“He’ll be fine, right?” the small boy tugged on the woman’s sleeve.

“His leg just hurts a little. Remember when you broke your arm?”

“It doesn’t work that way—” the man standing next to them scoffed, but he was stopped mid-sentence.

“Shhh. He’ll be fine.” She turned back to the boy and smoothed his hair.

For weeks, the horse’s lame leg had been dragging behind the brown gelding as he carried supplies or a rider. Today, the limp had grown so bad that he refused to move, no matter how many men tugged on the rope. His head hung low, his weight heavy on three good legs.

It was still midday, and the sun filtered through the crowns of the trees as the group gathered around the animal.

“We have to get Joel.” An older man rose from his spot.

“No.” A young woman stood up, blocking his way. “You won’t.”

“Then what the fuck do you expect me to do?”

“We wait. We give him a week.” The young woman in the turtleneck sweater looked around, scanning the group’s faces. “Feed him some more.”

Some people nodded.

“We waited a week already,” the man said, lowering his voice. “The horse is dead.”

“Then we wait one more.” The woman was joined by a young man at her side.

“He won’t get better.”

“So what, we just kill him?” a young girl standing beside the horse wailed.

“We don’t.” The man muttered and pushed past the woman, marching toward the edge of their makeshift camp.

Leaves rustled under his boots as the group held their breath.

When he returned, he was not alone. The crowd fell silent as they approached; some lowered their gaze, others stared. The man was tall and broad, but that wasn’t what made him who he was to them. There was no excess muscle, no supernatural strength.

And yet, they all stared. The woman pulled the boy behind her.

He walked toward the horse, the group parting before him. He swept a look across the crowd. Several people dropped their eyes.

The gelding’s head was close to the forest floor now, warm nostrils almost touching the ground.

When he reached the animal, he looped the rope around his hand and tugged its head up to hold it in place. He reached into his pocket, and the silver blade glinted in the sunlight.

“Aren’t you supposed to shoot it?” someone in the crowd asked.

“’m not wastin’ rounds on a horse,” Joel muttered, not taking his eyes off the animal, the blade pressed flush against its skin.

The horse didn’t move, either unaware of its fate or too tired to resist.

“We’re not slaughtering him like this!” another voice shouted.

“Sure. Gimme my gun then.” He held out his hand, and someone turned to fetch it. “Just keep yours ready for when the horde hears this.”

The crowd fell silent. The man who had moved for the gun straightened and looked away.

Joel turned back to the horse and laid his hand on its neck, pressing against the warmth of its hide and the steady beat beneath it. With a single sharp motion, he drove the knife deep into its neck.

The horse’s neigh came out weak as it thrashed, Joel’s arm straining to keep its head in place, but no one dared step closer.

He sawed the blade deeper into the wound. The horse flailed once more before collapsing, its knees buckling beneath it.

Blood pooled beneath its neck as it seized one final time.

Someone gasped. A child began to cry, its mother shushing it quickly.

A girl reached out to touch the horse’s still-warm nostrils, but a hand caught her shoulder and pulled her back.

Joel crouched beside the body and leaned over it. The blade pierced the skin again, slicing along the animal’s abdomen.

“What the fuck,” the tall man near the scene whispered through clenched teeth. “What the fuck are you doin’?”

“Take him away, there are children here!” a woman shouted.

Joel’s movements didn’t falter, his hands skilled as he cut clean lines through skin and flesh, separating tissue.

“Calm down, guys,” a voice said. “He’s right. We need to skin it quickly before it rots.”

“Do you hear yourself, Tommy? Why would we skin our horse?”

“’Cause we need the hide, and we need the meat, Janet. I’m sorry.” Tommy placed a hand on the woman’s shoulder, both to comfort her and to keep her from lunging at his brother.

“But this is Bill.” The woman pointed at the body with a trembling hand. “We had him for weeks. He carried us and the supplies.”

“And now he’s gonna feed us too. Let it go, Janet.” Tommy pulled the crying woman into a hug. Then he looked at the others. “Show’s over, everyone.” He gestured for the group to scatter.

***

Tommy seemed to appear out of nowhere. He checked once more to make sure no one had followed him before announcing himself.

Joel’s back was turned, seemingly unaware, but Tommy knew better. If he couldn’t hear him, he could at least sense him.

“You scared ’em today. Again.”

“What the fuck did you expect me to do? Put him in a splint?” Joel asked, washing the blood from his hands in the stream.

“No. Just… take it easy on them. They left their office jobs less than three weeks ago and—”

“Well, too fucking bad.” He rose and wiped his hands on his jeans. “I hope they enjoy dinner.”

“You don’t have to be like this.”

“It’s better for you if I am.”

***

Bill’s flesh simmered above the fire, portioned and made into stew.

The group gathered around and shared a meal. They told stories from before. Someone sang a song. The pieces of meat no longer resembled the animal.

One bowl was set aside, and when the feast ended and the group dispersed into their tents, Joel emerged from his.

He took the bowl and headed back toward the edge of camp.

Once there, he crouched and shoveled the food into his mouth, eating quickly, glancing left and right as he did.

***

By Thursday, Bill’s lifeless body seemed long forgotten. The remaining flesh was cooked and dried, and his hide cleaned.

Apart from the affection the group had for the horse, his absence posed a more pressing problem. It was now impossible to travel farther from camp to hunt, secure the perimeter, or haul game.

There was the car, its tank still half full, but it wasn’t practical in the woods and would attract too much attention.

Most of the group fell into a lull, unaware of the danger the situation posed. Life carried on—clothes washed in the cold stream, food cooked over the fire, someone laughing.

On good days, it almost felt like a camping trip.

The day was quiet. It was getting warmer, and the group lounged outside the makeshift tents.

It happened quickly.

Something rustled in the leaves, and before anyone could react, a small figure appeared in the bushes.

It was a child. Frail, a girl judging by the braid.

Jessica and Adam noticed her first, freezing in their tracks.

“Hey, baby girl,” Jessica cooed. “Where’s your mama?”

The girl twitched but didn’t step forward.

“Are you alone?” Jessica crouched and extended her hand.

The child took a step forward, her body shaking as she moved.

“She’s got it,” Adam said. “She’s bit.”

“You don’t know that,” Jessica replied, still facing the girl.

“She’s twitching already.”

The girl inched toward them. Leaves cracked beneath her shoes.

Her neck twitched slightly, and Jessica flinched but didn’t move.

“We gotta do something,” Tommy urged, his rifle now raised and pointed at the girl.

“Definitely not fucking shoot her,” Jessica scoffed, rising to her feet.

“Guys, decision time.” Tommy’s finger lingered just above the trigger.

“Where the fuck is Joel?” someone yelled, and heads turned around the camp.

Suddenly, leaves crunched under a heavier weight.

A shriek cut through the woods.

A grunt.

A gush of blood.

A loud but stilted „No”.

The child struggled briefly, held in large arms, then went limp. Her pale body looked like a rag doll held up by its neck.

Joel stood behind her, his blade buried deep in her neck.

Once she stopped thrashing, he let her body fall to the ground with a thud. 

Jessica gasped, frozen in place, her arm still stretched towards the scene.

Tommy moved the rifle back over his shoulder, but there was no relief in his eyes.

The group dispersed in silence.

***

The group settled into this life as best they could. Old habits died hard, and the outbreak had not waited for anyone to harden.

You sat by the fire one night, warming your palms near the flames when a familiar face appeared beside you.

“Hi, Tommy.”

“Hey, you.” He nodded toward the fire. “Sorry, I need to put it out soon.”

“That’s okay.”

You moved your hands closer to the flames, the heat prickling at your fingers.

“You’re a tough one,” he said suddenly. “You don’t look it. But you are.”

You weren’t sure what he meant. You couldn’t recall any acts of bravery on your part in the past weeks.

“It’s either this or you die.”

“Yeah, I don’t think everyone got that memo.” He chuckled.

Your thoughts drifted back to David, who felt he was too good to spare to take watch or hunt. He was of the strong belief that the experience gained in the position he held at the city council would prove very useful when the group built an actual settlement.

You snorted, though not everyone had found it amusing. Janet said it made sense.

“Where does he go when he’s gone?”

“You mean Joel?”

You nodded.

“Keeps to himself.”

You fixed your gaze on the flames, then shifted it to him. Thirty, at most, he already looked older than when you first met him. The crease between his brows had deepened, but there was still warmth in his eyes.

“They don’t like him.”

He snorted, but without humor. “Yeah. He’s… too much for them sometimes.”

“He protects them.”

“Mhm.”

You wondered why Tommy didn’t stay with his brother or force him back to camp. You had a sister, too, somewhere. If she were still here, you would stand by her no matter what she did.

“You don’t agree?”

“Joel has his way of doin’ things. It works, but it’s not always pretty.”

“Who cares what’s pretty?”

“I reckon we should care. We should never stop carin’ about it.”

“What? Keeping appearances?” Irritation crept into your voice.

“Bein’ human. Gettin’ dressed in the mornin’, sayin’ please and thank you, bein’ kind.”

“He’s human,” you shot back.

“He doesn’t want to be, I think. Not anymore.”

You wondered what had split the brothers so differently. Why saying please and thank you still mattered to Tommy, and Joel stopped concerning himself with it from the very beginning.

“Was he a soldier?” you asked.

Tommy shook his head. “No. I was.”

“You?” You stared at him.

“Yep. He built houses.”

You imagined Joel’s hands building something instead of breaking it.

***

Two days later, you moved the camp deeper into the woods. The infected shrieks woke the group in the dead of night, and just like that, it was decided.

On the way to the new spot, Jessica found an abandoned backpack. It was full of cans, and it felt like a gift from the universe that had betrayed you. Janet thanked the Lord, and someone scoffed loudly.

That night, everyone sat by the fire again, the warmed cans emptied into bowls and mugs.

You remembered when Joel still approached the group without being summoned, when he shared meals with you. Mothers ushered their children away from him. Men subtly positioned themselves between him and the women. One day, someone spat on the ground in front of where he stood. After that, he stopped coming altogether.

You hesitated at first, but it felt right. You picked up the bowl they had set aside and, careful not to draw attention, slipped away from the fire.

His sleeping bag wasn’t far from where the others slept, but it was separated by a line of bushes. He sat on the ground, focused on something in his hands.

You approached quietly and saw him carving a small shape with his pocketknife. Your steps were light, deliberate—but when you came close, his eyes snapped up to meet yours. His brows were drawn tight, his body coiled, ready to lunge.

You extended the bowl toward him and set it down carefully, your movements slow, cautious—as if feeding a wary animal. His eyes never left yours as you stepped back.

Once you were out of his sight, you turned and ran.

***

It became a habit then. Every day, it played out the same. You slipped away from camp with the bowl and brought it to him, his distrustful eyes tracking your every step.

You stopped running back. Instead, you watched from behind a tree as he ate.

One day, you didn’t retreat at all. There were two bowls in your hands now, and you moved closer to him than before.

“Don’t,” he said.

You stayed where you were. You didn’t move any closer. You crouched, set one bowl on your lap, and nudged the other toward him.

“What do ya want from me?”

“Nothing,” you said, digging into your food.

He waited, watching you. When you didn’t budge, he finally reached for the bowl. He ate more slowly than before, but his eyes never left you, his body still coiled, ready to run or fight.

***

You shifted closer each day, and he pretended not to notice—but of course he did. His eyes scanned the surroundings constantly, alert to everything.

“Can I sit here?” you asked once you reached the spot where he usually sat.

“I ain’t gonna tell you what you can or can’t do.”

You sat beside him. The sudden proximity overwhelmed you, but you didn’t let it show. The bowl was back in your hands, food shoveled into your mouth.

You could see him clearly now. He had sun-warmed skin and hazel eyes—like Tommy’s, but sadder. His dark curls had grown long enough to tuck behind his ears. You had the sudden urge to thread your fingers through them.

No one spoke as you ate.

***

The next time you finished your meal, you didn’t retreat immediately. He sensed the shift.

“You want somethin’?”

You hesitated. Maybe you had overstayed your welcome. Maybe you didn’t belong here. Maybe the rest of the group was right, and your defiance was juvenile.

You reached into your pocket, your fingers closing around the scissors. He tensed, the bowl slipping from his hands and hitting the ground.

“I can cut your hair. If you want.” Your voice sounded thin, uncertain.

His mouth twitched. He looked down, then scanned the trees again.

You pulled the scissors out slowly and held them in your open palm so he could see.

He looked at the tool, then back at you. The nod he gave was so slight you thought you might have imagined it. But when you stepped closer, he didn’t move.

You stood beside him and reached for his hair—carefully, slowly—but he still flinched at your touch. You tried again.

His hair was soft, and you had expected him to smell bad, but he didn’t.

Your fingers moved through the strands of his curls, the dull office scissors trimming away the excess length. You had never cut a person’s hair before, but it wasn’t so different from grooming a dog.

When you finished, you allowed yourself a small breath. He looked more like a person now, and only now you noticed he was much younger than you’d thought. 

You kept your hands in his hair for a few moments more than necessary, and you were surprised to see he didn’t move away from your touch—instead, his head pressed up slightly against your palm, in a movement so minuscule, you wondered if it was deliberate.

His eyes didn’t walk you back to camp.

***

You moved camp again, chased off by sounds you couldn’t place but instinctively wanted farther away from. Joel took down two infected while you were on the move, and the sound of the blade sinking into their necks still rang in your ears.

Food was scarce, and tempers were short.

When you finished your food—a sorry excuse for a meal—you set the bowl aside and rested your hands on your knees. Joel looked at you expectantly. There was a quiet understanding between you now. You ate in silence, sitting close. He let you mend his shirt.

“Can I stay here?”

His brows furrowed, and he shifted away from you.

You dragged your sleeping bag closer to his. He gave you a displeased look as he lay down, but he didn’t say anything.

In the morning, you slipped away before the others could notice—but Joel was already awake, watching you leave.

***

The other night, surrounded by chilly air and distant sounds of the hunting animals, you edged closer to him, holding your breath so you wouldn’t startle him.

He shifted but didn’t turn toward you.

“Don’t.”

“Why?”

You were close enough now to smell him.

“I’m no good.”

“You don’t have to be.”

He didn’t say anything. And you stayed.

***

The day was warm, but the stream’s water was icy as you wrung out the freshly washed shirts.

Jessica was doing laundry beside you, but instead of her usual humming and chatter, she kept her distance. Every so often, she looked at you assessingly when she thought you wouldn’t notice.

“What’s your problem?” you asked, your hands straining to twist the water from a pair of jeans.

“I know where you’ve been.”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

You twisted the fabric again.

“You’ve been whoring yourself to the older Miller.”

Your fingers froze on the wet denim.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

She huffed a laugh and stepped closer, stopping just inches from your face.

“Was it your idea?” she asked with a smirk. “Think you’ll be safer now?”

“You’ve got it wrong.” You didn’t move.

“Stupid fucking girl. He’ll start expecting this from all of us.”

“He demands nothing from us.”

That seemed to amuse her.

She leaned in closer, her lips nearly brushing your ear. “So you’re just a whore then.”

Your fingernails dug into your palms, but you didn’t budge.

Finally, Jessica stepped back and grabbed the basket of laundry. Before heading toward camp, she turned to you once more.

“Wait until he’s done with you. Used up or pregnant—and he’ll just take another. Wonder how pleased you’ll be then.”

***

You fell into your sleeping bag with urgency and didn’t even look at Joel before zipping yourself up.

You were furious and didn’t know at what exactly. Was it the accusation? The fact that it was not true? Your lack of reaction?

“Somethin’ happen?” His raspy voice suddenly sounded.

You were so unaccustomed to him speaking that it startled you.

„No.” You shot back. „Night.”

You tossed and turned, but sleep wouldn’t come. You inched closer to Joel in your sleeping bag, crawling like an oversized worm.

You scooted close, but not nearly close enough to touch. He didn’t stop you.

***

The voices stopped when you approached the fire. You didn’t pause. You kept walking toward the simmering pot.

You glanced around. A few of them turned their faces away.

“You shouldn’t be here,” Janet said.

“Me?” You looked around. “Why?”

“You know why.”

You searched for Tommy’s eyes, but he looked away. His arm was wrapped around Jessica, who pressed her face into his chest as if afraid of you.

“Look at me, Tommy,” you demanded. “Tell them.”

“I’m sorry, darlin’,” he whispered.

He finally met your gaze. There was an apology in his eyes—but it was hollow. It didn’t matter anymore.

You straightened and took two bowls.

***

You woke up close to him, your bodies covered in blankets, almost touching.

Without thinking, you reached for him, burying your fingers in his hair.

He flinched, startled by the sudden touch. He turned to face you, and even after realizing there was no danger, he scrambled to move away.

“Don’t do that,” he grunted.

“Don’t do what?”

“Don’t damn yourself.”

You shifted back, and he slowly lay back down, farther away, but facing you for the first time.

***

One night, not long after, he almost chased you off.

Emboldened by the previous nights spent in close proximity—close enough to smell each other and hear each other breathe—you edged even nearer.

This time, you didn’t reach for him. You only positioned yourself close enough that any shift of his body would press him against you.

You waited for what felt like an eternity, watching the slow rise and fall of his chest. Apart from that, his body remained still.

Sometime in the night, you jolted awake when his body trembled against yours.

In a matter of seconds, he pulled away, widening the space between you. The sudden absence of heat made you feel cold.

“It’s not safe for you here,” he rasped.

You frowned in confusion. “Where else would be safer?”

He lay back down and turned away from you again.

You stayed awake for a long time, watching his broad back rise and fall with each breath.

***

The day started with him, your every day did lately—but this time he moved fast, slinging the rifle over one shoulder and his backpack over the other.

You checked your pocket for the scissors — the plastic handle firm and reassuring in your grip.

He turned back to you, one brow raised in question.

“I wanna come.”

He shook his head. “Ain’t gonna tell you what to do.”

The forest was quiet, the snap of sticks underfoot the only sound around you. He walked ahead, steady and tall. He never looked back, but you knew he was aware of your footsteps falling close behind his own.

You moved far from camp and deeper into the woods. Despite the midday sun, the canopy thickened overhead, the path growing darker with each step.

“What are we hunting?” you asked, tired of the silence between you.

“Whatever we can.”

You were surprised he answered at all, even if it was dismissive. He didn’t slow down or turn.

Something loomed ahead. You stayed behind him without a word, though if he’d been anyone else, you would have pushed forward to see first.

It was a cabin—small and weathered, more a hunting shack than a home.

Joel stopped so suddenly you nearly collided with his back. He held out a hand, signaling you to stay.

You’d spent the last five weeks in the woods, growing accustomed to its rhythm—the stream, the trees, the animals. No matter how unprepared the group had been, this felt safer. The alternative—other people, other groups, the army—was what you all knew you had to avoid.

The cabin could mean people.

It could also mean food. Guns. Ammo. Tools.

Joel stood still, scanning the clearing in silence, then finally stepped forward. You moved close behind him.

He gripped the rifle as he approached the shack. Your fingers closed around the scissors in your pocket.

The door resisted at first, but when Joel finally kicked it open, there were no obvious signs anyone had been there in weeks.

You scanned the room. Bare wooden walls. A table with six chairs still around it. Shelves. Cabinets.

“Oh my God,” you whispered as your hand closed around a can stored high above your head. You brushed your fingers over the cool metal. There were more.

You stood on your toes to pull them down.

Bolognese sauce. Canned peaches. Baked beans. Your mouth watered as you stared at the labels.

Later, when you tried to recall what happened and in what order, you were never able to.

One moment Joel stood beside you, reaching for the cans.

The next, for the rifle.

A thump against the door.

Two men.

Pain—as you were shoved into the cabinet.

A scream.

A gush.

A chair crashing to the floor.

You froze, scissors clutched so tightly in front of you that your knuckles turned white. You were there—right there—but it felt distant, as if you were watching it from somewhere else.

He looked even bigger now as he drove one of the men into the wall. Blood poured from the man’s neck where Joel’s blade was buried.

A grunt. A twitch. Still.

The other one—taller, broader, furious, Joel’s equal in all the ways that mattered now—lunged.

His fist was raised but empty. It was just hands now. Flesh against flesh.

They grappled until Joel forced him backward, out the door, and onto the cabin steps.

One wrong step. A snap.

Joel’s hand clamped around his head.

He drove it down against the wooden step. 

Once.

Twice.

The sound of bone cracking.

Again.

The body went limp, but Joel’s grip didn’t budge, smashing the battered head against the wood again.

Blood pooled across the step—thick, dark, spreading. Flesh and bone reduced to mush.

A face that was no longer a face.

Your body was still frozen, scissors pointed—at who? At them? At Joel?

His body heaved with strain. His fingers loosened, and the mangled head dropped to the ground. The sound was wet, and somehow that was the thing that made your stomach turn.

When he straightened and turned toward the inside of the cabin again, his face was freckled with specks of blood, his eyes dark, pupils blown wide. He looked almost high on the violence, breathing heavily through his mouth as he walked toward you.

His bloodied fists were still clenched tight, as if ready to take on another threat.

“Joel.” Your voice came out barely a whisper.

He walked toward the point of your scissors until they pressed against his chest. 

For one breath, you stood like that—his broad frame towering over you, your back against the wall, the dull blade digging into his shirt.

Your fingers loosened around the scissors, and you let them fall to the floor with a thud. 

It was inevitable. There was no version of this moment in which it didn’t happen.

His body caged yours against the wall, the weight of him pressing you harder into the wood.

“Joel.” You mouthed it, but no sound came out.

You gasped as his hand grabbed the back of your head, fingers buried in your hair, pulling at the roots. Your faces collided—not in a kiss, but in shared breath, a clash of foreheads, a hungry look.

You could smell the sweat on his skin now, all strain and adrenaline and man and killing. It should have repulsed you, but instead you breathed in deep, desperate for more.

Pull. Turn. Push.

You almost tripped as he walked you back toward the table. The edge dug into your thigh as he pushed you on top of it and pressed you flat onto your back.

His jaw was clenched, teeth grinding as he hovered over you.

Your head throbbed with adrenaline, pulsing with blood as he reached to unzip your jeans, tugging them along with your underwear from your hips until they hung around your ankles. He seemed to expect you to struggle—you expected it too—but your body moved on its own, raising your hips to help him undress you, kicking the jeans off your legs to spread before him.

You were left spread open, exposed for him, right on the bloodied table, right next to the body lying against the wall.

He pressed you hard against the table, and you wondered why. You did nothing to stop this. Nothing to escape him. You didn’t tighten a single muscle to struggle.

He didn’t let you go for a moment, even when he struggled with his own jeans, big, shaking fingers fumbling with the button. His teeth ground harder as he finally freed himself.

Your body pulsed—your head, your fingers, your cunt. Fight or flight or fuck.

He guided his cock—thick, red, already wet at the tip—against your entrance, and his large palm rested on your face, holding it against the table so you’d look away from him. 

The first stretch of him was painful, your body barely accommodating his girth.

Your breath hitched as he pulled back out, only to bury himself to the hilt again. Soon, the table creaked beneath you with every fast, sharp thrust he gave you, the constant burn of the stretch soon starting to mix with raw pleasure as your body molded itself around him.

“This what you wanted?” he grunted, not slowing his brutal thrusts. “’Cause this is what I am.”

The weight of his hand pressed your cheek harder against the table, and you raised yours to cover it, turning your head to look at him, despite the weight of his palm. His bloodied fingers on your cheek twitched, but he didn’t force it back.

Your eyes met, and immediately, he turned his gaze away, fixed it on the wall instead, forcing you to stare at his blood-stained jawline.

His cock drove into you at an unforgiving pace, hips crashing into yours, the other hand harshly holding you down, and you thought you were supposed to be scared, but now trapped underneath him, it was the first time in a long time you were not scared at all.

“Joel.” You reached to cup his jaw, and he flinched, but didn’t brush it off.

Guided by your hand, he turned his face back toward you, finally looking into your eyes.

His face cradled with your hand. His palm still on your jaw. 

The sharpness of his thrusts against the pain in his dark, haunted eyes, the deepened crease between his brows.

He looked deep into your eyes, beyond them, inside you, and your eyes burned, but you didn’t even blink, desperate to see inside too.

The moment didn’t last long—his thrusts turned erratic and soon he pulled out, leaving you empty, and with a low grunt, he spilled on the ground between his feet.

Heavy breaths. A bead of sweat rolling down his forehead. Cool air between your wet thighs.

Your fingers tightened on his face, but he yanked himself out of your grip.

“Fuck.” He spat it out, turning away from you, already zipping himself up.

He paced a tight circle in the middle of the cabin, running a hand through his hair. Finally, he turned to the shelves and stripped them bare, sweeping cans and supplies into your backpacks with sharp, efficient movements.

Your legs shook as you lowered yourself to the floor, pulling up your jeans with trembling fingers.

He didn’t look at you again, not in the cabin, not when you stepped outside. Not the entire walk back to camp.

***

The backpacks hit the ground, and three women immediately crouched beside them, rifling through the contents and pulling out the precious cans.

Janet clasped her hands and tipped her face toward the sky in silent prayer, thanking the Lord for the path he never walked, the people he didn’t kill, the food he didn’t provide.

Joel slung his pack over his shoulder and walked away without a word. No one commented on the blood on his hands or clothes—whether they didn’t notice or simply chose not to ask.

You moved to follow him, but he stopped you, his arm shooting out the same way it had when you reached the cabin.

“Don’t,” he said, and stepped away.

You were left standing beside the cheering group, your face still marked with the blood of the man whose skull had been smashed against the cabin steps.

***

You spent two days on the edge of the campsite, lingering near the tree line, trying to be invisible.

They didn’t acknowledge you, but let you slip past them when you washed your bloodied shirt in the stream and when you grabbed a bowl to eat near your sleeping bag, away from the fire.

You didn’t grab one for Joel. And for two entire days, you didn’t dare go see him. You lived like an animal, alone and without words, the same way he did.

On the third morning, you woke to screaming—shrieks of terror tearing through the woods.

Still groggy, you pushed yourself up and hurried toward the noise, careful to stay far enough away that no one would think to stop you.

You recognized his broad frame immediately, standing among the group like something half-man, half-bear—burly, immovable.

“John, please, you know we have to—” Tommy held his hands out, trying to calm the other man.

“Move the fuck away, Tommy.”

John lunged at him, but Tommy caught him and held him back, struggling to keep him from breaking free.

You stepped closer, needing to see what had driven him to this.

John’s son, Steve stood a few feet away, gangly and young, his eyes wide with fear. You didn’t know them well. You hadn’t cared to. You wondered if you cared now, seeing him at gunpoint.

Joel’s gunpoint.

“Tommy, please.” Jessica stood nearby, looking like a college girl trying to break up a bar fight. “Please, there has to be another way.”

“There’s no way, baby.” Tommy’s voice softened, though his grip on John stayed firm.

The crowd gathered tighter around them. Someone shouted. Someone else began to cry. The noise swelled into a mess of wails and pleas.

“Dad.” Steve’s voice cut through it all. “Dad, stop. Stop it and let them.”

“I won’t let this fucking monster near you,” John growled, still straining against Tommy. “I won’t fucking let it.”

“I’m already fucking gone!” Steve’s shout commanded silence—even from his father. “Do it now. Do it before I turn.”

He straightened his back and lifted his chin, turning toward Joel.

From where you stood, you could see Joel’s face clearly. The crease between his brows. The tight set of his jaw. His gaze flicked to Tommy, to John, down to his own hands, then back to Steve.

Before anyone could move, he stepped forward, lowering the gun to drop it on the ground.

One hand came up to cradle Steve’s face.

The other drove the blade into his exposed neck, and with a gushing sound and a gasp, the young man fell.

John’s wail cut through the woods, Tommy holding him through it. You wondered if his embrace was meant to comfort the man or shield his brother from him.

Joel wiped the blade on the ground and tucked it back into his pocket before taking in the scene—the horror on the faces of the crowd, John’s devastation—and walking back to his corner of the edge of the camp.

***

There was a slight tremble in your hands as you carried both bowls in front of you, step by careful step, moving farther from the camp.

The night was dark and quiet, marked by the heavy weight of the first death since you’d settled in the woods. A death by the hands of one of your own—though you wondered if Joel could even be called Steven’s killer and if he was truly one of your own at all.

He was carving a piece of wood with his knife, but he sensed your presence the moment you came close.

Without a word, he set the wood aside and lowered the blade.

He seemed too tired, too pained to fight you off or send you back. Instead, he silently accepted the food.

With the bowls empty and the meal—hearty, warm, worth the two lives lost in that cabin—sitting heavy in your stomachs, you inched closer to him. His face was wary but exhausted, and his body didn’t move when you approached.

You cupped his face. Instinctively, he flinched—but he stayed.

His eyes were heavy-lidded, dark, sad. So fucking sad and ashamed.

Your hand slid to his chest, pushing gently until he leaned back. You kept pressing, slow and steady, until he lay on his sleeping bag.

You straddled him carefully, determined not to spook him. Moving slowly, as if there could be movement slow enough not to be detected until it was too late to retreat.

He let you.

You held his gaze. When he tried to look away, you steadied his jaw again, urging him to stay with you, to see you.

His palms were flat against the ground, pressing hard into the soil as if anchoring himself, restraining whatever instinct told him to move.

You reached down, palming the growing hardness beneath his jeans, coaxing him fully awake under your touch.

His brow lifted slightly, confusion flickering at the corner of his mouth, but he stayed still—letting you decide what happened next.

You unzipped him and freed his erection, drawing a surprised, stilted gasp from his throat.

You pushed your jeans down your legs and kicked them aside, the hem of your shirt the only thing covering you now.

Before you could think it through—before doubt could creep in—you guided him toward you, notching him at your entrance. You dragged the tip of his cock through your wet folds, coating him in your slick.

His expression tightened, almost pained. His arms twitched against the ground, fingers digging slightly into the soil.

You sank down slowly with a soft whimper, taking him inch by inch until he filled you completely, stretching you the way you’d needed since the violence-stained day in the cabin.

As you began to move—slow, deliberate—it became harder and harder for him to remain motionless. Still, he forced himself to stay grounded, limbs tense, face set in concentration.

When you reached for his hand, he flinched again. It was heavy, its weight burdened by restraint and shame. He tried to pull it away, but you held on, guiding it to your waist beneath your shirt. You pressed his fingers into your skin, urging them to curl there.

He gave a slight shake of his head—a silent protest—the first real movement he’d allowed himself.

You pressed his palm harder against you.

“I want it. Please, I want you,” you whimpered.

He shook his head again, the crease between his brows deepening.

“I’m no good.” His voice was rough, strained thin.

“You’re good.” Your hand softened on his cheek. “You’re good for me.”

He looked as if your touch burned.

“You’re making me feel so good,” you whispered, keeping your hips moving slowly against him.

His eyes closed — not to escape, but to feel — and a quiet whimper slipped from his mouth.

Your rhythm changed, rising and sinking with more intent, lifting until only the head of him stretched your sensitive entrance before taking him deep again. Another choked sound left him.

His hand tightened on your waist, not possessively, but with certainty, with choice, and you slowly moved your hand from his, trusting him not to let you go. 

His rough, calloused fingers were gentle against your skin, holding it with care and reverence, with fear of breaking.

“See? You’re gentle with me.”

You leaned forward until your bodies pressed together, your hands bracketing his face for balance.

The scent of him—his skin, his sweat—hit you hard, almost electric.

Your foreheads touched. Your noses brushed. You shared breath.

“You make me feel safe,” you murmured, moving against him. “I never feel safe here. But you make me safe.”

A sound tore from his throat — something between a groan and a wounded exhale. His eyes squeezed shut again, but his hand never left you.

Out of the corner of your eye, you saw his other arm twitch beside him, as if fighting the urge to rise. You reached for it quickly, pulling his hand from the ground and dragging it up your body.

“I want you to touch me,” you whispered against his jaw. “I know you won’t hurt me. You’d never hurt me.”

This time he didn’t resist.

You placed his palm high on your thigh, where it met your ass. He cupped you immediately, stroking without guidance.

You whimpered into his neck.

“So good. Feels so good.”

His hips began to move beneath you—small, careful thrusts that met your rhythm.

His hands roamed more freely now.

You lifted your head to look at him. His eyes were open—barely—but enough to meet yours as you reached down between you, circling your clit in time with your movements.

Nose to nose, forehead to forehead, lips brushing but not quite kissing—just shared breath and quiet sounds.

Your legs began to tremble. Pleasure coiled low in your belly, tightening until it snapped, a wave breaking through you and pulling the air from your lungs.

You didn’t look away.

As you lifted off him, he slipped free, and you stroked him quickly, watching his face as release overtook him. He spilled into your hand with a muffled groan, eyes still locked on yours.

***

You knew your quiet life in the woods would one day end one way or another—a horde attack, wolves tracking you down, raiders pillaging through your camp. Danger was abundant, and you couldn’t outrun it forever.

What you didn’t expect was how it happened—and how anticlimactic the dissolution of the group would be.

One day, things continued the way they always had. Next, a girl was picked off by a stray infected. John didn’t come back from a hunt. And soon, the rest of them grew restless.

“It’s been weeks. They must’ve figured it out already, and we’re hiding in the woods the entire time.” David extended his hands as if preaching, a small group gathered around him. “We just need to find the army. They’ll lead us.”

“There is no army, David. No one’s gonna fucking lead us anywhere,” snapped a young man you didn’t know well.

They argued in circles until the group was divided. David and the others who still believed the army had things under control packed their belongings and left the campsite, led by faith in a new settlement that was surely waiting for them once they emerged from the trees.

Others stayed—but not for long. The group was vulnerable now, its numbers depleted, and it felt like something was ending whether they admitted it or not.

It was a shock to everyone but you and Joel when Tommy announced he was leaving.

“I caught a radio transmission. There are people tryin’ to make their own place out there. No army. No government.” He shoved his things into his backpack as he spoke. “Y’all can come with me. But I gotta leave now, while they’re still close.”

You saw the tears in Jessica’s eyes and the war in her head as she watched him. Someone called it a ruse. A trap. A pipe dream.

So Tommy left—with another man who had always been eager and reckless, the same way Tommy had always been eager and reckless too.

He came by before he went, lingering at the edge of the camp, his eyes searching until they found Joel.

“What do you want me to say?” Joel asked. “I ain’t gonna tell you what to do.”

Tommy nodded at him. Then he glanced at you, as if in question. 

And that was the last time you saw him.

You didn’t wait to be the last ones left. You packed in the morning—what little you had tucked neatly into your backpacks—and you left without goodbyes.

You never discussed where to go or where to settle.

But once you distanced yourselves from the camp, your legs led you in the same direction.

***

You were already standing on the doorstep of the cabin when he emerged from the trees. He took longer than you’d expected.

There was fresh blood on his sleeves and his hands, and as soon as it became clear it wasn’t his, you didn’t ask about it.

Once the door was closed behind him, you picked up the bucket of snow you had melted earlier. When he sat down—heavy and slow—on the wooden chair, you knelt on the floor between his legs.

His face was drawn tight with pain and exhaustion as he let you take his hands in yours, gently scrubbing away the blood and dirt.

His eyes never left you while you worked, even as you dried his fingers carefully with a cloth.

You ate dinner in comfortable silence, your elbows brushing against each other at the small table. The stew you’d made from the rabbits he brought you the day before tasted like something far finer than it was after weeks of hunger. He hummed in quiet appreciation as he shoveled it into his mouth.

At night, he lay down first, his body tired and heavy against the bedroll, while you stayed behind to tidy the makeshift kitchen—careful to dispose of any scraps that might draw animals back to you.

When you finally joined him, you were certain he was asleep, but the moment you shifted close to his broad back, you felt him tremble.

His eyes were closed, yet his body was still fighting something.

You moved closer, folding yourself around him—your knees curling into his, your chest pressed flush against his back, your arm reaching around to rest your palm over his heartbeat.

You buried your face in his hair and inhaled—the scent of woods and winter air, sweat, and faint iron beneath it.

He trembled again.

You held him there, anchoring him to you.

You mouthed soft, inaudible words against the nape of his neck—telling him he was good, that he kept you safe, that he did what had to be done.

He comes in late July, when Alabama is at its hottest and most humid— The sort of days you spend sitting on your family’s home back porch with a fan that mostly blasts hot air and an endless pitcher of lemonade; it’s Sunday, a holy day, but the man is there just after mass, with his tool belt and pick up truck— The roof of the barn caved in after a particularly bad storm and although that sort of thing is usually fixed by your father, he’s still recovering from the last time he fell down the old ladder and your mother will not have him climbing that ricketing thing again.

So she offers Joel Miller to the gravity deities instead, on a holy day so hot and humid your dress sticks to your back and your thighs no matter how much water you splash on your face. Your younger siblings manage to refresh themselves a little more by hosing each other down; you’re half tempted to join in but, at twenty-two, your mother makes sure that you know your place. You’re a young woman now, no longer a child that can run and giggle underneath a spray of water on the hottest day of the summer— You must learn how to cook and how to clean, how to serve others rather than tempt them with your wet clothes. 

That demand to serve is how you end up inside the barn when the sun is still high in the sky, balancing a tray with a sandwich and a pitcher of water. Mr. Miller has been slowly but surely making progress on the roof for hours without food and your father scolds you for the lack of christianity at not thinking about thy neighbor’s needs.

“Mr. Miller?” You call out, setting the tray on a bench. He’s sitting in one of the beams, at least twelve feet from the ground, and all you can see is the dark wash denim of his pant legs and the mud-covered work boots. “I got you a sandwich.” 

“I’ll be right there, sweetheart.” He says, his voice strained as if he had something between his teeth. 

You should go back to the house. His food is served, and he knows it’s there— You have no reason to linger but you do, hands smoothing an inexistent crease on your pale pink dress. You’re just… Curious. You saw Mr. Miller from afar, his broad frame towering over your father’s lithe one, and you want to get a peek up close to the mysterious man that has just moved into town. Nothing else, really. So you wait, hands wringing and smoothing your clothes and then tugging at the golden cross on your neck as he slowly climbs down the ladder, grunting when his boots hit the dirt.

He’s just as handsome as you thought he would be. Older, rugged, his face marred with the passage of time and salt and pepper in his beard— Nothing like the boys from your church, all bare faced and chubby cheeked. Mr. Miller is a man in the best sense of the word, broad and thick and tall. His hands are dirty with sawdust, clothes stained with dust and mud, sweat glistening on his face and the hollow of his throat. You can see just a peak of chest hair poking from the opening of his flannel and it’s an incredibly difficult task to look away.

Most importantly, and perhaps the thing that distinguishes him from everyone else the most, is the fact that he doesn’t look away from you. Not when he fills a water glass to the brim, drinking it down in just a couple of swallows. Not when he sits down on a stack of hay and motions for you to do the same, his brown eyes watching you with intent. You’re used to being ignored, glanced over. You’re not sure what to do when someone refuses to look away. You sit down, tugging the hem of your dress down even if it doesn’t slide up, playing with the simple gold ring you wear on your middle finger — the only inheritance you got from your late grandmother — and keep your eyes averted from his face. 

“Is the sandwich any good?” You ask when he doesn’t offer any subject of conversation. You know it’s good, you know your cooking skills are better than your mother’s and you can make something special out of even a simple sandwich, but pride is a sin, so you try to remain humble. “I make the mustard myself.” 

Joel chews slowly, his eyes raking up from your roper boots all the way up to the cross hanging from your neck. 

“Delicious.” 

Heat creeps up your neck and you bite down on your bottom lip, his praise getting to you more than anyone else’s ever did. 

“I uh—” You all but jump up from your seat, unable to keep still. You want to sit back down, to talk to this enigma of a man, to learn anything else about him other than the fire in his eyes and the gravel in his voice but you simply can’t phantom the idea of standing under his gaze anymore. “I have some clothes to wash. I’ll be back later for the plates. If uh— If you need anything else, Mr. Miller, just let me know.” 

Joel smirks as if he knows exactly what he’s doing to you. 

“Don’t worry, pretty girl, I will. Thank you for the sandwich.”

As much as you tell yourself that you don’t care, you spend the rest of the afternoon waiting with baited breath— You want him to need you, want to see his strong shoulders come through the kitchen backdoor with a request on his lips. You do your chores dutifully, with the same care as always, but Joel’s presence is like a beacon; even if you can’t see or hear him, you know he’s out there, in the barn, and it burns in the back of your brain all day. 

You can’t stop thinking about how he called you pretty girl. You’ve never been the pretty one. You’re sweet, and kind, and good, but never pretty. It stays on the back of your mind, trying to burn into the forefront of it. Vanity is sin. Your body is a temple and you must care for it, yes, but anything further than that is a slippery slope into temptation, and temptation leads to damnation— You’re not supposed to care about such frivolous things, because they will take away the Lord’s place in your heart. 

Still, between loads of laundry and the biscuits you knead by hand, you stop to fix your hair more than once.

It’s almost dusk by the time you see Joel again. Your mother is upstairs bathing the baby, your younger siblings are trying to catch fireflies in the front lawn, your father is somewhere out in the field and you sit in the kitchen, scriptures in hand, not reading a single line— You stare out the window instead, the sun turning bright orange and pink in the horizon. You notice him before he gets to the porch and there’s a good ten seconds during which you don’t know what to do with yourself, fixing your hair and your dress and smoothing the pages of the Bible that you hold more as a prop than a holy book. 

“Hey sweetheart.” Joel calls out as he makes his way through the door, holding the empty tray. You jump from your seat, plucking it carefully from his hands and setting it to soak in the sink; there’s nothing in it that requires soaking, but you can’t help but make yourself available to him, not wanting any other tasks to get in your way. “Think I could use your phone for a minute?”

You can only pray that your face doesn’t reflect the disappointment you feel. 

“Hm… You’d have to ask my father for that. The landline is in his office, and we’re not— He doesn’t like when anyone else goes in there.” You bite down on your bottom lip. “I think he’s out by the orchards.” 

Joel tsks, switching from one foot to the other. “Can’t you just let me in real quick? I don’t want to upset your old man, but it’s a little urgent. I should’a been home by now, my daughter will start to worry.”

“Oh.” 

You feel foolish, your eyes immediately falling to his hands; you hadn’t considered the possibility of Mr. Miller being a married man, but it makes sense— He’s charming, handsome, hard-working. Of course he would have a wife and a daughter at home. He doesn’t wear a wedding ring, there’s no tan line as if he removes it for work, but you figure that doesn’t mean much anymore; couples are getting more modern, marriages a little less sacred, and well… He’s a man that works with his hands. Maybe a wedding band would simply get in his way. 

“It’s just the two of us, you see.” He tells you, head tilting to the side so he can catch your wandering eyes. “Her mama passed when she was real young, and I’m all she’s got. We wouldn’t want her worryin’, would we?”

“No, of course not.” You have to bite the inside of your cheek to keep yourself from smiling, knowing you’ll be praying for hours to repent for feeling so elated at the death of a woman you don’t even know. “Just… Just don’t tell my father, okay?”

“It’ll be our lil’ secret.” Joel winks. 

You can count on one hand the amount of times you’ve been inside your father’s office; all of them when you were young, too young to know better— When the physical punishments were more constant, when you kept messing up the rules you weren’t familiar with just yet. 

You haven’t been inside the office since you were twelve. Your siblings come here more often: Joseph specifically, at just ten years old, who is brought to the office for some sort of punishment at least once a month. The black sheep, your mother says. The child that needs a firmer hand and more prayers if they want to remain a family once Jesus returns in all of His glory. 

The room, much like the rest of your childhood home, seems to be frozen in time. There’s a decaying bookshelf on one side, filled with evangelical books that your mother keeps bringing home even though the only book she ever reads is the Bible, the wallpaper yellowed and stained— There’s a square where the wallpaper is lighter and, while you can’t remember what the picture used to look like, you know once upon a time there was a picture frame with a photo of your grandparents in it; the only memory your mother had of her family, which your father took down because it was too close to veneration of idols in his opinion. 

It was one of the few times you’ve ever seen your mother cry outside of the church’s walls. 

The landline sits on top of your father’s carved wooden desk, brown and beige with a thick layer of dust between the buttons— The phone is older than your siblings and younger than you, but not by much. You know your father uses it, you’ve heard him talking through the walls, but it looks so old and worn that you’re surprised it even works. 

“Please be quick.” You tell Joel; you don’t want to bring up the phone bill, it’s rude to talk about money like that, but the last thing you need is your father noticing the strange call when the bill finally comes. 

“Don’t worry, I will.” Joel gives your shoulder a squeeze as he walks past you towards the phone. “Why don’t you stand outside, as my lookout? Just tap the door if you hear anyone else.” 

You shouldn’t listen in. It’s rude, unnecessary, and reminds you of the old ladies at church that always know everyone’s business— And you hate them for it, the way they look down on everyone else and use other people’s wrongs to feel good about their rights. You shouldn’t, you should love them just like Jesus does, but it’s hard when you can feel their eyes and hear their whispers whenever you walk past them. 

You can’t hear anything, no matter how hard you press your ear to the door. Joel isn’t the sort of man that speaks loudly from what you’ve seen, but the silence that comes from the room is odd. Your father is quite soft spoken but the walls are thin enough that even he can be heard, even if it’s impossible to make out what words are being said. The first thing that crosses your mind is that, maybe, his daughter isn’t picking up. Maybe she’s not home, or maybe she’s busy with something else and Joel is in there, receiver to his ear, listening as it rings and rings. But then he steps out of the room not even five minutes later, thanking you for helping him. He tells you that his daughter is fine, that she’s going out with some friends and he can stay for a little longer, just until it gets too dark to work. Joel squeezes your arm as he walks back out, the pads of his fingers rough against the soft skin of your bicep, leaving you puzzled and warm all over.

Later that night, when the house has quieted down and you’re alone in your bed, you can’t erase Mr. Miller from your mind. The way he smiled at you, his smell of sawdust and his deep brown eyes— His voice alone had been able to shake you to your core, butterflies flipping around your stomach and sending you into sinful thoughts with a single praise. 

Your grandmother warned you about men like him. Beautiful men, sent by Lucifer himself, to deviate well-behaved women— She’d told you, on her few and far between moments of lucidity, how the Devil would come knocking at your door one day, with soulful eyes and easy smiles, and how he’d charm you into Hell if you were not careful enough. 

Your snakes between your thighs before you can second guess yourself, staring intently at the sliver of darkness that you can see from your half-open door — no closed beddoors are allowed in your house, but you’ve set it shut just enough to pretend it was the wind if your parents complained about it. At first you’re just trying to make sure the hall is empty but, as your fingers run slow circles over your clit, you can’t help but picture Joel on the threshold, hair mussed from a hard day of work, his flannel stretched thin over his shoulders. You think back to his gravely voice, how he’d called you pretty girl and sweetheart, and you wonder if he’d say it again with your naked body underneath his. You think of his full lips on yours, soft and warm where they lay scorching hot kisses, his cock pushing into you. 

You come with one hand on your pussy and the other over your mouth, swallowing down the name that threatens to spill from your lips.

You think Joel Miller might be the Devil himself. 

And Hell doesn’t seem like such a bad idea if you get to feel his big hands between your thighs.

You hear about the movie from the teenagers at the youth group that weekend. You’re too old to partake in the group but you’re always lending a helping hand, setting up meetings and baking goods for them, giving advice to the younger girls and helping the pastor with whatever he needs that weekend. You’re busy refilling their cups of soda while they chat after the sermon and it’s the word hunk that catches your attention— You stall, just a little, taking more time than necessary with stacking the napkins. The ‘hunk’, it seems, is a cute actor from a horror movie that is screening at the local movie theater. One of the girls says she wants to watch it because she just loves Drew Berrymore, while the other says she wants to see it because of the dreamy main actor. One of the boys nods, says he’s seen it already and that it’s the best horror movie he’s ever seen. 

You have a soft spot for the horror genre. Always had, since you were a little girl and you found a forgotten VHS tape of Carrie. It’s strictly forbidden in your household, of course, because those sorts of media are the devil’s work and only serve to weave immorality into society and you know that, you know that, but… 

Well, you still think about Carrie’s blood soaked prom dress and the murderous look in her crazed eyes and just how much you rooted for her in those moments. How much you’d seen yourself in her shoes in the years to come, during those harsh teenage years and how you thought that being forgotten and neglected by your peers was certainly better than having tampons thrown at you. 

And, even though you try with all your might, you can’t help but see a little bit of your own parents in Margaret White. 

On Monday evening you walk past the movie theater on your way home from one of the babysitting jobs you take here and there. Your parents aren’t expecting you home just yet — You’d been babysitting for the Mortons that night and your mother knows their date nights tend to run late — and you find yourself standing in front of the movie poster, unwilling to walk away. 

Scream. 

Your stomach is tied into a hundred tiny little knots as you move to the counter, purchasing your ticket and then a small bag of popcorn. It’s wrong and exciting at the same time, your knees trembling as you find your seat at the back of the movie, shoulders hunched; you pray that you don’t run into anyone you know, pray that the rumor mill doesn’t run off and it feels like you’re committing the absolute worst of crimes but, at the same time, it feels like an invisible noose has been removed from your neck.

You leave just as the credits roll, head down and shoulders up, trying to sneak out before the lights turn on. There’s a light mist pouring down, enough to frizz up your hair but not enough to get you wet, the streets empty this time of night. Your watch says it’s 8:39, which means you have about ten minutes to get home before your mother starts to complain that is getting too late and might decide to tell the Mortons to pay you more the next time— You’re almost jogging on the sidewalk, clutching your bag to your chest, cold finally starting to seep in when Joel pulls up next to you, his old truck lulling on the sidewalk. 

“Get in.” He says, pushing the passenger door open. “I’ll drive you.” 

You should say no. You should smile, and thank him politely, and then go on your way; proper young women don’t climb into strange men’s cars— You’ve heard the stories, know it ends in pregnancy or death or something worse, and you know that your father would most likely take you into his office if he found out his oldest daughter had been driving around alone in a car with a man that isn’t him or the pastor but after a night of reckless behavior, accepting a ride from a man you technically know doesn’t seem like the worst transgression. 

And it’ll get you home in time. 

“Thank you.” You smile, rubbing your hands together. “I didn’t plan for the rain.”

Joel turns the heat on and you can hear your mother in the back of your mind, berating you that you’ll get sick; it feels like just another tiny rebellion when you put your palms up to the hot blowing air, relaxing as it warms your clammy skin. 

“How was the movie?” 

“I wasn’t at the movies.” Your tongue feels twice as big when you chuckle. “That’s— Unbecoming. I babysit every so often, and the Mortons were running late from their date night. I’m uh— I’m usually home earlier.”

“You need to learn to lie better, pretty girl.” Joel’s eyes dart from the road to you. “I caught you just as you walked out.” 

You bite down on your bottom lip, heart thundering so fast inside your chest you think it might crawl out of your throat. “It— It was a scary movie. I didn’t know. I— I wouldn’t have gone if I knew it would be so… Sinful.”

Joel hums and you can tell he doesn’t believe you. You wouldn’t believe it either, really, and you’re ashamed of getting caught in such a terrible lie. 

“Please don’t tell my parents.” You say, turning to face him. “They’re… They can get real strict about this sort of thing.” 

“How old are you?”

“Twenty-two.” You’re just a little put off by the switch in conversation but also incredibly glad to steer away from focusing on your wrongdoings. 

“Then there’s nothin’ to tell ‘em. You’re a grown woman.”

Your face burns with embarrassment and you finally look away from him, letting your eyes fall down to his arms, dusted with dark hair and prominent veins. 

“You seem to be the only one that thinks so. I don’t think my father will see me as a grown woman until I’m married off.” You hate how bitter, how petulant you sound, but you can’t stop yourself, the words slipping out of your mouth like a confession. “He only sees me as an adult when it’s convenient for him.” 

“I reckon that’s a dad thing.” Joel says, his fingers thrumming on the steering wheel. “I still see my Sarah as my baby. You just gotta show ‘im you’re not a kid anymore, he’ll get used to it eventually.”

“How old is Sarah?”

Joel is silent for so long you wonder if maybe he’s one of those absent fathers that don’t even know how old their own child is, even if he hasn’t shown himself to be the type. 

“She’ll always be thirteen to me.” 

It’s such a specific answer that it makes you even more curious, your head cocking to the side; you open your mouth to press for more but Joel reaches for the radio, turning the volume up and drowning the cabin with the classic rock and pitter-patter of the soft rain. 

The silence makes you realize you never answered his question in the first place. 

“The movie was incredible.” You say, trying to shake off the mortifying feeling of being rude to this man that has been nothing but kind to you. “It’s called Scream.”

“Horror flick, right?” Joel smiles and, if you didn’t know any better, you’d say he’s proud. “Didn’t think you’d be the type to be into slasher movies.” 

You wring your fingers on your lap, unsure of how to answer him— He says it like it’s a compliment, even if you’d never take those words for something good. 

“Have you ever seen Black Sabbath?” Joel asks when you don’t answer. He doesn’t seem mad at your silence, but you still feel bad. “It’s an older one, but it’s good, a buncha different horror stories together. The first one is very similar to Scream, I think you’d like it.”

You’ve never heard of that movie before and, for a moment, you consider lying and pretending you have just to save face— But Joel doesn’t seem to judge you, he doesn’t ask with the same tone most people do, as if not knowing something popular was a moral failing on your part; you’re used to it, really. It had been even worse in school, where the girls would act as if you were an alien for not knowing the name of a cool actress or a new band. 

“I— No, I haven’t.” It’s what you settle for, in the end. Not a lie, but not the whole truth either. “It sounds fun.”

“We can watch it together sometime.” Joel licks his lips and your eyes can’t look away from the way his bottom lip shines. “I gotta put my Blockbuster card to use.” 

“Oh.” His offer makes your chest warm up and your heart explode into a wild gallop inside your chest. You’ve never been to a boy’s house before, even if classifying a man like Joel as a boy is laughable. “Won’t your daughter mind?”

Joel’s fingers tighten around the steering wheel, his eyes glued to the road in front of him. 

“No, she won’t.”

Two weeks later, on a Friday afternoon, you lie to your mother. You go with the least inconspicuous lie, which is that you’re babysitting for Joel. You doubt his daughter is at babysitting-age but your mother doesn’t seem to care much, just waving you goodbye as one of your siblings tugs at the hem of her dress, demanding attention. Joel is still at the farm, still slowly repairing the roof, and he gives you a ride; you have the perfect excuse on the tip of your tongue, the argument of him needing to shower and fix himself before whatever it is that he has to do and needs you to babysit, which you don’t know what it is because Mr. Miller’s personal life is none of your business and all you know is that he’ll be home late but, again, your mother doesn’t seem to bat an eye. Your father in fact clasps Joel’s shoulder, thanking him for his kindness— Joel makes a little joke about ‘headin’ in that direction anyway’, to which your father laughs harder than you find necessary. 

It’s only then that it dawns on you just how much they trust him— How much your parents like him, for some reason. It’s confusing, and off-putting, but you decide not to look a gifted horse in the mouth: If it means less questions, you’ll gladly accept it. 

Joel’s home is a small, one story house in one of the shadier neighborhoods; it looks stuck in the past, the outside looking more like a cheap 60s house than the newer McMansions you’d see in the nicer neighborhoods— Not that there were many around town, anyways. Most of your town felt like Joel’s home, everything with some degree of decaying, stuck in the past as if the new millenia wasn’t just a few years away. 

The house is dark and empty when you walk in, and you remove your shoes by the door even if it doesn’t seem like something Joel and Sarah practice— There’s no shoe rack, just a rickety table where Joel throws the key of his truck without a second thought. 

The house barely looks hospitable. You think it’s probably because of how recently they’ve moved in, empty in a way that lacks furniture, no personal touches anywhere yet. In the carpeted living room there’s a green plaid couch, a stained coffee table and a small yet bulky television, the VHS player balancing on top of it. The walls are bare apart from a loopy wallpaper that is probably older than you, not a single potted pant or throw pillow or indications anyone lives there. 

The only personal touch is a picture on the coffee table. It’s not framed, thrown loose on top of the dark wood next to a used coffee cup; you sit on the couch, knees drawn together, and look at the photograph carefully while Joel busies himself in the kitchen with soda and snacks— The photo is at least a few years old, a younger Joel smiling with his arm thrown over the shoulders of a teenage girl, her curly hair poking out at the sides of a pale pink french bonnet. They don’t really look alike, the girl’s skin darker and her smile fuller, but you recognize her as Sarah immediately— For all of their differences, her sweet eyes are a carbon copy of Joel’s. She can’t be older than thirteen in the picture and, when you turn the photo around, it reads ‘Dad and I — winter 1989’ in loopy, purple ink. 

There’s a heart in the ‘i’ of winter, and you think it’s the cutest thing you’ve ever seen. You look up when Joel’s frame shadows the entrance to the living room, holding two Dr. Pepper glasses; he looks stricken, his face a little pale as he stares down at you even if you can’t understand why. 

“Sarah’s really pretty.” You say, placing the picture back where you found it. “She’s not home tonight?”

Joel clears his throat, frozen for a second longer before he finally comes close. “Sleepover at a friend’s house.” 

“I can’t wait to meet her. She seems like a sweet girl.”

“You will.” Joel nods, his voice a lot more somber than you think the conversation requires. “Soon enough.” 

The movie is beautiful. It’s an Italian film from what has to be the sixties, but it pulls you in from the very first scene: A beautiful woman, alone in her house, her undressing ritual of the night cut short by a menacing voice on the telephone saying she’ll be dead before morning comes. 

The movie is tense, claustrophobic even, but you have a hard time focusing on anything other than the woman— She’s gorgeous, even in despair, and there’s something so utterly sensual about her that it has you squirming in your seat. 

“She’s really pretty.” You say eventually, sipping your Dr. Pepper. Joel sits next to you, close enough that you have trouble breathing; his legs are sprawled in front of him, arm draped over the back of the couch. You’re not touching, but barely. The last time you sat this close to a man you’re attracted to was while you still attended youth group, sitting next to the twenty-something year old pastor that only had eyes for the prettier girls— Still, you’d been sweaty and nervous then, just as you feel now. 

“She is.” Joel agrees, and there’s something in his voice that makes you unstick your eyes from the screen and turn to him. 

He’s staring directly at you. The intensity of his gaze makes your stomach flutter and you can’t hold his gaze for more than a moment before you look away, busying yourself with the straw of your Dr. Pepper; it tastes a little funky but you down it anyway, not wanting to offend Joel— He doesn’t seem like the type to be drinking diet sodas, but you figure that maybe the soft drink belongs to Sarah and he doesn’t want to drink alcohol in front of you. 

Joel seems like a beer drinker, you think. There’s a very strict no alcohol policy in your home, but you can see Joel coming home after a long day of manual labor, kicking his work boots by the door and throwing himself on the ratty couch; in this fantasy you’re right there, in a pretty dress, bringing him a can of ice cold beer before settling next to him. 

You try to settle next to him the same way you’re imagining, staring at the screen without properly watching it, far too aware of the man sitting next to you, radiating warmth and Old Spice towards you. You miss a chunk of the movie and then suddenly there’s another lady there, just as beautiful, though not nearly as innocent. By the time the first story ends, you’re a little drowsy, your eyelids taking longer and longer to open with each blink. 

Still, even in your sleepy state, you don’t miss how the final kill has no blood on screen. It seems like such an oversight it has to be on purpose and you frown, unable to name the discomfort you feel. 

“He didn’t bleed.” You say, the sentence cut off by a small yawn. “I really wanted to see ‘im bleed.” 

The words don’t strike you as odd until after you’ve already said them and you tense, waiting for the joke or the odd look but Joel doesn’t give you any. He just hums, nodding. You yawn again before he can respond, and Joel cracks a smile at that. 

“Tired, sweetheart?” 

“A little.” And then, because you don’t want Joel to feel like he might’ve chosen the wrong programming, you say: “I’m liking the movie, though.”

“That’s good.” He says, his voice just a little flat— Almost as if he isn’t listening to you at all. You frown, turning to look at him; out of all the people in your life, Joel has been the only one that shows a proper interest when you speak. 

Joel is staring at the half-drunk soda in your hands. His face is clouded by something that you’re fairly certain to be annoyance, brow furrowed and lips downturned underneath his mustache. And then he catches you looking and it’s gone, his face melting into a pleasant smile when he taps his thigh.

“C’mon, finish your drink and lay down.” 

“Uh— What?” You’re not sure you get his order, heat and embarrassment exploding through your belly; he taps his thick denim-clad thigh again, mirth shining in his eyes. 

“ ‘S fine, sweetheart. Sarah falls asleep on my lap all the time, we ain’t got nice pillows for the couch yet. Drink up ‘n’ lay down.” 

You’re fully aware that you shouldn’t— This is a stranger, an older man that is asking you to lay your head on his lap and you know you should know better but… Nobody has ever looked at you the way he does, the soft lighting from the television reflecting on his face. And, well— The mention of his daughter shifts the situation a little bit. 

You’d never fallen asleep on your own father like that, but he wasn’t exactly known for being a warm person, let alone a comforting one. Maybe this is what your relationship with your father is supposed to be, you tell yourself, downing the last of the funky Dr. Pepper before scooting down on the couch, gingerly placing your head on his thigh. It’s comfortable despite the rough denim, Joel’s leg warm and strong underneath your cheek. 

“Good girl.” Joel whispers, the words settling somewhere deep into your chest. He brushes the hair away from your face, already staring back at the tv when you look up, his body entirely at ease, as if having a young girl’s head on his lap was the most normal thing in the world. 

And you tell yourself again: Maybe this is what it’s supposed to be.

You wake up on Joel’s bed the next morning, and you feel like death. Your head pounds, and your body feels like you’re trapped in Jell-O as you drag yourself to the bathroom; you don’t vomit but it’s a close call, washing your face with cold water before Joel pops in on the bathroom door. 

“Mornin’. I made breakfast.” He says, leaning against the threshold. He’s changed clothes, his salt and pepper hair still wet and slicked back, a dark blue flannel stretching over his chest. “You okay? Yer not lookin’ so good.” 

Your stomach rumbles, half hungry, half nauseated. He frowns, coming close and pressing the back of his hand to your forehead. Your body recoils, hip bumping painfully against the corner of the sink— You don’t even notice until after you’ve done it, your body pulling away on instinct. 

“I feel sick.” You tell him, using that as an excuse as to why you’re suddenly pulling away. 

Truth is, you’re scared. Your head is foggy, feeling too heavy on your neck— You’ve only been drunk once, when you were twelve and had stolen a bottle of Jim Beam with your best friend; the beating you’d gotten had left you feeling worse than the hangover, your body black and blue for days afterwards. 

You feel as hungover as you did back then, except this time you didn’t drink. You think back to the odd taste of your soda, the way Joel had been pushy to get you to drink, how he barely drank his. You don’t want to accuse him of anything, you really don’t, but you’ve heard enough stories of silly girls who get too drunk and put themselves in danger to not consider it. He cocks his head to the side, just a little. 

“You’ll feel better after you eat.” He says, giving you a small smile. Joel steps back, not crowding you inside the small bathroom anymore. “You fell asleep halfway through the movie, I brought you to my bed and then slept on the couch. Maybe you were already feeling a little sick yesterday?” 

“Yeah.” You run a hand over your forehead. “Maybe.” 

“C’mon sweetheart, let’s eat and get you home.”

You arrive home a little after nine am, and the farm is already bustling. Joel drops you off with a well-prepared lie, apologizing profusely to your mother for not letting her know you’d be gone for so long, telling her about how he didn’t have a phone line yet, with being so new to town, and then singing a thousand prayers about how you’d been so kind to Sarah and how much she loved you— He spews a story of you falling asleep on the couch after a movie marathon to which your mother twists her nose — all movies belong to the devil, for all she cares — but she accepts gracefully the exorbitant amount of money he gives her “for her troubles”. He talks for so long and smiles so sweetly that your mother swoons, even giving him a slice of pie for the road while you run inside your house two steps at a time, ready to wash off last night from your skin. 

All hell breaks loose after Joel leaves. Your mother berates you, talking in hushed, sharp whispers about what the church would think if they saw you leave a man’s house in last night’s clothes, how she had to lie to your father and how she might as well go to hell because of you— She calls you a whore, her face purple from lack of proper breathing and anger as she spits the word at you even after you swear to her that nothing happened; you almost tell her the truth then, you almost say you’re scared and that you can’t remember a single thing that happened after Joel had you laying on his lap and how you woke up in his bed but you don’t. You know she’d spin it, know she’d blame it on you and then she’d tell your father and most likely your pastor and the consequences of your confession might be worse than living with such a terrible secret.

After so many years, you hate that you’re still surprised by your mother’s antics. She doesn’t tell your father about what happened, and she still treats Joel with kindness whenever he comes over to work on the roof, but her attitude towards you change— She doubles your chores and triples her affection with your siblings, the gap of the coldness she has towards you only becoming even more blatant. She barely speaks to you unless it is to bark orders, and she keeps a close eye on whether you’ve been doing your devotional and your prayers as if you’re ten years old again. 

By the time she brings up the doctor’s appointment, you’re so relieved that she’s back to addressing you as a human being that you don’t even question it. You’re not sick, but if it means your mother is talking to you again, you’ll go to as many doctors as she’d like. 

You should’ve known better than that. 

The two of you take the bus — your mother doesn’t drive, because women shouldn’t have to drive — two towns over, and you’re extremely anxious by the time you stop at the clinic: The only reason your mother would take you to a doctor so far away is to make sure nobody in your town hears about it, which can only means it’s going to be bad. 

It’s a women’s clinic, which you quickly learns it means a gynecologist; your mother had never allowed you to visit one before, saying those clinics incentivise sins like pre-marital sex and abortions, but she drags you inside with her head held high and hawk-like fingers clutching both your arm and her cardigan, almost as if the dirtiness of sin might rub off on the both of you just by sitting in the waiting room. 

“The doctor” she says, putting enough judgement in the title that it makes you want to curl in on yourself. “is going to make sure you haven’t done anything you’re not supposed to. And so help me God, girl, if I find out you’ve laid with that man—”

“I didn’t.” You say, hissing through your teeth. She’s clearly taken aback by your tone, but your heart is beating so fast you barely have time to control your anger. “I told you already.” 

“I don’t believe you.” Your mother’s nails dig into the skin of your forearm, her tone sharp and hushed. “You’ve always been a liar.” 

The exam is every bit as invasive and painful as you expect it to be, your eyes full of unshed tears as you lay on the table, a man between your bare thighs for the first time in your life. You’re thoroughly humiliated by the time you finally leave, after your mother has made the doctor reassure her three times that your hymen was still in place, as if he was as much of a liar as you.

You’d never admit to her or anyone else but, in the end, you’re relieved to know that Joel had been telling the truth all along.

Alyssa Brown’s murder is the first one your town had in over fifteen years. She’s a nineteen year old supermarket clerk that went to school with you, engaged to her high school sweetheart and a faithful member of your church; the entire town is devastated, setting up a memorial that spreads through fifteen feet in front of her home, flowers and pictures and letters from almost every citizen adorning the white picket fence. They find her the morning after you’ve slept over at Joel’s house, drowned in her bathtub, a gash on her forehead that was done by a lampshade the police finds broken in her bedroom, arms tied behind her back and the only part of her body that is underwater is her head and shoulders— No forced entry, no fingerprints or DNA left behind to identify who had so violently killed her and you sit through dinner while you hear your father rant about how the police force was woefully unprepared to handle such a terrible tragedy; your mother prays and cooks for her family, and then gives you a snark remark on how Alyssa, ‘unlike some girls’, had certainly gone to Heaven.

Alyssa’s funeral is the second you ever attend, following your grandmother’s funeral when you were a child, and it is every bit as uncomfortable as you expect it to be. You sit with your family, dressed in black pressed clothing, and offer her family condolences you don’t really mean: Alyssa had been a stranger, just a name you heard in passing, and you truly don’t feel the grief the rest of the town seems to feel. 

Her funeral is also the first time you’re alone with Joel ever since your little movie night— You’ve seen him around the farm, but your mother doesn’t allow you to be in the same room as him, always sending you into the fields or the cowshed whenever he’s on the property. But she’s busy that day, holding Alyssa’s mother in her arms and singing comforting hymns, and doesn’t notice when Joel saddles up next to you after the ceremony. 

“What a tragedy.” He tusks, taking a swig from a metal canteen whenever nobody is looking. You can smell the whiskey on his breath when he leans in, way too close to your face. “Such a beautiful girl, taken from her family like that.” 

Jealousy blooms deep in your stomach, bitter and overwhelming. You twist your nose, turning your face away from him to hide how much his words affect you; Joel isn’t looking at you anyway, his eyes glued to the coffin at the center of the room. 

“She looks just like you, don’t you think?” He takes another drink from his canteen before shoving it back in his pocket. “Same eyes, same hair color. Could’a been your sister.”

You hate how right he is. You’d never noticed it before but, standing in the back and staring at the poster of a dead girl’s face, all you can see is your own. It’s not just the eyes or the hair— Her smile is just like yours, the same thickness of your lips and the same slope of your nose. Her skin is a little darker but not enough to wash away the similarities, her hair texture the exact same as yours. 

You feel like you might be sick. Joel waits a beat, and then another, before he adds:

“Could’a been you.”

next part. (coming soon)

He didn’t say a word, just sat next to you, and dragged his fingers over his forehead, the gesture making his leather jacket creak. 

You used to love that jacket, Javi was wearing it when you met for the first time in that bar. But now it was a witness to his encounters with other women, and you hated it. 

It was easier to hate the jacket than him.

You cut him off just as he was about to speak.

“Don't lie to me, Javi,” you warned, your eyes fixed on an invisible point on the table.

He stood up, his chair sliding so loudly on the floor that it made your ears ring and your heart bleed, then he grabbed a whiskey bottle and filled two glasses. He placed them on the table, one in front of you. You still weren’t looking at him when he took off his jacket and draped it over the back of his seat. He sat down and began swirling the glass between his fingers as you downed yours in one gulp and took a drag.

“You swore to me it would never happen again. You swore to me, Javi. Why do you keep doing this?” you asked and he lit a cigarette, probably buying himself some time, thinking about the right words to use, the ones that would calm you down. 

But those which slipped through his gritted teeth after he drank his whisky only pushed the blade in your heart deeper. 

“Doing what?” he grumbled, his eyebrow shooting up, then took a drag and exhaled the smoke, thumb brushing at his lower lip. He was fully closed off, playing an asshole as usual when he didn’t know how to handle something, or didn’t want to. 

But he was unable to even look at you. The soft Javi, the one you were so in love with, hidden behind his thick shell.

“Are you fucking serious?” you replied, anger back in full swing. His Adam apple bobbed heavily when he swallowed his saliva. 

Seconds passed as none of you talked. You considered leaving him there, alone in the kitchen, and going out to get some fresh air. 

You didn’t really know what else to do. You were lost, your heart in shambles. 

“I don't know why,” he finally said, voice softer, tinted with a hint of regret as if he wanted to erase his previous words and tone.

“You can talk to me, you can use me to forget.” Your trembling voice was coated with despair. “Why don't you use me if it’s the only thing that makes you forget about your job?”

“It's not the same. I care about you.”

His words felt like a slap and hurt you more than he could imagine. 

Or maybe Javi knew, used them consciously as self protection, as a shield or a weapon depending on his inner tournament.

“Fuck you,” you spat. “You care about me but not enough to be faithful.”

“It’s not like that. It doesn’t mean a thing to me,” he said, as if he was talking about something meaningless.

“Really? It doesn’t mean a thing to you? Well thank you for caring about me so much, because it means something to me, Javi,” you replied, voice breaking and tears about to fall, the cigarette shaking in your fingers. 

The furrow between Javi’s eyebrows deepened, as he seemed to realize how fucked up his answer was.

“I know. I'm sorry, cariño,” he apologized, sliding his hand towards yours. But you couldn’t bear the idea of letting him touch you. Not when his hands were on someone else an hour ago.

“Don't fucking touch me. Her smell’s still all over you. Go take a fucking shower, at least I won’t smell her cunt on your fingers anymore.”

Shame lingered in his eyes, and he disappeared in the bathroom while tears drowned yours.

You went to bed and turned your back to his side, your pillow quickly wet with tears. 

Javi slipped under the sheets after the shower and laid on his back. You imagined him staring at the ceiling, thinking about getting dressed and leaving the apartment to lick his wounds like a stray cat that had just been in a fight and didn’t want to be seen.

He surprised you when his low voice broke the silence. “Can I hug you?”

Part of you wanted to scream, to tell him he was an asshole. The other part wanted to feel every ounce of affection he could offer.

“No, you can’t.” 

You fell asleep when you had no more silent tears to cry.

When you woke up a couple hours later, the moon was lighting the room and his side of the bed was empty and cold. You looked at his nightstand and at the Polaroid of the two of you that he kept there.

You felt lonely, vulnerable, as if your ribcage was wide open, leaving your heart bare, unprotected with nowhere to hide.

You thought back to the moment you had met, to the certainty you had felt in your deepest core that he would break your heart sooner or later. 

The night you met you were unable to resist the temptation, waving aside bright red flags floating around him like the swirls of his cigarette smoke and the smell of neat whisky. 

The only thing you could see and focus on was his fragile soul that he kept hidden deep beneath multiple layers of arrogance, sarcasm and black humor, but that called out to you when your eyes met. As if it were waiting for you. 

It didn’t feel like an act of a smooth talker who just wanted to get you to bed. With Javi, his vulnerability seemed genuine, waiting for the right person to show off.

Yet you didn’t expect the right person not to be enough to appease him.

You poured your heart and soul into the relationship, telling yourself that you would wash away his pain with all your tears if you had to. 

Now you simply didn't know how much longer you could hold on. Joy started vanishing off your face weeks ago, life drained from your veins and your heart.

But each time you considered packing your bags and leaving Javi, his softer side, the real one, always showed up. His gaze, on the verge of tears, ready to release everything that was haunting him since he joined the DEA in Colombia, everything he refused to show to anyone else but you. Crawling into your arms, his heart beating so fast that the only thing calming him down was your hand pressed to it and the other one cradling the back of his neck.

You got up and found Javi sitting on the couch. You thought about the first time he had fucked you here, the day you had met. How you had fallen in love with him, fastly and deeply, and more and more each day.

It felt like a million years ago. It even felt like another life.

You sat down next to him and took a deep breath, before saying, “I can’t go on like this, Javi.”

He looked at you, his sad brown eyes fixed on your face. Tears welled up in his eyes, his index finger pressed against his temple.

“Don’t say that, cariño.”

“Javi, I… I don't know what to do anymore. You’re hurting me, I hate the idea of sharing you with other women. It’s breaking my heart because I know you're so much more than that, but… I can’t be the only one carrying our relationship.”

“I know, baby. I know.”

“Then say something!” you exploded, not caring about the neighbors, what they might hear or say. “Fight for us. For me,” you begged.

He didn't answer, didn’t say a word. He gave you nothing.

So you went back to the bedroom, put on a dress, grabbed your travel bag and placed it on the bed. Tears were blurring your vision as you were packing it with your clothes. You wiped them with a back of your hand when you heard his footsteps in the hallway. He stood by the door, and your smile was cold when he asked you not to leave. He was wearing only shorts, and under other circumstances, you would have admired his beautiful face, walked towards him, cupped his cheeks and kissed him, but now you were resigned, exhausted, and started making peace with the fact that your last reserves of strength had abandoned you.

“What would you feel if I were the one looking for something by fucking other men?”

A mix of emotions passed over his eyes -  possessiveness, sadness and regret- and his whole body tensed.

“I’d be devastated. And I'd want to kill them. Hurt them.”

The violence in his words created a reaction in your stomach that you didn’t expect. You always loved him feral and possessive, when he acted in opposition to his usual cold behavior, but you hated the way your body was still aching for him, falling for desire so easily even now, in that moment.

“Then why are you doing this to me?”

“Because I’m an asshole,” he replied coldly, eyebrows shooting up once again.

“Yes, you are. And I’ve endured enough.” You turned your back to him to keep packing.

He watched you put away the rest of your things,  staying silent.

When you reached the door, travel bag on your shoulder, you said, “Move, Javi.”

He did.

Your tears were falling when you walked towards the exit. You took a big breath when you grabbed the handle, trying not to sob loudly. 

You swallowed a gasp when his hand seized your arm, and he closed the door with the other one, caging you against it.

“It’s over, Javi. Let me go,” you murmured. You were so exhausted that you had no anger in you any more. You just wanted to go and cry alone, again and again, until you drowned yourself.

“Let me tell you what happened. Please.”

“I don't care. It’s too late-”

“We shot a kid,” he cut. “Someone… someone shot a kid. Just like that, in front of me, in the street. They were all kneeling and he killed one of them in cold blood. Shot him in the head.”

You were facing the door, horrified, not knowing what to say.

“And… I don’t know, I disassociated. Didn’t even realize where I was until I… and then I threw up. Came here. I’m sorry. I’m really sorry. Please, believe me… I didn’t know what I was doing. Didn’t want it.”

You turned around to confront him and found yourself facing your Javi. The one you loved, the one who couldn’t hurt you, and it broke your heart when he cupped your cheeks with his hands, showing you his soul and flaws, then whipped a rolling tear on your face. 

But how could you separate him from his other self? How could you forgive him when you knew that other side of him was still there, in that dark part of his soul, lurking, ready to reveal itself and take over again.

You shook your head and seized his hands to pull them away. 

“You will never quit your job and I would never ask you to, anyway. And I’ll never be sure that it won't happen again. I knew I was taking a gamble by getting into this relationship. I thought I was stronger than that, but I’m not. And honestly, the fact that you didn’t come back to me, that your subconscious didn’t choose me last night, is telling. I’m not the right person for you, Javi. And you’re not the right one for me either.”

“It’s not true,” he countered. “I never loved anyone the way I love you, you know it. Give me a chance. One last chance,” he begged.

You shook your head again, but you made one mistake when your eyes dropped to his lips. He immediately moved closer to you, brushing his nose against yours, whispering “one last chance. Please, cariño,” against your lips before kissing you. It was tender and filled with everything he had to offer you.

You let him slide into your mouth, let his tongue brush yours. 

You let his hands grip your hips, let him show you how hard he was.

Javi growled when he felt you surrender to his touch, and nudged your cheek with his face to bury it in your neck, while he freed his cock from his shorts. 

He growled when your whole body shivered, as he slid his hand under your dress and pushed your panties aside, nestling his tip at your entrance.

He growled when he felt how wet you were, already ready for him. He pushed in slowly and your nails dug into his shoulders when you realized that you were unable to hold back a moan of pleasure when he filled you perfectly.

Javi rolled his hips, giving you the time to welcome his girth, and grabbed your thigh to put it against his waist. 

“You always feel so good,” he murmured, and you bit your lip to suppress a sob, trying to deal with your emotions, your sadness and your need for him despite everything.

“Come here, cariño,” he murmured, leading you towards the couch where he made you lie down, pushing on your thighs to open you up for him.

You seized his cock, circled his length and jerked it, then slid it against your wet folds up to your throbbing clit, the sensation making him moan.

His tip was oozing over your bud, covering it with precum, making him move so easily against your slit.

You focused on your sensations, desperate to forget the reality.

Forget where he was last night.

Forget how a part of you hated him.

His eyes were fixed on your hand wrapped around his cock, his tip brushing against your clit.

He was whimpering, a set of moans escaping his throat as you were using him.

“Lemme see you come. Make a mess, baby,” he said as he unbuttoned your dress and exposed your breasts.

He leaned forward, sucking on one nipple then the other before. taking it in his mouth and nibbling at it, licking it, slowly moving his hips back and forth to match your movements until you came, your clit throbbing against his crown.

He kissed your neck, and kept moving slowly until your whimpers subsided.

When he stepped back slightly, he seemed amazed by the sight of his drooling tip and your quivering pussy, but his gaze changed when he met yours, knowing fully well what you couldn’t hide, the thought of stopping right there, denying him the pleasure of filling your cunt. But the fear of never feeling him inside you again made you yield. When he saw it in your gaze, as if you were an open book, his obsidian eyes grew piercing and he pulled off his shorts, letting them drop by the couch.

He dragged the head of his cock along your folds, covering it with your wetness then slid in slowly, just the tip at first, before withdrawing and pushing back in, going deeper with every thrust, each one leaving you breathless.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered.

“Shut up. Shut up, Javi.”

“Baby,” he said, cupping your cheek, his eyes diving into yours. “It won’t happen again. I promise. I don’t want to lose you.”

He kissed your forehead, pressing himself against you, then let his lips slide down, brushed your nose tenderly with his, before pressing his mouth against yours.

It was sweet and soft, like a warm embrace. You wanted to believe him, but how could you erase the evening before? And the time before that?

“I should fuck two men,” you said defiantly with a desire to hurt him, making him freeze inside you, his eyes searching for yours.

“Do it. If it makes you feel better, do it, I deserve it. But I promise, it won’t happen again.”

“I won’t do it,” you scowled. “It’s not who I am. Make me come before I tell you to fuck off and leave the place.”

He started moving again, grazing your clit with his thumb without taking his eyes off you.

You let yourself get lost in them, in the sensations you were feeling.

You let him kiss you and show you just how much he cared about you. You didn’t doubt it, but it wasn’t enough anymore.

You let him thrust inside you, again and again, and thought about how many times you fucked, how good he was at it. You thought about the good times you had together, how careful he was with you in the intimacy of his apartment. How you loved the way he wrapped his arm around your shoulders when you went out.

“I’m gonna come,” you whimpered and Javi pressed his forehead against yours, brushing your bud gently as you started fluttering around him.

“Cariño… fuck… I’m gonna come too, fuck…”

He exploded, mouth agape, sending hot spurs of cum between your folds, moaning against your mouth.

You both ended up breathless, spent, but he still had some strength to kiss your neck, until you made him stop, sat up and buttoned your dress.

“Let’s go back to bed,” he said.

But you couldn’t. 

“Javi.. I can’t. I just can’t. I’m heartbroken. I don’t smile anymore. I don’t eat. I can’t sleep. I’m just…I’m just sad. So I’m gonna leave. And we’ll see if fate makes our paths cross, one day. Maybe you’ll be ready to love me fully. Only be with me.”

You stood up and he put his shorts back on and followed you.

You turned to him and shook your head, then smiled at him. It was a sincere smile, a goodbye, a way of showing him that despite everything, a part of you still loved a part of him.

“I’ll find you,” he said.

A few times Javi went back to the bar where you had met, but you weren’t there.

He threw himself heart and soul into his job, yet you never left his thoughts.

When Escobar killed Carrillo, he wondered if he would have been able to keep his promise while begging for one last chance. He hoped so. He thought so.

He hoped you were happy, that your smile was back.

Three years later, Javi resigned from the DEA. You never crossed paths, but he never stopped thinking about you. The Polaroid was still on his nightstand, and sometimes he would stroke your cheek in the picture, recalling the feel of your skin beneath his fingers.

Javi went back to the bar one last time, as if to say goodbye to your memory, hating the idea that he didn’t find you, despite his promise.

He smiled when he saw you there, sitting on the same stool as the day you had met.

You turned toward him as if you sensed his presence, and you smiled too.

“Fate,” he said.

“Maybe,” you replied, smiling at him, and offered him a seat next to you.

Javi p masterlist

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⠀⠀⠀⠀ ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ ⠀⠀⠀ ⠀* index:

part one: the lie. (coming august 14th.)

part two: the sin. (coming soon.)

also available on archiveofourown.

⠀⠀⠀⠀ ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ ⠀⠀⠀ ⠀* extras:

moodboard.

fic tag.

You’re in love. 

Joel was able to transform your abstract, complex ideas into a concrete work of art. The curved oak cabinetry, ribbed and painted a muted sage. The brass and crystal light fixtures placed equidistant throughout the room. Complimentary brass hardware. The warm, walnut shelves, open to the room, a strip of warm lights installed underneath to cast a gentle glow.

But most of all, you love the counter top.

Pure white with flecks of gold and the subtlest hint of green in the vein of grey that runs through the entire slab, aligning perfectly with the backsplash to tie it all together. It’s breathtaking.

It’s even more stunning with your cheek pressed against it as Joel rails you from behind.

“Think it’s cute? Flirtin’ with him in front of me?” He grits out, rough fingers wound tight in your hair, his other hand holding your hip in a vice to keep you still as he hammers into you.

It started when he showed up to your house that morning with another guy. Not Tommy, but some young, muscled dude with a clean shaven face and the mannerisms of someone who’s never taken no for an answer a day in their life. You weren’t expecting Joel to bring someone else with him that morning, so you’d opened the door wearing one of his flannels and a thong you wanted him to rip off you later.

In the month that you’ve been spending in Joel’s company, fucking him, enjoying him, and dedicating every free moment to him, you’ve grown accustomed to your perpetual state of undress. Tommy was still on paternity leave, and would be for some time, so there was hardly a need for you to dress appropriately in your own home.

You didn’t want to. Not when you could tease and distract Joel every day wearing a simple lace bra and panties, one of his shirts, or nothing at all. 

It was a game the two of you played – one you thoroughly enjoyed despite knowing who the winner would be. While he was building your house, Joel had the discipline of a man who knew his craft, executed it well, and refused to sacrifice quality for a good fuck in the middle of the day. It was maddening, but you admired that about him, no matter how much you wanted him to plow into you at lunch time.

But as soon as he was done for the day, he’d either toss you over his shoulder and carry you up to your bedroom, or throw you onto the nearest flat surface to eat you out and reprimand you for driving him crazy all day. It was always earth shattering and always left you near speechless.

You never got dressed after, either, remaining in your panties and his flannel, or one of his t-shirts even as the two of you shared a plate of takeout and talked in bed until you fell asleep and he inevitably left for the evening.

He hadn’t spent the night yet – much to your chagrin – but it’s a line he’s maintained religiously. 

“When the job is done, I promise, honey,” he always told you, refusing to let the temptation of waking up with you prevent him from completing your house on time. Although you wanted him to sleep in your bed more than anything, it melted you at the thought that he wanted it just as badly.

So you continued to play your games instead, always answering the door wearing next to nothing. Always enjoying the way his eyes would turn to molten espresso when he saw you.

So, when you saw the other man with him on your portch, you let out a little squeak, feeling embarrassed for the first time since you started fucking Joel regularly. 

“This here’s Mike. Need his help today,” Joel said without the warmth of his typical greeting which usually involves him giving you a sweet kiss, telling you he missed you while he was away, and proceeding to trail after you for a cup of coffee and a blowjob. 

“Hi,” you greeted him, not oblivious to the way Mike’s hungry, unwelcoming eyes drank you in, a smile brightening his face. He was cute, sure. But he was no Joel.

“Good morning, Miss. Nice to meet you.” Polite. Boyish. Maybe something was wrong with you, but that did not interest you in the slightest.

Joel jerked his head toward the cabinetry he’d installed just a few days ago, sans countertop, then to the boxes containing all the light fixtures, “Start runnin’ the wiring for the lights. Attic access in the garage.”

The smile didn’t leave Mike’s face as he nodded his acquiescence and made his way to the garage. Once the door was shut, Joel gave you a hard look, arms crossed over his chest. He was wearing a different flannel today, a blue and white one that made your skin heat.

“Why’re you wearin’ that? I told you to be decent,” he snapped. The heat in his voice laced with underlying concern. Affection, even.

You frowned, looking down at your bare legs, buttons of the shirt askew, cleavage very visible. “You didn’t tell me someone else was coming!”

Heaving a sigh, he pinched the bridge of his nose, “Darlin’, yes, I did. Maybe you don’t remember ‘cause you had your pussy full ‘a me. But I told you.”

Your cheeks heated, trying to recall whatever conversation he was referring to. Last night after he’d finished installing all the hardware on the cabinets, you ordered a pizza for the two of you to share. You curled up on the couch with him to watch a movie – you can’t even remember what it was – and ended up riding him hard and fast until you were both coming undone.

As he softened inside you, peppering your neck with kisses and stroking your hair gingerly, you vaguely recalled the low hum of his voice as he told you the countertops were being delivered tomorrow, and that he’d need help with that, as well as the electrical for your kitchen. 

Oh.

He saw the realization dawn on you and nodded, “Fuck, you drive me crazy,” he hissed, reaching for you. Your heart skipped in your chest, fighting off a smile.

His hands went to your face as he kissed you hard, backing you against the wall. You fisted your fingers in his shirt and arched into him. He didn’t seem angry. Only annoyed that another man was in your house and he couldn’t fuck you to his heart’s content. That annoyed you too, if you were honest. You liked spending time with him.

When he finally pulled away, you chased his lips, but he shook his head, breath harsh on your cheek, “Go put something decent on, baby. Don’t want Mike gettin’ any ideas.”

You gave him a little pout before nipping at his chin and sauntering up the stairs. You wiggled your ass for good measure. You only returned when you were sufficiently covered, a pair of yoga pants and a tank top – it’s still summer and it’s still a little warm. You don’t want to be uncomfortable in your own house just because Joel wants you covered head to toe.

When you sauntered back down the stairs, you found Joel attaching something to his drill that looked like a cylinder with jagged teeth. He pulled the trigger briefly and it whirred to life. Satisfied with the drill, he set it aside and grabbed his tape measure. When he spotted you, his eyes flashed.

“Darlin’,” he grumbled.

“What? I’m wearing pants, Joel. And an entire shirt,” you argued, a slow smile spreading when he narrowed his eyes at you and turned back to his work.

“Fine.”

After giving him a kiss, you loped back upstairs to get some work done. It warmed something in your belly to know that he was a little possessive of you already. Even if you had only really been seeing him for a handful of weeks. You were smitten, and it made you giddy to know that he didn’t want another man’s eyes on you.

And maybe that’s where you went wrong. Or right, depending on your point of view. 

Because you wanted to mess with him. Test his restraint, see how far you could actually take it before he snapped. Either in front of Mike or after Mike was gone for the day. So, you played with fire, stoking the flames until he exploded.

It started when you went downstairs to offer Mike a cup of coffee. He’d just finished running the wires in the attic and Joel was on a ladder drilling holes in the ceiling. You bit your lip as you slid a full mug toward him, eyes just to the left of his head where Joel was glaring at you, muscles tight under his flannel. It worked like a charm. Poor Mike thought you were flirting when you were really imagining Joel’s big strong arms pinning you down and fucking you on the kitchen table.

“Thanks, Miss,” Mike said, his cheeks lacking the trademark dimple that endeared you so thoroughly to Joel. He was cute, but that’s where it ended.

He sipped the coffee and almost sloshed it over the side of the mug when Joel barked, “Mike, I’m not payin’ you to stand around. Unbox the lights and hand ‘em up.”

Mike shot you an apologetic smile and set the coffee aside, “Duty calls.”

The poor guy thought he had a chance.

As he turned around to get the light fixtures unpackaged, Joel’s agitated, disgruntled glare settled on you. Playing dumb, you tilted your head in a silent question, jutting your lower lip out in a pout. He only shook his head and turned back to his work, leaving you to skip away and plot your next strike.

At lunch, you made them both sandwiches, admiring the way your new lights glittered above you. Mike complimented your eye for design, the touches of color you’d chosen for the walls that would blend seamlessly with the counters and backsplash, and made small talk as he ate his sandwich across from Joel at the rickety table in the kitchen. You sat adjacent to Joel, running your foot along his calf, his hand gripping your knee under the table a little harder every time Mike gave you a flirtatious smile or tried to charm his way into your pants..

Once Mike had finished his sandwich, Joel didn’t even let him finish chewing before barking at him to get back to work. You snickered and took advantage of Mike rushing into the garage to grab some tools to give Joel a quick kiss and retreat to your office before he could so much as blink. 

You emerged from your office when the countertops arrived and watched in anticipation as Mike and Joel meticulously installed them. The process was interesting, and you sat at the kitchen table, enraptured as they clamped and glued and fastened it into place, Mike shooting you smiles from across the room.

It was a gorgeous, gleaming marble slab that you’d spent weeks searching for. Joel had even accompanied you to a few of the stone yards to pick it out, whistling at how pricey it was, but how good it would look in your new kitchen.

As Joel carefully cleaned and sealed the counter, Mike leaned his hip against the table and gave you what you’re sure he assumed was his best smile. It did nothing for you. It was alarming how quickly Joel’s charm and appeal had consumed you.

“So – once the job’s done, can I take you out for drinks or something?”

You saw Joel freeze behind him, his muscles rigid and his jaw clenched so hard, you thought he’d fracture a tooth. You didn’t expect him to ask you out. That was not part of the plan.

Plus, drinks? That was something you did with someone you were going to hook up with. You weren’t interested in that in the slightest. Not when you had a hunky, short tempered contractor already poised to fuck you senseless and romance you until you were simpering mess for him and him alone.

You fluttered your eyelashes at him and gave him a pouty smile, “I don’t think so, Mike.”

That didn’t dissuade him, though, and he pressed further, “Aw, come on. Just one drink.”

“I can’t,” you answered with a tight look. 

“I’ve seen you looking at me all day. Let me take you out. Or we can stay in,” he leaned a little closer, making you tip your head back to see him properly.

Even if you did like Mike, his overt display of coercion was an instant turn off. You realized you’d been right about your initial assessment of him. He always got what he wanted and wasn’t used to the word no. 

Your flirtatious facade dropped in an instant and you shook your head, “No.”

Just as he was about to push again, Joel’s voice punctured the tension, his voice sharp and steady, “You need your fuckin’ hearing checked? She said no.”

You bit your lip, eyes darting to him where he stood, closer now, his big arms crossed over his chest and his eyes dark and heady like he was two seconds away from putting Mike in his place. Something warm hummed low in your belly.

Mike shot an annoyed glance in Joel’s direction, “Stay out of it, man.”

“The hell I will. I ain’t gonna stand here and watch you make her uncomfortable in her own home,” he snapped, nostrils flaring. “She said no. Leave it be.”

“Hey, she’s been flirting with me all day! Now it’s a crime for me to ask her out?”

“Ain’t a crime. But when a woman says no, that’s it. No one teach you no means no? The hell’s wrong with you?” Joel's voice grew in volume and fury, making you shrink a little. Not that you were afraid of him. But you did feel somewhat responsible for the situation. 

Mike stood there for a moment, lips parted with a retort, but before he could muster a reply, Joel cut him off, “Get the fuck outta here. You’re done for the day.”

If Mike looked to you for help, you didn’t see it. You only had eyes for Joel, your pulse flickering rapidly against your skin as you pressed your thighs together. No one had ever done something like that for you.

The door slamming shut broke you out of your trance, and when you blinked back to reality, Joel’s back was to you and he had his palms pressed flat against your sparkling new countertops. His shoulders were tight and drawn up, the veins in his forearms standing out against his bronze skin. You tiptoed over to him tentatively, chewing on your lip.

“Joel?”

“You think this shit is funny?” He growled, making you retreat a few steps, his voice trembling with rage. It startled you, seeing him like this. Seeing how easily you’d affected him. It scared you in more ways than one.

Voice small, fingers knotting together, you said, “No.”

He whirled around on you, “Then what the hell was that?”

When his heavy stare landed on you, apprehensive and cautious, his agitation evaporated, his shoulders relaxing and his frown easing just the slightest. A visible softening at the timid, remorseful plea in your eyes.

“If it’s attention you’re after, darlin’, you have it,” he said quietly, but with no less heat. “Ain’t gotta play games with me. I ain’t goin’ anywhere.”

Your heart squeezed, chin quivering as his words sank in. You didn’t understand how desperately you needed to hear them until now. You’d never been the center of anyone's attention before, let alone Jeremy’s. There was always an unconscious need for you to test him, to prove in some way that he still cared about you. Those games were never fruitful, but it was a habit you’d have to break with Joel, you realized.

“I’m sorry,” you told him, eyes burning with shame and regret, “I didn’t mean anything by it. I –”

Joel melted completely at your apology, folding like a lawn chair and moving across the kitchen to collect you in his arms. His lips found yours in a firm, insistent kiss, one hand digging into your hair while the other flattened against your lower back to press you against him.

“Don’t want anyone else lookin’ at you,” he grunted, tongue swiping your lips, “Touchin’ you, thinkin’ they can talk to you like that.”

Before you knew it, your back was against the edge of the counter, his hips pinning you in place as he plundered your lips and told you just what he hated about that entire exchange with Mike. It turned you to jelly, your heart a pile of mush as he declared his affection for you over and over again.

“I told you you’re mine, baby. What part of that do you not understand?” His lips were on your neck then, beard turning your skin raw and tender. All you could do was hold on, your pulse deafening you to everything but him. “‘M gonna have to show you, aren’t I? Teach you a lesson?”

You whimpered, a desperate, needy sound that made him chuckle.

“I’m sorry, Joel. I’m so sorry,” you repeated, hands fisting his flannel. You wanted it gone. You wanted everything off, all clothes between you out of the way, his cock inside you. You needed it. You needed it so bad, you couldn’t stand it. Not with the way he kissed you, how he held you, how he told you you were his.

“Easy, baby. Turn around,” he growled, flipping you around so your ass was pressed against the hard outline of his cock. You didn’t know what you expected. You didn’t know what he had planned for you as penance. Orgasm denial? A few, well placed smacks to your round ass? A little begging?

You certainly weren’t prepared for him to wrap a large, calloused hand around your throat, while the other hunted for the slick between your legs. You weren’t prepared for him to slip two, thick fingers into you with little to no prep. And you weren’t prepared for him to nibble and suck on your ear as he fingered you with the abandon and desperation of a man at the end of his tether.

His thumb found your clit, and he bit down on your neck, growling into your ear, “What are you sorry for?”

You could scarcely speak, let alone form a coherent thought beyond more and faster and deeper. He squeezed your neck to get your attention, hooking his fingers just right and making you gasp.

“Oh, sh – shit.”

“Tell me what you’re sorry for,” he commanded.

“For —“ he squeezed your neck again, his pace increasing, “For flirting with — shit — with Mike.”

“That’s right, baby. And why was that wrong?” He hummed, pushing his fingers deeper, pressing his cock against you so you could feel every inch of him against your ass.

Your mind was fuzzy, your climax approaching with dizzying speed as he strummed your clit and curled his fingers just right.

“Be— because I’m — shit, Joel,” you gasped, head resting on his shoulder, “I’m yours.”

“That’s right. You’re mine,” he repeated back to you, your hips grinding against his hand to find purchase, to seek relief, to reach your destination. But he had other plans, it seemed. 

His hand left you so quickly, you cried out, the edges of your approaching orgasm fading, ripped away from you. Joel hooked his thumbs at the sides of your yoga pants and shoved them down along with the pathetic scrap of lace you called underwear. 

Your chest heaved as you collapsed forward, pushing your ass out and resting against the cool, clean surface of your brand new counters. The clink of his belt was music to your ears, followed by the swipe of his thick cock through your folds.

“You’re not gonna do that again, are you?” He asked, but it was more of a directive. You had no choice in the matter. Even if you did want to flirt with anyone other than him, you wouldn’t. You can’t do that to him again. Your game was born from insecurity and neglect and a loveless marriage.

Joel is different. And it took until now for you to realize it.

“No,” you whimpered, his cock slipping in just an inch.

“What was that?” He withdrew, one hand gripping your hip while the other ran up your body to close around the back of your neck. “Speak up, honey.”

“I won’t flirt anymore,” you gasped, the thick head of him splitting you open as he pushed deeper, “I won’t tease you.”

“That’s right,” he grunted, his thumb gently rubbing the side of your neck under your hair, a direct contrast to the strength with which he held you down. “No one but me’s gonna have this sweet pussy.”

“No one but you,” you sobbed in agreement, “Joel.”

“I got you, baby,” he purred, shoving himself into you completely, drawing a near feral scream from you at how completely full you felt, your walls pulsing around him. From the corner of your eye, you saw his head tip back in ecstasy, “So fuckin’ tight.”

Even with him filling you to capacity, you arched your hips to take him deeper, making him grunt and shift back. He was so wide, he filled you to the brim, the stretch so good, the ache so pleasant, you thought you could lie there for hours, just taking his cock the way you were meant to.

He pushed back in and started a slow, shallow pace that had you seeing stars and writhing against the countertop. Your skin was on fire, his hands doing little to ground you, to keep you stable and conscious as he railed you without mercy.

You’d tested his resolve all day, teasing him, tempting him to stake his claim until now.

“Think it’s cute? Flirtin’ with him in front of me?” He grits out, rough fingers winding into your hair, his other hand holding your hip in a vice to keep you still as he begins hammering into you. You try to shake your head, but he has full control, heavy weight pressed against your hips, pinning you in place.

“No, I promise,” you wail, back arching, his cock so thick it makes your eyes flutter.

“Take it, darlin’. Take everything I give you,” he croaks, his breath coming in short bursts as he picks up the pace. His hand slides from your hair down to grip your neck, “Knew I should’ve fucked you the moment I walked through that door. Needed it, didn’t you?”

You nod, biting back a cry as his hips slap against your ass, the sound so obscene you think you could cum from the memory of it alone.

“Yeah? Need me to fuck you first thing in the mornin’ just to keep you from testin’ me?”

“Yes –” you suck in a sharp breath as he angles his hips just so.

His deep, menacing chuckle makes your walls clench around him, “‘S what I thought. Gotta keep you nice and full, huh?”

It takes everything in you not to cum on the spot, your fingers gripping the edge of the stone slab as he fucks you mercilessly, each thrust punching the air right out of you, driving home the weight of his needs, his lesson. Because it’s not just about him owning you and claiming you. It’s about your confidence in him as a man, as a person. It’s about trust and fidelity, something you’ve never shared with your own husband.

“Joel,” you cry, squirming under his attention. His grip tightens on the back of your neck while he slips his other hand under your hips to swipe your clit. The timing of his thrusts matches perfectly, and you squeeze your eyes shut to stave off your orgasm. “I’m sorry, Joel…”

His voice is languid and saccharine as he continues his brutal pace, “I forgive you, darlin’. Now, I want you to cum for me, okay?”

You nod, the tenderness of his words and the savagery of his thrusts directly juxtaposing in the most invigorating way. You let go, your orgasm taking over, your skin prickling with the awareness of his encroaching release as he drives into you harder. Your limbs are no longer your own to control, every muscle tight, nerves spent. You’re dimly aware of the tremors wracking your body and the choked sobs tearing out of you.

“Fuck, this pussy’s milkin’ me so good, baby,” he growls as he fucks you through your orgasm. With a deep, primal groan that you feel in your bones, he empties himself inside you. Heat fills you, your body pliant and willing as you take every last drop of him. You whimper helplessly into the counter, tears burning at the corners of your eyes from the impact of your combined release.

When he’s finally spent, he leans over you, his broad, thick body pressing against you, lips ghosting over your cheek, arms wrapping around your waist.

“Christened the new kitchen,” you breathe, your cheek damp against the counter, a laugh spilling out of you in a breathless huff. You feel the rumble of his laugh against your back and your heart flutters.

“Planned on doin’ that anyway. But you forced my hand, honey,” he says, kissing the back of your neck and helping you stand up straight. As he turns you, your legs nearly give out, still wobbly and unsteady from the force of your climax.

He pulls up his boxers and jeans and fastens his belt before doing the same with you. His cum pools into your panties and you bite your lip.

“That’s what you get,” he grunts, tapping your chin with a finger and pressing a light kiss to your lips, “Now I gotta fire Mike.”

You’re still dazed and blissed out from your orgasm, so it takes you a moment to register his words. When you do, you frown up at him, “Why?”

Joel cocks an eyebrow at you, hands bracketing you on either side of the counter, “Why? He hit on a client. You. And he didn’t take no for an answer. I don’t want that kinda filth representing me or my company.”

“You’ve fucked me countless times,” you point out, reaching for him and resting your hands against his abdomen.

“That’s different.”

“How so,” you arch an eyebrow, fighting a smile.

“I’m the boss,” he grumbles, dipping his head to claim your lips. His tongue swipes yours as you open for him, standing on your toes to reach him. His beard scrapes against your chin, the sticky mess between your legs becoming more prominent as you ache for more. 

He pulls away abruptly, peering down at you with his dark, assessing gaze, “You wanna tell me why you decided to spend all day flirtin’ with him?”

Your cheeks burn and you look down at the white buttons on his flannel, toying with the end of his shirt shamefully. You want to shrug and shrink away from him. To cower away from your misdeeds. It was childish and unfair for you to toy with a man who’s been nothing but honest and direct and careful with you.

But you owe him the truth in return. His warm fingers grip your chin, lifting until your eyes meet his. He’s not angry or forceful, but open and soft.

“I’ve never –” you sniff, fighting the urge to look away, “I’ve never been the center of anyone’s attention before. I feel like I’ve always been begging for Jeremy to look at me. To touch me. To love me.”

Joel doesn’t look away from you, but holds your gaze, his thumb brushing over your chin as you continue.

“I’ve been fighting for his attention for so long, I didn’t know what it was like to actually have it. To have yours.”

Joel doesn’t say anything for a moment, simply caressing his calloused thumb against your soft skin as he stares down at you. With the long suffering sigh of a man who’s both exasperated and endeared by your actions, he arches an eyebrow at you, “I’m not Jeremy, baby. You don’t have to fight anymore. I told you you’re mine, and I meant it. How many times do I gotta tell you?”

You bite your lip, sheepish, demure, embarrassed by the foolish way you’d flaunted yourself in front of Mike for your own amusement. “I’m sorry, Joel. I really am.”

“If you ain’t ready for this – for me – you better tell me now.” He grips your chin then, eyebrows furrowed, “Before I do somethin’ stupid.”

“Like what?”

He stares down at you, eyes gentle and bare like they’ve never been before, lips creased in the faintest smile. He doesn’t respond, but simply presses a tender kiss to your lips, his fingers cupping the back of your neck while his opposite arm wraps around your waist.

You cling to him as he parts your lips with his tongue, savoring the way he leans into you, his hard, strong body so solid and sure against yours. Fingers knotting in his hair, you raise onto your toes to reach him better, his arms locking around your waist to lift you.

Just as you begin to reach for the buttons on his shirt, the creak of the garage door rattling its way open has you jerking away from him in alarm and your blood turning to ice. He scowls, you look at him with wide eyes, “Jeremy’s here.”

His frown deepens, “What?”

“He’s the only other person with a garage door opener,” you push away from Joel and tug your fingers through your unruly, just fucked hair. Heart racing, skin flushed, you rush over to the mirror behind your dining table to fix the mess he’d made of you.

“What the fuck is he doing here?” He asks, the tender voice from moments ago evaporated into nothing. “I thought you gave him divorce papers.”

“Until the divorce is finalized, he still lives here,” you explain, taking the hair tie from your wrist and pulling your hair into a messy bun. You look around the room, moving into the kitchen frantically, searching for something, anything to occupy yourself with. You have absolutely no idea what you’re doing. You’re wondering if you look as guilty as you feel.

Everything that just happened. Everything you told him feels distant and unattainable. Like moments ago, the possibilities were endless. But now, your husband is here to ruin it all.

Joel is shaking his head, a humorless laugh making your heart clench, “So, what, I’m supposed to pretend like I didn’t just fuck you within an inch of your life?”

You whirl around to look at him, eyes pleading, “Joel, I’m sorry. Please. If he thinks I’ve been sleeping around, it could ruin my entire case.”

The garage door clatters to a stop, and you hear the obnoxious sound of Jeremy’s Mustang still rumbling in the garage. You haven’t missed the sound of that disgusting thing in the slightest.

“Sleepin’ around,” Joel says quietly, hands on his hips, head bowed. “That what we’re doin’?”

That stops you in your tracks, your eyes welling, “No. That’s not what – Joel, I swear. I just –”

The sound of the engine cuts, followed by the slamming of the car door. You have no time to explain yourself. No time to fix this. All you know is that if Jeremy knows you’ve been sleeping with someone who isn’t him, your entire divorce will crumble around you. He’s vindictive and cruel and always, always gets what he wants.

You’re losing control of everything too quickly, your heart racing, blood rushing in your ears, drowning everything out.

Just as the door to the garage opens and Jeremy’s footsteps approach from down the hallway, Joel gives you one last wounded look before turning to grab his tools from the counter at his back. You swipe at your eyes to hide your despair just as Jeremy rounds the corner.

The moment you see him, your stomach sours, his face neutral and calm like you hadn’t expected. Honestly, you never expected him to return home after the divorce papers were handed to him. He was free. Why would he come back after a month of silence?

“Sweet cheeks,” Jeremy sighs, like he couldn’t wait to come home to you. Like every extended work trip is a burden instead of a ploy to seek company elsewhere, “We have to talk.”

You scrunch your face at him, “What are you doing here?”

He sets his satchel on the counter, not even bothering to compliment Joel’s work or attention to detail. Or the brand new kitchen gleaming in the fading light of the sun. Not even glancing in his direction. Instead, he approaches you, and you tense, hoping you don’t smell like sex and sin when he wraps you in his arms.

Your arms are pinned at your sides as he hugs you, your spine stiff as a board. Over his shoulder, you see Joel’s jaw clench as he packs away his drill.

“I missed you,” he says as he pulls away and takes your shoulders in his hands to look at you, “And I live here.”

“I served you divorce papers.”

For the first time since he’s walked in, he glances at Joel, and then lowers his voice, “Yeah, I wanted to talk about that.”

Pressing your hands into his chest and pushing away from him, you shake your head, fury burning a path up your spine, “There’s nothing to talk about. I don’t want to be married to you anymore.”

He doesn’t immediately answer you, but the flash of irritation in his eyes gives you pause. Instead, he turns toward Joel, “Hey, man, you mind giving us a minute?”

Joel’s shoulders tighten and you can see the muscles in his forearms ripple with tension as he grabs his back, “No need. Done for the day.” His back is still to you, but as he turns and meets your eyes, you hate how easily you can read the pain written across his face.

You swallow thickly, throat tight, eyes brimming with tears. You wish you could follow him, apologize, tell him how you really feel about him with no repercussions. Tell him that you haven’t been this happy since you foolishly signed your life away to your college boyfriend. Not once has Jeremy made you feel this way. Feel seen and cared for and cherished. Even in such a short period of time, Joel has done something for you that no man ever has, and now he’s slipping away. You’re torn between what could be and what you’ve always known. You blink away the tears faster than they come and clear your throat, a cold, spreading numbness creeping up and taking over completely. 

“Have a good evening,” Joel grits out, storming past you, eyes downcast, jaw so tight you know he’ll have a headache by the time he gets home. 

You watch him go, he doesn’t look at you, and that’s the most devastating part of it all. He doesn’t even spare you a glance as he rushes out on you and everything the two of you have forged together amongst the shambles of your marriage.