for shootin’. Would hate for 'em to get stuck like that.”

You couldn't help the chuckle you let out—great, so he's got dad jokes too.

“Now stay where you are,” he said. “I’m gonna move the shotgun where it’s supposed to sit. Easier than tryin’ to explain it five different ways, alright?”

You felt your cheeks burn a little, but nodded.

He moved behind you, close enough that the warmth of him settled at your back before he ever touched you. One hand reached around yours, thick fingers closing over the fore end of the shotgun to shift it against the top rail of the fence, enough to settle it steady against the wood. His other hand came to your shoulder, guiding the butt of the stock into place. It was heavy, but bearable thanks to the support of the fence in front of you.

"Want it over your shoulder, not pushin' into the collarbone. S'gonna kick harder than a mule and you'll be hollerin' about bein' sore for days."

You scoffed a bit, but let the stock settle over the crest of your shoulder as he positioned it.

“Now press your cheek right here,” he said, moving his hand from the barrel to tap the side of the stock. You tilted your head, trying to place it right. You nearly gasped when you felt the thick press of his fingers on the other side your neck as he guided you into position without thought. Not rough or impatient, only warm, certain, his callouses catching lightly against your skin. "There ya go."

Your body became suddenly very aware of him from that one touch. The scrape of his jacket against yours as his chest came in closer, the weight of him behind you, the heat of him against your back.

"Stay still, you're squirmin'—"

"—am not—"

You felt the breath of a laugh over your shoulders, and it made your skin rise in gooseflesh. The target was becoming blurrier by the moment.

"Now—"

You held very still as you felt him line his body behind yours, his breath now against your neck, his voice low and gravelly like honey on hot asphalt.

“Think about all that bullshit you been carryin’ around,” he grumbled. “Starin’ daggers at me for weeks. Comin’ up on my porch tellin’ me to shut up, callin’ me old, actin’ like I decided you don’t belong.”

"Joel—" you protested.

"S'okay, didn't take none personal." he said as he stepped up even closer, one hand going to your hip. “Breathe in.”

You sucked in a shallow breath.

He clicked his teeth. “Try again. You know none of that is true, don't ya, darlin'? Let it all go here. Don't belong in that head a'yours.”

You closed your eyes, annoyed and a little embarrassed, and pulled air in deeper this time, taking in the smells of the open Wyoming air. Cold morning. Damp grass. Coffee on his breath. Mint from when he'd been chewing the sprig on the way there. Pine soap. The fence rail rough beneath the gun.

His breath was so warm against your cheek as he murmured: "That's it, now let it out."

You let the breath leave you, nice and long and through your mouth—and with it went the bickering on his porch, the shame of the range, the weeks of him not looking at you, the ugly little voice that kept saying you were useless no matter how many loaves you baked or horses you brushed or shotguns you cleaned.

"Open your eyes now, and squeeze that trigger." he murmured, lips brushing your ear. As he said the word, his hand pressed forward on your hip, long, thick fingers winding around the sensitive skin just under the waistband.

When your eyes opened, the sun felt a little brighter, the day a little clearer. The target sharpened against the tree, the black rings settling in your sight.

Your stomach dipped for one horrifying moment, and then—you squeezed.

The shot cracked across the ridge, echoing off the sides of the mountains. Joel was right—the butt of the gun kicked hard, but you only felt it jostle your body back into his, harder, the force caught by your shoulder instead of biting into your chest.

You gasped, everything happening so fast before you were blinking rapidly and seeing the paper on the tree ripped just left of center.

“Shit—”

“Not bad for a first try.” you heard him say.

"I wanna go again." you said, breathlessly.

“Jackson’s gonna be needin’ their morning bread soon,” Joel chuckled, but he didn’t move. “Tommy’s gonna be wonderin’ where his cinnamon rolls are.”

You smiled wide, the adrenaline of the shot still coursing through you.

As your breath settled, both of you were still leaning over the fence, your body pressed back into the hard line of his. His hand hadn’t moved from your hip. Neither had yours from the shotgun. It would’ve been easy, maybe, to step away. To laugh, to clear your throat, to make some comment about those cinnamon rolls or old men or how if he'd stop being so bossy you could've probably hit the bullseye.

But…you didn't.

You only tilted your gaze over your shoulder.

He was so close—so close you could see almost every gray hair in his thick beard like winter's snowy streaks in a dark sky. You could see every line on his plump bottom lip, the shining spot where his tongue had just passed over it.

"Thank you, Joel." you whispered, "For…"

You trailed off, because Joel wasn't looking in your eyes anymore. They were such a pretty hazel you'd never noticed, and were fixed on your mouth.

"You're welcome." he whispered.

Your lips parted lightly when he tilted his head over your shoulder, and he took that as invitation to lean in.

He was so warm.

Like kindled fire in a cabin, like the first morning of solstice. The prickle of his mustache brushed your nose as he took your lips with his, breathing you in so deeply it made your knees go soft beneath you. You let out a whimper, hands tightening around the barrel and grip of the shotgun, wishing so badly to put them in his hair, all over his broad shoulders and thick muscles.

He seemed to know exactly what you needed, his one hand coming up to take the gun from your hands, placing it quickly but carefully against the fence. He only broke the kiss to turn you fully towards him before his lips were on you again, hungrier and needier as he pushed his body into yours.

His hands were all over you in an instant, planted on your hips and squeezing you harder, making you whine under his touch.

Your tongue traced his bottom lip, teeth nipping, begging wordlessly for entrance, and he gave it so easily. So eagerly. He groaned, opening his mouth for you, letting you lick inside, suckling on his tongue before you nipped again at that nice bottom lip.

His hands were everywhere—under your jacket but above your cotton top, sliding up your waist and back down again, never settling for long. They were so big and broad, squeezing and groping anywhere he could hold.

Yours wound around his neck so you could drag him closer, breasts pushed to his chest, the layers between you suddenly unbearable. His jacket. Your sleep shirt. His flannel. It was too much fabric—too much of everything that wasn’t his fevered skin against yours.

How could you ever have thought he was such an asshole? This grumpy old man— this stubborn, bossy, impossible man, was just as needy as you. Maybe worse. All that silence, that staring. Those weeks of pretending he didn’t see you across bakery counters and barn aisles and muddy streets. He needed this as much as you did, someone to set him straight, yes, but also… to tell him he was needed and good, too.

You moaned when his hands traveled lower, both palms filling with the round flesh of your bum, dragging you up against him. One hand pulled up beneath your thigh so your leg was over his hip, opening you enough for him to grind the hard denim of his cock against you.

“Oh shit—” you gasped as your back got pushed into the rails of the fence.

He was thick. You could feel it even through his jeans, through the stiff seam and the metal of his zipper, the heavy shape of his length ground into the cradle of your legs perfectly.

Joel’s mouth left yours with a wet sound and moved to your jaw, then your chin, then the side of your throat. His beard scraped at your skin, his mustache rough beneath your ear.

“S’alright, darlin’,” he murmured, rocking into you again, slower this time, meaner for how much control he had over it. “Just needed someone to show you how it’s done, didn’t ya?”

Your nails bit into the back of his neck.

“Joel—”

“Been fightin’ me all mornin’,” he said, his mouth dragging lower, teeth grazing where your pulse beat too fast. “All damn month, really.”

You couldn’t even argue. Not with his hips pressed just right and his hand gripping your thigh harder, holding you open against the fence.

“S’okay,” he said, voice rough against your throat, tongue laving over your carotid. “I’ll show you how to take me just as good, yeah?”

“Oh, yes,” you breathed, already nodding. “Yes, please, Joel.”

"What good manners you have, baby," he cooed.

Luckily he couldn't see the way your eyes rolled at that, but your mouth fell open as he bit down on the tender flesh of your shoulder.

"Oh!"

He growled, pleased, the sound vibrating up from his rib cage and against your skin before he push his cock into you harder than before. The fence post pressed into your back, a little painful through your jacket, his hands holding you tightly between it and himself.

“Tell me,” he groaned. “How long?”

"How long what, old man?" you tried to clipped retort, but it came out more like a whimper as his hands pulled you closer, dragging your cotton-covered seam over him harder. You had one hand thrown back over the fence rail to keep your balance, the other fisted tightly in his hair. Your head fell forward to watch where his lap met yours, thin floral pajama pants bunched tight where his stiff denim pressed into them over and over, the friction making your thighs tremble around his hips.

"How long has this sweet little pussy been wet —since we got up here, hm?"

"Fuck you," you moaned, which only made him laugh.

His head came up to look you straight in the eye, one hand going to the side of your face, thumb against your cheekbone, the wide breadth of his palm covering your cheek. His fingers dug lightly into the side of your neck as he forced your gaze back up to him. It was shockingly sweet for how menacing his smile was.

“Your little act doesn’t work on me, sugar,” he murmured, staring at your lips. “C’mon now. Tell me.”

You glared up at him, though it was a weak thing with your chest heaving and your leg hooked around his waist. "You're such an asshole."

He bent down to nip at your nose, "'fraid I think you might like that most about me."

The both of you were very still now, though you'd brought both of your ankles up to lock at his lower back, fully relying on him for balance. Your chest heaved with fresh lungfuls of air, finally catching up to what had felt lost and shallow before.

"And what about you?" you asked, tipping your chin up. "You really hate me as much as you act like you do?"

“Could never hate’cha,” he murmured, leaning down again, his voice lower now, almost too soft for the way he was still holding you against the fence. “Only thing I hate is how fuckin’ bad you make me want you.”

You blinked up at him.

"Is it really that much of a surprise, baby?" he added when he saw your expression.

"I mean—you—"

He was beginning to kiss you again, your flustered state seemingly invitation enough to resume his affection, gentler this time. He kissed your mouth softly, then the corner where the seam of your lips met, then up your cheek and over your brow.

"—you said we don't get along, that I should find someone else to teach me—that, that you had no use for me—"

Joel pulled back one more time, looking down at you. The hand that had been hooked under your knee came up to your face too, until he was holding your head between both hands, palms rough against your cheeks, fingers cupping the bowl of your skull.

His eyes moved over your face, and for once, there was no glower there. No hard set to his mouth. Just Joel, looking at you like the words had been sitting badly in his chest too.

"Should'a never said that, I know. I'm sorry. I was an asshole up at the trainin' range that mornin'."

"Yeah, you were." you pouted.

“Only said them things on the porch ’cause I know I shouldn’t want’cha like I do.” He shook his head, jaw tight, the confession seemingly costing him something. “Can’t fuckin’ help it though, baby. I can’t.”

“Then don’t,” you whispered.

"You're too young—" he whispered, "—too sweet for me. You're right, I'm old, I'm mean as a dog…"

Your delicate fingers wrapped around his thick wrists, holding him there, keeping his hands on your face.

“Truth?” you offered.

He nodded quietly.

Out there, you could just hear the breeze over the open fields around you. The soft nickering of the horses grazes, the birdsong of the woods beyond. It was awfully quiet where just you and Joel stood pinned against the old fenceline.

"I've wanted you for so, so long." you murmured.

His eyes flickered between yours, narrowing, almost disbelieving. Your grip on his wrists tightened.

"I have. And…and… I've been wet since we got here. Thinking about this—being all alone with you and—even if I can't fucking stand you glowering at me like that—"

He pushed his lips into yours again, but this time, it wasn't only the flame of hunger and eagerness, but the gentleness of tender affection.

“C’mere,” he whispered into your lips, hands sliding down your sides.

His hands were back on your body, pulling you closer, slipping under your jacket once more before finally reaching under your cotton night shirt. You could feel just how rough-hewn his fingertips were, how calloused and worn they were against the tender flesh of your body. But they felt so right, like this was where they belonged all along.

“You’re so soft, baby. Wanna feel how soft you are under these.” His fingers hooked lightly at the waistband of your cotton pants. “Take ’em off for me.”

You listened, of course you listened. He let your wobbly legs down gently from his hips, one hand staying firm at your waist until your boots found the grass again. Your knees felt useless beneath you, weak from the heat of him, from the way his voice had gone low and syrupy thick against your mouth. You reached for the ribboned hem of your sleep pants with clumsy fingers, and Joel watched you like he was trying very hard to stay patient.

The cotton slid down your thighs, catching for a second at your knees before you stepped out of them and your boots. Morning air touched your bare skin at once, cool enough to make you suck in a breath.

You started to pull your coat off too, but Joel caught the front of it in one fist and held it closed around you.

“You’re gonna get cold, baby,” he murmured, bringing you back into his arms to kiss you on the lips once more. “Keep it on.”

He was soon bending, kissing your chin, the soft skin of your throat, down your top and lifting it just enough to lick into your navel, making you giggle and squirm. He threw you a knowing look when you bit back a laugh at the crack of his knees, and you nearly opened your mouth to say something rude before his lips found your skin again.

He kissed lower, down the soft slope of your belly, until his mouth was pressed just above your mound where your panties still covered you. Stupid sleep underwear, you chastised yourself, suddenly annoyed you hadn’t thought this far ahead. But Joel didn't seem to care. He kissed the little bow at the waistband, something slipping from his mouth that sounded awfully like 'how cute'.

Your breath caught in the crisp morning air when his tongue dipped out over your cotton panties, right where your clit pulsed beneath. He let out a low hum of satisfaction, one thick finger coming up to pull the cotton aside.

“Why don’t you spread these pretty legs for me, hm?” His eyes flicked up to yours. “Or do I need to teach ya how to do that too?”

You scoffed, still in your head enough to want to bite back a curse at him, but he was already moving your leg for you, pushing your knee toward the fenceline until your boot found footing on the bottom rail. His eyes never left the damp spot darkening your panties.

As he pulled the cotton aside fully, he sighed, face tilting a little as he looked.

“You’re staring,” you murmured, nervousness fluttering in your belly.

His eyes glanced up at you, and your heart ricocheted into your throat. You felt bare. Exposed. Ready for him to turn cold again, to go back to that surly look and stone quiet like he’d only just remembered himself.

Instead, his thumb stroked once along your thigh.

“S’just so pretty,” he murmured. “Tryin’ to take my time, is all.”

Your mouth opened in another quick gasp as his lips pressed onto the swollen bud of your clit. You felt his tongue dip out lazily, curled like a basin for collecting the arousal that had pooled for him. He licked up and up and up, before suckling on your sensitive bud again. He moaned with you when your head fell back, your fingers digging harder into the fenceline where you held yourself up.

"That's it, that's it," he cooed when he pulled away to blow gentle air against your pussy. "What a good girl you are, just want a little taste before I put my cock in ya."

Oh god, the old man really had a filthy mouth.

He was diving back in again, now with a finger to prod at your entrance. Your knees suddenly felt wobbly, hardly able to keep you standing.

He licked and sucked at your pussy like he’d been waiting for it, messy and hungry now, no patience left in him. His finger pushed inside, thick enough to make you gasp, your walls clenching down around it as he groaned into you.

"Ohhhh…" you chorused together.

"Fuck, you're tight," he breathed.

"Oh god, Joel." you said at the same time.

"I know, I know," he cooed again. His voice had gone dark and syrup-thick, coated in arousal, every word dragged rough from the back of his throat.

“Just gotta open ’er up,” he murmured, kissing the inside of your thigh before looking back at where his finger disappeared inside you. “Ain’t no way my cock’s fittin’ in here before I get you ready.”

“It will,” you chanted, hips undulating up into his mouth. “It will, it will—”

He moaned at your eagerness, crooking his finger before pulling it out to the first knuckles, and inserting a second finger. You gasped, stretched over his thick digits, the ache of it full and perfect and worse because he looked so pleased with himself. Because he knew exactly where to press, where to push, how to lave his tongue over your clit until your body was singing his praise.

“Fuck, baby,” he breathed, watching your face as his fingers worked deeper. “There you go. There you go.”

Your head tipped back against the fence post, wood catching at your hair.

“She gonna squeeze my cock this tight too, huh?” he murmured, mouth brushing slick over your clit. “She likes my fingers in ’er.”

"Yes, yes, yes," you whispered, your eyes hooded but forcing yourself to watch him. Your other hand carded into his thick graying hair at the crown of his head, nails scraping through, and he made a rough, pleased sound into you. Almost a purr. Almost a growl. His eyes fluttered for half a second before he looked back up at you, mouth wet, beard shining, fingers still buried inside you.

"M'so close, Joel, so so close, pleeeaseee…"

"There's those sweet manners again, baby. Why don't you go ahead and beg me some more? Maybe I'll let you come right now, and then I'll make you come again around my cock. Huh? Sound good? Let me hear your pretty little begging again, baby, go on now."

He said it all while panting, tilting his head up so his eyes could watch you. You put on your best pout, bottom lip sticking out so he could see how much you really really wanted it.

"Pleeeeease, Joel, please—" you mewled, "your fingers feel so good, so thick, please let me come. I'll be good, I'll be good."

"Good girl," he murmured, breath hot against you, "go on, let me feel her soak me. Come, baby,"

It felt like your belly had been waiting for the words. The overwhelming build finally tipped, the wave cresting hard before crashing through you all at once. Your body went molten as you locked up around his fingers, pleasure coursing through your veins in hot, licking bursts. Your eyes squeezed shut, your mouth falling open around a low, obscene moan you had no control over.

Joel rocked you through it, fingers pushing in and out, fucking you with them while his tongue pressed gently at your overstimulated clit until you were twitching and pulling away from his mouth.

When he pulled his fingers from your walls, you nearly fell to the ground, your legs unable to hold you up. Joel caught you before you could drop, hands firm beneath your thighs as he lifted you fully against him, both your legs winding around his waist now. Lazily, sleepily, you watched him shrug out of his coat and throw it down over the grass. Your eyes were still too heavy to take all of him in properly, so your hands did it instead—big shoulders, broad chest, thick arms built from hard work and long hours.

Just as much a part of Jackson as you were. Maybe more.

He could do everything. It made you a little sick with envy, even now, even with your body still humming from his mouth and his fingers.

Joel saw your face change, but he was busy lowering you onto his coat, easing you down into the grass instead of keeping you pinned against the fence.

“What is it, baby?” he whispered, one hand cradling the back of your head as he settled over you. “What’s in that pretty little head of yours?”

He was half watching you, half working open his jeans until his cock was freed from the denim, heavy as it bobbed, flushed red and bobbing thick between you as he leaned closer.

You licked your lips, reaching for him, but Joel caught you by the wrist before your fingers could wrap around him. You gasped in surprise, but he only brought your hand to his mouth, kissing each pad of your fingers one by one.

“Don’t think I’ll last too long if you start that,” he murmured. “Tell me what’s goin’ on.”

You shook your head. “Nothing. You’re just…you’re so…”

You sighed dreamily, distracted by the feeling of his swollen, wet lips against the tips of your fingers.

“Old?” he offered. “Cranky? Rude?”

Your mouth twitched. “Yes, and…”

He laughed a little, but you went on anyway.

“I was just thinking about how perfect you are.”

Now he really smiled wide, shaking his head before nipping at your index finger. "Think you've got the wrong man, baby," he groaned a little, and then leaned over you.

You shook your head again, winding your arms around his neck, one hand cupping the nape of his hair while your nails scraped lightly along his scalp.

“Don’t think so.”

He hummed, kissing you again, and began to roll his hips against you so his cock slid up your belly, heavy and hot against your skin. The kiss deepened, lips slotting together, wet and tender, tongues sliding slow as your hands tightened in his hair and his weight settled over you.

“I don’t know if you’re gonna fit,” you whispered when he pulled his hips back too far and the head of his cock slipped up through the seam of your pussy.

He licked his lips, looking down at you. “Told ya I’d teach ya, didn’t I?”

You smiled, nodding. “M’nervous.”

“Don’t gotta be. I got ya, baby.” His thumb brushed along your hairline. “We’ll start nice and slow.”

He did as he said, sitting back a little just so he could grasp his cock in one hand, the other still cradling your head, petting your hair where it had fallen across his jacket. The head of him notched at your entrance, wet with arousal and spit, but the difference between two fingers and his cock suddenly felt impossible.

“Easy now,” he whispered, kissing your lips. “Take a breath for me, honey.”

You did as he said, for once without some retort, and pulled in a deep breath.

What started as control quickly turned into a gasp as he pushed inside.

“Oh fuck!” you squealed, clawing at his shoulders over his shirt.

He chuckled, and you wanted to slap him.

“Come on now, honey,” he murmured, kissing the corner of your open mouth. “You’re all tensin’ up. Curl your toes. Deep breaths. C’mere, gimme a kiss.”

Your toes curled automatically, did your best to pull in another breath, and he leaned down to kiss you earnestly, swallowing the next rough sound that left you as he pushed in another inch.

His tongue licked behind your teeth. His chest pressed yours down into the coat. The weight of him made the ground feel farther away somehow, the grass cool beneath your hips, his jacket bunched soft and worn under your shoulders.

“Oh yeah,” he breathed against your mouth, rougher now. “Ain’t that so good, baby? How’s that feel?”

Your head fell back onto the collar of his jacket. “Soooo…full. Fuck.”

“Almost all of it,” he murmured, jaw tight. “Just a little more. Pussy feels amazing, baby. S’like heaven.”

Your eyes squeezed shut as he pulled back a little, your mouth opening in a small, helpless shape when the drag of him caught every tender place he’d opened with his fingers.

“Yeah,” he sighed, watching your face. “There you go. She’s warmin’ up to me now.”

One of his hands slid from your hair to your throat, resting just beneath your jaw, not squeezing, only holding you there while his thumb brushed the jumping line of your pulse. "think she's even startin' to like me."

“You’re so corny,” you groaned, but your chastising cut off when he slid his cock in all the way, his heavy balls pressing against your ass at last.

“Oh—” you choked. “Oh, oh oh.”

Joel nodded like he felt it too, like he needed the confirmation just as badly as you did. Then he kissed you again, and you let him, loose and dazed beneath him, tongue sweeping out to taste his. You could still taste yourself there, musky and sweet on his mouth, and it made your walls contract around him.

Your body was starting to understand him now. The first sharp stretch softened into heat, your muscles loosening by degrees, letting him settle deeper until the fullness became less frightening and more necessary.

“Fuck,” he breathed, forehead pressing to yours. “You okay? How’re you feelin’, baby?”

“So good, Joel,” you whispered, fingers flexing in the fabric at his shoulders. “So good. Please, please fuck me.”

He groaned, ducking his face into your neck. “Gonna give it to you good, baby.”

He started slowly. Though, you weren't sure if he was exactly gentle. He was so big and there was too much of him for anything to feel really gentle. But he was careful, controlled in the sawing of his hips that pulled halfway out, and then pressing back in. Each stroke was concise, your fingers digging harder into his shirt, each little hiccup of air pressed from you.

His coat dragged beneath your back, the grass brushing cold against your bare thighs. Your sleep top had ridden up beneath your own jacket, leaving your stomach exposed to the morning air, but Joel was warm over you, broad and heavy and panting against your throat. Every time he pushed in, your body shifted against his, the ground catching you, the earth taking what the fence no longer had to.

The open air of the field collected your simpering sighs and loud, mewling moans, the day warming around you so that you saw sweat beginning to dapple his forehead when he brought his head up to look at you.

“So pretty, baby,” he breathed. “Such a pretty girl takin’ cock so well.”

You cried out when he changed the rhythm, picking up speed.

“I know, I know,” he moaned, his voice catching rough in his throat. “God, you feel so good, baby. Pussy feels like it was made for me, huh?”

“Yes, Joel, yes—ohhh, yes, yes, yes.”

“She’s tightenin’ up on me again,” he panted, eyes dragging over your face. “Gonna come for me already? What a good girl you are. C’mon, I wanna feel it around my cock.”

Your eyes widened when Joel’s hand slid down your body again, over your thigh, hooking it higher until your leg was thrown up over his shoulder. Your body folded beneath him, his cock reaching deeper as he leaned down into you.

“Fuck!” you squealed, holding tightly onto his hair.

He looked down at you with a little pout, a mock-sympathetic expression pulling at his mouth.

“Doin’ so good,” he murmured. “Takin’ my cock like such a good girl, baby. Come on now, let me feel her again. She feels like fuckin’ heaven.”

“Jooooel,” you whined.

But that crest of a wave was swelling worse now, higher, blood coursing hot through the river of your veins, sparking as it flooded your belly. Your hips tightened. Your muscles locked. Your whole body seemed to pull toward him, toward that hard, dragging stroke, toward the pressure building so tight you could hardly breathe around it.

“Oh god,” you gasped. “Oh god.”

“Make your old man happy, baby,” he panted, hips snapping harder now. “Come on my cock. Know you wanna. Know your pussy loves it.”

“Shut up,” you cried. “Shut up, shut up.”

He grabbed your face again, mock pout gone, teeth bared with the strain of holding himself together.

“Where are those sweet manners you had not too long ago?”

You squealed as he built up a faster rhythm. His hand hooked around your neck, pulling you up just enough to make you look down between your bodies, where his cock was splitting you open over and over.

“You see that, baby?” he groaned. “She’s milkin’ me. Beggin’ me to let her come, ain’t she? Look how good she’s takin’ me.”

“So good,” you murmured between moans.

It was true. His cock was covered with your thick arousal and come, pearly white and glistening around the shaft every time he pulled out, only to swing his hips back into you again.

“So why don’t you use those good manners and ask me?” he rasped. “Hm? Too proud already? Or are you too cock drunk?”

You pushed weakly against him, and he let you lay back down fully, following you down to kiss you. His mouth was wet, his breath uneven, his body still working yours into the coat beneath you.

“Gonna make me beg for it now, sweetheart?” he asked against your lips. “That it?”

You shook your head, too far gone to answer properly.

“I ain’t above beggin’,” he chuckled, though the sound broke wetly into a groan when you clenched around him again. “Wanna feel it so badly.”

He reached down between you, his thumb finding your swollen clit and strumming it with the perfect pressure.

Your eyes popped open, you didn’t even have time to beg. To ask. To tell him.

Your body locked up all at once, eyes squeezing shut as the pleasure burst bright and black behind your lids. It tore through you in waves, hips jerking beneath him, thighs shaking where he had you folded open. Your mouth fell wide around a sound you barely recognized as yours.

Somewhere outside the buzzing of your orgasm, outside your own moans and the pulse pounding in your ears, you heard Joel groaning louder.

“That’s it,” he gritted against your cheek. “Fuck, that’s it, baby. Give it to me. Good girl. Good fuckin’ girl.”

His thrusts started to lose their rhythm, turning deeper, rougher, his hips driving into you with less control each time. His hand tightened at your jaw, his forehead pressing hot to yours mouth open against yours, and then he pushed into you one last time, burying himself as deep as he could go.

Joel groaned your name like it had been dragged from somewhere low in his chest, and then he filled you, cock pulsing inside you as his body went heavy over yours, his breath breaking against your mouth.

For a moment, neither of you moved. There was only breath.

Yours, thin, uneven, still catching in your dry throat when you tried to swallow. He felt heavy over you, his breath thick against your cheek. His weight felt good, like a blanket, though your legs had begun to cramp until he let your leg down.

The open summer morning moved on around you. It all came back to your ears eventually, the cricking of the open barn door, the horses in the pasture and the birds singing from far away. The field smelled like fresh grass and weeds and sunshine, Joel's coffee still faint on his breath.

You hummed against him as he kissed the crook of your neck, his mustache and beard prickly against you. He feathered his lips up your throat until they were over your own lips, which you pressed gently against his. He pulled back, just looking at you. And you did the same. You brought your hand up to his face slowly, tracing the line of his brow, down his sharp nose and over the bow of his top lip.

"You are so perfect." you said dreamily.

He breathed a little laugh through his nose, a crooked, disbelieving smile pulling his lips. A shyness you weren't sure you'd ever seen.

The heat between you had started to cool. Your skin prickled beneath your open jacket, the air finding every place his body didn’t cover. You shivered, and Joel noticed at once.

“Chilly?”

“Only a little.”

He sighed, like he hated that he had to move, then leaned down to press one more long, lingering kiss to your lips before sitting back.

You made a small sound when he pulled out of you, your body too sensitive for even that. Joel’s eyes dropped between you, his jaw tightening for a second at the sight of himself slipping free, slick and spent against your thigh.

"Poor baby," he said, his thumb reaching out to slide up your wet and abused folds. You whined at the touch, and he pouted down at you.

"Easy, easy, I know. Gonna take care of her when we get home."

He sat back on his heels and tucked himself away first, hands slower now, less steady than they’d been when he’d taken the rifle from you. Then he reached for your sleep pants where they’d been left in the grass, shook them once to knock off the loose dirt, and turned back to you.

You blinked up at him, limp and boneless, still spread over his coat.

Joel looked down at you for a second, one brow lifting. “Don’t make me do all the work now, baby.”

You smiled sleepily. “You seemed to like doing all the work a minute ago.”

His mouth pressed into a line, but it didn’t hide the amusement in his eyes. “Smart mouth,” he muttered.

Still, his hands were gentle when he guided one foot through the pant leg, then the other. He pulled the cotton up your calves carefully, pausing when the fabric caught at your knee, easing it loose before working it higher. You lifted your hips only when he tapped them, and even then, barely.

“There ya go,” he murmured, drawing the waistband back into place beneath your rumpled top. He helped you sit up slowly in his lap, one hand braced behind your back, the other fixing the front of your coat around you. His knuckles brushed your stomach as he straightened your shirt, then pulled the jacket closed enough to keep the morning air off your skin.

You stayed like that for a moment, hiked up over his thighs, and he let your limbs fold around him again, hands back into his messy hair.

"I meant it—you—" you began, then licked your lips, staring up into his pretty hazel eyes again, "you're good, Joel. You're perfect."

He opened his mouth to protest, but sighed instead.

"Thank you for bringing me out here," you went on, "I'm sorry if I was mean earlier."

He smiled crookedly, "I was too."

You shook your head, "You had reasons to be."

He leaned down and pressed a soft, chaste kiss to your lips, "Bakery is gonna be wonderin' where you are, we better get back."

You held on tight even when he began to move, and a little mischevious smile twitched your mouth.

"What?" he asked, smile growing.

"One more shot?"

The way Joel fucks you can never be labeled as anything other than exquisite. His breath is hot against the sensitive skin of your neck, his mouth closing over the pulse point just below your ear so as to taste the salt of your sweat. The coarse scratch of his chest hair drags across your breasts as he leans in close, the low rumble of his groan vibrating through your ribcage. The muscles in his back shift and flex under the featherlight touch of your fingertips. A large hand pins your wrist above your head, the other gripping your hip hard enough to bruise, his thick fingers digging into the soft flesh in a way that makes your stomach flutter.

Despite being lost in the throes of pleasure, you can tell how dangerously close Joel is to coming. His thrusts are no longer the steady, rolling grind that he started with, but desperate and choppy. The thick head of his cock grazes against your cervix with every sloppy snap of his hips. The veins along his shaft throb against your stretched rim, his balls slapping against your ass with each stuttered movement. “Joel…” you warn.

He shakes his head fast, jaw tight and teeth clenched as he fights his impending orgasm. “I know, baby. I know. M’pullin’ out, I promise.” 

That had always been the deal between the two of you – he could fuck you bare like he wanted, but he had to pull out – and until tonight, Joel had always been overly cautious. He’d pull out earlier than he needed to, stroking himself those last few seconds before spilling across the backs of your thighs.

Tonight though, Joel seemed to be struggling to hold up his end of the bargain. He rises onto his knees and hooks one of your legs over his broad shoulders. The new angle lets him sink into you further, grinding against that spongy spot inside you with merciless precision. Your body clenches around him, squeezing his cock in a way that makes him break with a choked sound. “Fuck, baby. M’gonna come–”

He rips out of you at the very last second, cock throbbing in the cool summer air. His hand wraps around the thick, slick shaft as he jerks himself with fast, desperate strokes. With an exasperated groan, the first hot rope of come shoots out of him, landing exactly where he wants it - splattered perfectly over your swollen clit. Before you can even react, a second spurt follows dripping down your folds in a sticky, pearly streak. 

The sight of his release painting your pussy flips a switch in him instantly. That primal urge in him that is usually kept locked down roars to the surface. Joel’s chest heaves, his entire body going rigid as every civilized thought gets wiped clean and is replaced with the need to be inside you. “Fuck. Fuck, baby–” He drives into you in one brutal, instinctive thrust, thrusting every thick inch of his cock back into the heat of your cunt. The stretch is sudden and overwhelming despite him pulling out only moments earlier.

“Joel–” you manage to breathlessly exclaim as he turns his head and groans against your ankle. His orgasm hits him harder now that he’s buried where he knows he shouldn’t be, the guilt and wrongness only seeming to intensify everything as he continues to spill inside you.

His whole body shakes with the force of it, completely lost in the rush of filling you when he promised he wouldn’t. “Oh fuck–” he chokes out, gasping and moaning as he grinds himself impossibly deeper, pushing his spend as far inside you as he can. 

Your leg slips from his shoulder and Joel’s body collapses forward with a groan, his weight pressing you into the mattress. He trembles above you, arms braced on either side of your head, too weak to hold himself up fully as he attempts to catch his breath. Even after the last powerful aftershocks ripple through him, Joel stays buried to the hilt, his hips giving a tiny, involuntary roll, unable to stop chasing the euphoric feeling. His cock twitches inside your come-filled pussy, his body refusing to accept that it’s over.

The room falls silent, the gravity of what just happened settling over you until it’s almost suffocating. Joel finally slumps over you, his forehead nudging into your shoulder, arms wrapped tight around your middle like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he lets go. His breath is shaky as he burrows his face into your neck and you sense the tension and unease radiating off of him.  “...baby. I–I fucked up,” he admits, voice wrecked from both exhaustion and nerves. 

You can feel the warmth of his release slowly leaking out around his softening cock and you try to lift your head to see, but Joel is heavy over top of you. You tap the side of his ass, urging him to get up and thankfully he understands the gesture. He eases himself out of you, his cock slipping out of you with a wet noise, and falls back onto the mattress, covering his face with his forearm. “Jesus…” you breathe, having propped yourself up on your elbows to look down at the mess he made. The sheen of your slick is smeared glossy across your inner thighs. Joel’s come is everywhere – seeping out of your hole in thick, pearly white streaks and dripping onto the bedsheets beneath you. 

Joel sits up, leaning back on one hand as he takes in the sight of your spread thighs, watching as his come slowly trickles from your entrance. The guilt of breaking his promise to you starts to eat at him; but, alongside the shame is a dark, hungry satisfaction that he can’t push away. The conflicting feelings weave together into some fucked up shame spiral and he lets out a heavy sigh, flopping back onto the mattress. 

He hears you say his name, but the sound barely registers. He’s too lost in his own head, trapped somewhere between regret and disgust. You call out again, this time a little louder, and he rolls onto his side to face you. Without a word, he leans in, one hand cradling your cheek as he kisses you. It’s not rushed or desperate, but rather sweet, as if his lips were trying to say everything he was having difficulty putting into words. There’s an apology in the way that his thumb gently strokes the side of your face. There’s hunger in the way his tongue slides against yours. And, there’s relief in the quiet sigh he breathes into the kiss, like touching you is the only thing keeping him grounded. “M’sorry, baby…” he murmurs against your lips. 

His eyes flick back down to the mess between your thighs, brows furrowing together. “Fuck…look at what I did to you,” he whispers. “As soon as I can feel my damn legs, “we’re gonna get in the car, okay? I’ll drive you to the pharmacy and we’ll see about gettin’ you the mornin’ after pill.” Joel shakes his head, disappointed in himself, but even more so at his cock which twitches with interest. “I promised. I fuckin’ promised and I just…” his voice cracks, “the second I came, I lost it. Buried myself right back in like some goddamn animal.” There’s a short pause, Joel swallowing down a dangerous thought, “Jesus Christ, baby…what the hell did I do?”

You grab Joel’s face with both hands before he can spiral any further, pulling him into a kiss that shuts him up and steals whatever apology was about to tumble out. His lips quiver against yours, unsure if he should even be allowed this kind of forgiveness. It isn’t until the tip of your tongue slides slowly over the seam of his lips that he melts. He lets out a breath he hadn’t realized he had been holding and the tension in his jaw finally eases. His hand comes to rest on your waist and he kisses you back, trying to convey his gratitude for not pushing him away.

When you break apart, you rest your forehead against him and brush your thumbs over his stubbled cheekbones. “Should make you go by yourself,” you mumble against his lips, no malice in your voice. “Explain to the pharmacist what you did.”

Joel looks at you with wide, pleading eyes, knowing he deserves every bit of shame and reproach that would come from confessing it aloud. His Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows, his face starting to heat up. “Baby…” he breathes out, voice barely above a whisper. 

You smile softly, eyes locked on his, “She’s going to take one look at this guilty face and just know that you couldn’t keep your cock where it belonged.” Joel makes a ragged sound, somewhere between a laugh and a groan. “She’ll make you say it too,” you add, dragging your thumb over his bottom lip. “What you did. Out loud.”

Joel’s eyes flutter shut, cheeks burning hotter under your gaze, his forehead dropping to your shoulder in an attempt to hide his embarrassment. You’re not exactly sure what prompts you, but you find yourself sliding your fingers into Joel’s hair, gently tugging his head back up so you can see his face. “Tell me what you’d say to her,” you whisper. “Tell me like you’re standing at the counter.”

Joel shakes his head weakly, attempting to resist your request, but his pupils are blown wide, lust swallowing his irises. His cock twitches with interest, blood rushing to where he’s already growing half-hard between his thighs. 

You let your gaze drop, catching the sudden movement in your peripheral vision. Joel lets out a small, miserable whine and tries to bury his face in your neck again, but you keep your grip firm in his hair. “Joel,” you say, slightly amused but with a strangely cruel undertone to it. “Are you getting hard while apologizing?”

Your question lingers in the air, and the real shock of it hits you, because Joel is not the type to be brought down to his metaphorical knees. He is always the one in control – bigger, stronger, unmistakably male – and seeing him like this almost feels surreal. You can’t help but think that it looks good on him for a change. 

Joel’s breath stutters, his cock betraying him as it twitches under your gaze. His blush deepens until he’s red all the way up to the tips of his ears. He feels exposed, ridiculous and so fucking turned on that it’s making his head spin. “Baby, I–I’m trying not to.”

You tilt your head and let out a disbelieving laugh, glancing down at his cock steadily thickening between you. “Doesn’t look like it. Looks like you’re getting big and hard just from thinking about having to talk to the pharmacist later.”

A shiver zips up Joel’s spine and he barely restrains the groan that wants to escape. He fucking loves it when you call him big. Not just because of the way it strokes his ego – though he loves when you admire his dick – but because the way you say it makes him feel powerful. Hearing you use that word against him, teasing him while he’s exposed like this, makes his stomach tighten. The contradiction of being called ‘big’ while feeling so small and humiliated fucks with his head in the best way. Because no matter how big he is – how easily he could pin you down and take control – here he is, rock hard and almost submissive for you. His cock throbs, heavy and flushed dark, curving up towards his stomach as the tip glistens with a fresh bead of precome.

“Answer me,” you say, voice low and commanding as you give his hair another firm tug until his eyes are trained on you.

“...fuck,” he mumbles under his breath, unable to keep himself in check as you stare down at him. “Yes…okay? Yes, I’m gettin’ hard. I hate it and I can’t fuckin’ help it.”

Joel looks completely mortified, but his hips twitch upward anyway, like his body is begging for attention. His big, guilty brown eyes stay locked on yours, glassy and desperate. A long moment stretches between you while you watch him squirm, shame and arousal practically eating him alive. You lean in closer, lips brushing the shell of his ear. “That’s because you liked it,” you whisper. “You liked filling me up when you weren’t supposed to. You liked fucking up.”

His whole body tenses, his cock jerking with another helpless twitch. “Fuck…baby,” he whispers. “So fucking much.”

You let the silence sit for another beat, just to watch him sit with his admission. His hand flexes at his side like he’s dying to reach out and touch you – to grab your hips, pull you closer, bury his face between your thighs, and eat you out until you’re shaking and pushing him away.  Anything to distract from the embarrassment of telling someone else how much he enjoyed coming inside you. 

When you’re satisfied that you had made him wait long enough, you loosen your grip on his hair and slide your hand down to cup his jaw. “Joel,” you say softly. He responds with a hum, leaning into your touch. “Say it.”

Joel blinks, his breath shallow. “Say what?”

You lean in until your lips are barely an inch from his, “What you’re going to tell the pharmacist.”

Joel’s eyes flutter shut for a second, his lips parting slightly as he half-expects you to lean in and kiss him. When you don’t, he lets out a huff. After a moment, he relents,  “Sorry ma’am,” he says, barely above a whisper. “Can I bother you for Plan B? I…I accidentally…” His sentence tapers off, embarrassment and arousal tying his tongue while you look at him expectantly. “She–she told me to pull out, but I couldn’t help myself.”

You tsk at him, a low, disappointed sound that makes his shoulder tense. You trail your fingers from where it cups his cheek, down the side of his neck, over the rapid thud of his heartbeat in his chest, until you reach his navel. You trace his happy trail with the pad of your pointer finger, purposefully keeping away from his more than interested cock. “Keep going,” you state, more demand than request. “You weren’t finished."

Joel looks at you wrecked, completely at your mercy as you continue teasing him with featherlight touches. “Baby…I–”

You cut him off mid-sentence, wrapping your fingers firmly around the thick base of his cock. He goes stock still, his eyes flying wide open as he lets out a sharp gasp, “Fuck–”. You hold him there, tight and possessive, feeling his cock throb hot and heavy in your palm, but refusing to stroke him. 

“Keep going,” you say calmly, your thumb brushing lightly over the prominent vein on the underside of his shaft. “Don’t stop just because I have your cock in my hand.”

Joel licks his lips, eyes glued to yours, his thighs trembling as he fights the overwhelming urge to thrust up into your fist. “She told me to pull out,” he starts, your grip tightening. “…but I saw how pretty she looked on my cock and I–” He groans softly, enraptured by the way you’re looking at him. “I couldn’t help myself, baby.  I–I just needed to feel you feel you full of me.”

You lean in close, nose brushing against the shell of his ear, and whisper, “Pathetic.”

A broken groan tears out of Joel’s chest, shame flooding his face. He jerks his hips involuntarily, eagerly chasing the heat of your palm. His body shakes – the big, strong man who’s always in control, trembling from a single whispered insult.

“Go on,” you purr in his ear. “Repeat what you’d say to the pharmacist. Word for word.”

Joel’s eyes squeeze shut, his voice is wrecked, cracking with every humiliating word. “...Sorry, ma’am. Can I get a Plan B? I accidentally came inside my girl. She told me to pull out but I…I couldn’t help but fill her up anyway.” His hips twitch helplessly, precome drooling from the tip and leaking over your fist.

“And why not,” you ask softly, adjusting your grip, your thumb swiping over the flushed, sensitive head.

Joel keens, his back arching off the bed. “Because–” he starts, swallowing down a shaky breath,  “because she was squeezin’ me so good that I lost control.”

“I told you to pull out,” you remind him, thumb continuing to move. 

He nods quickly, shame tightening in his throat. “I know, baby. I know. I did at first but…” Joel lets out a strangled whine, only furthering his embarrassment, “...fuck.”

“But what, Joel?” you ask, lips still brushing his ear in a tease. “Finish your sentence.” Your hand slides up his length in one smooth stroke, then back down to the base. He’s so fucking big in your grip, your fingers barely meeting around his shaft due to the sheer size of him. His cock is a complete mess, glistening and still slick with his earlier load. 

Joel’s hands fist the sheets, needing to hold onto something, the fabric pulling away from the edge of the mattress as he fights for control. “I didn’t listen,” he grits out through clenched teeth. “Stuffed myself right back inside.”

You pull back just enough to see his face, his pupils blown with lust, his lips parted as he pants, desperate for more – desperate for something. “Good boy,” you praise. Joel’s entire body seizes up, his cock surging with want, as he attempts to push himself deeper into your grasp. You keep stroking him, the pace excruciating, letting your thumb swirl over the messy come-slick head on every upstroke. “Now tell her why you’re there,” you murmur.

Joel lets out a broken whine, hips jerking helplessly. His voice cracks as he forces the words out, shame and arousal twisting together so tightly he can barely speak.  “ ‘Cause she needs the morning after pill,” he breathes out. “And it’s all my fault.” Joel shoves his hips up, spearing his cock into your grip as he starts fucking your fist in short, needy strokes. “All my fucking fault.” 

The big, dominant Joel Miller is officially gone. In place is this desperate, leaking, shame-drenched version of him who can’t stop confessing how badly he fucked up – how badly he needed to come inside you – and how much he loved it.

“Greedy boy. You just can’t help yourself, can you?” 

He doesn’t answer you. You let him use your hand to get off, watching his face go slack with pleasure before urging his hips down and slowing your hand. Your fingers tighten around him, just enough to control the pace, forcing his thrusts to become shallow and frustratingly restricted. Every time he tries to move, you ease off, keeping him right on the agonizing edge without letting him tip over.

“That’s it,” you croon softly, “Tell her exactly why you need it.”

Joel’s hands fist the sheets tighter, knuckles white as he bunches the fabric at his sides. “‘Cause–fuck…’cause I came inside you, baby,” he groans. “Pussy looked so good covered in my come that I just had to get back inside.”

You feel him swell impossibly bigger in your hand, the thick shaft pulsing in time with his heartbeat, as he teeters dangerously close to the edge. His balls draw up tight, the first warning of his impending orgasm.

Joel’s breath catches, his eyes starting to roll back, inches away from satisfaction. You let go, your hand pulling away completely, leaving his cock twitching and bobbing angrily in the air. He lets out a broken sound as his orgasm crests and then crashes without release. His cock kicks hard, pulsing uselessly, a thick bead of precome dribbling pathetically from the tip and sliding down his shaft. His hips buck in the air, every muscle straining as everything fades into a cruel, aching denial. He collapses towards you, his body practically shaking  as he presses his forehead to your shoulder. “Fuck…baby…please…” he begs. 

You let him ache, his chest heaving with quick, uneven breaths, his denied cock twitching and leaking against his stomach. Every heavy throb is visible as he attempts to gather himself. He tries to tamp down his arousal, but underneath is something deeper  – raw, aching need. 

You press a hand gently to his chest, urging him to lie flat and Joel obeys instantly, falling back onto the mattress fully and without protest. You swing a leg over him, straddling his hips, your slick folds parting around him. His head falls back with a guttural groan as you start to rock against him, the fat head of his cock dragging hot and slippery over your swollen clit making you both moan. You feel him shudder underneath you, a low groan vibrating through his chest as he curses silently, “...fuck, baby. Just like that.”

Joel’s hands fly to your thighs, fingers digging into your flesh like he’s barely holding himself together. His breathing is ragged, eyes half-lidded and desperate as he watches you use him. You tease him like that for a few more torturous seconds without giving him what he really needs, a needy whine slipping out before he can stop it. 

Without hesitation, you take his cock in hand, lining him up with your entrance and sinking down all the way to the hilt. The stretch is perfect, your walls squeezing tight around him, greedy for more. A broken moan escapes both of you at the same time as Joel springs up, sitting up beneath you in a rush, one arm wrapping around your back as he pulls you into a messy, desperate kiss. Joel licks into your mouth like he’s starving for you. One hand slides up your back, while the other stays wrapped around your middle as he guides you harder onto his cock. 

“Fuck, baby…” he pants between kisses, “you feel so goddamn good.” Joel’s forehead drops to your shoulder, breath hot against your skin as he lets you take complete control, utterly lost in the feeling of being buried inside you again. 

“Keep going,” you say, pulling off of him until only the tip of him remains inside you, then slamming back down until he’s fully sheathed again. “Tell the pharmacist what you did.”

Joel’s brain is barely coherent. “Fuck–I–” His hands dig into your skin, almost like he’s afraid you’ll leave him ruined and desperate again. “M’sorry, ma’am,” he begins, his words somewhat slurred as you continue to mercilessly ride him, the wet heat of your cunt enveloping him over and over again. “Need a plan B for my–fuck– girl.” His voice cracks as you grind your clit against his pelvis, the coarse hair on his groin prickling into your skin. “I’m sorry,” he groans, starting to babble, the confession spilling out in desperate, shattered pieces. “So fucking sorry. Felt so good. Fuck, baby…you feel so good. Needed to fill you up.”

Joel is embarrassingly close already, his hips stuttering up to meet your rhythm. “Fuck, baby. Hop off–fuck, I’m gonna–” he gasps, starting to panic. His hands scramble frantically at your hips, trying to lift you off him to avoid further incident. 

But you don’t let him. You slam down onto him one last time, taking him as deep as you can, rolling your hips in tight circles that eke him closer to the finish line. Your walls clench around him like a vice and Joel’s eyes widen in shock. “No–baby, wait–I can’t–fuck!”

His panicked warning dissolves into a guttural groan as his cock pulses violently inside you, his eyes rolling back into his head, vision going white, as thick, hot ropes of come flood you for the second time that afternoon. His entire body trembles beneath you, his fingers bruising your skin where he grips you as if you’re the only thing anchoring him to Earth.

The wet warmth of his spend spills from your cunt and drips down his shaft, coating him in his own mess. Joel’s face is slack, experiencing what one can only assume to be pure bliss – like nothing in the world exists except the tight, slick heat of your cunt milking him dry. 

You ride the high right alongside him, your bodies in a perfect, filthy sync until your own orgasm crashes into you without warning. Your thighs lock tight around his hips as white-hot pleasure rips up your spine. You cry out, your head lolling back, his name slipping from your lips as every muscle shakes with wave after wave of mind-numbing pleasure. 

Joel starts to slowly soften inside of you but doesn’t dare look down at the mess. “Still gotta go to the pharmacy, baby.”

The fluorescent lights of the pharmacy feel way too bright as Joel stands at the counter, posture rigid like he’s waiting on his own execution. The pharmacist, a no-nonsense type of woman in her fifties, offers him a polite smile. “How can I help you today?”

Joel’s face immediately burns red, his blush crawling all the way up to his ears. He rubs the back of his neck, glancing over at you like maybe you’ll save him from utter embarrassment, but you don’t. He clears his throat, an attempt at keeping himself from stuttering which immediately backfires as soon as he opens his mouth to speak. “Uh–I–I–uh…I need the, uh…the Plan B pill.”

The pharmacist doesn’t even blink, she just nods calmly and types something into the computer, “One moment, sir. I’ll grab that for you.”

Joel lets out an apprehensive breath, muttering under his breath while his fingers tap nervously on the counter. He prays the ground will just swallow him whole. “Jesus Christ,” he mumbles to himself.

The pharmacist returns with the small blue box and sets it on the counter, scanning the barcode. “Alright, if that’s it for today, that’ll be–”

“It’s my fault,” Joel blurts out, far too loud, before realizing his blunder. “I–I messed up.”

You watch the pharmacist’s eyebrows slowly lift. In truth, your hand reaches for him like you’re going to stop him, but the words tumble out of him quicker than expected. “She told me to pull out but I just lost my head.”

You bite down hard on your lip to keep from laughing, your face heating with a mix of second-hand embarrassment and delight. The pharmacist blinks, completely unfazed. “Oh. Well…it happens. That’ll be $54.11.”

Joel looks like he’s two seconds away from melting into the floor. His neck and ears are bright red, jaw clenched so tight you’re afraid he’s going to pop a vein in his forehead. He fumbles for his wallet, dropping his debit card with a loud clatter, cursing quietly under his breath. You place a steady hand on his bicep and he manages to swipe the card with shaking fingers, refusing to look at you.

When the transaction is complete, the pharmacist hands him the bag, telling him she hopes he has a good day. He can’t even respond with words. He raises his hand, nodding his head and gently takes you by the arm, leading you out of the pharmacy as quickly as he can. When he reaches the sidewalk, he turns towards you, the bulge evident in his jeans, his voice dropping into a hushed whisper only you can hear. “Baby…I swear I ain’t ever been that embarrassed in all my life.”

The minute the front door clicks shut behind you, Joel lets out a heavy exhale, dropping the keys to his truck on the entryway table. You barely make it two steps before he reaches for you, grabbing your hand and pulling you into him, your back flush against his broad chest. His face drops into the crook of your neck, lips brushing your skin like he needs the contact to steady himself. 

He turns you to face him and his eyes are soft, filled with adoration and love. The flush of humiliation hasn’t fully faded, his ears tinted pink as he cocks his head to the side and then leans in to kiss you. The kiss starts slow, as if he’s asking for permission, but the moment you kiss him back, it deepens – slow and hungry in the softest way. His hands slide down your back, palms warm and steady, pressing you closer until there’s no space left between your bodies. “Baby…”, he whispers, his lips not leaving yours. “...you were real mean to me.”

You smile, humming in agreement, “Yeah, you gonna let me do it again?”

Joel swallows, eyes dropping to your mouth, his response somewhat shy, “Jesus…I–yeah,we’ll talk about it.”

His forehead rests against yours and he breathes you in for a long moment, then kisses you again. His arms tighten around you as the tension starts to bleed out of his shoulders. “Thank you,” he murmurs, the words barely more than a breath. “For helpin’ me take care of it. For not bein’ mad. For…hell, for everything.”

And you can’t even remember when it all started. When he claimed you as his, gave you rules, made sure you were fed and well taken care of. His calloused hands lying on your body, making you feel things you’d never felt. And how you felt yourself becoming devoted to him—promising to be good, to always be his.

Yet, you were not his good girl today. You could already hear his stern sighing, see the hands on his hips when he tells you how disappointed he is in you.

You were not allowed to go outside, not without him or without his permission. It was a strict rule, established already on the day you stepped foot in his cabin.

“It’s too dangerous out there,” he whispers, eyes locked on the blood blooming across your ribs. “Look what they did to you.” His finger traces the wound, slow. “Next time, they won’t stop at hurting you. They’ll kill you and feed what’s left of you to their dogs.”

You knew the rules and you knew what would happen if you broke them. Joel didn’t always yell. He didn’t always chase. He didn’t threaten. He punished. Quietly. Deliberately. Sometimes it was his belt, until your skin turned red and started stinging. Sometimes it was his hand.

Sometimes it was even worse—kneeling on small rocks, wrists bound, left alone in silence until your legs gave out. But it wasn’t the pain that made you cry. It was the waiting. The silence. The way he watched you like he was deciding whether you were still worth keeping. And then, if you were lucky—if you took it well—he’d say it.

“You’re learning,” and a “Good girl,” That was all you ever wanted.

Joel is asleep.

You can hear it—the steady rhythm of his breathing, the occasional rasp of a snore that cuts through the silence like a warning bell. It’s loud. It’s disruptive. And a reminder. That he’s still here. That you’re not alone. That you’re very much not supposed to be doing this.

Your heart is pounding and you haven’t even moved yet. Your body already feels like it’s betraying you, like it knows this is wrong. Like it’s preparing itself for when Joel wakes up and catches you before you can even reach the door.

But you want to see. You need to see.

The outside world has been a mystery for far too long. Joel keeps it locked away behind rules and warnings and stories too gruesome to be lies. You know he is right. You’ve listened. You’ve obeyed. You’ve earned points on the chart. You’ve been good.

But today, you’re not.

You zip your backpack slowly, the sound deafening in the quiet room. You pause halfway through, glancing towards the bed. Joel doesn’t stir, another snore escapes him. His arm is draped over the blanket, fingers curled loosely, the same hand that stitched your wounds, held your throat and stroked your hair when you cried.

The winter jacket is heavy in your hands. You slip it on one sleeve at a time, careful not to let the fabric rustle too loudly. The zipper is next—slow, deliberate, teeth sliding together like a secret you’re trying to keep. You tiptoe across the room, the boards creaking beneath your weight. You’re lucky that they are soft and silent. As you take a deep breath and want to lay your hand on the door, your eyes land on it.

The chart.

He put it together just after two weeks. After he took your virginity, touched you in places you’d never discovered, made you learn things you never knew about yourself. It’s just columns, hand-drawn in Joel’s sharp, unforgiving script. The ink is fading in places, smudged in others—like he pressed too hard when he was angry.

“You need structure,” he begins, swaying the paper from left to right in front of you. “This will help.”

You look at it like it might give you answers if you just stare long enough. A soft, breathy chuckle leaves him when your eyes flick to him, confused.

“It’s a chart. Look—here is obedience. If you obey me well, I may decide to add one mark.”

His finger sliding down, pointing at the next thing that’s on the chart.

“And here is punishment taken well. When you take your punishment good, I can add a mark also here.” He explains, his eyes concentrated on your face, voice soft.

You look at the chart, and the other things he listed. You nod, even before he finishes. You want to understand. You want to be good. Not just to avoid punishment—but because he knows better. He sees things you don’t. He survived things you couldn’t.

“And when you have enough lines,” he comes closer. “You can earn some rewards, yea?”

He puts a strand of hair behind your ear and cradles your face. “Like touching yourself. Only once, only when you say my name. Maybe even use the toy I made you.”

You take a deep breath, those memories settling deep in your bones. Knowing that if he finds out, all of the marks—the ones you worked so hard for will all be gone.

It’s going to be quick. It’s going to be easy.

You’ve already marked everything on the map you stole from Joel last week. One path leads to the forest, the other to the river. The excitement of seeing both runs through your veins, and you can’t help but smile to yourself.

If you arrive at the cabin before Joel wakes up—and he wakes up late—there won’t be any problems. As long as you get there in time.

Your fingers tremble as you undo the countless locks Joel made on the door. Three locks. One chain. A wooden beam across the frame. You’ve watched him do it a hundred times, memorized the rhythm of his hands, the way he hums low when he’s satisfied. The metal clicks feel too loud in the quiet. You pause after each one, listening for movement, paying close attention. Nothing.

The final lock sticks. You bite your lip, twist harder. It gives. You open the door just wide enough to slip through, then click it shut silently behind you.

And then you’re outside.

The cold hits you instantly—sharp. You can’t quite believe you’re outside. You suck in a breath, lungs burning, and it feels like freedom. The snow crunches under your boots, soft, smooth, like you’d forgotten how that sounded. You walk slowly, each step pulling you farther away from the man who saved your life. Each one feels like betrayal.

Joel’s voice is looping in your head, low, firm and unforgiving.

“You don’t go out alone.”

“You’re not strong enough.”

“You want to die? That’s how you do it.”

You hear him with every step. But you keep walking. Because for the first time in weeks, maybe months, the air doesn’t smell like him. It smells like pine and frost and something untouched. You breathe it in like it might cleanse you.

You remember the day you found his cabin.

Half-frozen, stumbling through snowdrifts, bleeding from places you didn’t want to name. The raiders had taken everything—your coat, your food, your voice. You were nothing but a shadow when you saw the smoke curling from his chimney.

You remember the way he looked at you. Not with pity. Not with kindness. Just calculation.

You missed this.

The sky. The silence.

What if he already noticed?

You turn halfway, eyes flicking back towards the cabin. It’s hidden now, swallowed by trees and silence. You could go back. You could pretend you never left. You could crawl into bed and whisper apologies into the sheets.

You slowly walk towards the river, the morning sun already starting to show up. As you reach the river you kneel down, and dip your hand into the water. It’s freezing and it stings. But it feels good.

You want to stay longer. Just a few more seconds. Watch the snow land on the water, disappearing from existence—just like you wish you could sometimes.

You turn towards the woods. To the second mark on your map. The place where you ran away from until you stumbled upon Joel’s cabin. It almost feels unnerving—the trees stretch tall, branches bare and reaching. Birds flit between them, their wings sharp against the sky.

Joel is still in the back of your mind as you watch them, making sounds you haven’t heard in a long time. You walk steadily, with the intention of doing it quickly, not getting too deep into the forest. Because you know: you won’t be able to find your way out.

And then as you just walk on a snow flooded path—

CRACK.

The ground gives way beneath you.

And you fall.

Snow and dirt collapse around you, and your body hits the bottom—hard. Your breath leaves in a gasp. You blink, dazed, and realize you’re in a big pit. A trap. Six feet deep. Maybe even more. It was covered and hidden. You didn’t see it. You were looking at the birds, thinking about Joel.

Panic floods you.

“Nonono—no—no—” you mumble over and over to yourself. You can’t even focus on the pain from falling onto your bum, or the sting in your hands from the snow you’re clutching.

You scramble, quick, clawing at the walls, trying to climb. Your boots slip, your fingers sliding up and down the falls until they start to hurt. The pit is too deep, it’s too slippery, too wet and too smooth. You jump, countless times, you try to scream but nothing comes out.

So you start crying.

Your heart pounds so loud it hurts. The walls feel like they’re closing in, like they are trying to suffocate you. You collapse, sobbing into your hands.

This is what Joel said. This is why he told you those gruesome stories. This is why he locked the door, gave you punishments. Why he made the chart. Why he said “You’re not ready.”

You didn’t listen.

And now you’re going to die.

Whoever set this trap will come to check. And they won’t be merciful, not like Joel was when he found you. Not like the man who punishes you but still feeds you. Still wipes your tears. Still calls you sweetheart when you obey.

The hours stretch. It slowly becomes evening.

You stopped sobbing, you stopped caring about escaping. It doesn’t help. You sit in the corner, your knees pulled to your chest, head buried in your arms. Staring at the dirt patch on the ground, thinking about the moments you had with Joel. Just yesterday, he kissed your forehead and tucked you into bed. Warm and safe. The way one time he made soup from scratch, even though food was scarce, and fed it to you spoon by spoon, watching your lips like they were the only thing that mattered. Holding you in his lap, whispering over and over: “I’ve got you, baby. You’re safe with me.”

You start to say that to yourself, in your head, mimicking Joels arms and hugging yourself. You don’t know if you’re ready to die. You just know you’re alone.

And then—

A shadow.

It looms above the pit. Silently. Watching.

You freeze, staring up at the unknown figure. Your heart thuds in your chest—you know this is the end. Whoever this is, they’re going to kill you.

A flashlight clicks on and the beam hits your face.

You blink.

It’s Joel.

He doesn’t speak, he just looks at you, breathing in hard and then out. Disappointment written on his face. He kneels at the edge, eyebrows pinched together—eyes full of anger. Then he reaches down, hand extended.

You don’t move at first. Your body is frozen. Your mind is spinning. Your mouth is gaping open like you want to say something but nothing comes out. You feel yourself relieved but also scared of what comes next.

Then you whisper: “Joel.” Silent, like a prayer.

His voice is rough, angry and it’s spits into your face without warning. “Fuckin’ c’mere.”

You scramble to your feet, shaking and grab his hand, climbing up the pit with his help. Your body aches. Your heart is breaking. When you reach the top, you throw your arms around him, sobbing into his jacket, smelling in his scent.

But he doesn’t hug you back. He pulls you away, grabs your arm—hard. His grip is bruising, a yelp escapes from your mouth.

And then he starts to drag you.

His grip on your arm is relentless, fingers digging into your skin like he’s trying to fuse you into him. You stumble once on the uneven path, your ankle catching on a root, but he doesn’t slow down. He doesn’t even glance back. He just yanks you forward, and the pain shoots up your arm, sharp and hot, but you don’t dare make a sound.

The cabin looms ahead, dark and quiet, the porch light flickering like it’s trying to warn you. Your heart is pounding so hard you think he can hear it. And maybe that’s why his grip tightens. Maybe he wants to feel your fear in his palm.

He throws open the door with one hand and shoves you inside with the other. You stumble over the floor, catching yourself on the wall, breath hitching as you hear the door slam shut behind you. The sound of the locks clicking into place—one after another, echoes through the cabin like gunshots. You turn to look at him, tears already bubbling in your eyes, but he doesn’t meet your gaze.

“Bedroom,” he mutters, voice low and flat, like you’re not even worth the effort.

You nod, even though he’s not looking. It’s not for him—it’s for you. A silent apology. A quiet surrender.

Your legs feel like they’re made of glass as you walk towards the small room at the end of the hall. The bed is messy, the sheets twisted from the night before, and the moonlight spills through the window, casting long shadows across the floor. All you want to do is lay down, and cuddle him to sleep.

You stand there for a moment, unsure if you should sit, lie down, kneel. You don’t know what version of him is coming through that door.

And then he does.

Joel steps into the room slowly, his eyes locked on you like you’re something he’s trying to solve. His eyebrows are pinched, his mouth a hard line, and the disappointment in his face is louder than any scream.

He doesn’t speak. Just walks up to you and grabs your chin—firm, not gentle. His fingers press into your jaw, tilting your face towards the light coming from the window. You flinch, but you don’t pull away.

“Look at me,” he says.

You do.

His eyes scan your face, slow and careful. The bruise blooming on your cheek. The cut on your lip, still raw. The dirt smeared across your jaw like a brand. He doesn’t speak. Just watches. Then his thumb brushes the blood away, and for a second, you think maybe—maybe he’s softening.

“You hurt?” he asks, his eyes locking with yours.

You nod. Barely. The movement is so small it could be mistaken for a tremble.

He scoffs. “Not enough.”

His hands move down, rough and methodical. He checks your wrists, turning them over like he’s inspecting. Then he sees the gash from the fall. He presses near it, and you gasp, the pain sharp and sudden.

Then he presses harder.

“Ow,” you whisper, pulling back instinctively.

He doesn’t let go.

“You crying over this?” he mutters, voice thick with contempt. “Pathetic.”

You bite your lip, trying to hold it in, but the tears are already spilling. You don’t know if it’s the pain, the fear, or the shame. Maybe it’s all of it. Maybe it’s the way he’s looking at you—like you’re not broken enough yet.

He lets go of your wrist and comes closer, towering over you. You feel small. Fragile. Like you could shatter if he raised his voice.

“Didn’t I tell you?” His voice is low at first, almost calm, but there’s a tremor beneath it—like something dangerous is trying to claw its way out. “Didn’t I fucking tell you what would happen if you went out there alone?”

He starts slowly pacing in the room, steps loud and clear on the wooden floor, hands on his hips, eyes burning into you like you’re the source of every wrong thing in his world.

“You think you’re smart? You think you’re strong enough to survive without me?” He chuckles, bitter and sharp. “You couldn’t even make it past the forest.”

“I didn’t want to go past the forest, I just wanted to explore,” you mumble—barely a whisper—and regret it the moment the words leave your mouth.

“That so, huh?” He stops in front of you, close enough that you can feel the heat of his breath. “What would’ve happened if those traps weren’t mine?” Your eyes land on his, realizing.

“You think the world’s gonna cradle you like I do? You think it cares if you cry, hm? You think the person who would’ve found you would be as forgiven as I am?” His voice still low, unusually calm. He looks at you like he is expecting an answer, but you can’t open your mouth. The room feels small and suffocating as you stand there, listening to his words.

“I feed you. I keep you warm. I keep you alive. And this is how you thank me, baby?” He asks. “By running? By lying?“

He steps back, shaking his head like he can’t believe what you have done. You stand in front of him, tears in your eyes and heart aching like it never done before. You didn‘t want to run, you didn‘t want to lie. You just wanted to explore, but he couldn‘t understand that.

Your voice is barely a whisper. “I’m sorry.”

It slips out before you can stop it—a reflex, a prayer. But you already know: apologies don’t mean much to Joel. They hold no weight in his world. The closest thing to forgiveness is you—shaking, withering beneath him, sobbing until your eyes burn. Then him adding a mark besides ‘punishment taken well.’

Joel’s eyes narrow. He doesn’t move. Doesn’t blink. Then he shakes his head, slow and deliberate, coming closer to your face again.

“You ain’t sorry, doll.” His voice is low.

You feel your stomach drop. He is close enough that you can smell the sweat on his skin, the dirt on his jacket, the fury still simmering beneath his calm.

“You’re scared.” A pause. “But you ain’t sorry.”

You open your mouth to speak, but he cuts you off with one word.

“Strip.”

He doesn’t raise his voice. Doesn’t repeat himself. Just watches. Watches the way your fingers play with the hem of your pullover, the way you’re biting the inside of your mouth. Unsure to move, knowing in what position he is going to put you.

“Not gonna tell you twice.” He says, but you still hesitate. And that’s enough for him. Joel’s jaw tightens.

“You wanna explore, yea?” He takes your hand and places it on the hem of your pullover, pulling upwards. “Then explore what it feels like to be corrected.”

Your hands tremble as you put it over your head. The fabric feels heavier than it should. Like it knows what’s coming. Joel doesn’t look away. Doesn’t blink.

“Slower.” His voice is quieter now. “You don’t rush when you’re being taught, baby.”

You nod, even though your throat feels too tight to speak. Next, you unclasp your bra. Then pull down your pants, with your panties. You stand there, bare and shaking, arms crossed over your chest. The cold hitting your skin, goosebumps blooming across it and sudden embarrassment fills you.

Joel grabs your wrists, pulling them down.

“Don’t hide,” His grip is firm. “You don’t get to hide from me.” He takes one of your hand and brings them close to his mouth, giving a kiss.

You just nod again, tears already slipping down your cheeks.

Then he unbuckles his belt—the sharp sound of it makes your heart jump. It’s the punishment he saves for when you’ve really messed up. The one that lingers for days, when sitting becomes a reminder. Joel moves behind you, settling on the edge of the bed with a sigh, legs spread just enough to make space for you. The belt rests in his hand, folded once—heavy, quiet, waiting.

And then, he pats his thigh. “Over.”

You move slowly, heart pounding, limbs trembling. You drape yourself across his lap, stomach pressed against his jeans, arms landing on the bed. You feel his hand settling on your lower back, firm—like he knows you’re going to squirm.

“You count,” His voice is low, steady. “Loud and clear. Or we start over.”

You nod, but it’s barely a movement. Your throat is tight. Your skin prickles with cold, shame and something else—something like what it feels like anticipation but also fear.

The first strike lands.

A sharp crack of leather against skin. It stings, making your whole body move slightly forward, his hand stabilising you. You gasp, loud, the sound escaping before you can even stop it. “One,” Your voice is shaky, thin, trying not to spill the tears again.

Joel doesn’t respond. Just lifts the belt again. And the second hit is harder. It aches deep, blooming across your skin like fire.

“Two.” You squeeze your eyes shut, fingers curling into the sheets, holding onto it like it may save you. The room feels smaller now, the air heavier and the knot in your throat feels like it’s going to unravel just in seconds. “Three.”

Your voice cracks. Tears finally slip one by one down your cheeks, silent and hot.

“Go ahead and sob. Maybe the river will come cradle you since you miss it so damn much.”

You hiccup, the weight of his words settle in your chest, heavy and unrelenting. Joel then shifts slightly beneath you, adjusting your position. His hand presses into your back again, this time rubbing in a big circle—grounding and soothing you, before giving you another spank.

“Four.” You squirm, just a little. The sting against your skin feels unbearable. But Joel’s grip tightens.

“Keep still. You wanted to play brave girl in the woods—now take what comes with it, baby.” He murmurs, his belt grazing over your bum and landing on the fifth hit. You nod, sobbing now. The pain mixed with guilt, with regret, with the memory of the river, the trap and the way he looked at you when he found you. “Five.”

Your legs tremble. Your body aches. But you keep counting.

“Six.”

Joel pauses. His voice is quieter now. “You were doing so well,” he begins. “and then you showed me you’re still just a mess I have to manage.”

Your breath catches, shallow and uneven. The words hit harder than the belt ever did. Not because they were loud and harsh—but because they were true. Or at least, they felt true in that moment for you. Your fingers curl into the sheets. Your shoulders tremble. And you nod. Barely. Like you’re agreeing with him. Like you’re accepting it.

Because what else is there to do?

You were doing well. And now you’re just a mess. Again.

With the ninth hit of the belt, a sob tears through your body. Your face is buried in the sheets, knuckles white from gripping the bed as you try to count for him—but fail miserably. And you think, maybe this time, he won’t just punish you. Maybe he’ll drag you back to the pit with his own damn hands—for misbehaving so, so many times.

But it doesn’t come. Your hiccuping stills as you try to listen what Joel has to say, but nothing comes out of his mouth. Instead, he gives you the tenth spank.

The hardest. The most painful of them all.

Your body recoils, lurching forward as your breath catches in your throat—unable to breathe for just a moment. His hand lands on the stinging, tender flesh, rubbing slow circles.

With the other, he sets the belt aside and begins stroking your hair.

The silence overwhelms the room, saved for the gentle hiccups and whines that still come from your body, just laying on his lap accepting the only softness he ever gives you.

“Look at me, yea?” Your head shoots up from the sheets, slowly turning and looking into his dark eyes. “That’s what this is for, baby. Good girls cry, they take it without begging or fighting.” He nods his head at you.

“This is what obedience looks like. Ugly, but earned, okay?” Joel asks low. You nod, eagerly, wanting to be good for him. And as if he already knows what he is going to expect, he nudges his middle finger between your thighs and then into your folds. The tip of his finger prodding at your hole with a hum falling from his lips. You are wet. And it wouldn’t matter how much pain you would’ve endure from him, you would still start aching.

Because that’s what he taught you. With a “I bet that feels good, baby.” And two fingers in your cunt just three days after he found you, controlling when you are going to let go, telling you “Nuh-uh, not now. Only when I give permission.” And then giving you something you’ve never had before—a release.

His hand slides to your waist—firm, possessive. You barely have time to brace before he shifts you in one smooth motion.

He lifts, turns, and settles you back down—your spine pressing into his thighs now, head tipped back onto the pillow. Your legs tremble as he spreads them wide. Exposing your pussy to him all the while you hold your breath.

“S’okey. Deep breaths, now.” He says, calm. “We ain’t done yet, babygirl.”

And you should’ve seen that coming.

Punishment on top of punishment wasn’t something he usually did—only when you misbehaved so badly he couldn’t see another way to deal with you.

Joel reaches for something, something you can’t see. Only when you hear it, your heart starts to race.

The vibrator.

The vibrator Joel build himself. The one where he found an electric toothbrush motor, a battery pack, leather, and put these together with the intention to control your pleasure. The device was overrun with smooth leather that made it easy for it to clean but also felt comfortable against your pussy. He didn’t need much words for it when he introduced you to it. Just a switch of the thing and holding it against your panties with a smile, praising you when you fell apart on it.

You sit up slightly, holding onto his arm with a pleading look.

“Please—“ knowing the last time he used the vibrator in one of his punishments, he made you come until you couldn’t feel your clit anymore.

“Don’t make me tie you up. Hands to yourself.” He cuts through your pleas with a stern look, making you put your hand away from him and lay down on the bed again.

Your body tenses when Joel spreads your cunt and open you up with two fingers, first inspecting and then when you least expect it, he presses the device down. Just on the tip of your clit, with the vibrations still on the lowest setting. Your breath hitches, a whimper escaping your lips. That alone easily makes you want to move your hips, and moan into the room.

But you needed to stay still—you knew the rules.

“This isn’t about your pleasure,” he starts explaining, lowering the vibrator and pressing it down on your hole. “It’s about control…makin’ sure you ache in all the right places before I decide you’ve earned anything more.”

Fingers curling into the sheets, knuckles white, you try to keep silence. The minutes stretching before Joel decides to press it onto your clit again. His eyes land on you, analysing your face, looking if you’re already trembling, if you’re already on the verge of an orgasm. His hand lifts and brushes against your cheek, you lean into it—wanting the warmth.

Heat coils low in your tummy, and your knees start to tremble. Your hips slightly move against the vibrations and Joel lets you, pressing even harder down on your clit.

And then, when he sees you clenching your tummy, mouth gaping open like a fish out of water while squeezing your eyes shut—he pulls it away. Completely.

“Wha—no, no,” you whimper, desperately bucking into the air.

“You were right there, weren’t you?” He murmurs, gently stroking your tummy.

His hand travels to your tits, cupping and twisting your nipples until they’re hard between his fingertips. You take a deep breath, You take a deep breath. Your cheeks, once dry, grow wet again, while your cunt clenches around nothing and your clit aches in need for that release he just striped away from you.

“I want you to remember who owns your releases,” the vibrator starts to buzz once again. “To remember who owns you.”

He starts pressing onto your clit again, and your body moves with anticipation against the leather.

“You ain’t coming today. That sweet clench of your hole? That twitching of your little clit, baby?” He asks, taking his hand from your tits, grabbing the vibrator so his other hand can sink two fingers into your cunt. “We’re gonna keep that.”

“I’m sorry—please,” you babble out. “I was—was just exploring. I swear! You were always on my mind and ungh—“ you get cut off by Joels fingers in you, now thrusting in and out.

“I hear ya, doll. Loud and clear. I just don’t care.” he says before setting the vibrator to the highest setting. “No begging. Or I’ll keep you like this every night this week…aching and no orgasm.”

You squeeze your eyes shut, trying to even out your breath and concentrating on not coming right on the spot. Joel’s large fingers inside you feel too good to handle. Too big, stroking your walls over and over again. He hums in that familiar rhythm—low, steady, unforgiving. The disappointment from earlier hasn’t faded; it’s simply shifted into control. Now he’s the man who owns your body again. Who makes the decisions.

The buzz of the vibrator is the only sound filling the room—deafening in its own way. Your silent whimpers are so quiet, you’re the only one who hears them.

Joel’s fingers suddenly curl upwards, hitting that spongey spot inside of you, making your body shift suddenly, a moan erupting from your throat.

“Oh, I know.” He coos. “Bet that cunt feels so good right now, huh?” His fingers plunge into your faster now, the vibrator just pressing harder against your little nub.

“S’too damn bad, she can’t get a release.”

“Please—“ and gone. He pulls away completely.

Your legs lock in, just seconds away from having that climax that could relief you. But it fades away slowly as you lay there, breathing hard, tear slipping one by one from your eyes. His fingers still inside of you, enjoying the way your cunt clenches on to them pulse by pulse.

The ache dissolves slowly, your body still unwillingly trying to move against his fingers but Joel quickly pulls them out, a sweet gush of wetness releasing from your hole.

“Mhm, look at that.” He whispers to himself, ignoring your pleas as his eyes are locked on your pussy. “Gushing and twitchin’.”

And when he decides that you calmed down enough, he starts thrusting his fingers in and out again. This time, you don’t react like before. You already know—he won’t stop. Not until he decides you’ve had enough. Not until he’s sure you’ve learned. So you stay quiet. You behave. And maybe, just maybe, he won’t be as cruel as he’s already been.

“I’m not denying you because i’m angry,” he starts talking, low and steady. “I’m denying you because I know what you need more than you do. And right now, baby? You need to break.”

And you know he is right. That’s what terrifies you. The anger he has, you could survive. Anger you could soothe. But this was control. You understand that he is going to break you, not with force but with patience. One by one.

And maybe… maybe you want him to break you.

Just a little.

“I want you to remember this moment every time you think about disobeying me again.” With that, the vibrator in his hand starts buzzing again. And his fingers—they start curling.

You’ve stopped counting.

At some point, maybe the fifth, maybe the sixth—you lost track. The denials blurred together, each one folding into the next like waves crashing against the same stretch of shore. Now, on the eighth, you don’t flinch when he pulls away. You don’t gasp. You don’t beg.

You just breathe in. And then out.

Your body still responds, of course it does. It always does. The ache hasn’t dulled—it has only deepened, settled into your bones like something permanent.

You lie still on him, every muscle tight with restraint. The edge comes again—sharp, familiar, cruel—and you meet it like you’ve been taught: with silence. You let it crest and crash, let it burn through you without a sound. Your thighs tremble. Your breath stutters. But you don’t move. You don’t ask.

You endure.

Joel hasn’t spoken in a while. He doesn’t need to. His silence is a language now—one you’ve learned to read in the tilt of his head, the weight of his gaze, the way his hands move inside of you.

You don’t know how long it’s been. Minutes? Hours? Time doesn’t exist anymore. Only rhythm. Only ache. Only him.

And still, you obey.

You let the waves of your climax slowly disappear again, the tears dried out on your cheeks, lips bitten painful red. And you could feel the relief washing over you when Joel suddenly puts the toy away and slips his fingers away from you. Maybe now, maybe now you’re broken enough for his liking. Maybe now he forgave you.

Suddenly, he wraps his hands around your waist, fingers splayed, thumbs brushing the curve of your hips, squeezing. And with a slow, deliberate pull, he draws you upward, guiding you until you’re seated fully in his lap. With a yelp escaping from your mouth, your thighs settle around his hips, your body aligned with his, and you feel the shift—not just in position, but in power.

You don’t cling to him, you settle. With your limbs numb, and aching.

Joel doesn’t say anything, but he reaches for his crotch and when you hear a zipper opening your heart thuds.

One hand grips your ass, moving you harshly closer to him, upwards, so you can feel his cock between your thighs, grazing against your pussy. The other one jerks himself up and down, and you don’t have to see to know that he is painfully hard. You could already feel it when you were laying on his lap, his pulsing bulge just poking your thighs with need.

“Bite down my shoulder,” he grits out, his calm demeanour now gone. “Bite down my fuckin’ shoulder.” When you don’t listen.

You catch up, biting down on his shoulder with all the strength you got before feeling the tip of his cock entering your slowly.

And this was something that you weren’t used to. Joel took your virginity, yes. He did fuck you one too many times. But you never took him from this position, from his lap, from the place where he can get deeper, deeper than when he fucks you in missionary. Joel was already big. It was already a struggle to take him fully into your cunt.

You feel the sting, your cunt just pulsing from all the orgasms that you were not given.

“Ugh—“ you whimper into his shoulder, biting harder onto the fabric, knowing there is going to be a big, wet spot after. Joel feeds you with his cock, inch by inch, ignoring the whimpers and the biting.

He is too focused on his pleasure now. Because entering you, it feels like heaven. Your pussy is already fucked raw and open, just can’t stop clenching and when Joel finally settles you down, your hole basically starts to milk him.

“That’s it, take me in. Just like that.” He stills your hips, and breathes for a moment, his hand coming to hold you by your hair and making you look at him.

“It’s supposed to hurt,” he murmurs. “This isn’t for you, yea? It’s for me.” And then his hips start snapping into you.

Your hands wrap around his neck, stabilising yourself while Joel fucks you from underneath. The air feels suffocating as you concentrate on the way his tip keeps hitting your cervix. He is deep, deeper than you could’ve ever imagined.

Eyes locked into yours, he nods his head to you, in understanding, in knowing. Knowing it’s too much for you. Knowing he is too deep.

It doesn’t stop him from going faster. His hips, rocking into you in an unforgiving speed.Hips rolling with precision, dragging your pleasure, making you whine. Your body moves up and down, tits swaying from left to right while Joel focuses on your eyes. Claiming you with everything he has.

“My doll. My quiet little thing.” He whispers, his hand sliding up your jaw, fingers firm, thumb brushing your cheek. And before you can brace for it, he takes your mouth—no warning, no softness. Just heat. Just possession.

He kisses you like he’s sealing something. Like he’s locking in every command, every denial, every tremble you gave him.

Your body starts to move against him, and before you know it, you break the kiss, pushing him away and moaning out loud. He stills you on his cock, hands gripping your thighs, squeezing your flesh as a warning.

“Nuh-uh. Not happening” He shakes his head slowly to you, while you try overcome the wave of being close to an orgasm. “Don’t you dare, baby.”

“You’re not here to feel good, you’re here to learn.”

So you bite into his shoulder again, blocking out your whimpers and your climax by simply concentrating on something else. On his smell, on his clothes, on his pretty, long hair that he didn’t cut since he found you. The way Joels voice is firm, but can be soft at the same time.

And—oh, he starts to fuck into you again.

The tension still coils deep in your belly, sharp and relentless, like a string pulled too tight. Every movement of his hips sends sparks up your spine, and you feel like you will slip.

“Can feel you clenching,” He says, out of breath, his own orgasm already close to come through. “Focus, baby.”

Releasing his shoulder you look into his eyes one more time, a pleading look, a ‘please’ behind them. Maybe he will see how much you need it, see how much you’ve done good and how much you deserve it.

“No, focus on me. You ain’t cumming, baby.” He says, final. And all you can do is nod, feeling his hips getting sloppier and sloppier.

“Gonna cum in this pussy,” he whispers into your ear. “Mark it as mine.”

Joel groans into your chest, with big breaths leaving his mouth. You can feel it. The way he is throbbing inside of you, you try to not focus on that feeling. Not the way he keeps hitting that sweet spot over and over inside of you.

A whine leave your throat, “Joel.”

“I’m almost there, hold it.” He tells you. “Be good, baby. Be good for me now.”

And when you squeeze your eyes shut—you feel it. Spurt after spurt of cum filling you up. One by one, while his whole body shakes and grips into you like you’re his only anchor. His dick slowly becoming soft, while you feel his cum dripping out of your hole. You let out a long breath, like you’d been holding it forever.

Joel ruts his hips a few more times into you before stopping.

Your body is still trembling when he finally pulls away.

The absence of him is unusual—like cold air rushing in where heat once lived. You don’t even have the strength to chase it. Your limbs are useless, boneless, stretched thin by denial and obedience and the weight of everything he took from you. Everything you gave.

Joel doesn’t speak. He just moves with that same quiet control, lifting you gently, like you’re something fragile. Something earned. He lays you down on the bed, the sheets cool against your hot skin and pulls the blanket over you.

You blink up at the ceiling, vision blurred. Your chest rises and falls, while somewhere between the ache in your thighs and the throb in your cunt, you feel it—wetness slipping from the corners of your eyes. Not sobs. Not loud. Just tears. Quiet. Desperate. Like your body doesn’t know what to do with itself now that it’s not being commanded.

Joel stands at the edge of the bed, pulling his pants back up, his gaze never leaving you. Then he kneels besides you, one hand reaching to cup your cheek. His thumb brushes the tear away, slow and warm.

“You scared me,” he murmurs, voice low and rough. “Don’t ever do that again.”

You just nod, barely, and lean into his touch like it’s the only thing that keeps you alive.

He presses a kiss to your forehead—soft, grounding—and then stands. You watch him walk out, the sound of his footsteps fading into the quiet hum of the house. You don’t move. You can’t.

When he returns, he’s holding the chart.

He doesn’t say a word as he walks to the foot of the bed, and shows it to you. You watch through heavy lashes, heart thudding slow and deep in your chest.

He lifts the pen. Draws a single line.

‘Punishment taken well.’

You exhale, a soft sound that’s almost a sob, almost a laugh. Your lips twitch into the smallest smile—fragile, but real. Joel sees it. His eyes soften, just a little, and he closes the chart, setting it aside.

Then he climbs into bed besides you.

The mattress dips under his weight, and a moment later, his arms are around you—pulling you in, tucking you against his chest like you’re something precious. His hand finds your hair, fingers threading through it slowly, rhythmically, grounding you in the quiet.

“Everything I’m doing is for you,” he says, voice barely above a whisper. “I’m keeping you safe.”

You tilt your head up to look at him, eyes still glassy, lips parted. He leans down and kisses your forehead again, lingering there like he’s sealing the words into your skin.

Then, softly: “Maybe from now on we can go on weekly walks outside?”

Your breath catches. Your eyes widen, lighting up with something that feels dangerously close to joy. You nod—once, twice, eager and silent.

Joel chuckles, low and warm.

“Okey,” he says, brushing his thumb along your cheek again. “Only if you behave.”

EEEK I kinda want to write a prequel to them…but I hope you guys liked this one and it did meet your expectations!! Feedback is always welcome as well as corrections because English is not my first language!

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He didn’t stop. He kissed you once more—loudly, obnoxiously—right on the top of your head, arms wrapped around you so tight you could barely reach for your keys.

“You ain’t leavin’ yet,” he said against your hair.

You tried to twist out of his hold, but he just shifted with you, his body like a weighted blanket. “Joel—”

“My birthday is tonight,” he murmured, cheek pressed to the side of your head. “Keyword: Tonight.”

“You’re not six.”

“Don’t need to be,” he muttered, “To wanna spend it with my wife.”

Somewhere down the hall, Sarah’s laughter drifted from her room, soft and muffled. You exhaled, melting into his chest despite yourself. He smelled like sawdust and soap, and you hated how safe it made you feel, because you did need to go.

“Joel,” you whispered again, gentler this time. “It’s an ER shift. You know I can’t just—”

“I know, I know.”

He finally leaned back enough to look at you. His face was that ache that always peeked out when you had to leave for your night shifts.

“I packed you dinner,” he said finally, nodding toward the counter.

Your gaze followed. A brown paper bag sat neatly by your keys, the folded top pressed flat with ridiculous precision. You could see his handwriting scrawled across it: Eat every bite.

You looked back at him, and his expression was stubbornly casual, like you hadn’t watched him make sure your thermos didn’t leak and your sandwich didn’t get squished while you changed into your scrubs.

“You didn’t have to—”

“Yeah, I did,” he cut in, quiet but sure. “You forget to eat when it gets busy.”

“I do not forget.”

“Mm,” he said, unconvinced. “That’s why last week you came home and inhaled pizza like you ain’t seen food in a week.”

You shoved at his chest, and he caught your wrist with a smirk, pressing one more kiss to your knuckles.

And that’s when the sound of socked feet sliding down the hallway interrupted you.

“Ew,” Sarah groaned, appearing in the doorway, half-eaten apple in hand. “Not this again.”

Joel didn’t even look her way. “What’s this ‘gain?”

“You being a total sap,” she said, hopping up on one of the stools. “She’s just going to work.”

Joel’s head turned slowly to his kid. “You don’t get it.”

“Oh, I get it. You’re dramatic.”

You covered your mouth to hide a smile, pretending to check your bag again.

Joel lifted a brow at her. “You done?”

“Not even close,” she said sweetly. “Stop hogging her.”

He glanced back to you, the faintest smirk tugging at his mouth. “Why’d wanna talk to her so bad, huh?”

“Maybe I wanna talk to someone other than you for the next twelve hours.”

Joel let out a low noise, somewhere between a laugh and a sigh, and grabbed his mug. “Uh-huh. I’ll remember that next time you need a ride to the mall.”

You and Sarah watched him disappear around the corner. There was a beat of silence, and then the sound of him shutting the bedroom door echoed faintly.

“Did it get fixed?”

Her grin was instant, mischievous, like she’d been waiting for that cue all night.

“You bet it did.”

She glanced over her shoulder once more, then ducked into her backpack and pulled out a small box. When she cracked it open, the soft ticking filled the quiet kitchen.

Joel’s watch. Working.

You hadn’t seen it tick since—well, since ever. Not once in all the years you’d known him. She smiled so wide it almost broke your heart. “He deserves it,” she said softly.

You wrapped your arms around her before she could hide her blush. “You did good, baby.”

Her hair smelled faintly of coconut shampoo and laundry detergent. You pressed a kiss into her curls, and she squeezed you tight.

“When I’m back in the morning,” you murmured against her hair, “Your dad gets me, then it’s all you and me, okay?”

She pulled back, grinning. “Deal. I need a dress. Homecomings, like, next week and everyone already has theirs.”

You smoothed her hair from her face. “Then we’ll find you the perfect one. Promise.”

Her eyes sparkled. “It’s gonna be the best.”

You smiled, meaning it. “It will.”

For a moment, it was just the two of you, the low hum of the fridge filling the silence, the clock ticking in time with the watch.

Then you glanced up—and froze.

“Shoot,” you muttered. “I’m late.”

You moved fast—badge, phone, keys—but she was still standing there, smiling at you.

“I love you, Sarah!” you called as you backed toward the door.

“Love you too!”

The night air was cooler than you expected, the kind of fall chill that hinted at rain but hadn’t quite decided to commit. The street was quiet, just the whisper of trees and the hum of a streetlight flickering at the corner.

The porch light cast a pale gold over the hood of your car, and you were halfway to opening the door when you heard it.

“Hey!”

You turned.

Joel was coming down the porch steps, hair mussed.

“What—?”

Before you could finish, he reached you. His hands found your face, warm and calloused, and his mouth was on yours before another word could form.

Steady. Familiar.

You smiled against his lips, your fingers curling in his shirt. “Happy birthday,” you murmured.

His eyes softened, lines crinkling at the corners. “Thank you, baby.”

He kissed you again—slower this time—and then rested his forehead against yours.

“You sure you can’t call in sick?” he whispered, the corner of his mouth twitching.

“Y‘know I can’t.”

“Doesn’t hurt to try.”

For a few seconds, neither of you moved. You brushed your thumb along Joel’s jaw, tracing the familiar edge of stubble.

“Tomorrow morning,” you promised quietly. “I’m all yours.”

He nodded once, like he was filing it away. “All mine,” he repeated, voice low, half-rasp, half-prayer.

You stepped back, his hand still holding yours until the distance forced it to fall away.

“Go on,” he said, smiling now. “‘Fore I think of another excuse to keep you.”

You opened the car door, sliding in. The engine coughed to life, headlights washing the driveway in white.

Joel leaned down to your window as it rolled open, bracing one hand on the roof. “Text me when you get there.”

“I always do.”

“Yeah,” he said softly. “Still.”

You looked up at him for a moment—just a man standing under the porch light, watching the woman he loves drive away to work.

Then you smiled one last time, lifted your fingers in a small wave, and pulled out of the driveway.

The taillights disappeared down the street.

And behind you, Joel stood there for a long while, hands shoved in his pockets, eyes on the road that led toward the hospital, until the light finally went out.

That was the last quiet night.

┈┈・┈┈

The gas station sits at the edge of the highway like a fossil—half-buried in snowdrift, windows caked in frost, the faded sign creaking against the wind.

You pull your scarf higher over your nose and push through the door. The bell above it gives a tired little jingle, the sound swallowed almost instantly by the emptiness inside.

The place smells of dust and fuel. Rows of cracked candy wrappers and long-dead flies line the counter. A can of peaches sits upright on a shelf like it’s been waiting for you all these years.

You pause, listening. Wind sighs through a shattered window. Nothing else.

Good.

Your boots crunch on the tile as you move down the aisle. You check under the counter—some old batteries, half a lighter, a few shotgun shells. You pocket the shells, roll the lighter between your fingers, flick it. Spark. No flame. You toss it back.

You find the storage room behind a warped door, push it open with your shoulder. The metal hinges wail.

Inside: shelves toppled over, a spill of canned goods frozen to the concrete. A single cot in the corner—torn, mold creeping up the side. But it’s shelter.

You run a hand through your hair, exhale through your scarf.

You start sorting through the wreckage. Your bag was already heavy, but there’s always room for something that might keep you alive another week. A can of beans, a box of ammo if you’re lucky, maybe even a flask with something that burns on the way down.

Outside, the wind changes pitch—sharper now, colder. Snow was coming quick.

You glance through the window. Clouds roll over the mountains, dark and low, swallowing the last streaks of light.

Wyoming. You’d always wanted to see it. The peaks in the distance look soft under the gray sky, like something out of a dream you half-remember. You lean against the window frame, watch the world blur behind the snow.

The beans taste like dust. You chew anyway, slow and mechanical. You swallow, stare at the dented can in your hand, and wonder—not for the first time—why food never tastes like anything anymore.

The silence stretches long and thin.

Outside, the wind howls low through the busted doorframe, slipping under your coat. The storm’s closer. You pull your scarf tighter and sit cross-legged on the moldy cot.

The flickering fluorescent light above you buzzes. Once. Twice. Then dies completely. You sit in the dark for a long moment.

You fish out a flashlight from your pack and click it on. The beam slices through the dark in a narrow cone. Dust motes float like ghosts.

You set the can aside, grab your knife, and start sharpening it against a stone. The rhythmic scrape fills the space. Shk. Shk. Shk.

You stop only when you catch your reflection in the blade. Eyes sunken. Hair streaked with gray. Skin roughened by twenty-four winters too many.

You huff a breath through your nose, letting the knife fall beside you and lean your head back against the wall.

For a moment—just a flicker—you see it again.

The hospital. The gurneys. The screaming.

You still smelled antiseptic and blood, heard the alarms, and felt the heat of panic flooding every hallway.

Your hands had been shaking so badly back then that you couldn’t even hold the scalpel right. And when they shoved the rifle at you—you’d dropped it. You remember that clearly. You’d dropped it, and the nurse beside you had died two minutes later.

You open your eyes fast, drag in air until your ribs ache. You stare at your hands. Calloused. Scarred.

The storm outside is getting heavier now, snow slamming against the roof in thick, rhythmic waves.

You sit for a while, just breathing.

Then you reach pass your collar. Metal is cold against your fingers, smooth from years of handling. You pull out the necklace—its chain tangled from travel, the ring catching faint light from the window.

Your wedding ring.

It still fits around your finger, though you haven’t worn it in years. The gold has dulled, edges rough from weather and time. You turn it between your fingers, feeling the tiny engraving on the inside—J.M. The letters are faint now, nearly worn away.

Since rings were a ripping hazard through gloves, you always ended up leaving your ring in Joel’s hands. Meaning you left it when you escaped.

Years later, you went for it. Maybe to see if someone took it, or if it was possible that time had stopped in that house, just waiting for you to come home.

Half the roof gone, windows shattered. You’d stepped over the debris, heart thudding in your chest, and found the ring sitting in your dresser. Dust-coated. Waiting.

The rest of the house had been silent, save for the groan of wood and wind slipping through the cracks. There’d been blood by the entryway—dark, old. But no bodies. The truck was gone.

That had meant something. You’d clung to that, smiling through the tears back then.

“They made it out,” you’d whispered into your old bedroom. “He got her out. He always does.”

Now, years later, you still hold the ring like it’s proof that somewhere, somehow, they’re still alive.

That Sarah’s grown—thirty-eight now, if you’ve done the math right—maybe with her father’s strength, that same stubborn tilt of her chin.

You smile, just a little. And for that small, fragile moment between exhaustion and faith, you let yourself believe it.

That if you keep walking, keep breathing, fate might finally let your paths cross again.

The wind howls against the window. And then—a noise. Not the wind. Not the shifting of snow. You freeze.

It’s faint, beneath the storm. A crunch of a can, the muted thud of boots.

You snap out of it fast, tucking your necklace back underneath your layers, and you grab your rifle. You move silently, muscle memory taking over. The scarf wanted up, covering your mouth. You sling the rifle over your shoulder, knife in your other hand.

Another sound. Closer this time.

You forced your breathing to be small. Listened. The sound is human—not the ragged rasp of infected but even, purposeful steps. You creep to the door, ease it open a crack. Cold air hits you.

You don’t take chances. You move through the gas station like a ghost.

Shelves cast long black teeth. You navigate by sound: the snap of a plastic wrapper, a muted clink of metal. You pass an aisle and there—under a hanging sign that reads ‘SNACKS’ in flaking red paint—is a person.

She’s young-ish, brown hair dusted with snow. Pale. Focused on canned goods. You watch her for a beat, then you’re beside her; blade at her throat, gloved hand clamping her jaw before she can scream air into the room.

“Don’t make noise,” you whisper, teeth pressed to the syllables. Cold breath fogs between you.

She makes a sound—a sharp intake—but you clamp harder until it’s a single pulse under your fingers. Her green eyes are wide and furious.

You press the tip of the knife, close enough the metal kisses her skin. She doesn’t flinch. “Who are you with?”

Her eyes flick left, then right, then back up to your face. She groans something obscene. You tilt your head.

“Nod if you’re alone.”

Slow, stiff nod. Her gaze keeps sliding. You don’t believe her.

“Walk.”

She huffs and starts shuffling. You edge behind her, blade at the hollow of her throat in case she bolts.

Outside, horses stand tethered to a dented pickup. Two adult-size steeds, their breaths steaming into the night. Packs sewn onto their flanks look new—canvas stitched and mended, not the scavenged mess you usually see.

“Community,” you mutter.

The girl mumbles behind your glove—garbled words, half-swallowed by the wool. You pause, glancing down at her. Her eyes flicker with something sharper than fear. You can’t tell if it’s anger or a plan.

You loosen your hand just enough for her to speak. “You’re making a mistake,” she says, voice low, shaky but not scared. Not really. There’s defiance there. “You don’t wanna do this.”

“That right?”

“Yeah,” she breathes, chin tilting toward the dark. “Because—”

She stops. Eyes dart past you. Just a flicker. Barely a second. But it’s enough. Your instincts snap tight.

You spin, knife still at her throat, snow exploding under your boots. The world narrows to metal and breath and the small, frantic drum in your ribs. A man stands a few yards off. Broad shoulders, an old bandana pulled up over his mouth, thick winter jacket bulking up his frame more that it is; only his eyes are free.

They’re cold. Wild. Protective.

He’s holding a blade too. The wind howls between you.

“I’ll slit her throat before you take a step.” you snarl.

He doesn’t blink.

You circle, keeping the girl as a shield. He mirrors you both of you counting the breaths, looking for the twitch that means fight. Wind keens between the pillars, the horses stamp and throw up more steam.

“Back off, I swear I’ll—”

“I’ll kill you ‘fore you can.” he interrupts, stepping closer. There’s a cadence to the sentence that slips under your skin, some pattern you know but can’t name. Texan accent. Worn by the years, but Texas nonetheless.

Your hands tighten around the girl. Then she jerks—twists. You shove her back against your chest and press the knife harder; she hisses.

“Stop movin’, Ellie!” The man yells.

“Goddammit!”

She spits, and the world completely inverts—just by one word in her next sentence detonating in your chest.

“Kill her already, Joel!”

Joel.

The name stops you cold.

Joel.

It hits like a gunshot under your ribs. Your grip falters—barely, but enough.

Joel.

“...What did you just say?” you whisper.

The girl feels it, the hesitation. She wrenches free. In the same motion, she grabs your scarf and yanks it down. Cold air hits your face.

Then—pain. A hot, sharp slide near your ribs. You stumble back with a strangled noise, clutching your side.

For a second, you don’t feel it. Not really. Your body’s in survival mode, your mind already screaming move, move, move.

Two against one. You’ve been in worse. You’ve survived worse. But still—your pulse hammers so loud it drowns out the rest of the world.

The wind whooshes past your ear. White noise. You can barely hear anything else.

Except the softest call you’ve heard in years. Your name. Spoken like a memory dragged out of the grave.

You haven’t heard it in years. You’d forgotten the shape of it, the way it used to sound. You’d forgotten what it felt like to belong to it.

You look up.

The man’s eyes are on you—wide, unsteady. His chest rises and falls like he’s staring at a ghost. His knife is forgotten, dropped to the snow. You stumble back a step, confused, dizzy. He mirrors it, stepping forward, matching your retreat. One for one.

“Stay back,” you rasp, though your voice cracks halfway through.

He doesn’t. The girl says his name again, a sharp exhale of confusion. “Joel! What are you—?”

No.

No, no, no.

The world tilts. The light from the moon flickers across his face, and in that fractured second, you know. He rips the bandana from his face—

It’s him. Your life. Your love. Your other half. Your soul. Your husband.

Your Joel Miller.

Lines carved deep into his face, gray hair decorated his beautiful brown. His face is more wrinkled than before, his body more wider. But those eyes—same as the day you lost saw him.

Your breath catches in your throat. “Joel…”

The word breaks, splintering halfway out. It sounds nothing like how you used to say it. He takes another step. His voice shakes.

“Darlin’...”

You want to run. To reach for him. To scream in fear. To laugh. You can’t do any of it. You just stand there, the world narrowing until it’s just the two of you and the ghost of everything you lost.

Your knees go weak. You can feel pain now—the slow, spreading warmth of something sticky seeping through your coat. You press your hand harder to your side, but it doesn’t stop the tremor.

Joel takes another step.

“Don’t…” you manage, breathless. “Don’t—come any closer.”

You stumble back again, your boots slipping in the snow. The light-headedness hits harder now. The sky spins. You reach out, steadying yourself against the cold metal of the building behind you.

The girl’s hand tightens around her knife. Her voice is shaking now, too. “What are you waiting for?! She’s…she’s—why are you hesitating—”

You sway, vision blurring. Ellie takes another step, as if she’s going to finish the job for Joel, and that’s when you see it—the blade in her hand. Red. Glinting as it drips. Your blood.

“Christ…” you whisper.

You can barely keep your eyes open now. The snow feels softer under your boots than it should. You blink, slow and heavy, your breath coming out in short, white bursts.

Then, you fall.

Joel moves fast. A shadow through the storm. The next thing you feel is his arms wrapping around you, pulling you in. The warmth of him hits like a blow, his chest against yours, his breath shaking against your temple.

You forgot this.

The sound of him breathing, the rough rasp in his throat. The weight of his hand and how they shake when they press against your side, trying to stop the bleeding. His voice breaks through the wind, hoarse, terrified—words you can’t quite catch, just the vibration of them.

Your fingers find his coat, clutching it. It feels real. Too real. You lift your head—barely—and see his face. That face.

The man from your dreams, the one you used to stare at when you couldn’t sleep. The one you buried with your past. The one you thought you’d never touch again.

You try to speak, but it comes out as a shiver.

He presses his hand harder, cursing under his breath. His mouth opens over and over, forming words but you can’t really hear him. The wind eats at his words. You can only see his eyes frantic.

You forgot how soft his eyes could be when he was afraid. Your vision blurs around the edges. His face flickers in and out, the snow dimming into a wash of gray and white.

He yells something over his shoulder—maybe to the girl, maybe to no one. You can’t tell. The world’s shrinking too fast.

Then—his voice, raw, breaking:

“Not ’gain. Not ’gain.”

You blink slowly, trying to focus on his mouth, the way his voice trembles like he’s said this before.

Again?

The thought cuts through the haze for a second. Did he mean you? Did he dream of you, too? See your face in strangers? Hear your voice in the dark like you did his?

The thought makes you smile. You look up at him—just once more—and the sight fills you whole.

Then the light fades. You go limp in his arms.

He calls your name again, but you don’t hear it. The world folds inward—black and quiet.

┈┈・┈┈

The church wasn’t much.

A narrow, sunlit room with peeling paint and crooked pews. The air smelled faintly of wood polish. There was no music—just the soft hum of cicadas outside and the creak of the floorboards under your heels.

It was perfect.

Your mother sat front row, tissues clutched in both hands, whispering something to your father that made him chuckle under his breath. Tommy was beside them, sleeves rolled up, tie loose, trying and failing to keep a squirming little girl in her seat.

“C’mon now, darlin’,” he muttered as Sarah kicked her legs and reached toward the front of the hall. “Your daddy’s a little busy right now, alright? You’ll see him in a minute.”

Sarah let out a squeal that echoed through the church, a bright little sound that made Joel’s shoulders stiffen and then sag.

You laughed under your breath, watching him. His hands were clasped nervously in front of him, the tie around his neck slightly crooked. His hair was damp from sweat, combed back but already falling out of place. There was a flush high on his cheeks.

“I swear I listened when you told me to feed her. She jus’—” He sighed, the corners of his mouth twitching. “She don’t like sittin’ still. Guess that’s my fault.”

“She just wants her daddy,” you said softly.

Joel’s eyes flicked to you, warm and nervous all at once. “Well, can’t say I blame her for that.”

“You always this confident at the altar?”

He chuckled, rubbing the back of his neck. “Confidence or stupidity—hard to tell.”

There was a pause. Sarah let out another squeal and Tommy groaned, muttering something about ‘should’ve brought snacks.’ Joel grinned, shaking his head, then looked back at you with that same teasing glint.

“Still time to back out, y’know,” he said. “Ain’t too late to change your mind.”

You gasped, hand flying to your chest. “Excuse me?”

“I mean—not like that, darlin’. Jus’... y‘know I’m not exactly prime real estate.”

“Joel Miller…” you said, voice full of mock outrage.

“What?” he said, laughing now. “I’m jus’ bein’ honest!”

You took a step closer, your dress brushing the floor. The minister cleared his throat softly, but neither of you looked away. You reached up, caught his tie in your hand, and tugged him just enough that his eyes widened a little.

“Never,” you whispered.

He blinked, his breath catching. And then you kissed him.

The world went still for a moment. It was just the two of you—your hand fisted in his tie, his palm finding your waist, the rough scrape of his stubble brushing your cheek. He kissed you back, slow at first, then deeper when you smiled against his mouth.

Behind you, your mother and dad sniffled audibly. Tommy muttered something, but there was laughter in his voice.

When you finally pulled away, his forehead rested against yours.

And when Joel finally whispered, “For as long as I got breath…”, you knew—this was how it was always meant to be.

┈┈・┈┈

You wake to the sound of wind and the slow, steady rhythm of breathing that isn’t your own.

Your lashes flutter open. Wooden beams. No patched roof. The air smells faintly of pine and smoke, warm from… a heater? For a moment, you think you’re dreaming. Then a deep ache blooms along your side.

You jolt upright—too fast. The pain punches through you. A strangled noise escapes your throat as you clutch your ribs. Bandages. Tight, clean, freshly changed.

That’s when you hear it again.

You whip your head toward the sound—instinct first, reason later—and shove back against the headboard, teeth bared, ready to fight through the pain if you have to.

“Hey—hey, easy, easy.”

That voice.

Joel’s sitting in the chair beside the bed, elbows on his knees, that same rugged face you’ve seen a hundred times in dreams, weathered now by years and loss. The gray in his beard catches the light. His flannel’s frayed at the cuffs. Sleep wears on his face. He must’ve just woken up.

It’s all impossible. It has to be.

“Joel?”

His mouth parts just slightly, like he’s afraid to breathe wrong. “Yeah, darlin’. It’s me.”

You shake your head, trying to make sense of it, but the world feels warped. His eyes are the same—warm brown, flecked with gold—and that hurts worse than anything else. Because they look real.

For a long, unbearable moment, neither of you move. The room hums around you—wind through the cracked window, the faint thud of boots outside—but all you can hear is your heartbeat and the sound of Joel’s shaky breath.

You shift again, the pain in your side flaring white-hot. A groan slips out before you can stop it. Joel’s expression crumples.

“Stop movin’,” he mutters, half rising, hands twitching uselessly like he wants to reach for you but doesn’t dare. “You’ll rip the stitches.”

You swing your legs over the bed, ignoring the protest in your ribs. He flinches like it physically hurts him to see you do it. He stands with you, crossing around the bed to get in front of you.

His jaw works, like he’s trying to find something to say.

But all that comes out is your name.

It roots you to the floor.

You blink hard, throat burning, and when you look up again, his eyes are wet. He tries to blink it away, to look like the same man who used to fix things, who used to steady you.

He says it again. Softer this time.

Your breath stumbles. There’s a tremor in his hand when he finally reaches out.

When his fingers brush your cheek, you flinch— from a strange mix of fear and disbelief. His hand’s rough, warm. He drags his thumb slow across your skin, tracing your jaw, your cheekbone, your nose.

Like a blind man who had just earned his sight back.

For a second, there’s nothing but the sound of both of you breathing—fast, uneven, disbelieving.

And then—

You take a step back. Another. Another.

Distance.

You hit the metal tray behind you, the clatter piercing through the air, and Joel’s brow furrows. “It’s alright,” he says, voice low, coaxing, like you’re some frightened animal.

You shake your head, breath catching. “No—no, it’s not.”

“Darlin’, it’s me—”

“Don’t.” The word rips out of you, sharp and trembling. “Don’t call me that.”

His mouth parts, but nothing comes out. His hand drops uselessly to his side.

You can’t breathe. The air feels too thick, the walls too close. Your body won’t stay still—your fingers twitch, your shoulders jerk. You can hear your pulse in your ears.

He was here. You wanted this. You wished for it, but now that it was here… it was all too much, him standing here, alive.

“I knew you died,” you whisper, voice cracking. “I knew and I still believed—"

“I didn’t,” he interrupts, desperate. “I didn’t die, darlin’. I—”

“Stop!” You press your hands to your temples, nails digging in. “Stop calling me that!”

“You’re shakin’. Lemme me—”

“No!” You stumble back, hand slamming into the cabinet. “You can’t—no—you can’t just—”

Your chest caves. Breath stutters. You can’t fill your lungs, can’t find air. The room tilts, the fluorescent light overhead flickering like a heartbeat gone wrong.

He’s reaching again, trying to catch your shoulders, but the touch only makes it worse. You jerk away, a strangled sound tearing out of you.

And then—

Bang.

The door slams open.

“Joel!” Tommy’s voice, rougher now, deeper, but still that same drawl that once filled your old house with laughter.

You stare at him. He’s got a mustache now. Older, broader. Wrinkles that line the corners of his eyes.

You make a small, broken sound in your throat. It’s too much—the sound of his voice, the sight of Joel, your world cracking open and mending together all at once.

Tommy’s eyes soften when he sees you, but his tone is firm. “Step outside, brother.”

“Hell no,” Joel snaps, stepping in front of you. “My wife’s panickin’, Tommy—”

You twitch at that word—wife—and your breath catches, shuddering.

Tommy lifts a hand. “Out. Now.”

“Tommy—”

“Joel.” His tone hardens. “Get out.”

The two stare each other down, that familiar stubborn silence passing between them. Joel’s chest heaves. His jaw flexes.

Then his eyes flick to you. Just once. And that look—raw, gutted—undoes something in your chest. He goes. But not without a fight in his stance, not without looking like every step toward the door costs him blood.

Tommy stays behind long enough to look at you. His smile’s thin, a shade of what it used to be. “Why don’t you sit down, huh? Maria’s comin’ over real soon. She’ll take care of you.”

You don’t even nod, just stare like those abandoned mannequins in the windows of clothing stores. He hesitates, looks like he wants to say something else, but doesn’t.

Then he leaves. The door shuts behind them with a soft click.

You stand there for a long time, trembling, until the sound of your breathing evens out. The air still smells like alcohol and metal. You press your back to the wall, sliding down until you’re sitting on the cold wooden floorboards.

You don’t cry. You just listen.

Through the crack of the door, their voices filter in—muted, low, but heated.

“You’re overwhelmin’ her, Joel. Can’t you see that?”

Joel’s voice, rough and unsteady, comes right after. “She knows me, Tommy. She—she looked at me. You saw it too. She knows me.”

“Yeah,” Tommy says, dry. “Don’t mean she can handle you right now.”

“I ain’t some stranger, dammit! I’m her husband. That’s my wife. You understand? My wife. I thought she was gone. I thought—”

“You thought a lotta things, but that don’t change what’s in front of you. I get it.”

A pause. You imagine Joel’s face—the way he presses his lips together when he’s holding back something too big to say.

Then his voice again, lower. “You didn’t see her eyes, Tommy. I did. She remembered me. She didn’t forget.”

“That’s not how it works.”

“She belongs with me. She should live with me—get used to things ‘gain, get used to me.”

“The hell she should,” Tommy snaps. “That’s the worst idea I’ve heard come outta your mouth, and that’s sayin’ somethin’.”

“Why? Why the hell not? Y’think I can jus’—what—leave her sittin’ in some damn corner, pretendin’ like she didn’t spend almost half her life with me?”

Tommy doesn’t answer right away. The silence stretches, filled with the sound of boots shifting on wood, wind against the windows.

When he does speak, his voice is steady. “’Cause she’s scared of you, Joel.”

The words land heavy. You can feel the air change on the other side of the door.

“She flinched when you touched her.”

Joel says nothing.

“She damn near stopped breathin’ when you got closer,” Tommy goes on, quieter now. “And not ‘cause she don’t care. It’s ‘cause she’s been out there, alone. Y’know what that does to a person.”

Joel finally mutters something, too low to catch.

Tommy sighs. “Y’think she had folks lookin’ after her all this time? Hell, for all we know, she’s been walkin’ ‘lone for years. One, two, five, ten—Christ, maybe since the whole damn thing started.”

A pause. Then Tommy again, voice soft but heavy.

“She ain’t the same person you lost. And neither are you.”

The words twist deep, where you don’t want them to reach.

Eventually, you hear the floor creak again—Tommy’s boots moving away, Joel’s slower behind him. The sound fades down the hallway, swallowed by the hum of your own thoughts.

You tilt your head back against the wall and stare at the ceiling light until your eyes blur.

He’s alive.

He’s here.

And you don’t know whether to thank God or curse Him.

┈┈・┈┈

To say you’re skittish is an understatement.

Tommy and Maria’s house feels too clean. Too normal. Every sound—every creak, every low murmur from the kitchen—puts your nerves on edge. You keep expecting someone to barge in and tell you to pack your things, that you don’t belong here.

The curtains remain half-shut, and you sleep on top of the blanket instead of under it, because the bed is too soft. The first night, you woke up gasping, the fabric bunched around your throat, the scent of cleanliness sharp enough to make your eyes sting.

Now you avoid it altogether. You sit on the edge, knees drawn up, staring at the wooden nightstand. You run your fingers over the lamp switch. The clock. The drawer handle.

Twenty years ago, these things were nothing. Background. White noise. Now they feel like relics from a life that belonged to someone else.

Beds. Nightstands. Floors that don’t creak from rot.

Hot water. Toothpaste. A door that locks from the inside.

You leave the room only the bathroom, since they bring you your food. Once, Maria knocked to tell you that there had been snow on the Christmas tree they just set up, and it was gorgeous with the lights, and you almost said yes to following her out there.

Almost.

But the second your hand touched the doorknob, something inside you froze. You mumbled an apology and stayed put.

They never complained. Not once.

Maria—she tries. She smiles at you when she offers you fresh bread, tea, small comforts. She has that kind of strength like she’s seen her share of ruin and decided not to let it show. You can see why Tommy married her.

He checks your wound every couple of days, his hands steady, his voice low. “Healin’ good,” he says. “Maria’s been keepin’ the bandages clean. You’re lucky she’s the one runnin’ the place.”

You nod. You never know what to say back.

He talks a lot, though. Tries to fill the silence with something easy. “Jackson’s different,” he tells you. “We got systems. Rules that keep folks fed, safe. We all pitch in.”

You hum under your breath, skeptical. “Sounds like a QZ,” you croak out before you can stop yourself.

Tommy chuckles, but his eyes narrow just slightly, like he knows what you mean. “Ain’t no QZ. No FEDRA. No soldiers. Nobody hoardin’ food. We look out for each other here.”

You study him a long time, trying to decide if you believe it. He must see the hesitation in your face, because he adds, quietly,

“I wouldn’t have stayed if it wasn’t what I said.”

He means it. You can tell.

Days pass. A week and a half. You fall into a rhythm, if you can call it that. You wake up, sit on the edge of the bed, watch the light crawl across the floorboards. You listen to the faint laughter that sometimes drifts from the street outside. You eat when someone leaves a plate at your door. You wait until night to move around.

Then one morning, Maria breaks it by knocking softly.

You’re sitting on the bed, fingers picking at the loose threads of the sheets, half-lost in thought.

When she opens the door, her face is lit by that calm, unshakable smile. “Got someone who wants to see you,” she says.

Your stomach tightens. Your hands flex, unflex. “Who?”

Her smile widens, but her eyes study you carefully, gauging every twitch of your face. “A visitor.”

You nod, pushing yourself up. The floor feels uneven under your bare feet. Your heart thuds in your throat. “Alright.”

She waits in the doorway until you follow her. The house smells faintly of coffee and wood polish. You pass the family photos hanging on the wall—Tommy with Maria, and beside them, a small boy with his father’s grin. You pause for half a second, staring.

A son. You hadn’t known.

Your pulse stutters.

Maria’s voice pulls you back. “You doin’ okay?”

“Yeah,” you lie.

Every step down the hallway feels heavier than the last. The closer you get to the living room, the louder your thoughts get. What if it’s Joel? What if he came here, decided he’d had enough of waiting? You can almost hear his voice already—low, stubborn, that Texas gravel tone saying your name.

No. You can’t do that. Not yet.

Maria stops at the doorway, her hand on the frame. She glances back at you, softens her voice. “Don’t worry. She’s kind. Sometimes.”

She.

The breath you were holding spills out, shaky and uneven.

Then you see her.

Sitting on the couch, her elbows on her knees, head down, fiddling with something in her hands—a knife, no, a pocket tool. Her hair’s brown and tamed now, no longer wild from the wind. The anger that once burned in those green eyes is gone.

It takes you a second to place her. That girl from the gas station.

Maria’s voice is light. “Ellie. I brought her.”

Right. Ellie.

She looks up then, blinking at you, and for a moment you both just stare.

Her mouth opens first. “Uh… hey.”

You nod once, your throat too tight for words.

She clears her throat, awkwardly rubbing her palms on her jeans. “You, uh… you probably don’t remember me. I mean, I guess you might. Back at the station, you were kinda…” She makes a vague gesture with her hands, grimacing. “Y’know. Your knife to my throat, my knife in your side, whole thing.”

“I remember.”

“Oh.” She blinks too, like she wasn’t expecting that. “Cool.”

Maria hides a smile, stepping back toward the kitchen. “I’ll let y’all talk.”

You and Ellie both look after her as she leaves, then at each other again.

The silence is prickly. Ellie shifts in her seat, taps her knee a few times, then blows out a slow breath. “I wanna… apologize.”

She says that last word like it’s a grater dragged across her throat.

You raise an eyebrow.

“For—uh—stickin’ you like a pig.”

Your frown comes without effort. “You stabbed me.”

“Yeah. Guess that’s another word for it. My bad.”

You just stare at her.

She scratches at her eyebrow, mutters, “You were sneakin’ around, and I was freaking the hell out, and I just—look, I didn’t know who you were, okay?”

There’s a beat of silence. Then, maybe because her discomfort is so naked, maybe because she’s just a kid trying too hard to sound grown, you huff out something that almost sounds like a laugh.

“I’ll live,” you say quietly.

She sighs, quick and relieved. “Yeah, looks like it.”

Ellie seems to notice the change in your posture, how you loosen slightly, and leans back a little, studying you in that curious, unfiltered way teenagers do.

“So,” she says, drawing out the word. “You were… married to Joel?”

You stiffen. That one hits bone.

“Okay, too soon.”

You shake your head. “No, it’s—” You pause, gathering your voice back into something flat, neutral. “Yes. We were married.”

“Wow.” She whistles softly. “I mean, huh. You and Joel. That’s—” She stops, shakes her head, smirking. “Never mind.”

“What?”

“Nothin’. Just. Hard to imagine him married. He kinda strikes me as the lone-wolf-and-whiskey type, y’know?”

“He wasn’t always.”

“Yeah?”

“He liked to dance.”

That makes her laugh—loud, surprised. “Bullshit.”

“He did. Badly.”

She snorts. “Okay, now I gotta see that someday.”

You don’t answer. You just look down at your hands, tracing the small scar near your knuckle. A moment passes. Then she shifts again, like she’s working up the nerve to keep going.

“So… you guys got, uh…” She squints. “What’s the word—divorced? Before the outbreak? You said ‘were married’.”

The question hits you like cold water.

“No,” you say softly. “No, we didn’t.”

“Oh.” She looks at you for a second too long, then nods slowly. “Just been a long time, huh?”

You exhale through your nose. “Yeah. Long time.”

Ellie is easy in a way you’ve forgotten how to be. She swears under her breath, uses her hands when she talks, doesn’t know how to sit still. She reminds you of… you, before the world before it burned down.

You find yourself leaning forward, asking her small things. How long she’s been with Joel. Where she came from. Whether she likes Jackson.

She answers, haltingly at first, then quicker, sharper. You learn she’s got a sense of humor that you enjoy. You understand it.

And then—

Ellie hesitates. Her gaze flicks toward the window, then back to you. “You… you must’ve known Sarah, then.”

The name slices through you like wire.

Sarah.

You blink, too slow, too hard.

“Sarah,” you echo, the syllables thick on your tongue. “Of course I do.” You can’t stop the small laugh that breaks out of you—shaky, a little too high. “God, how did I not ask? I didn’t even—she’s grown now, right? Almost forty. Jesus. Does she—does she still paint? Or play soccer? She always had that little pink ball she’d kick around the kitchen—drove Joel crazy, used to leave scuff marks all over the floor—”

You stop. Because Ellie isn’t smiling.

She’s staring at you.

And her whole face has gone still.

“Oh.”

Just that.

And you know.

Instantly.

Your mouth opens, but no words come. The world seems to narrow, sound folding in on itself. You can’t feel your hands. You can’t feel anything.

“No,” you whisper, but it’s barely a sound. “No. Not Sarah.”

Ellie doesn’t move. Doesn’t breathe. Just watches you, stricken.

You shake your head, your body already rejecting it, like maybe if you move fast enough, you can outpace the truth. “No, she—she’s just a kid. She is—she—”

You don’t finish. The words choke, collapse.

Something inside you caves in slow motion. The air leaves the room, the floor vanishes. You sink to your knees before you even realize you’ve moved.

You see Sarah’s hair, the way it stuck to her forehead when she ran. Her laugh. The way she used to look at Joel. The way she looked at you. The smell of pancakes on Sunday mornings. Her tiny hand tugging at yours when she wanted to show you something she’d drawn.

Gone. Forever fourteen.

Gone twenty years ago, while you were out there convincing yourself it wasn’t true.

You cover your mouth with both hands. The sound that breaks out of you isn’t human—it’s raw, keening, dragged from the deepest part of you that never healed.

Ellie’s eyes are wide. She moves before she thinks, kneeling beside you, uncertain, awkward. “Hey, hey, I’m—shit, I’m sorry, I didn’t—”

You stumble backward, your legs barely obeying you. The room is too bright, too close. Ellie’s voice is muffled, like it’s coming from underwater. You don’t even hear what she’s saying anymore. You can only hear Sarah. Sarah laughing. Sarah crying. Sarah’s voice calling for you in the dark.

Your throat closes. You can’t breathe. You can’t see.

“She’s gone,” you whisper to no one. “She’s gone. Sarah’s gone.”

Maria appears in front of you, gentle hands hovering but not touching. “Hey—hey, slow down. It’s okay. You’re safe, you hear me?”

You shake your head. “No. No, I—she—” You choke, your chest collapsing under invisible weight. “She’s just a kid. She—she calls me—she calls me mama—”

Maria’s eyes soften, and that’s worse. You can’t bear it. Her pity feels like fire.

You hear Tommy’s boots pounding against the floor, his voice low but urgent. “What happened?”

Ellie’s voice, trembling. “I—I told her about Sarah.”

Maria glances over her shoulder, and Tommy growls. “Christ almighty.” He doesn’t look at you for long—maybe he can’t.

You hear Tommy leave with a string of curses, his boots thumping until he disappeared into the snow.

You press your palms over your face, rocking slightly. The room feels like it’s tilting. Every breath comes in sharp bursts, tearing your lungs.

“She’s gone,” you whisper, voice trembling. “She’s gone, and I didn’t—”

Your breath shudders out of you, and you clutch at the wall like it might hold you up.

Maria glances toward Ellie, and something passes silently between them—understanding, guilt, something like fear. Tommy curses quietly under his breath. “I’ll get him,” he says, and he’s gone before Maria can stop him.

Your voice breaks. You press your hands over your face, curling inward. “I wasn’t there,” you whisper. “I wasn’t there.”

Maria’s hand hovers near your shoulder, then pulls back. She looks helpless.

A sound—heavy boots, the door opening. You don’t have to look up. You know that sound. You could find it in a storm.

Joel’s frozen in the doorway, chest heaving. His eyes land on you. You see the recognition hit him like a hammer.

“Darlin’,” he breathes, his voice hoarse, wrecked.

You shake your head, stepping back.

He doesn’t listen. He never did. In three long strides he’s kneeling in front of you, hands hovering before settling on your shoulders. His touch is rough, too warm.

“Don’t—don’t touch me—” You push at him weakly. “She’s gone, Joel. She’s gone.”

He pulls you into his chest anyway, his arms tight around you as you struggle. “I know,” he says, his voice low, shaking. “I know, baby, I know.”

You pound your fists against him, but the strength’s gone from your body. “You don’t—”

“I do,” he cuts in, desperate. “I do.”

You stop fighting. His arms hold steady, the kind of hold that used to calm you down. You can feel the tremor in his hands, the way he keeps his face buried in your hair.

“She’s gone,” you whisper, smaller now. “Our girl. She—”

He doesn’t let you finish. He shifts, lifting you the best he can, one arm under your knees, the other at your back. You cling to his shirt on instinct, your body shaking as he carries you down the hallway. You can barely see through the blur of tears.

Joel shoulders the door to your room open and nudges it shut behind him with his boot.

He sets you down gently on the bed, but you push yourself away the moment your feet touch the floor. You back up, hands shaking, your breath sharp and uneven. “Don’t—don’t do that,” you rasp.

He goes quiet. The silence stretches. You can hear the whoosh of snow starting against the window.

When he finally speaks, his voice is low. “You wanna know what happened?”

You don’t answer, but he tells you anyway.

He talks like a man digging up a grave. His words come in fragments—him and Sarah on the couch, the sirens, the Alders, Tommy’s truck, the soldiers, the gun. His voice falters only once, when he says her name.

“\We were tryin’ to get out. Got stopped by a soldier. They told him—told him to take us down. I was holdin’ her when he fired.” He swallows hard, eyes shining wet. “She was scared. Cryin’. I told her I had her. That I wasn’t gonna let go.”

You stare at him, unmoving. Every breath feels like swallowing glass. “You held her,” you say, the words barely forming. “You—”

“I didn’t know what else to do,” he murmurs. “I couldn’t stop it. Couldn’t—” His voice breaks, and he turns his head, like looking at you hurts.

You sit on the edge of the bed, shaking. The words echo in your skull, each one heavier than the last. The room feels too small, the air too thick.

You look at him. His hands hang useless at his sides, his face drawn, hollow. You think of all the years he carried that weight alone. How you carried your own.

You reach out.

He hesitates, then closes the distance, kneeling in front of you again. You rest your head against his chest, the fabric of his shirt damp from your tears. His arms come around you, slow and sure.

You cry until you can’t anymore—quietly, your hands fisted in his shirt. He doesn’t tell you to stop. He doesn’t move to fix it.

Now it’s just the two of you again. Broken. Breathing. Holding on because there’s nothing else left to do.

┈┈・ ☣・┈┈

Joel didn’t give Tommy a choice to get you to move in with him.

He showed up the next day, the expression on his face enough to silence any argument before it began. Tommy stood there on the porch trying to say something that wouldn’t get his head bitten off. But when he looked at you—eyes blank, body barely holding itself upright—he just sighed, nodded once, and stepped aside.

The guest bedroom smelled faintly of cedar and dust, and cleaner than it should’ve been—like he’d gone through it himself and made it ready before he even brought you here. You didn’t thank him. You just sat down on the bed and stared at the wall until it blurred.

The first night, you cried so hard you made yourself sick. Joel stayed outside the door the whole time, boots heavy on the wood floor. He didn’t come in.

By the third night, he’d moved a chair into your room and sat there while you slept—if you could call it that.

Every memory twisted just enough to hurt. You’d wake up gasping, and Joel would already be there, and sometimes just murmur, “You’re alright,” though neither of you believed it.

By the end of the first week, he’d stopped pretending to sleep in his own bed. He just curled up at the foot of yours with a blanket and pillow, a quiet shadow. When you woke up sobbing, he was there. When you refused to eat, he was there, pressing a spoon into your mouth, his jaw tight with that quiet patience that looked more like punishment than care.

Never turned away when you cried from shame. Wiped your face clean. Tucked you in. Never said a word about it.

Tonight is like every one of those nights.

It starts before the sun sets. The light through the blinds looks too much like the color of fire, like the burning hospital, and something in your chest just snaps. You curl into yourself, hands gripping the blanket, and Joel’s there in a second, just coming off his patrol.

“Hey,” he says softly, like you might shatter if he breathes too hard. “Hey, now. Look at me.”

You don’t. You can’t. You’re somewhere else entirely.

He sits on the edge of the bed, careful, slow. “You’re safe,” he tries again. “You’re right here, darlin’.”

That word—it tears something open in you. You turn your face into the pillow and sob so violently your ribs ache. Joel just sits there. Then he moves closer, kneeling beside the bed, his hands braced on the mattress.

“It’s okay,” he whispers.

But it isn’t. It isn’t okay.

Your voice comes out hoarse, like you haven’t spoken in years. “She was scared.”

Joel freezes.

“She was—she was scared, and I wasn’t there.”

He swallows hard, the sound loud in the quiet room.

“I just know it.”

His jaw flexes, and his breath stutters. For a moment, he looks like he’s going to argue—but then he just lets out a sound that’s almost a laugh, only it’s broken right down the middle.

Joel drags both hands down his face, pressing the heels of his palms into his eyes until his knuckles go white. “I was supposed to protect her,” he chokes out. “That was my job. My one Goddamn job, and I failed.”

Your breath catches. You reach out before you can stop yourself, fingers brushing his arm.

He doesn’t flinch away.

“She was—she was so little,” you whisper.

He nods, eyes closed. His chest rises and falls too fast. “She was,” he breathes.

Neither of you speak for a while. You can hear the crickets outside. The faint, uneven hitch of his breathing.

When you finally speak, it’s a wish you didn’t plan to say.

“I wish Ellie’s knife killed me.”

Joel’s head snaps up.

“What?”

You meet his eyes—really meet them this time, even through the blur of tears. “That knife,” you say, voice breaking. “When she stabbed me—I didn’t think it then. But now…” Your throat locks. “It should’ve killed me. I can’t… can’t live in a world that took Sarah.”

He stares at you like you just reached into his chest and pulled out something he’d buried. His eyes glisten. His mouth opens, then closes again.

“Don’t say that,” he rasps.

“Joel—”

“Don’t,” he snaps, sharper now, voice cracking under the weight. “Don’t you ever say that. You hear me?”

You flinch. His hand shoots out before he can stop himself, gripping your wrist.

“I can’t lose you too,” he says, barely more than a whisper. “I can’t—I ain’t strong ‘nough for that.”

“You already lost me.”

“No. No, you’re still here. You’re breathin’. You’re here.”

Something inside you caves in. You don’t know which one of you moves first, but suddenly he’s holding you, arms around you tight enough to hurt, his face pressed to your shoulder. His whole body trembles.

You cling back. For the first time since you moved in, you hold him just as tightly.

He leans in until your foreheads touch again, his thumb brushing over the tear tracks on your cheek. There’s no logic in the way he looks at you—just devastation and recognition, like you’re both staring into the same pit and realizing you’ve been standing beside each other the whole time.

He stays that way until the trembling stops, until your breathing evens out, until the room softens around the edges. Then, quietly, he moves to the foot of the bed, to settle in like always.

But this time, when you reach out, your fingers find his sleeve.

He looks up, startled at first, like he’s not sure he felt what he did. Your hand stays there, curled into the fabric, your knuckles white.

“Don’t,” you whisper.

He blinks. “Don’t what?”

“Don’t go.”

The words come out small, almost childlike, and you hate how fragile they sound—but they’re true. Every piece of you feels hollow when he’s not near.

Joel’s throat works. He studies you like he’s trying to find the right answer in your face. “You sure?” he murmurs.

You nod, but it’s shaky. He still doesn’t move.

“I mean it,” he says again, voice rough. “You—don’t gotta say things you don’t—”

“I said don’t go.”

That’s all it takes. The bed dips when he sits beside you. You move without thinking—your hand on his shirt, then his chest, then his arm, like you’re checking to make sure he’s real.

He doesn’t stop you. You pull him closer.

He hesitates, every muscle in him tight, like he’s fighting instinct. His hand hovers in the air for a moment before it lands gently at your waist.

You tug him down until he’s lying beside you.

You can hear his heartbeat, feel the heat of him under your fingers. The two of you are stiff at first—two unfamiliar bodies trying to remember something that used to be second nature.

You don’t know what you’re doing. Neither does he.

He exhales against your temple, like he’s afraid the air itself might hurt you. You breathe him in, and it feels like something old and safe and terrifying all at once.

His hand finds yours under the blanket. His thumb moves, back and forth, the smallest stroke. You don’t realize you’re crying once more until he brushes one away with his knuckle.

He whispers something you can’t quite catch. Maybe it’s your name. Maybe it’s hers. You don’t ask. You just trace the rough line of his throat, the scars on his hand, the dip of his collarbone. He does the same, learning you by touch—your shoulder, your hair, the hollow at the base of your throat.

It’s clumsy, reverent, too gentle for how much it hurts.

You both crack there—slow, like spreading a fracture through glass. Thumb brushing along the edge of his jaw, his nose skimming your cheek, your jaw. He tucks you in against his chest. You listen to his heart until it steadies.

And this new ritual continues.

Time folds in on itself—weeks slide past like snowmelt, impossible to hold. You stop counting by days or calendars; you measure life instead by the smallest things.

The sound of boots at the door. The shape of his hand around a hammer, around a map, around the edge of your world.

By late November, you’ve grown familiar to the smell of coffee, sharp and earthy. He always makes two cups, one waiting for you by the sink. You don’t always drink it. Some days you only stand there, palms around the mug, letting the heat soak into your fingers until it cools.

He pretends not to watch. Sits at the table with a stack of repair notes or a half-folded map, eyes flicking up just long enough to catch you breathing. Sometimes you think he’s waiting to see if you’ll join him. You rarely do.

Instead, you spend time washing dishes. Folding blankets. You cook, sometimes—only simple things. Never what Sarah loved. Not the pancakes she’d drown in syrup, not the chicken stew she’d claim was “better than school lunch.” You can’t.

The world outside turns whiter, the light shorter each day. Ellie drifts in and out of the house, mostly keeping to the garage. You learn she’s been staying there. She has her own rhythm—friends, her girlfriend. It’s soft, watching her have something sweet.

Some days, Joel tries to coax you outside. Mentions the farmers’ meetings, the community dinners, the patrol schedules. You always shake your head.

“Maybe next week,” you say

He nods like he already knew. But he keeps asking.

And he keeps bringing things home. A pressed flower. A basket of foods you loved. A novel he found in the old library, the corners worn soft. He never makes a show of it. Just leaves them on the counter.

Sometimes you thank him.

Sometimes you just stare at the gift, fingertips brushing its edge, shock and disbelief running through your system.

Then one morning, the sky pale with early snowlight, you wake up to the house quiet. You move through the rooms on autopilot—bare feet against cold floors, the air sharp in your lungs.

You’re about to shower, something you’ve started looking forward to. You love the feeling of water washing away the ache, if only for a little while.

But when you open the drawer for clothes—nothing. Every shirt, every pair of jeans you’ve gathered from Maria and Tommy over the past few weeks is gone, tangled in the bottom of the basket. Unwashed.

You curse softly under your breath.

Passing through the kitchen, you spot a folded note on the counter. Joel’s handwriting—blocky, uneven.

Went to help at the barn.

Didn’t get to the laundry yet. My bad.

You can borrow whatever of mine you need.

—J.M.

You stare at it for a long time, thumb brushing over the edge of the paper. The thought of him doing your laundry hits you sideways. You can picture it too easily: at the sink, sleeves rolled up, that furrow between his brows.

Your face warms. You forgot he’s been the one washing your clothes. Your shirts. Your jacket. Your jeans.

Your bras.

Your panties.

God, you were married to the man for almost 15 years, yet now you were getting bashful and flushed over the fact that he was touching your underwear. You cursed your mind.

The note ends with a postscript, scribbled small:

Stay warm. Water heater’s touchy again—let it run first.

You let out a quiet, reluctant smile.

You take a shower. The water sputters and steams, hot enough to sting. You stand under it longer than you should, until the mirror fogs and your skin glows.

When you step out, the air bites against your damp hair. You wrap yourself in a towel and pad barefoot to his bedroom. The floorboards creak like they recognize you. The dresser drawers are stiff; they don’t like being opened. You rummage through the top one, the smell hitting you before your fingers even find it—cedar and faint tobacco.

Soft flannel. His.

You pause, thumb running over the collar, the worn edges. You haven’t worn Joel’s clothes in years—a whole lifetime has happened since. But the muscle memory is still there; you remember exactly how the fabric has been mended to shape.

You hesitate anyway.

“Jesus,” you whisper to no one. “You’re ridiculous.”

You slip it on.

The sleeves hang long, brushing your wrists, the fabric rough. It still smells like him, even washed. You close your eyes and breathe, until it almost hurts.

And suddenly you’re back there. In that other life.

The early mornings. The arguments about stupid shit. The way he’d leave his boots by the door and say, “I’ll get ‘em later,” and you’d roll your eyes and pick them up yourself. The nights when he’d come home late, exhausted and half-awake, and still manage to find you in the dark.

You don’t mean to move, but you do—backward, step by step, until your knees hit the edge of the bed. His bed. You fall onto it, the mattress giving beneath you. You press your face deeper into his pillow, chasing that comfort.

“Goddamn you,” you whisper into the cotton.

But what you mean is thank you.

It’s like being wrapped in him. And God, you’re terrified of what it means. Not of him—never of him—but of this. Of the way he lingers in everything.

He lingered on everything. Your soul, your life, your heart. Your body on those cold winter nights, him between your in a way only a lover knows how. Your body as you pinched and stroked you to ecstasy like it was his sole purpose.

Your breath hitches, and your fingers twitch against the fabric. You shouldn’t. You won’t. You’re stronger than this—or so you tell yourself. But your resolve frays like threadbare cloth.

Your hand moves before you can stop it, tentative at first, grazing the hem of his flannel. A shiver runs through you, sharp and electric.

No, you think, biting your lip hard enough to sting. Don’t do this.

But his voice echoes in your mind, soft and teasing, unraveling you.

C’mon, darlin’. Let go for me.

You’re lost in him, in this need whispered against your skin.

Your hand drifts lower, fingertips grazing the skin just above your knee. The touch is feather-light, testing.

You part your thighs, with cool air kissing your slick heat; you’re already drenched. When’s the last time you let yourself feel this? Years, maybe. Survival doesn’t leave room for want.

You slide through your folds, parting them, circling the swollen ache that built so quickly, just off his smell.

Please, Joel. Touch me. I’ve been so cold.

One finger slips inside, then another. The stretch is perfect, but not enough. You curl them, searching, and when you find that spot, your breath stumbles out in a broken moan.

You take me so good, baby. Always have.

You nod against the fabric, and then hastily pull the buttons undone down to your navel, and you push one side aside with trembling fingers.

Your breast spills free—flushed, nipple peaked tight. You cup it, thumb flicking with your nail once, twice, then pinching hard enough to make your breath hitch. The sting shoots straight to your cunt. You roll the nipple between finger and thumb, tugging until your back lifts off the mattress.

You move your head to the side, the collar in front of your nose, and you stay inhaling him while you fuck yourself on your fingers, deep, steady strokes that match the pulse in your ears.

The rhythm turns frantic. Wet sounds fill the small space, obscene and perfect. You add a third finger; the burn is exquisite. You imagine his weight pinning you down, hips snapping, voice rough in your ear.

You want me to come in the pussy I put a ring on?

You come with a muffled cry, body shuddering. Your walls clamp down, thighs trembling. Pleasure crashes in sharp, endless waves, your fingers still buried deep, slick coating your hand and the inside of your thighs.

The world narrows to the pulse of your heartbeat, the ragged rhythm of your gasps. Slowly, the waves ebb, leaving you trembling in their wake. Your hand falls away, slick and heavy, resting against your exposed breast. You don’t move to cover yourself.

The room is quiet again, save for the soft creak of the bedframe beneath your weight and the faint chirping of morning birds.

Your chest heaves, each breath a struggle. Staring at the ceiling, your eyes tracing the cracks as your mind catches up to your body. The pleasure lingers, but it’s drowned by the slow creep of something else.

Guilt, maybe.

You close your eyes, willing the thought away, but it lingers like the scent on the pillow, like your next thought:

You might be falling in love with your husband again.

┈┈・ ☣・┈┈

He was early.

You spotted him through the restaurant window, standing under the awning with one hand tucked into his jacket pocket, the other rubbing along his jaw. He looked… nervous. The sight did something funny to your stomach, seeing this broad, quiet man fidgeting like a teenager on prom night.

When he caught sight of you walking toward him, he straightened so fast it almost made you laugh. His hand dropped from his face, and a faint, almost shy smile tugged at his mouth.

“Hey,” he said, voice low and rough, that easy southern drawl curling around the word. “You look—uh. Nice.”

You smiled. “You too.”

He was wearing his usual—plaid shirt, denim jacket, jeans—but somehow it worked differently tonight. Maybe it was the effort. The way his hair was combed down, neat but still a little messy near the edges, or the fact that his boots looked like he’d actually wiped them off before coming.

The hostess seated you near the window. The two of you sat across from each other, menus up like shields, both pretending to read while you waited for the other to speak first.

“So,” Joel started after a few moments, clearing his throat. “Uh—”

You looked up. “Uh?”

“I should probably jus’—jus’ say this upfront.”

You set your menu down, a small smile forming. “Okay.”

He leaned back in his chair, fingers tapping against the table once before curling into a fist. “I got a kid,” he blurted. “Her name’s Sarah. She’s one. Almost two.”

He paused, eyes flicking between you and the salt shaker.

“She’s… well, she’s my whole damn world. I jus’ don’t wanna waste anyone’s time pretendin’ otherwise.”

He said it like he was bracing for a hit. His shoulders were stiff, jaw tight. You could tell it wasn’t something he said often—probably something he practiced in his head on the way here.

“You love her.”

He let out a breath, softer than a sigh. “Yeah. More’n I thought I could love anythin’, to be honest. It’s jus’ been me and her since—well, since birth.” His lips twitched, almost a smile. “So that’s kinda my life. I work, I come home, I make sure she eats somethin’ other than pancakes, and I pass out by nine. Not real excitin’.”

You grinned. “You sound like a good dad.”

That stopped him. He blinked, mouth opening like he didn’t quite know what to do with the words. “You ain’t—uh—you’re not scared off?”

“By a good dad?” you teased. “No. I think that’s actually kind of attractive.”

His ears went a little pink. He looked down, rubbed the back of his neck. “Well,” he murmured. “That’s a first.”

After that, the tension broke.

You asked him about his work—how long he’d been building houses—and his face lit up when he talked about it. He told you about learning carpentry, working with his brother Tommy. You told him about your job, about the people you worked with, the work politics he’d probably hate.

And then somehow the conversation drifted back to Sarah.

“She’s wild,” Joel said, shaking his head with a fond smile. “Got more attitude than I do. Last week she told Tommy he was ‘too old’ to play hide and seek.”

You laughed, and he grinned wider, encouraged.

“She’s obsessed with dinosaurs right now. Keeps askin’ me if there’s any still walkin’ ‘round Texas. I told her, no, but she says maybe there’s one hidin’ in the Hill Country.”

“She sounds smart.”

“Too damn smart, sometimes.” He took a sip of water, then added in a quieter voice, “Her mama—well. She ain’t ‘round. So I’m jus’ tryin’ to figure it out best I can.”

You didn’t press. You just nodded, the silence that followed soft.

Between courses, you caught him watching you once or twice—quick, flickering glances that he pretended didn’t happen when you met his eyes. He asked if your food was good, made a few jokes about the size of the portions, grumbled when the waiter brought him a fancy small plate that “wouldn’t fill a bird.”

It was nice. Simple.

By the time the check came, you felt lighter. The awkwardness from the start had melted into something easy, something warm. You tried to grab for your wallet, but Joel was faster, already sliding his card onto the tray.

“Joel—”

“Nope.”

“C’mon, at least let me—”

“Darlin’, don’t even try.”

You stared at him, fighting a smile. “Darlin’?”

He froze, caught off guard by his own mouth. “Oh. Uh—slipped out. Sorry.”

You laughed. “Don’t be.”

He looked down at his plate, hiding a grin.

When you stepped outside, the night was cool and damp. Streetlights hummed overhead, and the air smelled like rain waiting to happen. Joel walked beside you, hands shoved in his jacket pockets, close enough that your sleeve brushed his once or twice.

At your front door, he stopped.

“Well,” he said, clearing his throat. “I had a lotta fun tonight. Really did.”

“Me too.”

He shifted, eyes darting between you and the porch light. “If you wanna… maybe—I don’t know—keep goin’. Not tonight, I mean—well, maybe tonight, but not like that—jus’… I mean, if you wanna see me ‘gain.”

You tried, you really did, but the laugh bubbled out anyway again. He went red to the ears.

“Sorry,” you said between breaths. “You’re just—”

“Terrible at this?”

“Adorable,” you corrected.

“Ain’t heard that one ‘fore.”

You stepped closer, your voice quieter. “Then I guess you were overdue.”

And before he could come up with another flustered thing to say, you leaned up and kissed him.

It was gentle, brief, testing. His breath hitched, the soft scratch of his stubble grazing your chin. But then he kissed you back, slow and certain.

When you finally pulled apart, both of you were smiling without meaning to.

“You wanna come inside?” you asked, barely above a whisper.

He hesitated, mouth curving into something between a grin and a question. “Sarah’s with Tommy.”

You blinked, and shook your head at your mind. “Right. So you should probably—”

“I’ll jus’ pay him more,” he said quickly, like it was the easiest decision in the world.

That made you laugh. “You sure?”

He looked at you, really looked at you, eyes soft and steady. “Yeah. I’m sure.”

You stepped back, opened the door. He followed you in.

The click of the lock behind you sounded louder than it should have. The rain started to fall outside, soft against the windows.

And that, was the start of it all.

┈┈・ ☣・┈┈

Lights wind around the lampposts, glowing gold through the frost, and you swear the whole town smells faintly of cinnamon and pine.

The crowds gathered around the tree—families, couples, kids running around with half-eaten cookies and sticky fingers. The fire pit crackles, throwing warmth into the cold night. You stand beside Tommy, watching Maria up on the platform giving a short speech about community, about making it through another winter together.

Tommy’s got Benji in his arms. The kid’s nodding off, head tucked under his chin, thumb hanging loose from his mouth. His curls are sticking up in every direction.

You lean a little closer, smile softly. “He’s about two minutes from a faceplant.”

Tommy grins, voice low so he doesn’t wake the boy. “Yeah, he’s a fighter though. Ain’t givin’ in easy.”

Benji stirs, blinking up at you with heavy-lidded eyes. You offer your arms without thinking. “Want me to take him?”

Tommy looks between you and the sleepy kid, then chuckles. “Hey, bud, wanna go over to Aunt, huh?”

Aunt. You’re not even sure he realizes he said it until your throat tightens. You just nod, arms open, and Benji reaches for you without hesitation.

He’s warm and smells like sugar. His little hand curls into your jacket as his head droops against your shoulder. You sway a little, rocking him out of habit you thought you’d forgotten.

Tommy watches, something soft flickering in his expression. “You always were good with kids,” he says.

You smile, brushing a curl from Benji’s forehead. “Guess it’s like riding a bike.”

“Yeah,” Tommy murmurs. “One hell of a bike.”

You don’t respond. Your eyes trace the curve of Benji’s lashes, the faint freckles under his eyes. He’s got that same Miller look—those brown eyes, that furrow even when he’s half-asleep. You’ve seen it in Tommy. In Joel. In Sarah.

Your chest tightens. You look away before Tommy can see the wet shine starting in your eyes.

Maria’s speech winds down, her voice softening into a smile. The crowd claps. Maria steps off the platform, her eyes finding Tommy and Benji immediately.

“There’s my boys,” she says, coming over.

She holds her arms out for Benji. He mumbles something sleepy, reaching one hand back toward you before his head falls against Maria’s shoulder.

“Out cold,” she whispers, smiling.

You nod, hands feeling strangely empty once he’s gone.

The music starts again—a few people strumming guitars, someone singing off-key but earnest. Around you, people start exchanging small, wrapped gifts. You’d almost forgotten you brought yours.

“Hey,” you murmur, reaching into your coat pocket and pulling out the little parcel. “This is for Benji.”

Tommy takes it, grinning as he peels back the paper. Inside is a tiny carved horse, the wood polished smooth, the details careful—each line of the mane precise. You spent weeks finding it, trading with an older man in the workshop who’d carved it by hand.

“Look at this,” Tommy says, awe threading through his voice. “You serious? You got this for him?”

You shrug, a little bashful. “He’s obsessed with the ones you keep in the barn. Figured he needed one he can keep in his pocket.”

Maria smiles, kissing her son’s temple. “He’s gonna love it.”

You hand her two more small bundles—one for each of them. A new leather glove set for Tommy, stitched tight and warm. A scarf for Maria, deep green, softer as anything you’ve felt in years.

Tommy whistles low. “You didn’t have to—”

“I wanted to.”

They glance at each other. That wordless kind of look. Then Maria reaches behind her coat and pulls out a square, neatly wrapped in cloth.

“This one’s from us.”

“You didn’t—”

“Jus’ open it,” he says, voice low.

The paper rustles softly. You fold it back, careful with the corners. Then your breath catches.

It’s a photo.

A real, glossy photo in a simple wooden frame. The edges yellowed with age but the image clear.

You and Joel—both asleep, tangled up on a sunlit porch. His arm draped across your waist. Your head resting against his chest. Sarah’s in the background, hands on her hips, grinning at the camera like she’s in on a secret. And in the far corner, barely visible in the reflection, a familiar shadow—Tommy, holding the camera.

Your throat closes.

You trace the edge of the frame with your thumb. “Tommy… how—”

“After the outbreak,” he says quietly, staring into the fire instead of at you. “First couple years. Went back to Austin. Most of it was gone, but the photo box was still there. Been keepin’ it safe.”

You don’t realize you’re crying until the tears blur the image in your hands. You blink fast, but it doesn’t stop the ache building in your chest.

“I thought they were all gone,” you whisper.

Tommy shrugs, smiling a little.

You step forward and hug him. Tight. Your arms around his shoulders, the photo pressed between you so you don’t drop it. He hesitates, then holds you back just as firmly.

Maria watches with a soft smile, Benji sleeping peacefully against her.

You pull back eventually, eyes red, voice rough. “Thank you,” you murmur.

Tommy’s face is all soft lines. “Go eat. You look like you’ll fall into the fire otherwise.” He grins and gestures toward the Tipsy Bison like he’s offering you heaven on a platter.

It smells like cinnamon and cheap liquor and something toasted that turns your stomach into guilty wanting. You thread through people, keeping the picture safe against your ribs. The crowd moves slow; laughter spills from somewhere, and someone is playing the guitar off-key and everyone loves it anyway.

A man steps in front of you—too close, his breath warm with old-cologne regret. He’s around your age, maybe a decade younger if you squint, wearing a patched jacket and confidence like it’s a badge.

“You lookin’ lonely,” he says, grin crooked. “Mind if I—”

“I’m not,” you say. Your smile is small and final. You tuck the word away and step to the side to keep the crowd moving. You make it to the bar, and order your drink. It comes quickly.

He doesn’t take the hint, following you. “Come on, lighten up. I’ve got a bottle with your name on it.”

“Not interested,” you say, firmer. The drink in your hand clinks. You can feel the edges of the photo under your palm like a talisman.

He laughs like you’re the joke. “Someone’s touchy. You look like you could use a good time.”

“Or maybe you could use a lesson,” you say. “Either way, back off.”

People nearby glance. A woman in a knitted hat gives you a sympathetic look; a boy laughs and points. The man’s jaw tightens. He takes a step closer until his fingers brush your arm.

“Don’t,” you say. Loud enough now. Heads turn.

He bends, leans in. “I said—”

You lift the cup and pour. The liquor arcs, wet and immediate, over his face. His hair plastered flat, his mouth opens in surprise, then anger.

“Jesus—” he spits, hand flying to his face. His laugh is gone. He wipes at his eyes, fury hot and immediate.

“Don’t touch me,” you snap. “Don’t touch any woman who doesn’t want it. Fuck off asshole.”

He glares at you, anger thick enough to taste.

The he moves.

Your body reacts before your brain: the shove, the pressure of a palm against his chest to put distance between you and the hand that hovered too long. Something clamps down on your neck—hard—and cold fingers braided through your hair. Pain flares hot along your scalp as he pulls. Instinct roars, everything narrowing to the shape of the man’s face.

You twist, ready to break his nose, but you doesn’t get the chance.

A blur of motion—then the man’s body jerks sideways. He hits the ground hard, air leaving him in a grunt.

You stumble away from the sudden relief of pressure on your head. You cradle it, and look over your shoulder with harsh breaths.

Joel’s there.

Not the quiet Joel. Not the ‘coffee in the morning’ Joel. Not the Joel who sleeps in your bed, holding you tight. This is something else. A version of him pulled straight out of the man you met at the gas station—feral and unfiltered. His chest heaves once before he moves again, towering over the man.

“Get your fuckin’ hands off my wife!”

The words tear out of him, raw, louder than the music, louder than the people shouting. And then he’s on him.

Fists. Over and over. Flesh hitting flesh, the sound thick and wet. Someone screams his name.

Joel doesn’t hear. He’s somewhere else: lost to the sound of his own heartbeat, to the cruelty of a world that took too much from him and dared to reach for you.

“Joel!” you shout, pushing through the people trying to pull him off. “Joel, stop!”

He doesn’t.

You grab his shoulder, hard, nails digging into the fabric of his jacket.

That gets him. His fist hangs midair, knuckles split, breath ragged. He turns. His eyes—they’re wild. Like he doesn’t even recognize where he is.

Then he sees you.

The rage drains fast, leaving him pale. His hands fall. He looks down at the man beneath him, half-conscious, face bleeding into the floor. The silence that follows is brutal. Everyone’s staring. No one moves.

Joel’s chest rises and falls, too fast. Then he stands, his hands—bloodied and shaking—on your face.

“Hey. Hey, look at me. You okay?” His voice cracks halfway through, the old, broken edge of it cutting through everything else. His thumbs brush your cheeks, leaving streaks of red. “He hurt you? Tell me if he did.”

You shake your head, swallowing hard. You’re fine. You were fine. You always were.

He growls something at your lack of words, looking around the crowd before tucking you against his side and his hand steady at your back. You can hear the crowd murmuring, whispers darting like fish through water.

Exiting the Tipsy Bison, you spot Tommy’s face through the haze—brows drawn, mouth tight. Maria’s beside him, arms crossed, listening to someone whisper in her ear. Her expression doesn’t change.

You hold your photo tighter. You stare straight ahead, past the people, past the lights.

The fear comes slow.

Maybe Joel did love you once. Maybe he still did. But you can’t stop thinking about what love costs now. What it demands.

He doesn’t speak until you’re well past the town square, the noise fading behind you. The snow crunches under your boots, slow and steady, the kind of silence that feels heavier than shouting.

Then you pull away.

“Stop,” you say.

He does, immediately. Turns to you in the middle of the empty street, breath clouding in the cold. Snow gathers in his beard, catches on his lashes. He looks older like this—softer really, though the blood on his hands hasn’t dried yet.

“I’m sorry,” he says quietly. “If I scared you. I didn’t mean to. I’m—so sorry, darlin’.”

You shake your head, words shaking with your breath. “No. It’s not that. I just—” You press a hand to your chest. “I can’t do this anymore.”

His brow furrows. “Can’t do what?”

“This,” you say. You motion between you, your voice thin. “You. Me. The way you—look at me like I’m still…” You stop, shaking your head. “Like we’re still the same people.”

He steps closer, hand half-raised, hesitant. “What are you talkin’ about?”

“You scare me, Joel.”

The words hang there, suspended. You can see the way they hit him, like a punch he doesn’t block.

He blinks. “What?”

“You scare me,” you repeat, quieter now. “Not because of what you did. But because you think you owe it to me. Like I’m still yours.”

“You are mine.”

You close your eyes. The snow’s starting to fall harder, catching on your lashes. “That’s exactly what I mean.”

He shakes his head, steps forward again, pleading. “I didn’t mean to lose control. I jus’—he touched you, and I saw red. I couldn’t—hell, I ain’t proud of it, but I’d do it ‘gain if it meant—”

“Joel.” You interrupt, firm. “Just stop.”

He freezes mid-sentence, mouth still open like the air left him.

You take a step back. Then another. “You keep saying you’re sorry, but you’re not. You’re still justifying it. You think it’s love, but it’s not. It’s fear. It’s control. You think if you hold on tight enough, you won’t lose me again.”

His chest rises and falls, ragged. “You don’t understand—”

“You were my husband,” you say, your voice shaking now. “You were the best thing I had. And then the world ended, and I lost you. I learned to live without you. To fight. To protect myself. And now—now you’re back, and I don’t know how to breathe with you around, yet at the same time I can’t. You smother me, Joel.”

“I ain’t tryin’ to smother you, I’m tryin’ to keep you alive.”

“I don’t need you to keep me alive,” you fire back. “I already did that for twenty years without you.”

He takes a step closer, voice breaking. “I don’t know how to not care ‘bout you. You understand? I don’t know how to turn that off. I’ve already lost everythin’ once, I can’t—”

“But you aren’t my husband anymore.”

He stops cold.

The snow falls thicker now, lazy flakes settling in his hair, catching in his lashes. His breath comes out uneven, fogging the air between you. He looks at you like he’s trying to recognize a face in a dream—one that keeps slipping away every time he blinks.

“No.”

“Joel—”

“No.” He shakes his head hard, eyes wide, something wild behind them. “Don’t say that. Don’t—don’t do that to me.”

You step forward, voice soft. “Joel, listen to me—”

“You don’t get to just say that like it’s some Goddamn fact. Like it ain’t—” He cuts himself off, running a hand down his face, the motion trembling. “Y’think I can jus’ stop bein’ your husband ‘cause the world went to shit?”

You feel your throat close. “That’s not what I—”

“‘Cause I never stopped.” His voice cracks, raw and broken. “Not for one second. Every day, I—” He presses a fist against his chest, like he’s trying to hold something in. “I woke up, and I thought of you. I went to sleep thinkin’ of you. When I saw—when I saw Ellie—I thought, ‘you’d like her,’ because I still—still thought about what you’d like.”

“Joel…”

He’s breathing hard now, his voice shaking. “Y’think I don’t know what I am? What I’ve done? Y’think I don’t hate myself every time I look in the mirror? But I never—” He stops. His jaw clenches, and then, in a shaky motion, he reaches for the zipper of his coat.

“Don’t—stop—”

But he’s already pulling it open, shoving the heavy fabric aside. His fingers dig under his flannel, and when something comes out, something holding on a thin chain.

The moonlight catches it. A dull glint of gold. A wedding band, pressed against his chest like a second heartbeat.

You go still.

Your throat burns, but no sound comes out.

“I didn’t wear it for twenty-somethin’ years, carried it ‘round in my pocket,” he says hoarsely. His eyes glisten, fixed on yours. “Couldn’t. Didn’t feel right. But when I found you ‘gain, when I—when I saw you—” His hand trembles as he grips the ring. “I started wearin’ it ‘gain.”

You stare at him, lips parting, chest heaving with too many emotions at once.

“I thought of you every day,” he says, voice rough as gravel. “Beat myself bloody over losin’ you and Sarah. Over not savin’ you. And now you stand here and tell me I ain’t your husband.” His voice cracks. “How the hell am I supposed to live with that?”

You want to speak. You want to tell him that this isn’t fair. But when you open your mouth, nothing comes out.

Because your hands are already moving.

You reach up, fingers shaking, fumbling at your collar. The chain catches against your skin as you pull it free, and the air leaves your lungs when you pull our your own glint of gold.

Joel’s breath stutters. He takes a half step forward, like he’s afraid it’ll disappear if he gets too close. His lips part, trembling.

“You… you didn’t have it, when you left. How did you—”

“I couldn’t let it go.”

He makes a sound—half sob, half gasp—and suddenly he’s moving.

The distance between you collapses in a heartbeat. His arms are around you before you can breathe, before you can think, and then you’re both crashing together like you’ve been pulled by the same gravity. His mouth finds yours, desperate, broken, and you respond just as fiercely, clinging to him like he’s the only thing holding you upright.

The picture slips from your hand, falling face-down into the snow. You don’t even notice.

You taste salt—tears, his or yours, you can’t tell. His hands are in your hair, on your back, clutching, trembling. Yours are pressed to his chest, feeling the thrum of his heartbeat under your palms, the metal of the ring chain warm against your fingers.

He pulls back just enough to look at you. His forehead rests against yours, breath mingling in the freezing air.

“Please,” he mutters against your lips, his voice trembling like the rest of him. “Don’t—don’t go.”

“No,” you whisper back, voice rough, almost lost in the wind. “I’m not going anywhere.”

He chokes again, pulling the picture from the snow with shaking hands. His eyes go wide and hollow for a second, taking in what it is, before the sound escapes him—low, guttural, broken.

“C’mon,” he says hoarsely, tugging you toward him. “Let’s go… home.”

“Okay.”

He pulls you in close again as he guides you down the snow-lined street toward home. Rancher Street comes into view, quiet and empty, the glow of porch lights soft against the dark.

Inside, the house smells faintly of woodsmoke and something sweet. You see light spilling from the garage; Ellie’s there.

Joel sets the picture frame down gently on the entry table, reverent almost, before his attention snaps back to you. He steps forward, pressing you harshly against him again. A kiss, long and desperate, his hands clutching at your arms, your shoulders, like he’s relearning your weight against his.

You reach to his side, and he lets out a sharp wince against your lips. He curses softly, half-grunt, half-groan. “Joel—” you start, moving to check, but he shakes his head.

“Don’t care. Keep goin’,” he insists.

He leans in again, brushing against your lips, but you step back, firm. “No. Joel, c’mon. Sit.”

He huffs, muttering, but follows your gesture, settling onto the couch where you point. You rush to the kitchen, retrieving the small medical kit you know is there. When you return, he’s already watching you, breathing a little faster, eyes shadowed with something between exhaustion and longing.

“Take it off,” you instruct softly.

He frowns but complies without argument, peeling off the heavy winter coat, then the flannel, then the shirt beneath. Now bare to the waist, he’s different. The chest beneath your hands is broad, scarred, marked by years you don’t need to ask about. Hair dusts his shoulders and chest. His wedding band glints at the center, catching the firelight.

Your fingers move to the red mark forming along his ribs. You hiss softly, careful, cleaning and pressing gently. He leans into you, eyes closed, letting the quiet comfort of your care anchor him.

“You need to be careful. You aren’t young anymore, can’t heal at the same rate. We can only hope that it just stays a bruise and not something really bad.”

He doesn’t answer with words, just tilts his head, the corner of his mouth twitching ever so slightly. Then, without thinking, his hand brushes a strand of hair back from your face.

You feel it deep in your chest. The brush of his fingers lingers longer than necessary, a gentle weight that makes your pulse catch.

You can tell he’s unsure what to say, and for once, it’s the same for you. Just the storm, the couch, the soft clink of mugs.

Joel’s thumb traces along your jaw, quiet, careful. He’s watching you, and it makes your chest ache.

“I can’t believe you’re really here,” you finally whisper, voice soft, almost swallowed by the roar of the snow.

You shift closer, letting your forehead rest against his. There’s something in the way he exhales, a tension you’ve both been holding for months, released in the brush of skin to skin.

There’s a beat of silence, and then another. Neither of you moves. The room shrinks until it’s just you, him, and the heat simmering between your bodies.

You finally tilt your head up, catching his eyes.

Both of you know what the other wants. Words aren’t needed in a relationship like yours and Joel’s.

“I… are you sure?” you still check. “It might be too much. And your side might be—”

“Darlin’.”

“Yes?”

He leans up to press a quick kiss to your temple. “Stop talkin’.”

You smile just a fraction. He drags you down to be on the couch with him. Then, slower than you expect compared to before, he lowers his head, lips brushing yours—soft, tentative.

Your body responds instantly. Your hands roam from his back to your chest. He moans softly, lips parting, teeth grazing, tongues brushing, and you taste him like you’d dreamed of for countless nights.

Your hands tangle in his hair, pulling him closer, and he responds in kind, his grip firm on your waist, his body pressing into yours.

The kiss turns into a tug-of-war, pull and counter-pull, lips and hands claiming, taking, giving in equal measure.

In the midst of it, you find yourself on his lap, heart pounding. It’s been years since you’ve experienced anything like this, and your body recalls only fragments.