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“I know,” he continues, in this affable, lightly mischievous tone, “paying attention during Mass can prove itself a challenge.”

It's how he says it, utterly divorced of the solemnity that shells others like him, not austere, not scolding, but like he's young enough to remember the occasional Sunday mornings: being pried out of bed, rammed into uncomfortably dapper clothing, just to fall asleep again on shellacked pews before the first psalms are even read.

“You probably aren't the only daydreamer—but it's unusual, to see one honest enough not to pretend.”

From his pulpit, overlooking the assembly, it was difficult to miss. Yours were the only eyes straying away from the altar, from the crucifix, from him. Oblivious to the words, glancing to the windows like a bored student in a stuffy classroom and giving that pen you're still holding a nibble every now and then. As the prologue of a hymn vibrated through the cool air and the congregation united in a broken falsetto, he wondered, what in heaven could you be scribbling about?

An embarrassed smile climbs up your lips.

“I have a confession to make: I didn't come for the liturgy.”

You readily explain, “I'm writing a paper about the stained glass—” and his eyes flare up, outpacing you.

“Oh, you're that researcher,” he remembers, or feigns to remember. “It's a relief. Here I was, ready to accept my sentence as a terrible bore.”

He jests, of course. Holding anyone's attention never seems to be an issue for him—for better and, well, often times for the worst.

His hand extends forward.

“I'm Father Jud.”

His palm feels warm against yours. A little coarse, perhaps, and drier than it should, results of labor, effort, rinsing, and scrubbing. Something else too, under those knobbly knuckles, secrets of a life-lived, tucked beneath his skin.

Per custom, you offer your name back, along with a glib Nice to meet you.

“I wasn't purposely being disrespectful,” you clarify after the introduction. “It's just, the light is perfect now, and the hours coincide with—”

He cuts you off swiftly, waving his fingers as if to cast out any awkwardness.

“You don't have to explain. It really is rather beautiful here,” he concedes, those not-quite-blue irises traveling in the line of your gaze to the golden beams of the morning sun. “I like to sit in the nave when I can, just to watch the reflections on the lancet windows…”

He stops himself, clears his throat.

“I'll leave you to it. If you need anything, don't be afraid to ask.”

He pivots, ready to traverse the lane, carried by a prudent, discreet gait, shoulders just a little stiff. Leaving behind a whiff of clean soap, clinging to the dark curls of his hair.

You can't help but call back to him, just as he's about to cross the fourth row of benches.

“What's the first?”

Stopping in his tracks, he blinks, slightly confused.

“Mmh?”

Your pen clicks against the pad.

“You said being boring was a clergyman's second worst fear. What's the first one?”

His uncertainty melts into a quizzical grin. Boyish, slightly enigmatic, almost elf-like. Whatever is about to come out of his mouth, you think, it might not be the truth. Aren't men of God forbidden to speak lies?

“Catching altar boys drinking the communion wine, probably,” he hums, humorous.

You can't help but smirk in response.

“Happens a lot, I gather?”

His head gives a light shake, a smile drawing dimples in his left cheek. Quite the smile, too. Strongly curved parentheses framing his mouth, warm, oddly familiar. Like an echo of other smiles, of a beloved childhood friend's, a nurturing uncle's, or a favorite cousin's. You can see why parishioners would trust him. It's the kind of grin that teases ease out of people, a desire to confide. Who knows what anyone else would do, with such a gift of a smile—perhaps it's a relief this one chose the cassock.

“Good luck with your research,” he amiably wishes, before making his way to the sacristy.

You don't think of the priest again until a few days later.

Timidly knocking on the very same door Father Jud disappeared through upon the first day of meeting him. You're looking to borrow a pen after forgetting or losing yours, that overchewed lucky charm.

The sacristy is a drab room, smelling stale and a little damp, a mixture of unaired textiles, varnished wood, burnt crackers, and, oddly, the faint, acrid afterscent of cigarettes. He's alone in there, answering your knock after a short beat. Eyes a little glassy, possibly preoccupied. He evulses any sign of aloofness as soon as the hinges creak, inviting you in, asking if you'd like some coffee—he just made some. Your eyes wander around while he fusses about. The preparation room is encumbered with heaps of stuff: mismatched teacups and glasses, markers missing their caps, books with worn-out covers, and a crumpled altar linen stained a deep burgundy red, awaiting to be salvaged.

He notices the way you examine the surroundings.

“This isn't all my doing, by the way,” he says about the mess. “Nearby clubs and activity groups in the parish meet up here for the time being. It's a little, ugh, modern.”

“I'm not judging.”

He invites you to sit and slides a ballpoint pen in your direction, along with a cup of steaming coffee. You contemplate his knuckles as he moves, just like you did last time. He has beautiful hands.

Fidgeting with the pen, you raise the drink to your lips.

“What is it you study, precisely?” he asks eventually, finally sitting down in turn.

You swallow before you reply, voice croaky from the heat of the beverage. It's awfully bitter.

“Religious iconography.”

The study of images and symbology in Christian art would be the complete phrasing, but that's just too many words. You always mechanically deliver the shortened version, used to people dropping the subject as early as it is socially authorized to do so.

His gaze shifts, head tilting, cooing out a soft “Oh”.

The topic could've ended here. It doesn't.

He understands your language.

It's simple, because it is his as well.

When he inquires about the figures in the colored glass, the ones that hold your academic interest, it's with an awareness that eludes the profane. Scenes of the Life of the Virgin Mary, Saint Catherine with her wheel, Mary Magdalene's river of flaxen hair—he knows them all. Of course he does. He interrogates you on the specimens exhibited in the aisles, details, features he could've missed. The shape of a leaf, a certain hand gesture—all those small things with meaning, locked in time, awaiting to be read, rediscovered. He offers you the same incandescent smile you've already seen him wear on that first day, stating that he'll need to go take a closer look when he can.

When you ask him which artist was commissioned for the crucifix, with an interest translating your admiration, he is struck, briefly, with the sin of pride. Glancing down to his mitts, marked from the woodworking. Even considering not telling you.

While he ponders, you notice the dark ink, its filigree-thin contrast on his skin, peeking out of his collar. A most unexpected attribute for a priest.

After you tease him, calling his silence an unfair act of gatekeeping, he surrenders the secret at last. You ask how he made the heart of the figure shine, this otherworldly glow that struck your pupil last morning.

There's a story behind that Christ sculpture. One he doesn't wish to share, for now.

So he tells you about the theology of light instead. About the ancient belief, constructed centuries ago by another holy man, conjecturing light as a divine messenger, its passage carefully thought and built into the architecture of churches, through refined windows, roses, translucent glass. Light as a means to exalt devotion in the hearts of the congregants. Light reaching through, the open palm of God.

“… Which is why it's so natural, I guess, to sense His presence in places like this,” he gestures to the doors leading back to the heart of the church. “Still, I'll admit, I find God just as perceptible in less consequential things.”

“Such as?”

“Oh. I don't know—” he chews on his cheek, suddenly bashful, “—someone's laughter. Moonshine on a pond. A cat galloping to greet you. I like to think all those have a touch of holiness to them.”

“Finding beauty in the mundane isn't the privilege of believers,” you point out, serious, mildly prickly.

He doesn't pick up on the drop of hostility straining your tone—if he does, he hides it well, or perhaps it simply doesn't bother him.

“You speak of beauty, while I talk of faith. But I agree with you. Rejoicing in His creation is not entitled to Christians—”

A knock on the door startles you both, pulling you out of the depths of your conversation. He has lost track of time, glancing at the clock with mild fright. A soft voice pushes through the door, calling for the Father. He quickly ushers you out, with a choice of words and manners devoid of rudeness that almost make you feel like the decision to leave was yours all along.

Priests, you soon learn, are even more sought after than doctors.

This priest, at least.

Father Jud knows he can't fix people. He cannot erase what has been done to them, what they have done to others, what they will do to themselves. It's a bittersweet certainty. Neither his hands nor his words are a cure. But they can be a salve, a balm. Soothing, bringing quiet in the noise, and an uncomplicated, unfastidious incarnation of love. His presence besides members of the community is stable, constant. It doesn't ask for anything in return. That's where he finds his purpose.

After a week or so, he grows used to the sight of your hunched posture in various spots of the church, concentration mistreating your spine.

He knows you're not a convert. Has known ever since he spoke to you in the sacristy.

But one day, you manage to stun him a little.

It happens a little before noon.

The rustling of your springy step resonates behind him, right after he's accompanied a parishioner back to the entrance of the church, a recent widower, still grief-bound and numb to the roaring of life around him. Father Jud whispers to him, “Call me when you need, I'll always answer,” squeezes his shoulder, watching him leave. The door shuts with a loud clangor.

He turns to look at you, your bag handle slung across your shoulder, a little sleepy-eyed, with ink-spotted hands.

After some meaningless small talk about the weather, you stifle a yawn.

“I've always found it a little ironic—” you comment, peering to the doorway, “—how one can speak to a priest and safely expect an answer but not receive the same from God. He's arguably the most important aspect of this religion. Yet the priests are the ones who listen and offer direct guidance.”

You're always so immersed in your task, he never thinks you might be paying attention to anything else, least of all his own endeavors. But you see the people who huddle in church with the hope of speaking to him, presenting him their woes for some, seeking company void of criticism and judgment for others. He contemplates you with a hint of uncertainty, intrigued by what you might be getting at.

“Could it mean some priests are more important than God?”

There it is, expressed with the muttering tone of hypothesis.

Father Jud stands silent. A brief frown, the slightest show of his stupefaction. There's much he could say, to refute your wandering supposition, but there's no time for him to articulate his thoughts.

“Sorry.” Your wince seems sincere. Then, with a quieter inflection, “It's probably blasphemy, to say this in a church.”

“We'll simply hope He was busy listening elsewhere when it happened,” he comments, in a friendly attempt to brush the matter off.

You chuckle at the not-so-funny statement, apologetic and amiable again.

From then on, your path crosses his more often. On your breaks, seemingly aspiring for a chattier counterpart to those silent figures occupying the windows and your attention most of the time. Announcing yourself through an excessively formal “Hello, Father”—solely for the impish joy of making him respond with that peculiar smirk, as if asking you for a little less dignified stiffness. Cordial isn't the word, to define your chats. You seldom take him by surprise now, the way you did that last time, but you enjoy this, the small jabs, curious as to how he'll react. He's not interested in fighting you on the subjects you present to him, never losing his temper, never curt or chafed in his speech, even when he disagrees with you.

And Father Jud and you disagree on many things.

But your world touches his nonetheless; you with the factual eye, probing the memory of civilizations past, their beliefs, their stories, and him, tasked with plucking out what matters from it, perpetuating it, weaving peace or hope with fragments of the myths. You open the past to decipher it; he is a vessel of that past and its ageless promise all in one, its safekeeper.

Religion seems archaic to you. Wasteful in this modern age, when solutions can be found elsewhere, easy replacements for the voice in the sky, rendering God obsolete. Therapy in lieu of confession, science supplanting miracles.

Father Jud giggles when you tell him all this, one late evening. You're so used to speaking to him in the safe constraint of the church, you're a little taken aback to find him sitting in the local bar, deep in conversation with the patrons, local parishioners. Basking in this meek, cordial radiance you cannot help but envy. There exists a roughness to his features, not quite pugnacious, but an edge, brash, slightly cutting. It's there, always, oddly balanced by the earnestness in his eyes, and that smile he greets you with, his gift, an invitation.

So he laughs upon receiving your theory. Not a mocking laugh, but the modest, resigned snicker of one who has heard this speech before. You're not the first skeptic he meets with such a contemporary stance.

“It's a pragmatic view. But don't you think it reduces faith to a simple tool? Something utilitarian, transactional?”

“Still, you have to admit it's a little irrational. Worshipping something—Someone—who isn't really there.”

“Why are you so sure He isn't?”

“How do you know He is?”

He doesn't get defensive about your rebuttals. Doesn't behave like he's arguing with you.

“That's what separates us—” he declares softly, luminously holding your gaze; and though he uses the term separate, it stands more as a request to get closer, a tug at your own mind, asking for permission to mirror it with a different perspective, “—I'm not interested in material proof of God's existence. You're looking to rationalize it, to explain it, but faith demands to be felt, not thought.”

The bar's prattle quiets down around you as the minutes slide by, and you're both still huddled near the counter, entangled in the exchange, slightly tilted towards each other, like conspirators. Father Jud doesn't touch his glass—or barely; it simply sits there like an ornament—and he's talking to you about religion and philosophy, briefly invoking the writings of Pascal, Kierkegaard or Kant, who stated that God could only be touched through faith and not the rational mind. He doesn't sound pretentious; that's the true miracle.

“I had no idea they taught Kant at the seminary,” you notice, sipping on your own drink, trying to forget the chemical warmth creeping up your face, lodged in your limbs.

“I'm absolutely not an expert,” he confesses, emphasis on the not, the tip of his index finger following the rim of the glass. Your eyes fall to that tattoo again, clasping the side of his neck, the tip of an image you can't quite make out. He catches you staring, forcing you to avert your attention. You look down your glass, cheeks flushed. “… But I find it best to come prepared,” he finishes his sentence, with a slant dimple in his cheek, leading you to believe he knows what you were briefly focused on.

“Prepared against who?” you joke, covertly changing the subject. “The hordes of heretics?”

He holds a quaint expression, half-grinning, half-pursing his lips—happens each time he feels you coming at him with some hidden scalpel, ready to poke his mind. He's never met anyone as intent on dissecting him, on rattling what composes his box of thoughts.

“I already know you don't believe in God.” He hums, not in an accusatory tone—he never does that—it's the simple statement of a fact. “What holds your faith then?”

Your fingers drum an imaginary tune on the sticky counter.

“How do I answer that? Like some five-year-old child, that I believe in love and friendship?”

“We all believe in something, don't we? Even the cynical and down-to-earth. Love and friendship aren't such silly concepts to put your faith in… Five-year-olds are wise like that sometimes.”

He simply has an answer for everything.

The next day, back at church, you inquire about his favorite passage from the Bible.

He already knows how critical you are of the good book. Many historians are. The magic evaporates as soon as they walk backstage, armed with the analytic eye, pulling out the magnifying glass to see the seams loosely coming apart. Ideas redacted by ghosts who arranged and rearranged traces of the divine in order to fit dogmas of their antiquated times and corrupted spirits.

The word of God, tainted by the hands of man.

“There's plenty,” he muses. “It's hard to just pick one.”

“Indulge me.”

He has a way of looking at you when you ask him questions like this. Flushed but mellow, like you're a small frog perched on the tip of his shoe that he isn't quite sure how to safely nudge back onto the grass without harming.

He scratches the thin stubble on his cheeks before picking a Bible out of a deranged pile of liturgical texts stacked on a table in the sacristy.

The volume smells of apricot jam. Ochre, child-like fingerprints color some of its pages.

He opens it, taps an underlined paragraph with his thumb.

“Here. It's a nice one.”

He relaxedly pushes the Bible between your hands, digits brushing yours during a fleeting instant. Your eyes scan over the first sentence, shooting a puzzled glance at him next.

“Read it. Trust me.”

On this request, he leans against the wall near the window, hands joined in his back, hips relaxed in a stance that's almost graceful.

With knitted brows, obedient for once, you begin to read aloud.

“Love is patient and kind; it is not jealous or conceited or proud; love is not ill-mannered or selfish or irritable; love does not keep a record of wrongs…”

He watches your lips move, your voice shaping the verse he has read and reread himself countless times before. Focused on how you might accentuate one word and not another. Rediscovering the text through your own exploration.

“There are gifts of speaking in strange tongues, but they will cease; there is knowledge, but it will pass. For our gifts of knowledge and of inspired messages are only partial; but when what is perfect comes, then what is partial will disappear…”

You briefly look up to him. He seems caught in the flow of the sentences, reflective, as one would listening to a piece of music they grew up with.

“Meanwhile these three remain: faith, hope and love; and the greatest of these is love.”

After a lull, you inhale deeply.

“Are you showing me this because of what I said yesterday?”

The Bible closes shut, pushing towards your nose delicate aromas of the lingering sweet snack some child must've forgotten between the chapters.

When you gesture to give it back, he shakes his head lightly.

“Keep it. Hard to believe, but I've got a few more copies lying around,” he playfully points out.

Before you disappear, through the slim gap of the door, you hurriedly tell him:

“You're right. It is a nice one.”

And so you're gone, too fast to catch satisfaction tinging his cheekbones.

Father Judd anticipates your conversations. A brand new habit, casually slipped into his daily schedule. He likes the way you skip up to him, tapping gently on whatever lies nearest each time to announce yourself—he startles easily when you don't, it seems. You're not sure if he realizes how good he is at picking little truths out of people. Effortless and lenient while doing so. The spell works on you more than once, shrouds you in comfort, closeness, understanding, and you fall silent mid-sentence after a while, offering him a quizzical look, admitting, I see what you've done here.

You turn the tables around when you can. Asking him about books he's read, where he lived in New York, how he found his vocation, if he picked up carpentry as a result of it. People often react a certain way, with pinched unease, when he tells them about what happened when he was seventeen, the event that led him down the path of the church. It's something he speaks about with a disarming deliverance. Wearing his heart on his sleeve.

Inevitably, your discussions will turn to God. When it happens, he wonders how you'll attempt to duel him this time. It's a one-sided fight, if anything. Perhaps you perceive this as a joust, a game of chess, most frustrating to you, since your opponent doesn't move any of his pieces, simply describing them instead. In his eyes, this isn't about winning or losing or displaying any sort of mastery in rhetoric. It's simpler, so much simpler. A friction of minds, invigorating him. Galvanizing his faith.

At night, brushing his teeth, reading, or lying in bed, he'll think of those dialogues, replaying them, wondering how he should've said this and not that, could've formulated a conviction more eloquently, afraid of being misunderstood.

You creep up in his prayer one time. Another after that, then a third. Your name blossoms into a recurrent sound on his tongue.

“I didn't know priests went to confession too.”

It's the middle of the afternoon, the ninth hour, and you're both sitting outside, under the skirts of fussing, ominous clouds. He's taking a break from his upcoming homily while you escape the claustrophobic grayness overflowing the transept. A most delightful form of procrastination.

“Of course,” he confirms. “We sin just like everyone else.”

“Sounds superfluous at best,” you grunt. “What could a priest possibly have to atone for…”

The sentence comes out much more noxious and condescending than you'd hoped. It rings through your ears like a shrill heckle, making you shake your head, irritated by your own behavior. It's unbearable; you don't even like the people who talk like that, like they know better and aren't interested in rebalancing what they've taken for granted.

“I'm… That sucked. Forgive me.”

He leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees. His expression hidden from you.

“Don't fret it. I've received meaner punches back in my day.” Spoken like he's verging on his hundredth year of life.

You take advantage of the fact that he can't see you. Gazing at the nape of his neck, where little dark locks gather and swirl, bouncier than apostrophes. You want to reach forward, want to touch them. And his shoulders, how they always seem just slightly hunched, like his body's constantly trying to apologize for taking space, for standing just a little too towering in comparison to others.

“How do you do it?” you ask gently. “Nothing ever seems to bother you.”

He proves you wrong immediately. Swiveling, his eyes shooting to meet yours, brows tense, as if you'd just proclaimed your decision to get baptized.

“Is that what you think?” he asks, incredulous. “That nothing bothers me?”

Just as abruptly, the skies tear open with a rumble.

Pudgy drops crash onto the grass, maculating the stone bench, licking your faces and limbs. He pushes a suspiciously spontaneous curse word into the dampening air, and while you stifle a laugh, you both dishevelledly run back to the church porch.

Petrichor penetrates the breeze, dispersed out of muddy grounds, fresh and nostalgic. From the refuge under the lintel, Father Jud inhales the scent deeply. Brushing himself off that water still speckling his hair.

You remember a cluster of words he used your first week here. God's presence in the inconsequential. You wonder, looking at him, if that's what he's doing now, watching God through the lincel of scintillating water, shrubs changed into jewels by drizzling alchemy; all of it hiding an everlasting, mystical love.

“I've thought about what you said last time,” you dare to speak, pulling his attention to you. “When you asked what I believed in, if not God...”

Your hand whips the air softly. Gathering your words or reaching for something otherworldly and transcendental—he isn't quite sure.

“The church is perfect. The sculptures—that Jesus effigy you made. The colored figures in the glass. They're perfect, so we don't have to be.”

Your fingers run over the knotwork mimicking foliage that decorates the door.

“And they're all man-made things. I suppose I believe in that, you know? This… ability, to transcend our own nature. To make things better than what we are. You'll say that it's God, of course; I wouldn't even know how to name it exactly. Maybe it's inspiration. Or hope. It doesn't matter. I believe in it, whatever this is.”

You can see the weather flicker in the millpond of his irises, the brief moment it lingers on you. Father Jud turns away at last, and you both stand without another word, watching the rain, listening to its soft pitter-patter.

He steps closer to you. You almost miss it. This guarded move, one prudent step. The skewed shadow his body casts on the uneven ground blends with yours. Right hand gingerly stealing up to your face, attentive not to startle you. Fingers trembling.

You close your eyes.

The pad of his thumb catches the raindrops lingering on your lashes. Featherlight. Gliding down, he wipes the water off your cheekbone, an imperceptible stroke.

As daintily as they began, his knuckles recede. Hand tugged back to his chest, splayed on his sweater-clad chest. Like it's trying to erase itself of what just happened, this surreptitious incident.

“I think—”, he grasps for a proper sentence. “I think—and I mean this with… the utmost regard… It would be best if we didn't speak, for some time. Anymore.”

His stammered words fall with the same staccato as the rain, skittish, disorienting.

You feel lightheaded in a bad way. Your mouth opens, but he stops you with a raised hand, a broken imitation of a Christ-like open palm, the gesture of blessing.

“No—don't.”

Those eyes, the same color as rain battered grasslands, quietly begging you.

“Don't say you don't know what I'm talking about. Please.”

His arm drops back to his side.

“You're welcome to finish your work. But I'd be grateful if you just—” he sucks in a sharp breath, “—stick to that.”

He leaves you there, with your mouth agape, petrified, while he furiously scurries off in the rain. Piercing through the line of trees towards the rectory, paying no attention to the gushing downpour. Miserable and lost and a little in love with you, sparked with that same incomprehensible fondness he keeps for the scent of freshly cut pine wood, the stained glass that has captivated you, or that verse from Corinthians he has committed to memory and heart.

Night falls, and with it comes anger. A small amount of it directed at God.

He wants to punch something, blame someone, he isn't sure who, maybe himself.

Mostly himself.

His fists clench and unclench. How did this happen? Why did this happen? It crept up on him like a vicious cold. Now there's no sweating out the fever.

That following week, though you never found the chance to make the promise, you keep to what he has asked of you.

Your eyes lurk in before you pass the narthex, checking the church pews, ensuring yourself of his absence. You do this every time you enter.

Five more days before you fly home, leaving Chimney Rock for good. It can be done. You can manage.

It's the last stretch of the morning, an indolent, sluggish hour. People are more concerned with what they'll have for lunch than whether they should come to church light a votive candle.

A purposely picked moment.

Which is why you're not supposed to run into him. Not while turning the corner to reach the path, nearly sent reeling from the blow of the collision. Maybe it's God's nasty sense of humour. The strong wall of the northern flank of the church eats you both in its shadow. Too bad it can't make you disappear.

You both stand, facing each other, like future roadkill trapped in car lights. Not sure which is which.

Father Jud's under eyes bloom a mean purple, stains upon his wan complexion, signs he hasn't slept at all. His trousers are crumpled, a pale powder, thinner than dust, smudging the fabric. His sleeves are tucked up to his elbows. There's another tattoo, on his forearm, one you hadn't noticed before.

Taking a harsh breath.

“I'm just leav—”

Your shoulders are smashed against the sturdy stones.

He hasn't shaved, his stubble grazes your cheeks when he kisses you. A scattered, almost painful collide of mouths and teeth, stealing what remained of air in your lungs. His clothes smell of the eternal white cotton soap, but his body exhales something arboreal, musky; of timber and metal mixed with sweat. His fingers grip your shoulders, slide up the side of your neck, nails scraping your jaw.

It's too early in the day, to be this drunk on someone's touch.

The buckle of his belt etches its harsh outline in your waist while your fingers grip his back, exhorting him closer. His tongue pushes yours and against all reason and dignity, you moan into the kiss.

A cool current.

Your bodies separate.

Your lower lip hurts. And that spot on your elbow too, abraded by the stone you're still leaned against.

Father Jud's eyes are still fixed on you. On your lips. His own now crudely reddened, his pupils shot with an impossible shine. Holding one hand slightly lifted, like someone realizing they've just shattered a porcelain vase.

For a split second, in between raspy breaths, it seems like he's about to say something to you. Eventually, his eyes flicker to the tufted grass. Only capable of murmuring a flimsy “I'm sorry.”

It rings in your ear like an insult.

You're the one who flees this time. Pissed off and muddled with humiliation, damning the church, its windows, God, but most of all the priest.

Five days, and you'll be going away for good.

Five days later, you've finished scrubbing the tiny cottage you've rented for the duration of your stay. Keys awaiting to be returned, laundry folded, your almost done-and-packed suitcase slumped in the path between the open kitchen and the living room.

Ponderous clouds throng the sky outside your windows, drowning all last remnants of blue. You watch as rain sinks into the sidewalk, splashing the quaint gardens of the neighborhoods, ready to swell into a storm.

There's a quick thumping on your door.

Glancing through the curtains cloaking the doorlight, you regret moving at all once you recognize the willowy silhouette standing on the front steps.

You could, of course, creep back into the home, feign your absence. But he knocks again, and for some reason, pretending you've ceased to exist isn't an option anymore.

The locks turn with a melodious clatter. Door sliding open just a little, enough to frame you in the thin gap, almost like you don't want him to see where you've lived during the past weeks.

“Hello, Father.”

Your tone isn't formal now, nor incorrigible like it used to be, when saluting him. It's just a bundle of neutral words.

“Hi.”

He appears a little sounder than the last time you saw him. Ironed shirt and pants, not sawdust-strewn anymore; the clerical collar shining like some ironic lighthouse in the sea of all black. Father Jud licks his lips, his thumbnail scratching the handle of his umbrella.

“I was hoping to talk. Can I come in?” he inquires.

“I don't think that's a good idea.”

He tries to speak again, but you're quick to cut him off.

“Let me put this in better terms: I'm not interested in being the source of anyone's guilt.”

“That's—” he stammers, “—that's fine, and I respect it. It's just—I biked here, but now it's raining cats and dogs, and I don't think it'll stop until the next—” he looks around, assessing the flooding menace, “—half-hour, or something.”

“A half-hour isn't that long.”

In the murky pond of his eyes, you spot a flotsam of distress. There's something heart wrenchingly winsome about him. Always has been. Especially now, spindly silhouette with shoulders dotted in rainwater, that poor carcass of an umbrella hanging over his head.

Charity seizes you by the scruff.

This is a mistake, whispers the seraphim on your shoulder.

“Fine. One cup of tea.”

“Thank you,” he sighs in relief.

He's standing in the middle of your kitchen. Sheepishly glancing around, unsure what to do with himself. You've refused his help—it's just boiling water; doesn't take four hands and two brains to conjure up.

“Are you leaving?” he asks upon noticing the sulking suitcase, still stuck in its corner.

“Yes.”

He marks a pause.

“You've finished your paper already?”

You hum, meaning no. Clumsily rummaging through the cabinets, wondering where you've left the last box of decent tea bags.

“I don't have the proper documentation here; I'll finish at home.”

Another way of stating you haven't mustered the courage to walk back into the church at all. All this, just to have him directly seek you out at home. You wonder if his scent will linger long in the room, after he leaves. You never thought cotton could smell so heady.

“Please sit down,” you mumble. “You're hovering, it makes me queasy.”

He pulls up a chair to the kitchen table, its feet scraping the linoleum.

“I hope you haven't been avoiding the church because of what happened.”

Discerning, he certainly is. Always so frustratingly discerning. That's a trait the angels weren't stingy on, while bringing it to his crib.

You smack the spoon drawer shut. Leaning against the countertop.

“What did you come here for? You didn't really say.”

“To talk to you. I want to apologize.”

His bony index finger scratches his forehead. When he speaks again, it's in a gentler tone. Meditative.

“Remember when I told you being boring was my second worst fear?” He wasn't serious then. But he is now. “You asked me what my first one is, and—” he shakes his head, waving like none of this matters, “—I don't even recall what I said back then. But, the truth is, I think it's something like this.”

A movement, short and vague, yet so damn eloquent: his index finger, travelling from him to you.

The low hiss of the kettle begins rattling the air. His wrist falls, glare fixed on his fingernails. Speaking feels difficult, each word a little too large as it passes through his gullet.

“You never think those things can happen until they do.” His voice, almost reduced to a dwindling streak. “And when it does…”

He looks up from his bruised knuckles, encasing you in his gaze.

He doesn't realize how long he looks at you like this. The exact same way you do when sitting before the stained glass. Like he does, after dawn, alone in the nave, waiting for the precise moment the sun reveals itself through the windows of the sanctuary.

You pivot to halt the screeching of the kettle. The spell is severed.

“Maybe I should go now.”

“It's still raining.”

He stands regardless.

“Thanks for the tea.”

“You didn't have a drop,” you blankly point out, in a feeble voice.

You precede him in the vestibule nonetheless, a bad taste of deja vu souring your mouth—his slender silhouette, black and navy blue, disappearing into the deluge.

Your fingers stiffen around the doorknob. A piece of somber weather slithers in through the passage.

His hand covers yours. The door falls back into its frame with a rattle.

“I recognized you. Ever since we first spoke. How is that possible? How do you explain it?”

Recognition, meaning familiarity. An admission of inborn closeness. As he imagines Adam, the first man, would've recognized his missing rib.

“Don't talk about God here,” you warn, sensing where this wind might turn. Your voice shrouds itself in cool admonition, concealing what lies under. “If you want to stay, leave Him at the doorstep.”

“I can't do that.” His voice drops to a whisper. A sweetness lingers on his breath, caressing your face. Syrupy, botanical. You imagine him, nervously chewing on honey drops, the ones shaped like round hives the size of pennies—wishing they'd soothe not just some benign throat pain, but whatever flows further below, nestled in his ribcage.

Gently, ever so gently, his fingers rearrange yours, unclenching them from the knob until they rest in his hand. You can't look up. Your attention remains fixed on his collar—lily-white, perfect, unsullied. Sitting right beneath that black lace of ink, close to his pulse, a patch of skin you're desperate to kiss.

You're incapable of distinguishing who is speaking to you in that moment.

Priest or man. Maybe both.

“I feel closer to Him when I'm with you,” he murmurs.

Not quite a confession. It lacks the weight of remorse.

You frown, eyes trailing up; his gaze catches yours, holds it like a chalice.

“How does it even make sense?”

“I don't know. I don't know,” he exhales.

His lips ghost over yours. Breathings merging. He smells so deeply of the rain, loosely doused curls trickling against your forehead.

With great difficulty, you steer him back a little.

“You can still go,” a soft reminder. “I'll understand.”

“At my last confession—” his palm encases the nape of your neck, drawing you back to him, nose brushing the shell of your ear, “—I said that I've been distracted. That I've found myself wanting for what I can't have, what I shouldn't even think to have. Neglected the congregation, people in need... People I want to help, to whom I want to bring Christ's love.”

Your jointed shapes jaggedly step away from the front door. Stumbling down the corridor, still clutching each other. Afraid, nervous. Wanting.

“But I couldn't tell the truth. And I couldn't pray it away. I only made it worse.”

Your absence only made it worse.

“You remind me why I do all this. What it's for. You just do.”

His breathing hastens. Fingers pushing into your waist. You feel tipsy, electric, with his finger swiftly pulling down the strap of your top to trace your clavicle. Large hands on your body, reverendly mapping you, like you're made of glass.

The taste of salving candy lingers on his tongue, shared with yours when he kisses you at last. Communion.

You run your fingers through his hair, coaxing him closer. Ankles almost tangling with his while you guide him down the hall, nearly losing balance, gripping the notch of his jacket at the last minute. He removes the jacket, shaking the flimsy sleeves until everything falls to the floor.

The bedroom door slams against the wall when it swings open—you'll need to check later that it hasn't made a dent.

The hems of his shirt hang untucked from his pants. His belt loops onto the ground with a metallic twinkle. Your fingers halt as they're about to unbutton his shirt, and he spots your mild panic, the eyes on his throat. Struck with a certain tenderness for you, once he understands the origin of your hesitance.

He removes the clerical collar himself. Preciously setting it onto the small console table nearby. It doesn't make sense; it shouldn't mean anything to you, but you're holding your breath as you watch him. He turns himself over to you next. Finishing what he started. The tank top is hurled over your head. He does the same with your jeans, fidgeting with the button, undoing the zipper.

Scabbed-over lesions pattern Father Jud's knuckles, like they've ruthlessly been bashed onto a robust surface. You notice this with wrinkled brows, reaching to pull his hands away from the task of undressing you.

“What happened here?”

He improvises.

“Candle holder fell. It's not important.”

He's about to distract you from further questions, but you're bringing his hands to your lips, kissing the abrasions, kissing those hands that can mold wood, that offer drinks or tissues, that pat shoulders or other hands, hands that pull out weeds and pick up the phone at three in the morning to pray with tormented insomniacs. Hands that give more than they take.

You lend his fingers back to him with a grin and he collects it, stunned, smitten with you. Bending down, he frees you of the sheathing denim, pulling the trouser legs to slide your knees out of them, one after the other, until you're almost naked, slightly shivering—though not from the cold.

“I can't believe how much stuff you're wearing,” you gently fuss, unveiling the tee-shirt stowed beneath his black shirt. “Do you really get that cold?”

Your rambling makes him wonder.

“Are you nervous or something?”

It's a little unbelievable that he's the one asking this. But it feels impossible to lie to him. The tee-shirt joins the rest of the heaped clothes at the foot of the bed.

“This is probably an intrusive question—” you almost choke on the words from how fast you're pushing them out, thinking the sooner you do, the sooner the embarrassment will subdue, “—but, have you… have you done this before?”

He doesn't seem to understand. When it finally dawns on him, he bites his cheek, swallowing a smile, on the verge of a nervous snicker.

“I wasn't always a member of the clergy, you know. But honestly, it's been a long time since I've—” your fingers nudge him carefully, making him recline on your bed; he props himself up on his elbows, finishing his sentence in a raspy tone, “—since I've done this, yeah.”

You straddle him, hips hovering over his, not quite touching each other.

“Let's take it slow then.”

“Fine by me,” he coos.

He sits up and reaches around you, unclasping your bra, letting it flop down onto his lap. By instinct, you want to shield yourself behind crossed arms, but he's already moving ahead of you. His knuckles graze the side of your breast, one thumb contemplatively following its curve.

You let him do this almost a whole minute, gulping down whatever it stirs in you, until you can't take it anymore and push onto his shoulders to give yourself a breather. His irises consider you curiously while you help him out of his underwear.

“Sorry,” you stutter, upon realizing you've literally just smacked his hand away when he tried to do the same, fingers dipping into the waistband of your panties. “It's just, you're making me really—”

His proximity feels fucking sweltering.

“At any point in this,” you explain, “if you don't want—”

“Hey—” he thrusts himself back up, “I'm here of my own free will.”

His palm cups the side of your face.

“You said we'd go slow,” he reminds you. “Let's go slow.”

He lies back down, tugging you along so you're nestled against him, catching your lips with his in a slow, deliberate kiss. One hand curving around the back of your neck, the other reaching down rubbing your spine. Making out with you until your body unstiffens, prying you out of your own nest of briars and nerves.

You're astonished he's still here. Letting you touch him, letting him touch you. It all seems like a hazy dream. Your mind stills at last, exiting the fight or flight mode.

Parting away from his mouth with a wet sound, you lower yourself a little, your hand slipping over his lean form, flat stomach, coarse black hair climbing up to his navel. Digits bumping his protruding iliac bone, brushing gingerly against his length. When you take him in your hand, your eyes travel back up to him. Exploring his features. Feeling him twitch against your palm and his hips wavering forward, subconsciously begging you. After a bundle of mist-soft kisses peppered down his stomach, your breath hitches atop his erection.

“Can I?”

“Yeah.”

He exhales so quietly, you barely catch the word.

Your tongue follows the trail of a sinuous vein, the fragile texture on this sensitive, conceiled part of him, and his head rolls back, Adam's apple motioning as he swallows harshly. Has such a hard time, staying focused on you when it feels like you're scattering stars under his skin, mouth warming his tip, a little further, a little more, your hand gripping him with enough firmness to set ablaze every single nerve in that region.

“You're—” a ragged breath, “—pretty good at this.”

People spurt strange declarations when pleasure heats their core and muddles their reason. All things considered, this isn't too bad.

“You know, I'm never sure whether that's a compliment,” you retort in a light voice.

He laughs. You bite your lip before pressing a soft peck onto his thigh.

Switching between your mouth and your hands, uncertain what he seems to be responding to best, trying out combinations until the melody of his breath changes, wildly losing composure.

You think he's close. It's difficult to tell. Your tongue's too busy anyway to inquire about it. He sits perfectly rigid between your lips, slick with a blend from his own arousal and your mouth. Your face pulls back, searching for air, but your fingers keep building the tension. You want to watch him. His muscles hard and edged with pleasure, his chest rising and falling, that hand of his, the one with the inked forearm, loosely clutching the side of your face.

He whispers your name. Fingers stiffening in your hair.

He pulsates in your palm next. Gravelous moans replacing the rumble of the weather outside, spellbinding. You keep on stroking him, preserving the same pressure that brought him to the verge. His spent lightens your collarbones, trickles down your right breast.

You wait for him next, for him to climb down from the clouds. Nails grazing his thighs gently. Eventually, his eyelids flutter open. There's a stretched, unhurried silence.

He tries to catch his breath before his eyes travel over to you, rolling back up, not quite back into your realm yet.

“Where's the bathroom?” he croaks after two minutes or so.

You're a little taken aback.

“Door over there.”

He vanishes from your touch, and you lie on your back, limbs akimbo, eyes fixed on the ceiling.

Shit.

He's going to walk out of there now, you realize, building the upcoming sequence in your head, trying to prepare yourself. He'll say he has to go, pick his clothes up, get dressed, and leave.

You think of the morning he kissed you for the first time, the woeful glance, the desperate “I'm sorry”.

This was always going to happen.

The door squeaks. He reappears, towel in hand. The mattress sinks as he kneels next to you. It startles you when he begins to run the fabric across your skin, your chest, where traces of him still linger. He's dampened the cloth with warm water first, cleaning you now with almost ceremonious heed.

“You don't need to… do this.” You're not sure what else to say.

He lets out a soft puff. You're right, he doesn't need to. But he wants to.

When he finishes, he casts the towel aside, his face lingering above yours. One palm lying flat on your stomach.

“I don't think we're done yet,” he observes. Instilling in you nothing but the purest trust you could ever offer someone.

He drags the elastic band of your underwear down, finishing what you prevented him from doing earlier. Digits slithering down your pelvis, curving to part the petal-soft flesh.

Your fingertips extend towards him, softly tracing over the tattoo on his forearm before wrapping around his wrist. Barely guiding him, only giving a soft nudge, a lax pointer, so his fingers press where you like.

“Here?” he whispers.

“Here.”

With focused eyes, he begins working you up. Attentive to the way you squirm and bite your tongue. When a sudden moan breaks through your lips, he repeats what elicited the cry. Quick, small circles. Languid motions, drawing back and forth. Your arousal coats his long fingers, warm and glossy.

He knows more about what he's doing than he's let on.

You let go of his wrist to clasp the comforter. His mouth lowers to your chest, tongue teasing your erect nipple. Catching its bud between his lips, giving it the most delicate nibble.

“Oh, f—please do that again,” you whimper.

So he does, indulgent, compliant. His mouth keeps brushing your upper body, reaching lower, lower, lower. Your eyes are closed, but you sense his weight shift around the bed. His bulk settled between your legs, one hand kneading the back of your thigh.

When he eats you out, his speed, his tension, he adjusts, alters, changes with the sounds you make. Quick flickers of his tongue that almost make you cry. Middle finger pumping into you, true to your agreement of keeping things slow—even if it's only to sow frustration in you—until he inserts his ring finger, pushing knuckles deep, curling them slightly, inflicting a mind-stilling caress.

You're certain of it now. He knows so much more than he's let on.

A familiar heat spreads from your core. The tapping of rain on the window melts into a hallucination of angelic chatter.

“Jud. I'm gonna—”

It's the first time you verbally slip, sputtering only his first name, disrobing it of prefix and title. He doesn't have any time to focus on that, to ponder on its meaning.

The very next second, something uncoils between your hips.

You come on his tongue, on his fingers, your muscles squeezing tight around him. He doesn't stop, doesn't slow down, transmuting the initial crash into a wave of pure bliss, and you're sobbing euphoria, all your thoughts scattered, useless.

“Hey,” sluggishly calling to him, once you get your voice back, with slight disbelief, “you're pretty good at this too.”

He shakes his head at your nonsense, amused.

Taking care of you has gotten him hard again. His erection teases your thigh while he climbs back atop you, his knees poking the back of yours. Your thumb contours his lips, hands framing his face next, absorbing the heat he exudes.

“I don't have protection,” you signal, still panting, hit by the harrowing realization.

He obviously isn't carrying any around either.

“How far's the nearest drugstore?” he leisurely asks, and you burst out laughing.

Some things are simply universally comical, and a priest buying condoms might fit into the list.

He isn't serious, of course, but still. You grab the back of his neck, pulling him in for a kiss. Feels like overheat, when you're close like this, sweat gathering between your chests and stomachs.

Your lower body arches up. Trying to meet him. His hand finishes the gesture, pressed on the small of your back, slotting you against his pelvis.

Lewd sounds densen the air of the room, hard skin on soft flesh. He looks down to where your bodies touch. Only touching. A prologue to an act he can't bring himself to finish, the line that he can't breach. It maddens him, how perfectly your lower lips shape the side of his length, your hips swirling to meet his in this captivating, hypnotic motion. As enthralling the sight, he can't watch you forever. His resolve would break.

“I want you so much,” you sob.

“I know,” he heaves back.

Planting a love bite in the side of your neck to make up for it. If he doesn't come soon, he knows he'll end up slipping through, joining your bodies for good, raw and utterly careless.

You want to memorize every shape of the muscles in his back, the rolling motion of his shoulder blades beneath your fingers, the steady bumps of his spine.

God, that friction.

Your hand snugly presses him, massaging him between your core and your palm. The pressure on your clit is perfect. Meticulous, almost torturously slow, trying not to push too fast, too far.

“Fuck, this is—” he gasps, struggling to finish the sentence.

He takes over your grasp, his hand stabilizing himself against you.

“Are you close again?” he wonders.

You nod passionately.

“Do you wanna get there together?”

“Yeah.”

He hums his approval. Grinding a little faster against you, bucking his hips forward.

“I'm almost there,” you whimper.

“I'm gonna…” he begins to warn.

“Just a little more. A little more.”

“'Kay,” lips burrowing into your neck, embracing patience, directing himself so he keeps rubbing your clit. “A little more.”

Swept up in ecstasy, time stills when you break apart against each other. Holding with nails, teeth sinking into each other, almost afraid of being yanked from one another. Flesh puffed and muscles sore from the jittery movement, you're incapable of a single move. The tiny room feels damp, its air congested and scalding.

His body drops on top of yours, relaxed and heavy. Skin slick with sweat, burdened with reddening patches that will prove difficult to explain, should anyone actually come to notice it.

You're not sure how many seconds elapse before he budges again. You've lost all track of time.

“Oh, shit, I'm smothering you,” he mumbles.

“No, no you're not,” you giggle.

Like ivy, his arms encircle you, catching you in a tightening embrace. Tendrils of dark brown hair tickle your chin.

“When are you leaving?” he hums into your collarbone.

“Tonight. ”

“Do you know if you might…”

His voice falls hushed.

“No,” you admit, because there's no point in lying. No point in pretending whatever just happened could ever exist again outside this room, outside this precise moment. “I don't think there's a reason for me to come back someday.”

Another odd silence. Could almost hear an angel stretch its wings.

“You know I can't—” he begins.

“I know. I would never ask that.”

Your fingers pinch a solitary eyelash on his cheekbone, discarding it without making a wish.

“You don't have to stay. I understand if you're needed elsewhere,” you assure.

He should go. But having to and wanting to are very different things.

“I'm not. Unless you want me to leave.”

“No.”

“Mmh. Good.”

“If there's some time, maybe you can tell me about this.”

Your finger grazes his neck tattoo. He scratches it like a mosquito bite, and you feel the rising of his cheekbone when he smiles, poking you.

“I'll tell you. Whatever you want to know. But, let's just—”

He slides himself off you, now flushed against your flank, one leg caressing yours and arm still wrapped around your waist. His nose teases your temple.

“Let's just stay like this. A little while longer.”

You'll never know, whether God sits somewhere in the room, or if He left on his tippy toes a moment ago, bashful yet softened, bringing gossip back to the Heavens about His endearing mess of a son.

If you are to imagine this God, you want to picture Him loving, forgiving, just like that man in your arms: Father Jud and the pond-blue eyes, the tousled hair and fervent heart, his peaceful restlessness, imperfect enthusiasm, and those coarse hands, delectably tender when they're running across your skin.

event horizon noun ASTRONOMY a notional boundary around a black hole beyond which no light or other radiation can escape. a point of no return.

Uni felt different at eighteen, when everything was about moving out, drinking beer at frat parties, and kissing boys who didn’t grow up in the same town you did. It was an exciting time, the degree itself fading into the background of all sorts of new experiences, but now that you’re doing your masters, you plan on focusing on your your grades more than on partying.

You enrolled in a new university, farther away from home, with a better physics program, and although you’ve grown up considerably, you still feel that tingle of anxiety you did when you first walked to your dorm, fresh out of high school. This time you won’t have to share with another student, spending your saved money on a bit of privacy that is a single dorm room, but still, you wonder if you’ll make friends here, or if you’ll spend your night hauled up alone, watching trash TV and crying because you’re lonely.

The room is small, blank, but functional with a bathroom you share with another student and a small kitchenette, and immediately you dream of all the ways you could decorate it. You didn’t bring much, just a big suitcase and a few boxes your Dad dropped off earlier. You feel slightly guilty for leaving your parents behind, but the relief outweighs the guilt – you won’t have to come home every Sunday for dinner, visits will be scarce. You love you parents, but the distance is much needed.

You get to unpacking your clothes, reveling in the fact that you can listen to music without headphones in your very own space. You could do it in your underwear, or naked, you could sing and dance along, and nobody would be bothered by it. It’s going to be a tough two years, the program you chose more than challenging, but a childish sort of giddiness fills you – no roommate to be considerate of, no parents to visit and take care of every week. This time in your life is about you, and only you – your career, but also your well-being. You promise yourself to do what makes you happy, instead of looking out for everyone else all of the time, and you’ll start by ordering Thai food and watching the trashiest movie with the hottest actors you can find on the little flatscreen you brought with you.

***

Your first lecture is Computational Physics – the one you’re looking forward to the least. The reason you decided to study physics at all was the predictable logic behind each problem, but the more you studied, the more complex the problems got, until they were impossible to solve analytically. Now you get to solve fluid dynamic equations and simulate quantum systems on a Monday morning instead of having a peaceful cup of coffee and taking a walk around campus.

The lecture hall is big, and you pick a seat that is neither too far away to be able to read the professor’s notes, nor close enough to immediately be pinned as an over-eager teacher’s pet. In the end, you plop down next to a girl who’s sitting alone, something about her shaved head and countless earrings making you think she wouldn’t make fun of you even if you didn’t understand a single thing all lecture.

"Okay if I sit here?", you ask somewhat timidly, trying hard not to sound too much like an eleven year old Ron Weasley boarding the train to Hogwarts.

"Please," the girl answers, "I don’t know anybody here."

"Did you move here, too?"

"Yeah, I’m from New York."

"You look it," you say with a smile, eyes drifting over her clothes and jewelry.

"Thanks…I guess?", she answers, her grin revealing a charming gap between her front teeth. "I’m Alva."

You introduce yourself, thankful to have found someone you can stick to already. Throughout the lecture you find out that apart from being much cooler than everyone else in the room, Alva has a biting sense of humor, and a near endless knowledge of computational physics. You make a mental note to ask her to study together, her explanations much easier to understand than the professor’s.

The two of you spend your lunch break together, and you tell her a little bit about yourself, but way too soon it’s time to go already – you have Advanced Quantum Mechanics in a different lecture hall. This you find way more interesting, basic quantum mechanics was one of your favorite lectures during your bachelor’s degree. As Alva and you sit down, you find yourself hoping you’ll be able to help her out this time, or you’d feel like a leech for making her help you with Computational. She doesn’t seem bothered, though, and keeps babbling happily about a band she recently discovered.

"– Britpop, but they only put out two albums. I think they were like a student band or something? They’re wildly underrated, I’ll send you a song, their debut is called The Sun Is Often Out."

Your thoughts start to wander off a little, eyes drifting over the old-fashioned chalkboards, when the door at the front of the lecture hall opens, and a tall man walks in – a man you recognize.

"Holy shit," you whisper, interrupting Alva’s rant about the Longpigs, and she turns her head to look at what you’re staring at.

"Damn," she says with a grin, "if I wasn’t gay, I’d want a piece of that."

"No," you snort, "I know him. He’s my Dad’s friend."

Alva opens her mouth to say something, but at that moment, Joel Miller steps forward, checking to see if the microphone is working, and introduces himself to the hundreds of students in front of him. His voice is deep, and as warm as you remember it, but that’s where the accuracy of your memories ends – your childish brain failed to register the tanned forearms and rolled up sleeves, the carelessly styled curls, the perfect side-profile. He’s got grey streaks in his hair now, which should send you into a crisis about time passing and your own little life being finite, but instead it makes your stomach swirl with something dangerous. Joel Miller, the Joel Miller, who organized backyard barbecues with your father and bought your favorite vegan sausages when your Dad rolled his eyes at you, who made strawberry lemonade instead of lemon, because he knew you preferred it, who helped you with your physics homework when you were graduating high school and didn’t rat you out when he caught you smoking at seventeen – he’s handsome.

There’s still a familiarity about him, the way he moves and talks, although it’s unsettling to see him in such a different environment. You’re used to band-tee-Joel, beer bottle and tongs in his hands, a breezy smile on his face. He looks different here, in a white button-down, with a stern expression on his face, as he’s reading the names on his list to check attendance. When he calls Alva’s name and she raises her hand, his eyes flicker upwards, but he doesn’t look at you. Still, your stomach lurches. If you listen carefully, you can detect that southern twang in his voice you’re sure most people would miss, and it fills you with satisfaction to know you’re the one who knows him best in this room – you’re sure half the lecture hall must see how attractive he is.

When he reads out your name, there’s a surprised lilt to his tone, and your heart threatens to skip a beat.

"Here."

Your eyes meet, and although his expression doesn’t change, he holds your eyecontact for a second too long. Alva nudges your side and grins.

Your plans about outshining Alva and returning the favor of helping with a lecture are quickly buried by Joel Miller’s beautiful hands – thick fingers holding a piece of chalk almost tenderly, twirling it around when he isn’t writing on the chalkboard. You vaguely register him introducing the Dirac equation, but as interesting as you would normally find it, your thoughts are stuck between memories of barbecues and the realization that you will have to call the man who taught you to drive Professor Miller.

If Alva notices your wandering mind, she doesn’t comment on it, which you’re thankful for. You do notice her throwing you a couple of knowing glances, as you copy down what Joel is writing down, mixing up gamma, delta, and the Dirac spinor.

"Alright, so you all know how Schrödinger’s equation works great for quantum mechanics, but it doesn’t play nicely with Einstein’s relativity, right? That’s a problem because electrons move fast, sometimes close to the speed of light, so we need an equation that respects both quantum mechanics and special relativity. That’s where Dirac steps in."

He’s still got that warm way of explaining things your Dad never managed when you needed help in high school, like he enjoys clearing things up for people. He’s a born teacher, patient when you panicked in the car because you confused the clutch and the break, persistent when you wanted to throw your physics book against a wall. Look, kid, think of it this way: Push harder, it moves faster. Make it heavier, it’s harder to move. If you apply a force F to an object with mass m, it will accelerate a. That’s why your Dad’s car takes longer to stop than your bike. Even now, he manages to make a far more complex equation than Newton’s second law tangible.

"Dirac's equation is like the grown-up version of Schrödinger’s equation. It explains how particles with spin-half, like electrons, behave when they move at relativistic speeds. The gamma mu matrices make sure the equation works in four-dimensional spacetime, meaning three space dimensions plus time. The psi is a spinor, which is just a fancy way of saying that an electron isn’t just a simple wave function, it actually has spin built into its nature. Now, can anyone think of a situation where we would need to use this equation instead of the regular Schrödinger equation?"

Nobody raises their hand, most people still busy with writing down Joel’s complicated notes, and as if on cue, his eyes are on yours when you look up from your notebook. He raises an eyebrow, and you see the corner of his mouth twitch almost imperceptibly. Then, he calls your last name, a formal Miss dripping off his tongue as if he hasn’t called you kiddo for most of your life. It’s almost like he’s making a joke only the two of you are able to understand, and the thought thrills you to your bone. Two can play this game – you smile back.

"Sure, Professor Miller. You’d use it for studying high-energy particles, like electrons in particle accelerators, because it accounts for relativistic speeds. It’s also needed for situations where particles are created or destroyed, which Schrödinger’s equation doesn’t cover."

Again, his eyes linger on yours, and his slightly amused smile turns into a more genuine one at your answer. You let out a relieved sigh.

"Exactly," Joel answers, his attention on the rest of the class again, "Someone payed attention during Basic Quantum Mechanics. Now, here’s where it gets wild. When Dirac wrote this down, he realized it naturally predicts antiparticles, meaning for every electron, there should be a mirror-image particle with opposite charge, which we now call the positron. That was a huge deal because it wasn’t something people were expecting, it just fell out of the math."

For the rest of the class, Joel doesn’t continue that little game between the two of you, but whenever he asks a question, his gaze flickers over you, and your stomach gives an embarrassing little jump. Alva grins whenever this happens, but for most of the class she’s busy following Joel’s explanations.

"I want you to read up on today’s lecture," Joel says at the end of the lecture, and writes down a few page numbers on the chalkboard, "and solve the problems I mentioned earlier. Attendance isn’t mandatory, we’re all adults here, but I urge you to come if you’re interested in graduating in the next three years. Trust me, it’s easier to just do the work here than in your dorms. Now, enjoy the weather, see you Monday."

You and Alva pack up your things, and before she can ask you which class you have next, you pick up your backpack.

"I’m gonna say hi to him," you tell her, nodding in Joel’s direction, "my Dad and him go way back."

"Sure," Alva says, a cheeky smile on her face, "it’d be rude not to."

"Meet you outside?"

"I’ll be at the vending machine. Go get him," she jokes, and you snort.

Joel is packing up his course materials when you make your way down the steps and to his desk, but he looks up when he hears you coming towards him, and immediately his face splits into a smile. If you were anywhere else and ten years younger, he’d probably ruffle your hair.

"Good lecture," you say, "Dad didn’t tell me you’re teaching again."

Joel puts his piece of chalk into a tin box and nods.

"I don’t think he knows. You know how it is, we never get around to callin’ and I haven’t been home in a while."

So this is a new development, perhaps even Joel’s first semester back at university, too.

"What about the contracting? Don’t you miss the…pipes?"

He chuckles at your lack in basic contracting knowledge, his eyes not moving from yours.

"Ah, that was always Tommy, he just needed a little help. Company’s doin’ well now, though, so he’ll manage without me."

You think you remember Tommy – a man good-naturedly chasing you and the rest of the giggling neighborhood kids with a harden hose – but the memory is too vague to be sure it’s really him.

"You’ve grown up," Joel says, almost accusingly, and you shrug and smile. "Doin’ your master’s already. How come you’re familiar with Dirac?"

His accent is much thicker now that it’s only the two of you, and you notice a hint of pride when he asks about your correct answer to his question during the lecture. The satisfied feeling it gives you is still the same as when he high-fived you after your drivers test, or when he patted your back after you solved a problem for school without his help.

"Summer reading," you admit, trying hard not to sound like a nerd, "Basic Quantum Mechanics was my favorite lecture as an undergrad."

Joel smiles at you, and puts his notes into his leather bag. He slings it across his shoulder, and nods towards the door.

"How would you like to grab a coffee and tell me all about what’s been goin’ on with you and your old man?"

Your eyes flicker briefly over his hand, gripping the strap of his bag, and you raise an eyebrow.

"What’s the policy for staff having coffee with their students, Professor?"

Joel holds your gaze, the corners of his mouth twitching.

"I’m actually not sure, Miss, I’ve never had to check before."

He’s playing along, and it feels dangerously blurry – yes, he’s your Dad’s old friend, your childhood neighbor, but it feels like more than just joking around.

"Does that mean I’m your first, then?", you ask, voice sweet and close to flirting now. The smile freezes on Joel’s face, and his gaze becomes almost calculating.

"Am I yours?" he asks you softly, and the double-meaning behind his question isn’t lost on you. You feel a thrilling pang in your stomach – Joel Miller is flirting with you.

***

You do end up getting coffee after you tell Alva you’ll meet her later, Joel reassuring you it won’t get him into trouble, and you’re fascinated to see he still drinks it black. What fascinates you even more is that you remember how he takes his coffee, and you wonder why your brain filed this fact away as important, not to be forgotten.

"So, when did you graduate? Sorry I missed it."

There’s honest regret in his voice, which surprises you. Joel was always a warm person, but you figured he cared for you as much as he would have for any kid living across the street.

"Last June," you tell him, dropping a sugar cube into your cappuccino. "I spent the summer working, and now I’m here."

"How d’you like it so far?"

You give a nervous chuckle, torn between the honest truth and pleasant small talk. You opt for the former – this is Joel, after all, not some stranger.

"To be honest with you, I oscillate between enjoying my freedom away from Mom and Dad, and being scared shitless by starting over somewhere new," you admit, looking at your coffee. You haven’t told people about your fear, and it feels good to finally admit it – the grip your parents have had on you makes your newfound freedom almost uncomfortable.

"What d’you mean, startin’ over?", Joel asks, his voice strikingly gentle. You sigh, and shrug.

"I know the distance is good for me, but it was comfortable, just doing what my parents expected of me. I had good grades, nice friends, and just the right amount of drunken nights for them not to worry about my social life too much," you explain, "and now it’s like…there’s so much room to be someone else, cause they won’t see it anyway."

You look up, embarrassed to have spilt your guts like this, but Joel looks thoughtful, his thumb moving along the handle of his coffee cup.

"Sorry," you mutter, "I know they’re your friends, but they can be…"

"Overbearing?"

You smile at him gratefully and he smiles back.

"Look, I know your parents pretty well. They love you to bits, but as an adult I imagine it must be stiflin’.“

"Yeah," you sigh, grateful for his understanding, "I feel like I don’t know who I am when I’m not…their kid."

Joel nods, and sips his coffee, apparently pondering what you said.

"I promised myself I would only do what makes me happy while I’m here," you tell him sheepishly, as if it’s a secret, and Joel laughs.

"Well, I’m not expectin’ you to hand in any homework, then."

You grin, too, and shake your head. It’s surreal, Joel being your professor, and you wearing your heart on your sleeve for him.

"Don’t worry, Professor Miller, I’m not dropping your class."

"You’d better not, it’d really hurt my feelings," Joel says, eyes trained on yours. Again, that blurriness set in motion by the change of his role in your life: neighbor to professor to – what?

"What about you, though? This your first semester here?"

"Second," he tells you, "but I still don’t feel at home. Once a Texan, always a Texan, I guess."

You cock your head and watch him drain the last of his coffee, the cup tiny in his hands.

"What?" he asks you, curiosity evident in his voice.

"You look so different," you say, and Joel scoffs.

"Well, that’s real nice. Know I’m not thirty anymore, but geez–"

"No," you say with a grin, "it’s not that. I don’t know, I’ve just never seen you teach before. Or dressed this nice – I remember you mowing the lawn in a Fleetwood Mac shirt, not checking attendance in a button down."

Joel’s cheeks go slightly pink, and he scoffs again.

"Well, I can’t show up here in a band tee, can I? Gotta dress the part," he mutters.

"I get it. You suit it," you tell him, if only to see that blush appear on his face again. He looks up at you, holding your gaze for a couple of seconds, then he shakes his head.

"What were the odds of us meetin’ like this, huh? I gotta call your father and tell him."

Something about that bothers you, you’d prefer for your parents not to know. You like sitting here with Joel, reminiscing the old times, without anybody getting a peek in.

"Or not," he says gently, seeing the expression on your face.

"Sorry," you say, "course you can tell him."

"You apologize a lot," he tells you, and you fight the urge to say sorry once again. "It’s okay, I’m not tellin’ anyone, kid. ’S just you n me."

That pang in your stomach again, and you nod.

"Alright," you answer, "just us."

You get a refill for the two of you, and a blueberry muffin to split, which feels strangely intimate, but Joel pats his stomach and jokes about keeping an eye on his figure, so you grin, and ask the barista to cut it in half. Joel asks you about your friends, and you tell him about Alva.

"Oh yes," he says and swallows a bite of the muffin, "that punky lookin’ kid who sits next to you?"

"Yeah, she’s nice. Haven’t really met anyone else."

"Geez, I’m not keepin’ you from findin’ frat boys to hook up with, am I?"

You laugh, the idea of sitting here with a twenty-something year old kid named Cole or Josh instead of him so absurd, you can’t help it.

"No," you tell him, "I’m honestly enjoying the fact that I don’t have to have someone else in my dorm anymore."

"Well, that’s a relief to hear," Joel says, "they’re all dipshits."

You remember him telling you something similar about the boys in high school, and it makes you smile. He’s still got that protective streak, then.

"To tell you the truth, I’m glad you’re here," you say quietly, "if I’m not making any friends, I can come crying to you."

Joel watches you for a couple of seconds, not laughing as you intended, but taking your words seriously.

"Course you’ll make friends. Give it a couple of weeks, and you’ll have forgotten all about physics cause you’ll be skippin’ classes left and right to hang out with people."

You don’t tell him, but you think it’s very unlikely you’ll skip any of his classes. Still, you appreciate his words and how confident he seems to be in your ability to open up to people.

"Well, will you give me the answers to your exams if I skip your class?"

"No way," he says with a cheeky smile, the crinkles around his eyes prominent. "I don’t do preferential treatment. You wanna split another blueberry muffin?"

You grin.

"Thought you were watching your waistline."

"I am, that’s why I’m only eating halves."

***

Your afternoon with Joel leaves you on a high for the rest of the day, feeling much less lonely now that you’ve had a conversation beyond the usual so how many siblings do you have? and where did you do your undergrad?

You start spending your lunch breaks with Alva and some friends she made in another lecture, all of whom are very nice. In the evenings you all go to see a movie or have dinner together in any of your dorm rooms, and although you walk around campus holding out one eye for Joel, you don’t see him for the rest of the week. There is always a nudge of disappointment in your stomach, when you glance in the direction of his office, and the door is closed, but you’re so busy, you don’t dwell on it too much. The days pass in a blur of new lectures, swapping music with Alva, and evenings spent as a group of six, and suddenly it’s Sunday again. You aren’t too sad the weekend is already over, and you know exactly why you’re looking forward to Monday, but you don’t allow yourself to think about Joel any more than you can help.

In the afternoon, while you’re doing Joel’s assignment for the next class, your mother calls, and you answer the phone with a mixture of feelings.

Hi, my darling, how are you doing?

"Hi, Mom. I’m good, just doing my work for tomorrow. How are you?"

Good, good. How was your first week? Did you meet anyone nice?

Hah, if she only knew. It feels deceptive, not telling her about Joel, but you like that for now, he’s just yours.

"Yes, this girl called Alva. We and some guys hang out a lot, there’s a cinema near by, but the lectures are pretty hard, so we only have the evenings off."

Well, I’m glad you found some nice people! Dad says hi, he’s making dinner. Anyway, baby, we miss you terribly. Do you know when you’ll be coming home?

"I just got here, Mom."

You sigh so quietly your mother can’t hear it, guilt already nagging at your heart. Sunday is the day you would usually be coming home for dinner, and you know it’s no coincidence your parents called you now.

Of course, you’re right. It’s just not easy for your Dad and me, you know? You’ve never been this far from home, and you’re our baby.

Yeah, you think, your adult baby. You sigh again.

"I don’t know if I’ll come this month, I’m still sort of settling in. But I’ll let you know if there’s a free weekend next month, alright?"

Sure, that sounds great. Will you send us some pictures of your friends, and your room?

"Sure," you say, but it bugs you that you’re giving in. Already, you’re breaking the promise you made yourself, and letting your parents further into your life here than you’re comfortable with.

"Mom, I gotta go, I’ve still got some problems to solve and I’m meeting Alva for dinner soon."

Okay, darling, enjoy your night! And make yourself heard. I love you!

"Love you, too! Talk soon."

Your kind, clingy mother, whose greatest pain is not knowing if you’re safe. In a way you miss her, and you feel guilty for being annoyed. Still, you know you have to gently nudge her away from you, or she’ll suffocate you one day. It makes you angry with yourself, because you know your Mom would have liked nothing more than to hear all about your week, but as soon as she asked you a question, you felt like your seventeen year old self again, getting yelled at because you stayed up past your curfew, and your parents didn’t know where you were.

Tears of frustration spring to your eyes – the mix of feelings too much for you to handle. You wipe them away with the back of your hand, breathe in shakily, and try to focus on your assignment again, but now you’re riled up, and the tears won’t stop.

It’s hard for you to deal with disappointing your parents, forcing them away when they would like nothing more than to know everything that’s going on in your life. So, instead of preparing for Joel’s lecture, you cry on your bed, feeling lonely and angry with yourself for hurting them. You know your reaction is disproportionate, but everything you kept buried while you lived close to your parents comes bubbling out of you.

You call Alva, tell her you have cramps because of your period and just want to stay in bed. She’s understanding, asks you if there’s anything she can do, even offers to bring you takeout or a hot water bottle, which makes you feel all the worse for lying to her. You decline her offer, tell her you’ll meet her Monday morning. In the evening, you regret not letting her bring over a real meal, eating cold pasta in your underwear, tears still running down your face and making your head pound.

***

On Monday, you feel slightly better, your headache is gone and your face isn’t as puffy as you expected it to be. Still, you’re in a solitary mood, and are glad to find Alva is able to keep up an entire conversation virtually by herself – you just grunt from time to time, or give noncommittal movements of your head in vague agreement. You hope if she notices your bad mood, she just thinks it has to do with your period.

Computational Physics is hell – you dislike it on the best of days, but guilt ridden and tired, you’re barely able to pay attention at all, and the professor’s handwriting is so bad, you end up copying down Alva’s notes instead. She’s kind about it, slides over her notebook at an angle that makes it easy to read, and you make a mental note to thank her for being so kind to you while you’re offering nothing but a scowling expression all day. Maybe you’ll cook for her, or make a mixtape of your favorite songs, just to show her you’re interested in being actual good friends.

Lunch passes easily, as always you sit with Alva and the guys, and there’s enough people for you to stare at your mashed potatoes and repeatedly stab them with your fork instead of eating them. They taste like flour mixed up with water, and you dream up your father’s Sunday dinner instead, but it does little to help with the taste.

"So, you lookin’ forward to flirting with Miller in front of the whole lecture hall again?" Alva asks you, as you’re making your way to said room. You glare at her, but can’t help the corners of your mouth twitching.

"Wasn’t flirting with him," you answer, kicking a pebble, "I grew up across the street from him, I’ve known him practically my whole life."

"Whatever you say, grumpy," Alva teases, nudging your shoulder with hers. You’re overcome with a rush of gratitude for the way she treats you, persistently kind and humorous. You chuckle, your mood lifting slightly.

"He’s probably been waiting for you to turn legal," she continues, and you groan.

"Gross, Alva, he’s not a creep."

"I’m just saying, if your little connection gets you the answers to his tests, you could sell them and become rich."

"I already asked him, he said no," you say darkly, thinking of the nights you’ll have to spend studying to pass his exam. This makes Alva laugh her brilliant laugh, and you can’t help but smile, too.

"Damn," she grins, "I’d try if he wasn’t a guy."

You snort.

"You try with Professor Carter, I need the answers to Computational," you suggest, wiggling your eyebrows suggestively.

"You’re joking, but I bet once you get her out of her frumpy cardigans, she’s a real–"

"Okay, stop," you grown, the image of Professor Carter taking off her cardigans worse than her keeping them on – if possible. Alva giggles.

"I’ll help you with Computational," she says, "if you help me with Quantum Mechanics."

"You’re good at both," you argue, and Alva shrugs.

"Not like you, though. I spent like four hours doing Miller’s assignment last night."

You want to tell her you didn’t do it at all, but before you can open your mouth, she spots a friend in the crowd, grabs your arm and drags you over to him.

The three of you sit down together, closer to the front than the week before, which gives you a direct line of sight to Joel’s desk. When he walks in, your stomach jumps – he’s wearing a tie today, a dark burgundy or blue, you aren’t sure from this distance, flecked with specks of white. Again, his hair is styled in that carelessly disheveled look you like so much, and the image of him putting gel in it makes you smile. He gets out his materials for the lecture, and looks up, his eyes finding yours – you smile and he gives a small nod. Again you’re struck by how different he acts in front of the class, how serious he seems. You think of his laid back manner when you had coffee, and struggle to make the images align. Joel clears his throat, and the chatter around you stops.

"Quiet, please, everyone. Thank you. So, last week, we found out that Dirac’s equation predicts the existence of antiparticles. But instead of just accepting that, let’s think deeper—mathematically, what feature of the equation forces this conclusion?"

Joel jumps right into the lecture, and just like last week, nobody raises their hands – you curse the people around you for their lethargy, because sure enough, Joel’s eyes land on you. Before you can shake your head to signal to him not to ask you, he calls your name.

"If I remember correctly, you were already familiar with Dirac’s equation last week. What would you say, what does the existence of negative-energy solutions tell us, and why couldn’t we just ignore them?"

You wish you could answer him, know he asked you because he was sure you’d know the answer, perhaps hoped your enthusiasm for the subject would get the rest of the students to participate more, but you didn’t do the assignment, and you’ve already half forgotten his question. You swallow.

"Um…I…I’m not sure, Sir," you say, watching the way his brows furrow, and looking down at your notes. Alva shoots you a curious look, and when she sees your expression, she raises her hand. You’re thankful to have Joel’s attention diverted, feeling like a fool in front of hundreds of students you’re trying to make friends with.

"Dirac’s equation gives positive and negative energy solutions, and at first, the negative ones didn’t make sense. Dirac suggested they represent antiparticles, like the positron, which he predicted. The idea was that electrons could, like, jump into these negative-energy states, creating a hole that looks like a positron, which was later confirmed experimentally," Alva explains instead of you.

"You're close, but electrons don’t actually 'jump into' negative-energy states. Instead, Dirac proposed that these states are already filled, forming what he called the Dirac Sea. A positron isn’t an electron jumping down, it’s actually a 'hole' left when a negative-energy electron gets excited to a positive-energy state. That distinction is important because it explains why positrons have the opposite charge. Good answer, though, thank you Ms. Bennet."

Joel’s eyes flicker over to you again, but you show no reaction, and he continues with his lecture without asking you another question. Alva glances at you inquiringly, and you sigh.

"I wanted to do the assignment yesterday, but my cramps were really bad," you explain quietly, and she nods sympathetically.

"Call me next time, I’ll send you my answers," she whispers, and you smile gratefully. It seems you really hit the jackpot in friendship when you sat down next to Alva.

***

After Joel’s lecture, you and Alva make your way over to the vending machine, because it has the sour patches she likes, and in her own words she’ll combust if she doesn’t eat some right fucking now.

"Shit," she curses, "they’re stuck."

"Let me," a voice comes from a behind you, and when you turn around, Joel is smiling at the two of you. "Took me a while to figure this thing out, too."

Alva steps aside, and Joel bangs his palm against the side of machine. You jump, but the sour patches make their tumbling way down to the dispenser.

"Great! Thanks, Professor Miller," Alva says, ripping the bag open and offering it to the two of you. To your surprise, Joel takes her up on it, and Alva grins at you.

"You were quiet during today’s lecture," Joel says tentatively, when he’s swallowed his sour patch "everything alright?"

You glance at your shoes.

"Um, yeah. I wasn’t feeling well yesterday, and I left your assignment for last, so…I didn’t do it."

Joel’s expression grows worried, and Alva glances between the two of you.

"Hey, I’m meeting Max for coffee," she tells you, "see you later?"

"Yeah," you answer, grateful she’s granting you this time alone with Joel, "see you, Alva."

When she’s gone, Joel is still looking at you with that worried look on his face, and you sigh.

"Sorry about the assignment," you say, "won’t happen again."

"I’m not worried about the assignment," Joel says earnestly, but then he turns his head, and you know he doesn’t want someone listening in. Sure, you can be seen chatting in the university cafe, but this conversation is rapidly blurring the lines between scholarly and – something else.

"I…have some materials in my office that might make it easier for you to catch up with the lectures again," Joel tells you, and you understand the underlying meaning. Let’s talk in my office.

"Thank you," you say, relieved, and Joel nods, eyes still glued to yours, brows still furrowed. You walk to his office making smalltalk about the lecture, which to anyone listening in would seem like a normal conversation between a professor and an interested student.

Joel opens the door to his office for you, and lets you step in first. It’s small, cramped bookshelves on the walls and a sturdy desk in the middle that is littered with notes, pencils, books, and a couple of old coffee mugs. You notice he put part of his books sideways onto the shelves, which you find weirdly endearing. This is the Joel you know – clutter and warmth.

He closes the door behind you, and you turn around to watch him drop his bag and walk over to the kettle in the corner of the room.

"Coffee?"

"Please," you sigh, "if you don’t have anything stronger."

He raises an eyebrow, but doesn’t answer, just turns on the already filled kettle, and gets two clean cups for the two of you.

"I only have drip coffee," he tells you, "I don’t drink that crap the machines brew up."

"That’s fine, I enjoy the medieval feel of it."

"Watch it," he answers, a smile tugging on his lips, "don’t insult my coffee filter in front of me."

You grin, and walk over to his bookshelf to have a look.

"So, what’s going on?" he asks you while pouring the boiling hot water over the coffee grounds. Again, the Joel you remember – empathetic, but unusually direct. You sigh, turn around and shrug.

"Mom and Dad called yesterday, and I could tell they missed me, but I just…I cut them off after two minutes."

Joel places the cups on his desk, and leans against it. His sleeves are rolled up again, and when he crosses his arms, you feel that familiar pang in your stomach.

"And now I…I don’t know, I feel so guilty, Joel. They’re not even being dicks about it, but I just know they’d prefer for me to check in with them more…and the worst thing is, I know it’s not a big deal. They’ll get over it, they’ve got a good life without me constantly in it, so I don’t know why my stupid brain can’t just let this go, you know? One I miss you, darling, and I’m reduced to this pathetic mess, instead of just, I don’t know, getting my shit together."

You shake your head and clench your teeth, once again embarrassed to come crying to Joel about your parental issues, but he’s the only one you can tell. Sure, Alva would probably listen, but you don’t feel like explaining your family to a near stranger. Joel just gets it. Joel knows you.

He’s looking at you, arms still crossed, and for a second you worry he might not want to hear about your little breakdown, but then he sighs.

"You have your shit together all of the fuckin’ time, kid, I think that might be the problem," he tells you quietly. "You’ve always been so hard on yourself."

He’s right, once again he sees what you struggle to show the world, and his words make tears spring to your eyes. You will your eyeballs to suck them back in, but of course, Joel sees.

"Hey now," he says, taking a tentative step towards you. One tear drops from the end of your lashes and down your cheek, and the dam is broken again – they come spilling in floods. Joel crosses the room in a second, and there is a slight moment of hesitation between the two of you, before you bury your face in his chest, and let your restraint fall. You cry quietly, feel him wrap his arms around you, as he rocks you back and forth.

"You’re alright," he tells you, "Shhh, it’s okay, you’re alright."

"S-s-sorry about the assignment," you manage, and Joel’s hand starts stroking your back.

"Jesus, kid, stop worryin’ about the fucking assignment," he tells you, voice low and worried. "You don’t gotta be so strict with yourself. You’re doin’ just fine."

He smells so much like home, you think you might never stop crying.

"I don’t know what’s wrong with me," you hiccup, "One week here and I’m a mess already."

You feel Joel rest his chin on your head, and his arms tighten around you.

"There’s nothin’ wrong with you, you hear me? You hold yourself to high standards. Creates pressure, kid."

As always, he’s right of course – you want to excel academically, you don’t want to hurt your parents, you want to stay true to yourself and do what makes you happy, you want to make friends without compromising your grades. It’s impossible.

You breathe in shakily, your eyes closed, face buried in Joel’s chest, and for a second he is all that exists – just Joel, all around you, pulling you to the earth. Slowly, your breathing calms, Joel still rocking you soothingly, holding you close.

"There we go," he mutters, when your chest stops shaking, "that’s good."

When you pull away from him, he puts his hands on your shoulders to really look at you, and although you’re embarrassed by your outburst, you’re glad he doesn’t shy away from you.

"I want you to start being a little more lenient with yourself, alright? You don’t need to worry about an assignment on top of everything."

His hands are rubbing your shoulders, his eyes are kind and warm.

"Maybe not about yours, but I have like five other lectures –"

"Okay, so try to stop worrying about my assignments, just mine. Won’t bite your head off if you don’t do them, and I’ll only ask you questions when you raise your hand, alright? In fact, for the rest of the term, I want you to hand them in late."

Despite yourself, your lips pull up in a small smile.

"That’s silly, Joel," you say softly, but he shakes his head.

"It’s not silly, it’s practice to get you out of your comfort zone."

You consider his words for a moment. You do keep a pretty tight reign on yourself, and just the thought of doing every assignment late makes your skin crawl with anxiety. But when will you get another chance to step out of your comfort zone as safely as now, with Joel? He’s offering you a way to try it without actually risking your grades. And who knows, perhaps it actually will take a little bit of pressure off of you.

"Okay," you answer, staring up at Joel with puffy cheeks and teary eyes. "Alright."

He smiles at you, but he still looks worried and you wish he’d pull you close to him again. It’s such a relief to have this sort of human contact with someone who really knows you.

"Feel better?"

You sigh, and nod.

"It’s just a lot, you know, uni and my parents, and every social interaction feels like such a chore, cause I don’t know people yet. I feel like I’m not even relaxed when I’m asleep."

Joel hesitates for a moment, before he speaks, but when he does, he sounds determined.

"Come over tonight, I’ll make us somethin’ to eat, and you don’t have to worry about talkin’ to anyone. We’ll watch whatever you’d like. You still enjoy those crappy horror movies?"

You smile at the shared memory – Joel letting you use his living room to watch slashers your parents didn’t want you to see. One summer, when the heat was so stifling you barely went outside, you practically lived at his place, and when you’d seen all the DVDs he owned, he got you more from the video store.

"I do," you say quietly, the fact that Joel remembers more important to you than his proposal to spend the evening together. You feel significantly less alone, all of a sudden.

"Alright, then. Be over at seven,“ Joel tells you, and you nod, wiping your wet face with the back of your hand.

"Thank you, Joel," you say, and hug him again, because you don’t know how to tell him in words what you’re feeling, and his big, warm body against yours feels more than soothing.

"Course, kid. Just don’t tell Alva, or they’ll fire me."

You smile, your arms still wrapped around his neck, as he holds you.

"But I don’t wanna get you in trouble, what if–"

"No," Joel interrupts you, "no what ifs. No worryin’. I forbid it."

And you accept it, leave it to Joel, because he tells you to – because you don’t have any room in your head for more worries, and because you trust Joel not to do anything reckless. You trust him, period.

***

You text Alva you’re having dinner alone, that your cramps are still acting up, and you do feel slightly bad for lying, but you would never risk Joel’s job. The idea of having dinner with him at his place should make you nervous after your change in feelings about him, but you’re just looking forward to having a meal with someone who knows you, and lets you be yourself.

Joel asked you to be there at seven, so you spend the rest of the afternoon in your dorm room, wondering if you should change your outfit or if it would seem desperate – in the end, you keep the jeans but change into a blouse instead of a sweater. The part of you that stares at Joel’s forearms during class now wants to look pretty for him, so that he’ll ask you over again. You know you’re being ridiculous, but it doesn’t stop you from putting on your nicest perfume.

You’re ten minutes early, so you sit in your little second hand car and try not to panic. You know Joel is merely trying to be a good…friend? Ex-neighbor, Dad’s best friend turned professor? There’s no real etiquette to cling to in this situation, for either of you, and although you’re positive Joel doesn’t have any ulterior motives with you despite his flirting, you know he could lose his job if someone finds out you went to his house. Even if you just watch slashers together the way you did ten years ago. It makes you anxious to know he’d risk something clearly important to him for just that – he moved to a different state, quit his old job, started over completely, and is now willing to endanger that new life just because you’re stressed. At the same time it seems ridiculous anyone could forbid the two of you to spend time together after having known each other your entire life. The thought is absurd, and still, you need to be careful.

You get out of the car before you start to hyperventilate, and ring Joel’s doorbell – it feels strange for him to live in a new house. He opens the door with a smile, and absurd relief floods your veins when you realize he’s wearing an old Led Zeppelin shirt and a pair of worn jeans. This is your Joel.

"I come bearing gifts," you announce, stepping into the house.

“Christ, where did you get this?”, Joel asks, taking the six pack of beer from you, so you can take off your jacket. “I didn’t know they sold Shiner Bock outside of Texas, I’ve been survivin’ on Bud”.

“Brought it with me,” you explain, “figured it’d help if I got homesick, you know, in multiple ways.”

You grin, and Joel shakes his head good-naturedly.

“Old enough to drink, well I’ll be damned. I remember when you begged your Dad to let you have a coke and he asked me if I thought the caffeine would stunt your growth.”

“Did it?”

“It might’ve,” Joel says with a chuckle, “but he didn’t let you have it.”

“Well, he isn’t here now, so let’s put those in the fridge.”

“No," Joel mutters, “no, he ain’t.”

While Joel puts the beer away, you take a look around his living room – despite your reservations about the new house, it reminds you of his old place. It’s got the same masculine and warm feel to it, dark wood, books all over the place, no bells and whistles. Joel is a practical man, and it’s charmingly etched into every part of his life – except for his new work-look. The room isn’t as cluttered as you remember Joel’s old house back in Texas, but you assume he hasn’t had time to accumulate clutter yet. No old newspapers are lying around, no birthday cards stacking up. You wonder if he’s lonely here, teaching all by himself, hundreds of miles away from the place he last grew roots in.

“Do you miss home?” you ask him, when he comes back from the kitchen with two bottles of beer in his hands. He looks at ease, much more himself than back at university. His jeans are faded, his shirt a little too big on his already broad frame, and his hair is clean and curly the way you like it – no gel twisting it into all sorts of un-Joel-like styles. Warmth floods your chest at the sight of him taking a swig of his beer. His crowfeet are a little more pronounced, and his hair has more grey strands than it did back home, but he’s still got that distinctly warm, no-nonsense feel to him.

“Sometimes,” he answers, offering you the second bottle. Your hand brushes his when you take it from him. “But I’m pretty busy here, you know, got a whole lotta lectures to plan, papers to grade and that sort of stuff.”

You nod, and sip at your beer.

“Have you…you know, met people? Made friends here?”

Joel plops down on the couch, and smiles up at you.

“You worried about my social life?”

You shrug, and smile almost timidly.

“You know me, kid, I like bein’ by myself.”

That’s true, for as long as you’ve known Joel, he’s been alone. You know he has nieces and nephews who adore him, and your Dad mentioned a woman once, but it must have been at least twenty years since they were together. You wonder why Joel doesn’t seem to want that sort of a domestic life, surely many women would be happy to let him put a ring on them.

You walk over to the window, and watch a blackbird tug at a writhing worm.

“Have you met someone at uni you wanna be by yourself with?” you ask with a small grin, turning back to find Joel already watching you. “I heard Professor Carter’s still single.”

“She’s very intelligent,” Joel says earnestly. You give him credit for not laughing about his colleague, and suddenly you feel bad for calling her frumpy with Alva. “But I think I’ll leave her to her simulations. Why am I bein’ interrogated?”

“Sorry,” you mumble, and glance out of the window again, “just making conversation.”

“Your turn, then,” Joel answers, and takes another swig of beer. “Any frat boys catch your eye? Or frat girls?”

You glance at him, a smile on your lips, and raise your eyebrows.

“Hey, I don’t discriminate. I thought, maybe Alva…”

“No,” you answer, feeling fond of him for considering the possibility. “Alva’s a friend. The guys are…well, they’re frat boys.”

 Your voice carries enough disgust for Joel to laugh.

“Right,” he says, and his eyes are warm when they meet yours again. “Just us two loners, then."

“Cheers,” you say with a smile.

“Cheers.”

***

Joel’s cooking is a mystery to you – he loves to eat, and when he does cook, it’s always delicious, but he only ever makes one of five dishes. Again, that practicality shining through. Why try something new if you’ve perfected your routine? He made pasta for you, wasn’t sure if you’re still vegetarian and makin’ your Dad’s hair fall out, and you smile into the neck of your beer bottle, when you watch him drizzle dressing onto a carefully arranged side-salad. Throughout dinner, you tell him how much you love it at least five times, because you can tell he put effort into the meal. You know it’s not technically a date, but having a dinner he made just for you, in his home – it feels like one.

You steer the conversation away from heavy topics like your parents. Although Joel offered you this evening to make you feel better, you want to spend it with him rather than in your head, so you ask him about books and music, about his lectures, about Tommy and the kids. You like watching how his face lights up whenever he talks about something he particularly loves. Joel is a quiet man, but you found out years ago it isn’t shyness, but a disinterest in most mundane topics – he doesn’t like gossip or superficial small talk. When he tells you Tommy made him godfather of all of his children, the pride is evident in his voice, and you don’t have to fake your enthusiasm, although it amuses you, too – Tommy loving his big brother enough not to consider anyone else.

"She calls me uncle Joe," he tells you with a chuckle, "Can’t pronounce her Ls yet, but I’ve considered legally changing my name."

When you’re done eating, you help him clear the table, but when you reach for the sponge to do the dishes, Joel shakes his head.

"Let me do that later, kid. You wanna watch a movie?"

So the two of you plop down on the couch with a bag of M&Ms and another round of beer, and Joel hands you the remote.

"Go wild," he says, chuckling when you excitedly turn on he TV to open Netflix.

"Wow, a streaming service? I thought you’d just hoard DVDs for the rest of your life."

Joel huffs, and instead of answering, he leans forward, and reaches for something under his couch table. When he turns his head, he’s got glasses on his face, thick-rimmed and black, and so startlingly sexy, you almost drop the remote.

"You…you’ve got glasses?"

"Yeah," he answers, his eyes meeting yours, and you swallow. "When your eyesight deteriorates, that’s when you know you’re gettin’ old."

You hum but don’t answer, just hold his gaze for a second and look back to the screen. You try to ignore the familiar pang in your stomach at the sight of Joel in his new glasses, and skip through movie after movie, mumbling seen it, seen it, that one sucks, seen it, until Joel reaches over and snatches the remote from you.

"Hey–"

"I can’t read anything if you skip through them that quickly."

"You’re not supposed to read, you’re supposed to go with the vibe of the cover."

He glances at you with furrowed brows.

"Okay, sorry, didn’t know you’re a filmbro," you grumble, but it’s almost entirely fake – you couldn’t be annoyed with him, not when he pushes his glasses up his nose, and carefully considers which button to press on the remote.

"I don’t know what that means," he answers, and starts reading the description of a romantic comedy about Christmas.

"I’m not watching that."

"You don’t even know what it’s about."

"It’s September, Joel."

He huffs again, but finally reaches the horror movies. Surprisingly, it doesn’t take the two of you long to pick one, and the thought of two hours of brainless, scary entertainment on a couch with Joel makes you practically melt into his couch.

You can feel Joel’s eyes on you during the opening credits, so you glance over and he smiles.

"Comfy?" he asks, his voice hoarse from relaxation.

"Yeah," you answer, and smile when hands you a blanket. He’s not exactly close to you, but it still feels a little intimate when you spread the blanket out and offer him the other end. He moves over a little, so that the blanket covers his legs, and when you concentrate you can feel his body heat next to you, so you try hard not to – and instead get lost in the movie.

It’s not particularly good, but the story does get under your skin a little, and when there’s an unexpected shriek, you violently jump and instinctively move closer to Joel. He chuckles, but doesn’t give any reaction to your arm suddenly pressing against his. He doesn’t move away, either, so you don’t, fear suddenly not being the only thing bubbling up in your stomach.

"Jesus," you mumble, the creeping music making you anticipate another jumpscare. You’re right, it does come, but prepared though you are, you still wince, and turn away from the screen slightly. Out of sight, out of mind. Joel turns around, too, and when he sees your widened eyes, he grins.

"How’s that Christmas movie lookin’ now?"

"I’m not scared," you say, and there is some truth to it, "I’m just not good with jumpscares."

When the next one comes, you can’t help it, you clutch his arm next to you, your nails digging into his firm muscle, and Joel glances at you again.

"Sorry," you say quickly, letting go of his forearm now marked with five tiny crescent shapes. "Jesus, Joel, sorry."

"It’s fine," he says, and the amusement is evident in his voice, "you sure you’re into this? There might be some cartoons–"

He stops talking when you glare at him, but his mouth is twitching under his beard. You’re determined to watch the entire movie, and you try not to let any reaction show, wanting to prove Joel wrong.

There is one particularly scary scene – it’s not necessarily violent, but the music and shaky camera movements make your pulse race, and you turn your head slightly, so as to look at something else. Joel glances at you again, but he doesn’t laugh this time, just puts a heavy hand on your shoulder. It’s grounding, the warmth of it, how his thumb digs into your muscle and his fingers spread out over your back and neck.

"You don’t gotta force yourself to watch this, kid," Joel says gently, all teasing humor gone.

"No," you say stubbornly, but move even closer to him. His touch is a welcome distraction from the movie, and although you know it’s stupid and reckless, you lean into him, and Joel puts his arm around you. It’s closer than you’ve been to him except for hugging, and your heartbeat starts to quicken for all the wrong, non-horror reasons. When you flinch, Joel tugs you against his side, and it feels natural to hide your face in his shoulder.

He was never touchy with you, or anyone for that matter, so something must have changed. You wonder if he’s trying to comfort you, or if you might not be the only one who can feel that strange pull between the two of you.

When the movie ends, Joel regrettably removes his arm from around your shoulders to switch off the TV, and although you’re slightly disappointed, you scold yourself for expecting something else.

"Not bad," Joel says with a small smile, and pushes his glasses up his nose. "Very brave."

You scoff, but feel the corners of your mouth twitching, too.

"I used to be less of a wimp, but I guess you soften with age."

"You’re twenty-three," Joel argues, "that’s young."

Yeah, too young. Too young to lean over and kiss him, or climb into his lap, or expect anything other than paternal care when he’s got his arm around you. You look at your lap, all of a sudden feeling stupid and silly for having dreamed up an absurd fantasy about the man in front of you.

"Hey," Joel says gently, "what’s wrong?"

"Nothing," you say quickly, "nothing, I had a really great evening. Thanks, Joel."

You can tell you’ve confused him, but he nods, doesn’t question your sudden change of mood, and stands when you get up from the couch.

"Anytime, kid. You call me if you’re havin’ a bad time, alright? My door’s always open."

He’s so kind, so recklessly, stupidly, lovingly kind, and all of it is directed at you. You curse yourself for it, but again you feel that familiar burn in your eyes. Joel reaches out and easily pulls you towards his big body, hugging you the way he did in his office just this afternoon. He doesn’t ask you what brought on your tears, just lets you cry into his Led Zeppelin shirt that smells so much like home, like a childhood you won’t get back to. You remember whiffs of that smell when you were watching movies on his couch while he was at work, too pissed off at your parents to spend the summer at home. This scent was there when you attended a neighborhood barbecue after fighting with your father and Joel grilled some vegan sausages for you without comment or question. He’s always looked out for you like this, quietly, without demanding an explanation, just a solid, comforting presence in your life.

Your tears stop after a couple of minutes, and you take a step away from Joel, wiping your face. He looks so worried again, brows all furrowed and arms hanging limply at his side. Didn’t he flirt with you, though? Didn’t he prepare dinner for you the way a date would, ask you about your dating life, ask you to coffee? You don’t think you would be able to handle another evening like this one not knowing what Joel really thinks, so in a moment of hazy recklessness, you lean up.

His eyes meet yours, all warm and strangely unguarded, but before your lips brush his, a hand on your shoulder stops you. Without saying something, you move away from him, and nod to yourself, his reaction all the information you needed.

"Sorry," you say very quietly, not managing much else now that you’ve humiliated yourself in front of the only person you really know in a six hundred mile radius. Joel runs a hand through his soft hair, and inhales deeply.

"No," he says, his voice a little strained, "no, don’t be. I just…Jesus, kid."

He rubs his palm over his beard in such a familiar way, your chest aches a little. It’s ridiculous how much you want to touch his face, to feel him again, skin on skin. So you don’t turn and run the way your embarrassed heart is telling you to, just watch him collect his thoughts, standing in front of him like a wet and beaten dog.

"Look," he begins, "I won’t say I’m not flattered, but that’s…it’s a bad fuckin’ idea. It’s…it’s chaos, and on top of that most people would argue it’s wrong."

You swallow. You know all of this, have turned it over in your head ever since you stared at Joel’s rolled up sleeves for two hours on that first Monday, but hearing him say it makes your stomach churn.

"Yeah," you mutter, and trace Joel’s shadow with the very tip of your foot, "yeah, of course. Sorry I put you in that position, wasn’t right."

Your face still feels puffy, and you know you’re probably all red and pathetic looking, begging Joel for scraps of his attention, but all of a sudden, he lifts his hand up to your face, and cups it in his broad palm. His thumb strokes your cheek, and when you meet his eye, the expression on his face is tender.

"It’s alright," he tells you softly, "I can see you worryin’ at the speed of light in that pretty head of yours."

Something in your chest flutters at his words, at the rough and warm cadence of his voice. He reads you so easily, one turn of your head and he knows you’re lost to your thoughts.

"I shouldn’t have let myself toy with this idea," he continues, and your stomach flips. "I should’ve realized you’d pick up on it. It’s on me, alright? It’s on me not to start anythin’."

You can hear the implication – I’m the adult here. It’s not what you want to hear, but just the mention of Joel toying with this idea, as he put it, is enough to lift your spirits. So you weren’t crazy.

"I’m an adult," you say weakly, never having felt more like a child. Joel nods.

"You are, but I’m still in a position of power here. Be wrong, to abuse that."

His thumb is still moving over your cheek slowly, making it hard to think straight.

"So dinner and a movie doesn’t abuse it?"

You don’t want to argue, you don’t know why you keep disagreeing with him, and the way his face falls, you wish you hadn’t said it.

"No, it…it does, you’re right. Jesus, of course it does. I don’t blame ya for bein’ ang-"

"I’m not angry," you say softly, and tentatively turn your head in Joel’s hand. You press a kiss to his palm, his warm skin pressed right against your mouth. "I’m not your student, Joel. I mean, of course I am, but I know you. It’s different."

Joel’s eyes are glued to your face, and he looks so conflicted you wish he’d just throw you out of his house, if only to solve his dilemma.

"It’s still wrong," Joel mutters, his eyes glued to your lips since they brushed his skin "even if you take away the fact that I’m your fuckin’ professor. Your Dad…"

"My Dad is half a continent away and finds a way to be unhappy with whatever choices I make, so I might as well make the ones I want to."

The very first day, before you even met Joel, you decided to do what makes you happy while in university, and although this certainly wasn’t what you had in mind, you know it’s what you want. The only thing you want, in fact.

Joel sighs, and tucks a strand of hair behind your ear.

"Joel, I’m not trying to…look, if I’m wrong about this, just tell me, but I feel…I just wanna be close to you all of the fucking time," you say quietly, "and it’s okay if you don’t, really. I just…I want you to know it’s not nothing to me."

Saying I don’t just want to hook up with you would feel too straight forward or crass, but you think Joel gets the gist of what you’re trying to say, and he closes his eyes briefly. You study his face behind his glasses, the wrinkles and freckles from years in the sun. You do feel anxious about his answer, but whatever it is, you’re glad you told him. It’s out in the world now, the way you feel when he holds you, and he can do with it what he pleases – you’ve handed him the reigns.

"I…I know what you mean. Me too," he says very quietly after a beat, his eyes open and looking directly into yours again.

A triumphant pang of affection pulses through you, and you put your hand over Joel’s, which is still resting on your cheek. He looks conflicted, but his other hand holds your waist now, and tugs your smaller body closer to his again. He’s solid as a brick wall in front of you, and you figure you’re allowed to touch, so you rest your hand on his shoulder.

"What am I gonna do with you?" Joel mutters, and strokes your lower lip with his thumb. If you had more guts, you’d let it slip into your mouth, but you’re still afraid he’ll pull back if you make a wrong move, so you just let him caress your mouth tenderly.

"Whatever you’d like," you answer just as quietly, and you know it sounds sexual, but you mean it in every way – if Joel wants to be nothing but your professor, you’d take it, and if he wants to keep you here in his house indefinitely, you’d let him. Joel keeps looking at you, taking you in as if he’s considering whether the risks outweigh whatever magnetic or gravitational pull the two of you have between you.

"Stay," he say after a while, and although his face looks slightly regretful, his voice is determined, "just…sleep here tonight. I like havin’ you here."

You want him to kiss you, to pull you onto his lap on the couch, to take you upstairs right now, but Joel seems to be restraining himself, so you just nod.

"Me too," you whisper, echoing his words back to him, and for just a second, his thumb digs into your lip a little harder, but then he pulls away.

"Testin’ my goddamn restraint," he mutters, and takes a step away from you. "I’ll get you something to sleep in."

***

Joel gets you one of his band tees you love so dearly, and just the idea of being enveloped by something that smells like him all night makes it a little easier when Joel tells you he’ll take the couch instead of inviting you to sleep with him in his bed.

"No," you say softly, "it’s fine, you just sleep in your bed, Joel. I’ll take the couch."

He looks critical, so you offer him a soft smile.

"I don’t know if your back could take it," you tease, and he seems torn up between laughing and frowning. In the end, he just shakes his head, mutters something that sounds a lot like bad fuckin’ idea, and gets you a blanket and pillow.

He brings you a clean toothbrush and towel, let’s you use his bathroom (you look at the shower the entire time you’re brushing your teeth, trying hard not to think about what Joel looks like using it in the mornings), and when you’re done changing, you unlock the door again.

He’s there, sitting on the edge of his bed, his eyes trailing over your form in his much too big shirt. It’s long as a dress on you, coming down to your naked thighs. Joel visibly swallows and gets up from the bed.

"You got everythin’ you need?"

"Yes. Thank you, Joel."

There’s a beat of silence and you almost think Joel’s about to cross the room, but he just runs his palm over his beard the way he always does, and nods.

"Alright. Just shout if there’s…well, you know. I’ll be here."

"I will."

"Alright. Okay…goodnight, kid."

"Night," you almost whisper, voice soft, and right before you reach the door, Joel clears his throat.

"I…you were right about dinner and the movie. I wasn’t just tryin’ to be friendly," he says quietly, and your stomach swirls. Before you can walk over to Joel and do something about it, he sighs.

"Sleep tight, sweetheart."

Sweetheart.

***

You wake to the sound of something dripping, and when your eyes flutter open, you can see Joel’s back from the kitchen. He’s wearing his work outfit again, a white button down and dark pants, sleeves rolled up. It smells like coffee, and with a smile you realize he must be brewing his beloved coffee – no machine, just a filter. He looks broad, even from your spot on the couch, and you enjoy peeking in on him. You study his movements, the way he reaches for a cup, how his fingers absentmindedly drum on the kitchen counter while he waits.

When he turns around, his eyes find yours, and he smiles.

"Mornin’. Did I wake ya?"

"’S fine," you yawn, pulling the blanket up to your chin, not yet ready to get up. "I have classes at ten anyway."

"’S eight," Joel tells you, "Coffee?"

"Yes please," you answer, and stretch your limbs under the blanket.

Joel brings you a cup, complete with a little bit of milk and sugar, and you move your feet so he can sit down on the couch.

"Sleep well?"

You sip your coffee, let it burn your tongue and close your eyes at the taste. When you open them, Joel’s gaze lingers on your face.

"Yeah," you answer, "thank you for…you know."

He nods, takes a sip of his coffee, and looks at his lap. He looks like he wants to say something, but he’s very quiet, and you feel anxiety bubbling up in your stomach.

"Joel, do you want me to leave? It’s fine if you do," you ask him softly, not wanting to make things awkward for him. It would be rational of him to ask you to leave, the smart and ethical thing to do.

"No," he answers quietly, still not looking at you, "I want you to stay."

Stay? On a Tuesday morning, after you almost kissed him and he told you he couldn’t do that, after you spent the night on his couch? When you have classes in two hours, haven’t showered yet, are half naked and wearing his clothes, on his couch under his blanket? When you’ve got friends wondering where you are and probably ten unanswered messages from Alva?

"Alright," you say, agreeing as easy as breathing.

Finally, he looks up, and his expression is so conflicted you reach out for him. Your hand finds his and you squeeze it. He keeps looking at you, his hand limp in your grasp, as if any movement of his muscles would incriminate him.

"You shouldn’t," he tells you earnestly. "Stay, I mean. You shouldn’t stay."

"I know."

You don’t let go of his hand. He doesn’t move his away.

"It’s a really, really bad idea," he adds, and you’re not sure who he is trying to talk out of whatever this is. "It’s risky. Could blow up both our lives."

"Yeah," you say, and watch him sip his coffee, "okay."

Then, a tentative flex of his fingers against yours, and finally, he’s squeezing your hand just as tightly, and before you can process what that means, Joel is leaning over you, dangerously close. Your breathing quickens, you register how soft his hair looks, how strong his hand is. He leans in further and you sit up a little, still cocooned in his blanket. His face is close to yours, his eyes fiery with something you can’t pinpoint, and you sigh, when he closes the gap between you.

He tastes of coffee and toothpaste, and you wish you’d gotten the chance to shower, but the thought disappears almost immediately when you hear Joel groan. His kisses you languidly, deeply, and your fingers come up to his beautiful arm, barely wrapping around half of his biceps. He cradles the side of your face, pulls you closer, makes your stomach clench with need. It feels inevitable, the way he touches you, like you only exist in a physical form to be touched by him.

His free hand peels the blanket off your body, lets it slide to the floor without ever stopping his the kiss, and you moan softly, when his hand touches your waist. The sound makes him break away, stare down at you, pupils blown wide.

"Fuck, you look good in my clothes," he mutters, nudging your jaw with his nose, and pressing a kiss there. "You should really, really go home."

Your head falls back slightly to give him better access to your neck, and he brushes his lips over your pulse point. Your heart skips a beat.

"I – I know," you breathe, fingers digging into his arm. His beard scratches your skin deliciously, and it takes everything in you not to whimper or beg. Joel’s hand slips under your shirt – his shirt – and instead of finding your waist again, he digs his thumb into your hip, stroking the fabric of your cotton panties. The fire in your stomach burns brighter, and you almost buck up into him. Joel Miller, the Joel Miller who until recently had a key to your childhood home, who lent it to you whenever you forgot yours inside – he’s sucking bruises into your skin, and toying with your panties. It’s dizzying, his familiar voice when he hums in satisfaction, even rougher than usually.

His fingers trace the waistband of your panties towards the front, until they find a small, silky bow, and Joel groans. He doesn’t take your underwear off, doesn’t even touch you where you need him the most, just keeps playing with the little bow, until your hips twitch without your permission. A little lower, and he would be able to feel how wet you are, how wet you have been all night. You didn’t do anything about it, not while you were a guest in his house. It would have felt wrong. You can’t imagine anything feeling more right than Joel’s mouth and hands on you, though.

"Jesus," Joel curses, "I should stop bef–"

"No," you whine, all dignity turned to hot air by Joel’s fingers, "please, Joel, please don’t stop."

He curses again, and moves his big body so that he’s not just hovering above you, but actually on top of you, your thighs falling open for him easily. At the movement, his shirt hikes up your thighs, and you know you’re basically on display for him, your soaked underwear leaving little to the imagination. He’s still fully clothed, his perfect button down all wrinkled now.

"Look at you," Joel breathes, lightheaded with desire, "this all for me?"

So he saw, when you moved to accommodate his broad form, saw how soaked you are, knows you ruined your panties just because he kissed you.

"Yes," you breathe, "yes, please–"

Before you can beg further, his finger presses down on your clit, and he watches your face contort in pleasure, as it shoots up your spine. You whimper, staring into his eyes, and he stares right back, as you start to grind your hips against his palm.

Your head feels blissfully empty, all worries about this relationship, uni, your parents, gone from you with a simple, practiced movement of his hand. The whimpers keep falling from your lips, and Joel curses.

"So beautiful," he mutters, "tell me what you need, angel."

It’s not a question, it’s an order.

"I – fuck, I need you i–inside," you groan, and Joel’s lips find yours again.

"Yeah? Need me to fuck you good, even though they’ll throw us both out?"

It shouldn’t turn you on. You’re jeopardizing both your own and Joel’s career, and he’s turning it into dirty talk. Still, your pussy doesn’t lie, and the way it throbs for him, aching to get him inside, makes all doubts disappear from your mind.

"Yes," you answer, unable to say much more as Joel keeps drawing tight circles into your clit.

Your hands drift from his arms towards his front, and Joel curses, when you paw at his belt buckle. It takes you a second, but then it’s open, the sound of the metal exciting you – it sounds like a promise.

Joel finally tugs your panties down, and for a second you’re self–conscious about not being clean shaven, but the second he sees you bare and glistening for him, his fingers dip into your folds, gathering your wetness with no hesitation.

"Fuck me," he groans, bringing his hand up to his face and tasting you, holding eye–contact the entire time, "prettiest pussy I’ve seen in my life."

You twitch under him, dragging your gaze away from his eyes and to his fingers. A moan escapes you, your hands have gone slack on his waistband, and Joel smiles down at you. Then, he does the same motion again, drags the tips of his thick fingers through your sticky arousal, but instead of sucking them clean himself, he holds them up to your mouth. His eyes burn, when you wrap your lips around them without a moments hesitation, and he feeds you your own slick.

"Taste so sweet, huh?"

You don’t answer, just swirl your tongue around his fingers, and suck on them. Joel watches your mouth intently, lets you take your time.

"Good girl," he praises you, and you clench around nothing, "so fuckin’ needy for me."

He drags his fingers from your mouth, and finally pushes into you, the stretch much tighter than with two of your own. Your head falls backwards, and Joel curls his fingers.

"No, baby, look down here," he orders, and immediately you lift your head again, and watch him pump two thick digits in and out of you. It’s dizzying to think it’s the same hand that waved to you from over his fence for years and years. You feel a coil building in your stomach, and you moan.

"Fuck, Joel," you moan, his name leaving a delicious aftertaste in your mouth. His beautiful forearm flexes with every movement, your slick is dripping down his fingers, and those damn sleeves are still perfectly rolled up.

With a few more curls of his fingers, you gush around him, barely having time to warn him, and he praises you, calls you his good girl, drags his fingers against that spongey spot inside of you until you see stars.

When he slips his fingers out of you and holds them up to your face again, you clean them up with your mouth as Joel watches with bright eyes. To think that he’s the same man who taught you Dirac not twenty-four hours ago – already, you want him inside again. When you’re done, he fumbles with his own clothes, and you watch him this time instead of helping.

"You look so good like this," you mumble, eyes raking over his broad form, "Professor."

His eyes snap up to yours, and you grin.

"Fuckin’ Christ, kid," he mutters, popping open the buttons on his shirt, "you can’t say shit like that."

"You don’t like it? You know, I watched you during your lectures and dreamed about…well, about this."

His expression is unreadable, but if you’re not mistaken, his hands move even faster now, and then he shrugs out of his shirt. You almost moan at the sight of his naked torso, so broad and solid.

"You need to pay attention in class," Joel answers, as he opens his pants. Your breathing grows a little shallow when he reveals his boxers underneath, his bulge huge.

"Can’t," you mumble, "not with you looking like this."

He chuckles at that, at the honesty and need in your answer.

"Don’t worry," he says softly, "I’ll fuck it outta you. Won’t be needing’ me in class, not if I’m still leakin’ out of you."

Your lips part, your pussy clenches – a smile tugs on the corners of Joel’s mouth at your reaction. He drags down his boxer shorts, and your eyes snap towards his cock, so thick and dripping in precum. You whimper, you can’t help it, and Joel’s smile widens.

"We’ll make it fit, baby," he says, reading your mind, and then bends down and kisses you again. You try to tug your shirt upwards, but Joel’s hands find your wrists and he holds them tight.

"No, want to fuck you in it," he breathes against your lips, and you press your hips upwards until he groans. He pumps his fist over his cock a couple of times, and aligns it with your entrance.

"Deep breath, baby," he mutters, and you obey, staring up at him as he starts pressing into you. It’s tight, much tighter than his two fingers, and your eyes glass over with pain, but Joel goes slow. His hand strokes your tummy, helps you relax, while he pushes on consistently. You feel like he’s punching the air from your lungs, eyes wide with the stretch of him, as he nips at your jaw and neck to distract you.

"Know it’s a lot, but you can take it, angel."

"Y-yes," you moan, and screw your eyes shut, "please don’t stop, Joel."

 Joel’s breathing is ragged with restraint, and suddenly his hips snap forwards – and he’s fully buried inside of your tight body, nestled right against your cervix.

"Back to Joel, are we?" he teases, and gives you a couple of seconds to get used to him. You whimper and claw at his arm.

"I – ah – I’ll call you Professor Miller ’f you want," you slur, as he starts dragging his cock out of you again. You tremble under him, the feeling almost more intense than when he pushed inside of you.

"Yeah? That get you off? Or – fuck–  is it the fact that I’m friends with your parents?"

It really, really should be a turn off, to be talking about your parents right now, but the way Joel says it, the way he points out just how debauched it is what you’re doing – you can’t help but moan. You blush, too, can feel the heat in your face, but you’re tired of being ashamed of wanting him the way you do.

"Both," you answer, and this time Joel groans, his hips snapping into you at a rougher pace. The head of his cock hits your spot every time, and you let out little sounds of pleasure with every drag of his cock, unable to form a coherent sentence. Joel’s hand finds your clit again, rubbing circles as his other one pressing down on your stomach.

"Feel that?" he asks you, and you do, you feel him all up in your guts, "you take it so well baby, take all ’f me."

"Yes," you answer, eyes glassy with pleasure, "want all of you, Joel."

He bites your shoulder, keeps rutting into you, and soon you feel another orgasm building.

"Close – ah – so close," you whimper, and Joel speeds up his thrusts just slightly. You clench around him, right on the edge.

"Come for me, angel, give it to me."

You do, your hips bucking, back arching.

"Ah – fuck, Joel, Prof–"

"Say it," Joel orders, fucking you through the waves of pleasure.

"Professor."

He comes, too, twitching deep inside of you and spilling rope after rope of come. It feels right, like you’re his. His groan is rough, his thrusts sloppy, and you feel your pussy spasm around him in a third, weaker orgasm, or maybe it’s just aftershocks from your second. You’re limp underneath him, letting him use your body how he needs to.

"Fuck," he curses, "did so good for me."

He slips out of you, and you can feel his spend drip out of you. You’re weak, soft like jelly, sweaty and entirely satisfied.

"Jesus," you breathe, when he falls down next to you, his couch mercifully being big enough.

"Yeah," he answers, "Jesus."

***

Turns out, Joel Miller is a dirty talking bastard during sex, and a big softie afterwards. He makes you tea, strokes your hair while you sip it, then carries you up to his shower and gently washes your body his his sponge. Throughout, he’s quiet, and you wonder if it was too much, the mention of him being your professor, of your parents, but you’re too afraid to ask. He brushes your forehead with his lips when he dries you off, and pulls another of his shirts over you head. Your panties are entirely ruined, it’s all you’re wearing.

When you’re clean again, and relaxed, Joel pulls you onto his bed, wrapping you up in his arms.

"Did you…was that too much?" he asks you softly fingertips tracing over your thigh lazily.

"It was just right," you answer quietly, and he hums.

"You didn’t feel like you…I mean when you called me Professor, you wanted to do that, right?"

You look up at him, and press a soft kiss against his jaw.

"Of course, Joel. Wanted everything we did, I promise."

He nods, but you can tell there’s still something bothering him.

"You know that’s not what you are to me, though, right?" Your voice is soft. "You’re just Joel."

He brushes the top of your head with his lips.

"I mean it," you press on when he doesn’t answer, "it’s like a costume, Joel. I know it’s your job, but it’s…I don’t think of you as like, an authority figure or something. I just thought you looked hot in that slutty shirt."

"Slutty–?" he sputters and you laugh.

"Sure, you know, with your sleeves rolled up, and that first button popped open."

"’S not slutty."

"You showed your forearms. Half the lecture hall felt like a victorian man seeing ankles for the first time."

Joel makes an exasperated sound, half amused and half offended.

"I mean it," you say again after beat, humor gone from your tone, "and it’s not just sex to me. You know that."

"Yeah," Joel answers slowly. "’S more to me, too."

It’s a hell of an admission.

"What are we gonna do?", you ask quietly, and Joel sighs.

"You’re gonna go to class," he says, voice dark, "and I’ll try very, very hard not to call your father and tell him I’m fallin’ for his daughter."

You bury your face in his chest. With anyone else, it would be too much, too fast, too intense. But this is Joel. It’s not fast if you’ve known him your whole life, is it? You kiss his chest, and he seems to understand.

"We’ll figure it out," Joel says quietly, pressing a kiss to your hair.

For a second you do want your parents to know, want them to see that someone does treat you like an adult, want to look them in the eye and say I’m with Joel now and there’s nothing you can do about it. I have my own life now and it includes this kind man. It’s childish, you know it is. You lean up, catch Joel’s mouth in a kiss.

harry and mia

dreamland billionaires by lauren asher (ceo trope)

the dead romantics by ashley poston (quiet reserved MC x overwhelmed FMC in literary setting)

the spanish love deception by elena armas (grumpy x sunshine),

beautiful bastard by christina lauren (serious MC, workplace setting)

the hating game by sally thorne (grumpy MC, workplace rivals)

love on the brain by ali hazelwood (grumpy MC x sunshine FMC, workplace, male pining)

neon gods by katee roberts (grumpy MC, hades x persephone)

harry and faye

practice makes perfect by sarah adams (nervous FMC x tattooed hottie MC)

all the lovers in the dark by mieko kawakami (depressed FMC wanting to change her life around)

georgie, all along by kate clayborn (FMC has anxiety)

harry and fleur

the wisteria society of lady scoundrels by india holton (grumpy/serious FMC x flirty MC, rivals-to-lovers, forced to work together)

these violent delights by chloe gong (friends to lovers to exes to enemies to lovers to enemies to lovers), 

harry and lucia

the heart principle by helen hoang (FMC has OCD)

forget me not by julie soto (grumpy x sunshine, second chance romance)

happy place by emily henry (second chance romance, break up for a good reason)

alone with you in the ether by olivie blake (characters messed up all around)

harry and miriam

yours truly by abby jimenez (MC has really bad anxiety)

people we meet on vacation by emily henry (sunshine FMC x nervous MC, second chance romance-ish)

below zero by ali hazelwood (MC doesn’t know he’s hot, nervous MC x happy FMC)

harry and yasmine

a rogue of one's own by evie dunmore (enemies to lovers, male pining, historical romance)

emily wilde’s encylopaedia of fairies by heather fawcett (academic setting, serious FMC x playful MC)

love theoretically by ali hazelwood (academic rivals)

divine rivals by rebecca ross (enemies to lovers, rivals to lovers)

harry and aaliyah

portrait of a scotsman by evie dunmore (grumpy MC x artsy FMC)

pride and prejudice by jane austen (duh!)

the belle of belgrave square by mimi matthews (marriage of convenience, grumpy MC)

harry and annaliese

the poppy wife by caroline scott (post ww1 romance)

the princess diaries by meg cabot (best friend’s brother LOLLL)

when i come home again by caroline scott (post war romance)

You had plans to get home and try it out, needing a well-deserved session with yourself, a successful one, that is. Bored of scrolling through social media, you remember to switch on your four-ways and lock the doors before climbing into the back and laying across the seats, planning on just chilling and listening to music rather than being cooped up in the front. Plus there was a nice blanket in the back, so that's a bonus. Resting your head on the seat, you scroll through your phone some more and edit your playlists.

—

You must’ve fallen asleep because you were woken by a thudding on the window above your head. You sit up and look around for a split-second to gather your surroundings before looking up at the sound to see Bucky standing outside your car. His hands darkened in spots with oil and his hair a mess. You rub your eyes and open the door, swinging your feet out onto the asphalt but staying in the seat. He steps to the open side of the door and drops to a knee.

“I checked everything while you were asleep; we’re not gonna be able to get this fixed before tonight,” he says up to you.

Well, there goes your evening. You grab your phone to call an Uber but, judging by the very obvious battery flashing across the screen, it’s dead. You huff as you organize the frizz out of your hair.

“Can I borrow your phone to call a ride? Mine’s dead,” you ask.

Something flashes through his eyes as he stands back up from the ground, his height towering over you.

“I could give you a ride back if you’d like,” he suggests.

Your face heats up at the thoughts that run through your head on the topic of being alone in a car at night with your hot mechanic but you manage to fluster together a semi-smooth response.

“Wha… What’s it cost?” you inquire flirtatiously, stammering.

“Cup of coffee?” Bucky flirts back.

Okay, he was a lot smoother than you, but he’s a lot more than you in every other way, too. He’s taller, cooler, richer, bigger.

“I’ll take that ride, then,” you smile at him and he returns it.

1 hour later:

You wake up from your nap in Bucky’s pick-up truck and examine the passing road around you through heavy eyes. Looking over at Bucky, he looks a bit shaken. You might’ve slept through something but unsure, you decide to make sure everything’s all good and you’re not… well, dead. And, seeing as being in a quiet car alone with Bucky at night listening to Lana Del Rey would be heaven to you, it didn’t seem impossible.

“You alright?” you ask, concerned.

Bucky’s eyebrows jump and his face expresses 110 different emotions in two seconds.

“Yeah- yeah, why?” he asks, very clearly not alright.

He clears his throat and his eyes flick down at your bare thigh, exposed like much of the rest of your legs by the short black jean shorts you were wearing. You follow his freaked gaze and notice 2 small indentations in your skin that definitely weren’t there before. You could’ve scratched yourself in your sleep but surely it wouldn’t leave that kind of mark.

“Hm, alright,” you say. You know something's up and you’re going to figure out what.

You watch him cautiously as he runs a hand through his hair, the metal rings wrapping his fingers reflecting the light from the early setting of the sun. He drops his hand back onto his thigh, steering with his left, and you look back and forth between his jittery hand and the marks on your leg.

Oh, damn.

You sit in silence for a moment, looking for other possible reasons for the marks on your leg but find none.

“Bucky,” you start.

“Mhm?” he replies instantly.

“We’re you… holding my thigh?” you finish.

He exhales deeply and slowly drifts onto the side of the road, thudding his forehead onto the top of the wheel, ashamed.

“I’ll get you an Uber,” he says into the wheel before reaching for his phone in the cupholder. You grab his wrist and his eyes meet yours in a flash— he looks disgusted, but not at you.

“Don’t,” you demand.

He holds the eye contact then breaks it, looking back at you quickly before peeling back onto the road. He switches his distracted gaze between your hand and the road as he watches as you keep the hold on his wrist and lead it back toward your leg. He stops his arm just before touching your skin before releasing and letting you place his hand on your inner thigh. His breathing quickens as he squeezes the soft flesh. This was the most wanted reason there could’ve been for the marks on your leg.

He moves his hand from your inner thigh toward your knee once you release his wrist. Guilt surges through you, yet there’s still a sexual tension building within the car.

“Bucky, I’m so sorry! I thought that was what you wanted, god, I feel like such a perv…” you sputter, holding your hands over your face.

Bucky smirks and glances over at you before re-fixing his eyes on the road.

“No, Doll, it’s not that. I just know that if we start now I’ll get carried away,” he says, consoling you, “Your place or mine?”.

“Yours,” you respond after a brief pause.

Your heart drops and you cross your legs to soothe the tingling between them— his hand follows and lands back on top of your thigh. The pressure on your heat allows you to feel the pulse around your clit and you huff out a quiet breath. Bucky notices your aroused state and removes his hand entirely, motioning to the backseat as he speaks:

“There’s something back there I think you might find useful,” he says.

You look in the back and see the hot-pink sex shop logo plastered on the black bag containing your vibrator. What. The. Actual. Fuck. This was literally your every wet dream of him and more. The burning in your abdomen and pulsing in your clit is quickly forgotten as nervousness and embarrassment wash over you after processing the ordeal.

“I swear I can explain-“ you start out of genuine reflex.

“I wasn’t asking,” he demands, turning down the radio by a few notches.

The dominance in his tone makes you wanna cum on the spot and you reach into the backseat and grab the bag, removing the boxed vibrator and dropping the bag onto the floor. You turn back around in the seat and a black-smudged and calloused hand grabs the box from you, flipping it around and examining the features. Your toes curl in anticipation as you watch him tear the box open with ease, dropping the vibrator onto his lap. He tests the different speeds on the palm of his hand, switching his gaze between the toy and the road before setting it to 2/5 and handing it over to you. You place it on the seat beside you and you don’t hesitate to pull your shorts down your legs, dropping them onto the floor in front of the seat and pulling your underwear to your ankles. The vibrator rattles against the leather of the seat and you pull your knees up, resting your feet on the dash before spreading your knees.

“Don’t change the speed, I’ll be controlling that since I’m driving,” he remarks.

You adjust your position, feeling the cool air of the gentle AC hit your cunt, giving you chills. You place the vibrator on the outside of your lips first to ease into the feeling before moving it between your folds, moving it up and down against your clit. You moan out shamelessly and Bucky groans in response. Pressing it into your clit, you slide a finger into yourself and push up against your front wall. You curve your finger in yourself and pump it in and out, wiggling the vibrator around. Squelching wet clicks fill the car besides the quiet music and you moan again, louder than before.

Bucky reaches between your legs and grabs the glistening vibrator, increasing the speed by one click before placing it back between your legs. He holds it on your clit, moving it in a circular motion as he focuses on the road and palms himself through his jeans. You insert another finger into yourself and grab his bicep with your free hand, needing desperately something to hold. You feel your climax coming up and arch your back off the back of the seat. Bucky swivels the vibrator around faster and pushes it into your clit with more pressure. You moan out a string of sounds as you curl your fingers and bury them within your clenching hole, flexing them inside yourself as your high flows by. With one final, very lewd moan, you finish completely and push the vibrator off of yourself. Bucky clicks it off and drops it back into the mangled box, releasing a guttural groan as his hard dick tests the confines of his jeans. You drive for a few more minutes before he flips on the turn signal onto a side road that leads to a hiking trail.

“Fuck it,” he says as he parks in one of the further spots at the edge of the woods.

Immediately upon parking, he smashes your faces together in an intense kiss. You separate your faces and climb into the back, knowing Bucky has to leave the car to get into the backseat. He chuckles and exits the car before re-entering into the backseat next to you as planned. You swing your legs up onto the seat and lay back, pulling your underwear back down— your shorts long gone in the front seat. He climbs between your spread legs with the door still open and reconnects the kiss.

“Mmph-” you try to speak as you push Bucky’s chest.

He lifts himself off of you in a push-up-like position and stares into your eyes, fear riddling his very existence.

“The door!” you laugh out, motioning to the open door, exposing your entire baby factory to the wild and maybe a few sunset hikers. His expression relaxes and he shuts the door behind himself, now on his knees on the seat, situated between your legs.

Thoughts came and went in your head as you watched him carry out the mundane action— when you first met him, when he gave you his personal number, and the looks you shared with each other that one time your ex’s car broke down. You’d both wanted this for a long time and, thinking about it, you don’t really know why you restrained yourselves for the amount of time you did.

He leans toward your face and sinks into a kiss. You close your eyes and move your lips toward another, only to realize that he was gone from your face and making his way down your body. You open your eyes to catch a glimpse of his smirk just before the rest of his face below his eyes disappears between your thighs.

You gasp and lean back against the window of the car door, grasping at his hair with one hand and the head rest of the seat with the other. His tongue passes through your lips repetitively, forcing a warm fluttering into your abdomen. Your moaning encourages him to press his tongue into your clit, flicking it back and forth and your moans get louder in response. You tug on his hair harshly as he inserts a finger into you and pumps it in and out. He groans into you, sending vibrations up your spine.

‘Burning Desire’ by Lana Del Rey starts on the playlist, thickening the sexual energy in the car. Your head thuds against the window as you arch your back off of the door, feeding him. He turns his head on an angle and curls his finger, pressing his face even further into you, if that’s even possible at this point. You let out one final guttural moan as you clench around his fingers and forge your fist shut on his hair, your body convulsing against the seat as you cum. He rides you through your high, staring up into your eyes as he laps up the fluids dripping from you— your juices and his saliva mixing together. The wet sounds slowing as he lays a few more small kitten-licks between your lips before removing his finger and moving back up to kiss you. You breath heavily against each other’s faces as you swallow your tongues, pawing at every piece of clothing covering you’s.

He pulls his shirt over his head before sitting back against the seat and removing his jeans, leaving him in his underwear. You sit up completely and pull your top off, your bra coming off soon after. You both soak in the atmosphere: the music, the heavy breathing, the late stages of the sunset. You ogle his body, practically drooling— his toned chest and the point where his stomach rolls from sitting, the muscles detailing his large arms, the spread of his thighs along the seat— everything.

“You gonna lose those?” you ask, gesturing to his boxers with the very prominent boner pressing through them.

He looks up from your breasts to your face and his eyebrows jump when he realizes that he’s still covered. He pulls the boxers down his legs, dropping them from his ankles onto the floor. His dick sticks up and precum rolls down the side of the contrasting pink tip. He begins to move back between your legs, but you stop him by climbing onto his lap. Looking up at you with curious eyes, he places his hands on your waist gently. You move your hand down to your heat slowly, taking some of your arousal on your fingertips before spreading it over his tip along with his precum. He inhales shakily and straightens his back at the feeling, his eyes taking a weak, submissive look.

“You ready?” you ask with a small, empathetic smile.

He nods his head and you tilt yours to the side.

“I wanna hear it,” you say.

One of his hands roams up your back and rests on the back of your neck.

“I’m ready,” he whispers before pushing your faces together in a soft kiss, swiping his tongue along yours as you slide his throbbing tip between your folds.

You both moan out quietly as you lower yourself onto his cock, your rim stretching and your walls fluttering as he enters your body. The wet sucking of your kissing fills the car as you sit on his cock for a moment, wiggling your hips to adjust to his size. You rest your hands on his shoulders for support as you slide yourself up and down. You have to lean your forehead against his to avoid hitting your head on the ceiling.

You had waited so long for this. Too long.

The slow pace wasn’t cutting it for him anymore as he grabbed onto your hips and flipped you back along the seat. You gasp as he pushes himself back into you and takes what he needs— a lot.

“Oh my god, Buck!” you cry out.

He rests his weight on his forearms as you grab at his body, first his arms, then his ass, then his waist. Wet skin slapping and your combined moans cover the music, and the once-clear glass has been fogged up. You pant like dogs as you whine out every few thrusts, nearing your climaxes.

“Come on, doll. Cum for me,” he coos into your hair, moving a hand to your clit.

He toys with your clit as he continues plowing you, sucking intensely on your neck. You feel yourself clench repeatedly as stars form behind your eyes and you arch your back into Bucky as you cum. You cry out as he brings you down from your high, still chasing his own. The car shakes back and forth more intensely as he gives a few more hard thrusts deep into you before burrying his cock in you and filling you with his cum. He groans out as he pulls out, releasing all of the built up fluids from your hole out onto the seats. You moan as his tip pops out of you and the liquid seeps down your skin.

You sit up on the seat and more juices push though your lips, instigated by the motion. Bucky pulls his boxers back over himself and reaches into the front seat to grab a box of tissues, passing them to you to clean yourself up. The two of you redress and get back into the front— you climbing over the console and him getting out of the car to get back in.

“Let’s get back to my place, now, yeah?” he says, not much of a question, before turning on the car.

The headlights illuminate the woods ahead and in the grass in front of you’s, a squirrel sits— watching you.

“Pervert,” you and Bucky say at the same time.

You burst out laughing at the coincidence before he peels the truck out of the parking lot, still snickering.

You had been driving for just over 5 minutes before either of you said something, tuckered out.

“You think that thing works on men?” he asks, lifting his hand from your thigh to point at the vibrator box in the cupholder.

You had never been so nervous in your entire life, and at the present time were so caught up in your anxious thoughts you didn’t hear your mother repeating your name beside you. Only her soft, gloved touch on your exposed upper arm pulled you from your trance.

“You’ll be perfect darling. Regardless of the Queen’s appraisal, the right man will see how beautiful you truly are.”

You managed a small smile, but it was to alleviate her worries more than your own.

Every excruciating hour of your life which had been dedicated to studying and practising to become the perfect lady led to this very moment. Presenting yourself in front of the Queen of England, who with one look would determine if you were to be the diamond of the season, and therefore worthy of the most eligible bachelor London had to offer, if you were fated for a loveless political marriage, or perhaps the worst scenario, no husband at all.

Your worries were only further intensified by the notion that given your current familial circumstances, your mother wanted you off the marriage market by the conclusion of the social season. You knew your mother loved you deeply, and only had the best of intentions when it came to your happiness, so you didn’t have the heart to tell her the pressure was eating you alive.

The eligible ladies were introduced in order of rank, one by one announced to a room full of nobility and upper-class families for the Queen to make her assessment, until you were the last debutante remaining in the parlour.

A booming baritone voice announced you and your mother’s titles as all eyes in the room turned to you. Your stomach contorted and though you felt like you were about to throw up, you pushed the feeling down as you knew puking in front of the Queen was just about the worst first impression you could make.

Your hands shook uncontrollably and heart thumped rapidly in your chest as you straightened your posture and started taking small, delicate steps towards the Queen and her ensemble. The entire room was silent, so much so that the clicks of yours and your mothers heels filled the entire room.

Your mother always stressed how important this first impression was. As someone who had a relatively low rank amongst present company, a favourable opinion from Her Majesty would be vital for securing any marriage prospects.

As you stepped ever closer to the dais, you were no closer to figuring out what the blank expression on the Queen’s face indicated. You hadn’t seen her react to any of the other ladies' presentations, so you were painfully unaware whether this was a favourable reaction or not.

Once you reached the base of the platform, you bowed your head and dropped to a curtsy so low you were practically kneeling. Your mother did the same beside you, as low as her older knees would allow, and then you waited for your indication to rise.

Which didn’t come.

The silence extended to an unnatural length, but you compelled yourself to stay perfectly still. You were before the Queen of England, so no matter how out of place and alarmed you felt in this moment, you could not put a toe out of line.

Whispers propagated around the room, and you took a shaky breath in fear of what this prolonged silence from Her Majesty possibly signified.

Could she be that horrified by your presentation?

Finally, the Queen shifted her position on the throne, and to your utter shock, stood and made her way down the steps of the dais so that she was directly before you - the whispers about the room now turning to gasps.

Her Majesty’s gloved finger tilted your bowed head up to look at her. Following her touch, you finally rose and noticed the small smirk tugging at her lips.

“Stunning.” She simply proclaimed, before nonchalantly turning around and taking her place back on the throne as if she hadn’t just completely changed your life with a single word.

The chaos which ensued from that point onwards was formidable. Not only did most of the young men in attendance compete with each other for a moment of your attention, engulfing you in a sea of unfamiliar faces who you knew were only interested because of the Queen’s actions, but every other lady who had just been presented now eyed you with bitter and begrudging stares.

Though you suspected the marriage mart would have a transactional essence which most likely removed the romantic element of becoming engaged, you expected the bachelors to at least want to get to know you as a person if they were serious about the commitment of marriage, rather than seeing you as a political chess piece from the beginning.

You were sadly mistaken.

Excusing yourself from the mayhem, you scrambled to find a corner of the palace in which you could have a moment alone, away from all the demanding voices, loud music, foreign faces and stuffy air of the throne room.

Scurrying through a labyrinth of corridors, you finally found a doorway that led outside. Once the doors were shut behind you, you closed your eyes and took a deep breath, allowing the fresh spring air to finally fill your lungs and slow your thumping heart.

“Are you alright?” Startled by another’s presence, your eyes shot open, only to be met with yet another unfamiliar face. However, this young lady’s was warm and inviting, seemingly concerned about your well-being, which was a stark contrast to those inside.

“You look flustered, here, come sit.” She patted the spot beside her on the garden bench, only now noticing that the courtyard you found yourself in was filled with beautiful pink roses in full bloom. You thanked the stranger prior to sitting beside her, then expelled a large sigh.

“That bad?”

“All of the attention, it’s… overwhelming to say the least. I’m simply a Baron’s daughter, I never expected to be met with such recognition, but neither the jealous stares nor the scrutiny.” You admitted, though the woman let out a stifled laugh as if she understood all too well.

“Yes, court can be such a ruthless place with all the eagar debutantes and their mama’s vying for every eligible men’s attention. I, myself, prefer to stay as far away from that bedlam as possible.” Hearing someone speak aloud that they held a similar animosity towards court as you now did since your introduction not even an hour ago, helped calm the agitated storm swirling in your chest.

“I unfortunately don’t have that option. My father passed last year and now my mother insists I must marry so that I can secure my future.” You disclosed with a heavy heart, twiddling your fingers in your lap as a distraction from the memories of your cheerful father being recalled at the forefront of your mind.

“My condolences.” The stranger gave you a small smile, pausing the conversation for a moment as if to determine how to change the subject. “What a horrible society we live in where we have to rely on men to exist in this world.”

“I couldn’t agree more.” You chuckled as a knowing look passed between the two of you. “Is that your way of indicating you aren’t partaking in this season?”

“If it were up to me I would never subject myself to such an appalling tradition, but my brother has other plans.” She shook her head indignantly, but a hint of a smile tugged at the corners of her lips.

“Oh, and why’s that?”

“He refuses to take a wife himself, even though as the eldest it’s essentially a requirement. But alas, the family's reputation now rests on my weak shoulders it seems.” You sensed there was more to the story, but as virtual strangers, you thought it rude to probe further.

Before you had the opportunity to admit you felt under the same pressure as she currently did, your mother burst through the doors to the courtyard.

“There you are dearest, why aren’t you inside mingling with the gentleman?”

“I needed a breath of fresh air mama.” You rationalised, hoping your mother wouldn’t force you to spend another minute inside with the all too eager gentleman. She let out a sympathetic sigh, eyes darting to your new acquaintance. You noticed a slight tensing in her posture upon recognising the stranger beside you, which prompted her to speak again.

“Come along then, we must begin getting you ready for Lady Danbury’s ball tomorrow night.” Curious as to why your mother now seemed ill at ease, but knowing better than to ask, you stood from the seat.

“It was lovely meeting you.” You commented, turning to the affable stranger one last time.

“Likewise.” She smiled softly, but there was something about her demeanour which indicated she knew exactly why your mother was hastily removing you from her presence.

“I don’t believe I caught your name.”

“Rebecca.”

You returned her smile and reciprocated her kindness by providing your own name, before being swiftly ushered away by your mother. You flashed Rebecca an apologetic look over your shoulder as you left her alone with her thoughts on the garden bench.

Even though you only spoke for a short moment, it was comforting to know you weren’t the only one inundated with the expectation and duty synonymous with the social season.

You might not have found a husband this afternoon, but you surely found a friend.

Between the time of your premature exit from the palace courtyard and your entrance at Lady Danbury’s ball, your severe detest of the court and the politics at play within it, only heightened.

Your mother seemed convinced that with the Queen’s actions the day before, she would not hesitate to name you the season’s diamond by that night, and from there it would only be a matter of days before the numerous marriage proposals started rolling in.

You appreciated that within this society, any proposal from a man with a highly esteemed family was difficult to acquire and should be deemed a triumph, but the romanticist within you, the girl who grew up reading tales of beautiful love stories between a prince and his fair maiden, was remarkably disappointed at the lack of romance and courtship in finding a husband.

Stepping into Lady Danbury’s castle of a home, you thought there could not be a more beautiful setting to have a magical meeting with someone who may in fact soon become your husband. Aromatic white roses adorned a grand staircase, and had been used to create elaborate centrepieces on every table in the dining room; gold trim covered every surface, and perhaps most beautiful of all was an ornate floral design newly painted on the polished hardwood floors.

But you were seemingly setting yourself up for further disappointment as every man you had the pleasure of interacting with in this fairytale mansion was only interested in how you could be of service to him - how you could entertain him on the pianoforte, how many children you’d be expected to bear, and if you’d be capable of running an efficient household.

You did your best to remain polite and genteel, however, you found it beyond insulting that all these men spoke to you as if you were interviewing for employment. None showed any concern about actually courting you, they treated you as if proposing marriage was doing you a favour.

Which you supposed in this society perhaps they were, but you had come to the realisation that you’d rather be considered an old spinster than the wife of a man who treated you like a servant.

Knowing there was at least one person in attendance tonight who held as much, if not more, contempt for the court’s customs as you did, you roamed the residence in search of Rebecca. After navigating what felt like the entire ground floor, you finally found her leaning on a column, beside the food tables in the corner farthest from the dance floor.

“Enjoying your night?” Rebecca asked with a distinctly sarcastic tone.

“Oh yes, I’m positively having the time of my life.” You responded, matching her sardonic tone before taking a sip of lemonade from the small crystal goblets the attendants meandering the party were handing out.

For the next half hour Rebecca and you stationed yourselves in the secluded corner of the ballroom, sipping on lemonade and poking fun at all the young men and women who were either awkwardly moving around the dance floor or making a fool of themselves in conversation, and the desperate mama’s who were all too eager in finding a match for their daughters. Both of you giggling the entire time as if you were tipsy on your fathers whiskey.

Just as your mother’s scornful eye met yours, as if to ask why are you not socialising with the gentlemen, the mellow music played by the string quartet and all conversation within the room abruptly stopped, as the embellished front doors swung open to reveal a tall, dignified young man with chestnut brown hair whom you didn’t recognise.

Whispers broke out around the room as the man failed at concealing his late entrance by remaining towards the perimeter of the space.

Is that the Duke of Brooklyn?

I never thought I’d see his face back at court since the scandal of his debut season.

Oh, but is he not the handsomest man you have ever seen?

Whistledown was right!

The dark blue of his coat accentuated his striking azure irises, which at that exact moment met yours from across the room, and you could have sworn your heart stopped completely. Indeed, the Earth may have stopped revolving for when you caught the gaze of this attractive mystery man, the entire world faded away, the music in the room a distant hum, Rebecca’s presence beside you and the gentry scattered around the room vanished completely as it seemed you were the only two in existence for that moment.

He was indeed extremely handsome. Perhaps the most stunning man with exceedingly charming features you ever set your gaze upon, but it was the endearing nerves and gentleness behind his beautiful eyes and bashfulness of the lopsided smile he flashed towards you which had you enchanted.

Your cheeks heated as he continued to stare, his line of sight remaining on you rather than surveying the room and all the beautiful women within it. Though your mouth suddenly became dry and your chest tightened markedly, making it impossible to take a steadying breath, you managed to reciprocate a small smile, which appeared to settle his nerves slightly, however, you were sure you were imagining it.

The room only started reappearing in vivid colour once his gaze broke and flickered to Rebecca beside you, and with a look of radiant recognition, which was followed by a sudden twinge of jealousy in your chest, started walking through the crowds towards where you were standing.

“Brother.” Rebecca said with a court nod, but your jaw almost hit the floor. She was the sister of a Duke? Why had she not mentioned it?

“Becca, I hope you haven’t been causing too much trouble.” The Duke said with an amused chuckle, the sound of which was the sweetest noise you had ever heard. It lightened your heart and all you wanted was to listen to his laugh on repeat to learn the intricacies of it.

“I’ve been a perfect angel, thank you very much.” She said with a sly grin before officially introducing you.

“It is a pleasure, Your Grace.” You politely curtsied, but as soon as you corrected your posture and your eyes locked with his once more, he took a hold of your hand - which was when you noticed he too was wearing gloves, rather odd choice for a gentleman. That thought, however, was soon vapourised from your mind when he bent down and, whilst maintaining eye contact the entire time, placed a soft kiss to your outstretched hand.

Though you had never experienced the sensation before, you desperately desired for his soft, plump lips to instead be pressed against your own rather than your covered knuckles.

“Believe me, the pleasure is all mine.” There was something of a scoff from Rebecca beside you, but you were so focussed on how James’ blue eyes were exuding awe and tenderness whilst staring at you, that you hardly noticed.

“I’m sure you will tell me the truth,” James’ intoxicatingly deep voice was directed at you, “has my sister danced with any eligible bachelors tonight?”

“Oh, hundreds!” You gave a small chuckle, knowing you didn’t sound at all serious. “Not sure how she's still on her feet.” Nudging Rebecca slightly, all she and her brother could do was laugh.

“I’ll believe it when I see it.” James added which prompted a snarky ‘not in your lifetime’ remark from his sister.

As the music from the centre of the room concluded the dance, you noticed a hovering group of gentlemen who were bickering as to which of them would be able to ask you and Rebecca who had, up until this point, achieved your goal of not participating in any dances.

“Your Grace, would you do me the honour of a waltz?” You asked with a boldness you were only afforded by the complete despise of wanting to be in the same proximity of any of the men who treated you like someone they were entitled to earlier in the night.

“You’re asking me to dance?” His eyes were wide with pure shock, but it only made them more alluring, deeper and somehow bluer up close, easier to get lost in.

“Only if you want to, of course. But if you do, please do so before that herd of men stampede over here to fill my dance card.” You knew it was generally improper for a lady of your rank to ask a Duke to dance, but you were desperate not to be thrown into the foray of disagreeable men.

With a nervously disbelieving laugh, which seemed to have more to do with not thinking he’d be dancing tonight than your aberrant request, and a quick glance to his sister, James held out his gloved hand and gave you the sweetest smile you had seen on him tonight as he escorted you to the centre of the room.

You felt all eyes turn to you as the room quietened to mere whispers, his joyous smile vanishing completely. James looked as severely uncomfortable being the centre of attention as you felt. You fully expected him to excuse himself and run towards an exit, however, when your gloved hand on his cheek gently directed his gaze back down at you, the anxiety which had seemingly overcome him, dissipated as easily as steam.

The horrified whispers of the gentry around the room once again faded to nothing when he looked at you.

The consuming anxieties of the past few weeks concerning what would become of your future dissolved, even when arguably they should be higher than ever. His beautiful eyes had a certain quality to them that alleviated all your worries instantly.

“Ignore them. Just look at me.” You reassured him and that same smile he flashed you earlier crept back onto his features. The knowledge that this handsome man, with the most dazzling smile, was only beaming because of you, took your breath away.

As the music slowly started up again, one of James’ hands took yours gently in his while the other rested on your back, pulling your body ever closer to his. You placed your other hand on his broad shoulder, and though it seemed obvious as soon as he had entered the ball, it was only now you appreciated how tall and muscular his frame was.

Even with two layers of fabric between the skin of his gloved hand and your back, his soft caress sent a shiver down your spine and made you feel so dazed that you barely heard the musical cue to begin the dance steps.

He led you around the room in time to the beat, and it took all your willpower to keep your eyes focussed on his and not let them drift down to his lips. Being so close to him, the combination of his heavenly scent, tender touch and warm breath as his deep voice spoke friendly banter in your ear, made you weak at the knees. You weren’t sure if you’d be able to finish the dance if he kept this up.

Luckily for you, and your knees, for the second time that night the entire room completely stopped and stared at a late arrival. This time however, the Queen herself strode through the doors as those she passed bowed and curtsied with muttered Your Majesty’s. Her eyes flashed to you and your dance partner, a disgruntled expression overtaking her features as she murmured something inaudible to a servant.

Despite the music ceasing, and most of the other couples separating an arms length away from one another, you felt no inclination to remove yourself from the enticing touch of the Duke. However, to your disappointment, he must have felt very differently because as soon as the Queen’s eyes landed on the pair of you, he let go of your embrace instantly and moved a couple steps away.

“A respected lady such as yourself shouldn’t be associated with the likes of me.” He remarked despondently, his beautiful eyes, which you wanted to continue to stare into for eternity, now looked towards the hardwood floor.

“What are you referring to?” You desperately asked as he started to back away from you, weaving between guests, but you followed in need of answers.

“It doesn’t matter. I should never have come tonight.” He quickly said with a shake of his head, prior to hastily making his way back to Rebecca in the secluded corner. Before you had a chance to catch up with him, he was escorting her to the exit and out into the cold night, the memory of his gorgeous blue eyes and the fading imprint of his hand on your back the only mementos you had of your time together.

You only had a moment to mourn the loss of the stranger you arguably had no right to care about as deeply as you did, for the Queen was now centre stage in the ballroom, receiving the attention of every guest, preparing to make a proclamation.

“After what I have seen tonight, I am left with no other option.” Her Majesty declared while shooting you a disapproving look. “I am announcing for the record my diamond of this season is Lady Dorothy Fitzgerald.”

Rather than disappointment at not being named the most eligible lady in court, as your mother had been certain about, your body flooded with relief.

Known affectionately as Dot to her close family and friends, Dorothy was the daughter of a Marquess and, in your opinion, a much more suitable choice for diamond. Perhaps now the gentlemen would leave you alone and you’d be able to disappear into the crowd of gentry, rather than being the dreaded centre of attention.

With the fun for the night now clearly at its end, and more whispers referencing you than ever before, you made the easy decision to take your leave. You quickly sought out your mother and waited with her in the brisk night air for your carriage to be brought around, now feeling the loss of James’ warm touch even more so than inside.

“Your association with that man tonight is the reason why you were not named the season's diamond.” Your mother shook her head indignantly, scoffing under her breath. “After what he’s done, how could you dance with him?”

“Mama, I truly do not know what the Duke has done to deserve this treatment, he was nothing but a gentleman to me; and it is clear that he cares deeply about his sister.” You remarked, perplexed at everyone’s treatment of the only man that had shown you any ounce of kindness this evening.

“Specifics are not for a young lady to know, but during his debut season he tarnished the good name of a young lady, then refused to marry her - and I will not let him do the same to you.”

Dearest Reader,

I shall skip the pleasantries and start out of the gate with the gossip I’m sure you’re all yearning to hear - the Queen has officially named her season’s diamond. However, a singular event at Lady Danbury’s ball last night has comprehensively eclipsed this news.

As predicted, His Grace James Barnes, Duke of Brooklyn, made his first appearance in court since his infamous debut season, arriving late no less. But what set whispers cascading around the room, and the ton, was the scandalous Duke shamelessly dancing centre stage with the debutante who was favoured to be the season's diamond until the announcement last night.

Most seem to think given the Duke’s history, this is a blight on the young lady’s reputation. Personally, I think she may have just hooked the catch of the season.

Even though she will not formally be known as the diamond, I have not given up hope on a love match for this jewel. In truth, after last night, that prospect seems more hopeful than ever.

As we know, diamonds are forged under great pressure, and it seems this young lady will be under a lot more duress than her fellow debutantes.

This season will test if this gem truly can shine!

Yours Truly,

Lady Whistledown

“I told you my appearance would only be a blemish on your marriage prospects Becca. And now, it seems, your friend’s as well.”

There was not a single part of him that wanted to be in attendance tonight, but he knew all young ladies needed someone there as chaperone, looking out for their best interests, and without any parents to do so, that role for Becca fell in his lap.

“You cannot taint something that doesn’t exist, Bucky.” Becca laughed as she stepped foot in their large manor, only to realise Bucky didn’t find the notion at all amusing. No, he indeed found it horrifying. He could live with his reputation being ruined, but that of his sister and her friend? The thought shredded his heart.

“I would not worry Buck, neither of us are all that eager to take a husband anyway.” He knew Becca was only trying to ease his worry, but this statement did the exact opposite.

“She’s not interested in marriage?” That thought somehow terrified him more than any other of the night.

“Why? Are you?” There was a mischievous tone to her voice which Bucky wanted to crush the implication of quickly.

“You know I am not. I am simply happy to see you made a friend in court. That’s not awfully common for the Barnes siblings.”

“Sure you are.” Becca’s signature cheeky smirk didn’t fade from her features as she bid him good night.

Bucky had once thought that this large house he inherited, which was lonely and quiet with only Becca and himself inhabiting it, would be the perfect place to take a loving wife and make it a home by filling it with as many children as she wished to have. However, that dream died along with his reputation years ago.

There were many milestones he had looked forward to prior to the incident, but he now lived an isolated and forlorn life, any companionship beyond Becca and whatever family she chose to have, seemed out of the realm of possibility.

But for a short moment tonight, as he held your body in his arms, your piercing eyes twinkling under the ballroom light, he allowed himself the selfish pleasure of permitting the thought of you being at home within his house to enter his mind.

Bucky had quickly squashed the image as he knew that could not be a reality in this lifetime. There was no point fantasising about a scenario which could never come true, right? Holding out hope for something that would only inevitably break his heart.

Nevertheless, that night all his subconscious wanted to dream of was you. Those eyes he wished to spend a lifetime learning every detail of. That dazzling smile which he craved to be the sole reason for.

The smallest of details would be lost in the haze of dreams once he awoke, but the depiction of you his subliminal envisioned wore his mother’s engagement ring proudly on your left hand.

The following night’s ball at the Royal Palace was a source of pure torture for Bucky. If it weren’t for Becca’s insistence that she wanted her older brother beside her, and the assurance that you would in fact be in attendance, he would have not entertained making an appearance.

Having to brave seeing the Queen herself, who loathed him with every fibre of her being, and face the possibility of being turned away from the ball before even stepping foot in the castle, were two undertakings he would have to contend with, but what was making him most nervous was the likelihood that he would see you again.

Evidently, after making his way into the palace, ignoring the constant disapproving stares and the ‘tut’s’ of reproachful mama’s, it would be a long, agonising wait for Bucky’s eyes to land on you again. The wait, however, was completely worth it, for when you walked into the ball, his scarce memory of you the night before was no match compared to your immersive beauty in person.

The palace, which had been extravagantly decorated for the occasion, was nothing compared to you.

But Bucky couldn’t help but feel solely responsible for the downcast expression on your face as you navigated between the crowd of upperclassmen who refused to meet your eye.

Even with the secluded life he led, Bucky knew the talk of the ton was why the Queen hadn’t named you the diamond. That there must be something so horribly wrong with you that you’d willingly choose to dance with the ostracised Duke of Brooklyn.

However, as soon as you spotted Bucky and Becca, your smile lit up as bright as the sun.

“You look beautiful!” Becca exclaimed, admiring how the soft, detailed fabric and the cut of the dress complimented your figure, taking your hands and excitedly spinning you around. Bucky certainly agreed with her observation, he had never seen someone so exquisite in his life. The beaming smile on both his beloved sisters and your face was reward enough for attending tonight.

After exchanging pleasantries for a minute or two, Becca used the excuse of getting a glass of lemonade to covertly leave Bucky and you alone.

Bucky cleared his throat to give him a couple more seconds to think of something to say. When he looked at you, his brain seemed to cease functioning. The way in which he had abandoned you on the dance floor the previous night was the only thought, other than how stunning you looked, currently in his mind.

“I’m positive you will have been told to stay away from me.” Even though his words might have suggested otherwise, Bucky very much enjoyed your warm presence beside him and appreciated your courage to be seen with him regardless of the consequences of last night's dance.

“Are you asking me to leave you in peace, Your Grace?” The prospect of you departing as quickly as you arrived was like a dagger to his heart.

“No, I specifically do not want you to leave.” Bucky professed, perhaps a little too eagerly. “However, I think it would benefit your reputation to not be seen with me.” Bucky mentally cursed his self-sabotaging behaviour.

“There’s nowhere else I’d rather be.” Bucky could have sworn in that moment he was floating. If it wasn’t completely inappropriate and would ruin your modesty in front of the gentry, he’d have kissed you right then and there.

“You do not care to know why I have been shunned by the whole court?” Perhaps you already knew, but Bucky highly doubted that - if you truly did know, he was sure a respectable young lady like yourself wouldn’t be speaking with him.

“I truly do not know why these people treat you so poorly, nor do I care for the reason. I do not make it a habit to condemn people based on a singular mistake. You have been nothing but kind to me, Your Grace, and I can see how much love you hold for your sister - I believe that to be much better evidence of your character.” The sincerity in both your voice and eyes had tears forming in his own.

“You’re something else entirely, aren’t you?” His gloved hand delicately brushed your cheek, and you leaned into his touch. Oh the things he wanted to do to you, wanted to make you feel, if only you were truly alone.

How he desired to remove the gloves he used to cloak what was underneath and let his skin finally come into contact with yours. How electrifying that moment would finally be. But Bucky knew he wasn’t ready for that step yet, regardless of his inclination to believe, or perhaps foolishly hope, that you would be untroubled by what he was hiding.

After taking a moment to study his eyes with a hint of a smile on your lips, you finally spoke.

“Would you care to dance, Your Grace?” Bucky’s heart almost jumped out of his chest.

“Even after what resulted from Lady Danbury’s ball?” He chuckled nervously.

“Especially after what happened at yesterday's ball.” A pert smile spread over your features as you grabbed his hand and cheerfully pulled him towards the dance floor, despite you both knowing the gossip that would ensue. The entire action was so endearing that Bucky couldn’t help but smile. Unable to take his eyes off you, he was completely ignorant to the disparaging glares being thrown his way.

The closeness of your body hypnotised him. Bucky wasn’t even sure how he was managing to move about the ballroom as his entire attention was on your eyes. You were captivating, so enthralling that he didn’t want to so much as blink so he could commit the whole night to memory.

How you were gazing at him. Your bewitching smile. That laugh which may soon be the sole reason he woke up every morning. How with just a glance you could make his heart stop in his chest.

He wanted to tell you everything, desired to say that the kindness you had shown him and his sister in the past two days far exceeded the combined compassion from the entire court since the scandal.

That meant the world to them.

You meant the world to him.

But Bucky had never been the best with words, at accurately describing his profound feelings then and there, so instead he smiled, hoping it could convey in part how thankful he was.

When the dance ended, and you were both slightly out of breath, he had a difficult time separating from you. Being in contact with you, though it was through the fabric of gloves, grounded him, provided a source of comfort like nothing else could.

Before he had a chance to articulate the surge of emotions within his chest, your mother stomped into view and he pulled away from your hold.

“Your Ladyship.” Bucky greeted, but she simply ignored his address.

“It’s time we took our leave.” She stated candidly, taking your upper arm a little too firmly for his liking, a look of woe flashing over your face.

“Mama we only just arrived. It would be rude not to stay for a couple more dances.” You attempted to persuade her, though she was having none of it.

“Leave the men wanting more.” Your mother tautly responded, with a finality which declared she wanted no more objections. With a forced smile, you turned back to him.

“I had a wonderful time tonight, Your Grace.” You stated earnestly, bending into a small courtesy, before your mother started escorting you from the ballroom.

Bucky kept his eyes trained on you your entire departure, not missing the way you briefly glanced over your shoulder before stepping out into the cool night air when your dazzling eyes locked with his for one last time that evening. He couldn’t bring himself to look anywhere else until he watched your carriage ride off through the large windows of the ballroom, finally out of sight.

He had never met someone with your poise, your wit or the same level of compassion and kindness as you did, and he had certainly never been in the company of someone who elicited the same kaleidoscope of butterflies when he so much as caught a glimpse of your alluring face amongst the crowd of gentry.

Marriages for love were rare to come by in this society, but he desperately wanted to believe when you had danced with him, you felt the same spark he did when your gloved hands met and bodies moved around the dance floor as one. That perhaps you felt even a fraction of the overwhelming breathlessness that he did when your eyes met, and maybe you had the same temptation to be so close that there was no space between you, and let him show you just how beautiful he really thought you were.

What had overcome him? He had barely known you a day, and yet he was already thinking of marriage when he had sworn off the idea of exchanging unsubstantiated wedding vows years ago.

Maybe with you, they wouldn’t be so fabricated.

Now that you were no longer in attendance, the ball seemed rather dull and held no interest for him. So, instead of wasting his time being courteous to those women and their families who might still be able to put his past aside, but were solely concerned with his wealth, Bucky gave his thanks through gritted teeth to Her Majesty for hosting such a delightful ball, informed an overjoyed Rebecca that it was time they took their leave, and escorted her to their carriage awaiting outside.

After spending the night enchanted by your company, it felt particularly lonely riding back to his home with an obvious space beside him, which you would fit in so perfectly, especially with Rebecca unusually quiet opposite him. Though the thought of romantic companionship had terrified him in the past, and the knowledge he still hadn’t revealed both of his biggest secrets to you, he found himself longing to see more of you, to experience that same warm affection that diffused through every inch of him whenever you were in the same room.

In fact, there was a foreign ache burning a hole in his chest which he suspected only your continued presence could soothe.

Bucky was now contemplating going to every social function of the season, braving the repulsive stares and contemptuous whispers, if it meant he would be blessed by your company for even a matter of seconds each time.

“You really like her, don’t you?” Rebecca’s voice cut through the serene silence in the carriage. Bucky didn’t know how to answer the question - did he like you? Of course he did, what was not to like? The more difficult reaction to hide was his suspicion that his feelings already ran much deeper than simply liking you.

But his younger sister had always been an expert at reading his countenances, there was nothing he could hide from her. A grin formed on Becca’s lips, and Bucky could tell she already knew the answer to her own question.

Though the odds were stacked against him with your mothers interference, and it seemed improbable for the likes of someone as unsociable as himself, Bucky set foot in his home believing he could have found what every eligible person entering court hopes to discover.

A true love match.

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