ash

Criminal Minds🔎

hotch x reader

power struggle

banana pancakes

drunk dial

through love and loss

after hours *

how do we carry on?

reconciliation (pt.2 to how do we carry on?)

from across the bar *

stricken

stuck

unstuck (pt.2 to stuck)

savoring the moment

alex blake x reader

the crossword can’t wait *

emily prentiss x reader

for her, i’d endure

live a little *

tied up in knots*

hotch x emily

come home with me

emily x jj

lavender bath salts

The Materialists 💳

years gone by*

The Last of Us 🍄

joel miller x reader

true north *

Narcos 🚬

javier x reader

those things will kill you *

pillow talk

a haze of vices *

The Mandalorian 🪐

din djarin x reader

don’t punch beskar, you’ll break your hand*

It was early, far too early, to be awake. Nightmares, well, nightmare was more like it, haunted your dreams; flashes of a time you can’t quite remember, but can also never forget. You were young during the Clone Wars; when the droids came and annihilated your village.That was what you dreamt of every night, without fail. In the dream, the faces of your parents, now blurred and hazy with time, were filled with fear and desperation as they dragged you from bed. Your father picked you up, your legs too small for you to keep up as they fled the only home you’d ever known. Explosions, blaster fire, and smoke filled the streets you played on. When your father screamed and fell, you tumbled free from his arms, cracking your head against the stones. Blood dripped into your eyes as your mother spared only a moment to mourn your father before scooping you into her arms and running, leaving you to watch over her shoulder as your father’s body grew smaller and smaller.

“Hide her,” your mother begged, thrusting you into the arms of Din’s father. She’d said his name, but you didn’t remember it. Grown up names didn’t make sense. It was just mother and father, uncle or aunt. His parents hadn’t been blood relatives, but those born of struggle that yielded an inseparable friendship and familial unit all the same. You’d only ever known them as uncle and aunt.

“The cellar,” your uncle had said, checking the windows when an explosion rattled the glass.

“We won’t fit,” said your aunt. “It’s half caved-in as it is.”

The grown ups looked at one another, not saying anything. You’d always found that to be strange, to say nothing but feel everything. It didn’t seem so odd now that you were grown, but then you didn’t understand how they weren’t all screaming and shouting about the end of the fucking world happening right outside their doorstep.

Uncle saw something then out the window that made his eyes go wide. He put you on the ground, ushering you towards Din, who’d been holding onto his mother’s skirts. “Din, take her out back to the cellar. Climb down, close the hatch, and don’t open it for anyone, not until it’s absolutely silent. Do you understand?”

Din took your small hand in his and nodded, “Yes, father.”

Tears streamed down your round cheeks as you reached for your mother, not understanding why she couldn’t come with you. She squeezed you so tightly and you remember being so confused at seeing tears on her cheeks as well. You’d never seen your mother cry.

A blast sounded right outside. “Go! Now!”

Din pulled you after him, your shoulder aching as he tugged you along. As you fled out the back door, the front crashed in.

“Whatever happens,” he said, not looking back as he pulled you along. “Stay with me. I’ll keep you safe. Just stay with me and I won’t let anything happen to you.”

He let go of your hand as he threw back the tarp that covered the hatch to the cellar.

“You promise? To the three moons and back?”

He cracked open the cellar and started to climb down. He offered a small smile as he turned to help you down. “To the suns of Tatooine."

A shiver ran down your spine, causing the hairs on the back of your neck to stand on end. It was the briefest sensation, but in that flicker of time all of your senses roared to life. You felt power surge through your small body followed by the sound of Din shouting and the hatch slamming shut, dulling the sound of his voice as he fought to open it back up.

Two droids broke down the back door, their mechanical eyes whirling and zeroing in you. You swallowed fearfully, stepping back cautiously. A small whimper climbed free of your throat as they raised their blasters.

Their shots went wide as a masked figure rolled and jumped off of the low hanging roof, a green light slashing through the bots, sending their halved frames to the ground with a metallic clatter. The figure peered through the window, cursed under his breath, and scooped you into their arms.

“You’re safe now,” they’d said as they absconded with you away to a new life.

You’d been too shell shocked by what had happened to cry out to Din, to tell the mysterious stranger that there was another child in need of saving.

You never knew if he survived, and that guilt is what haunted your dreams and robbed you of sleep night after night, year after year, without fail.

•

You live independent of the others, choosing to leave the communal housing in your early twenties. It is commonplace for everyone to stay together, such is the way of your village, but you’d never felt truly connected to them enough to stay.

This is a village of jedi and other force sensitive individuals, some family, but mostly people much like yourself, rescued from war torn areas before the Empire could have you hunted for sport. Most days you are grateful for the second chance at life. Others, you’re exceptionally bitter about having been stolen away to an unfamiliar place with unfamiliar customs.

The strangest to you is the insistence on wearing masks to hide your faces, or rather. to protect your identities, as the masters would explain.

“Only take it off in private, when you’re alone.” They’d said. “If no one knows your face, then no one knows who to target.” You’d resisted it at first, like any other child not liking to do what you’re told. It had felt strange and uncomfortable and you felt lost in the sea of anonymity, unable to recognize which adults were which as you’d navigated your strange, new home.

Children wear half masks, only covering their eyes. When you turn thirteen, you enter the rite of passage, similar to the one younglings endure to discover and create their own sabers, and are given a full facial covering; one decorated and carved by the masters that are meant to represent your true nature, though you’d always taken that with a grain of salt, unsure what gives them the right to make that determination.

Your dwelling lies on the outskirts of the main village, where there’s more farmland than concrete between homes. Your closest neighbor is a fifteen minute walk and the village square takes another half hour. You like to think you’re rather self sufficient, subsisting largely off of what you grow on your own land and the few animals you tend to. Your home is tethered into the power grid, so you have running water and electricity. Anything else you need, you get on your weekly trips into town.

You do work, for yourself mostly, but pay a small tithe in coin or wares to the master that rescued you so many years ago and trained you in the arts of smithing and weaponscrafting. There aren’t any weapons that are unfamiliar to you, from blades to blasters and sabers, though you’re not capable of wielding the latter. As you make your way to light the forge outside your home, tallying the orders in your head for the various alloys required for creating the more mundane aspects of crafting and refining lightsabers, a vision of metal and smoke flashes across your mind’s eye. You stumble and blink hard, but the flashes continue; a glint of silver, the pitch black ‘t’ of a visor, a ship, a small, green creature. By the time the visions stop, nausea rips at your belly and you have to hold the wall to keep from getting sick.

Of all the ways in which you’ve been able to tie into the force, you’ve never felt it so viscerally reach into you. Whilst other younglings refined their understanding and abilities wielding the force, treading further and further down the paths towards future roles as guardians and consulars, you remained an initiate; your connection to the force only ever being strong enough to create ease in your day to day life whether that was tuning in to the needs of your livestock, healing minor injuries, or perceiving danger earlier than others. In certain situations, you have had the ability to move things with your mind, but you can count the amount of times that that had happened on one hand, and it was almost always under extreme duress. You knew individuals that were gifted with clairvoyance and strong telekinetic abilities, but you’d never been able to tap into that vein of power. You’d never been able to wield much control over the force at all, despite years of trying and failing. You’d have to confer with your master about these flashes and what they mean next time you go into town.

When the nausea passes, you straighten and enter your forge. After striking a blaze, you spend the early hours of the day smelting alloys, sweating and laboring in the heat of the fire. When you pour the liquid metal into their casts to cool, you finally take a break, stepping away from the fire and using the long fabric of your tunic to wipe the sweat off your face. Your fingers skirt over the scar tissue splitting your brow, a reminder of the day your village had been destroyed. When you wear your mask, it’s covered; and you’ve always hated that. It feels like hiding a part of who you are, which you suppose is the point of it all. Acting as a single entity, an indivisible unit, allowed anonymity to thrive and deter those who’d seek to do you harm. This had always sat strangely with you. It’s rare for many travelers to come through your town; it is a fairly remote part of the planet after all. Even rarer is it for people of your township to travel; usually only high ranking jedi daring to visit other locations rumored to house more beings in tune with the force. In all your time here, you’d never left.

You feel the hairs rise along your arms and look to the East, eyes keen as you feel a disturbance. Moments later, far into the distance, there’s a blip in the fabric of the sky as a ship blinks into existence. You watch as it makes a rapid descent to land somewhere deep inside the forest. Your body moves before your mind can catch up, rushing inside to don your mask, tuck several daggers into your belt, and return outside.

With mental prowess, you call for your horse. Within moments, she comes charging over the hillside; her tusks gleaming in the mid-morning sun as her dark coat bounces with every strong stride of her hooves. You praise her through your mental connection and quickly ready her for travel. If you saw that, you know the jedi in the heart of the village had seen it. Something deep inside you spurs you on, something urging you to respond as quickly as possible.

Climbing onto the mare’s back, you pat her on the neck before digging your heels into her flank. She releases a loud whinny as she takes off into the forest, her large hooves tearing up clods of grass as you race through the trees towards unknown danger.

•

The ship is massive, at least as far as your understanding of spacecraft goes. It looks like it’s seen better days, signs of being fired up and crash landings evident in the framing. You had released your mare to graze several clicks back and stalked quietly to your current hiding place, drawing on the force to dampen any sounds you made as you’d traversed the woods.

A hissing sound emits from the ship as a ramp descends. Your muscles tense, your heart rate increasing as long shadows yawn out from the ship’s hull. You hold your breath, waiting for someone, or something, to emerge from the ship. A minute passes, two, three, but no one comes. You tuck your hand around the hilt of your knife, readying yourself for a fight.

It’s then one tiny, green, clawed foot springs free of the shadow; followed by another. As the small figure emerges, your lips part in surprise. You’re not entirely sure what you’re looking at as the small creature toddles down the ramp. It has large black eyes and long green ears that bounce softly as it teeters down the incline. A butterfly floats by and it becomes distracted, reaching towards it with his tiny hands. Is it a child? More so, is it alone?

You feel a natural inclination to go to it. Checking your surroundings, there is no one around as far as the eye can see and you can’t detect any immediate threats. With caution, you rise from your hiding place and step towards the child as it chases after the butterfly. It takes a few seconds for it to realize you’re there. When it sees you looming over it, it releases a small gasp and takes a wobbly step back.

You sense it then, the power within the little one. As soon as you lower your gaze to meet its big, shining eyes, a connection immediately snaps into place between you two and you recognize it as the small green creature from the flashes that had assailed you earlier. This creature is like you. Through the mental connection, you tell the creature your name and learn his in turn: Grogu.

You can use the Force.

The child makes a small sound of affirmation. Perhaps he was rescued by one of the masters in town…but then again, they never would land so far outside the city limits.

Do you travel with other jedi?

Grogu shakes his head and the hairs on the back of your neck stand on end. If he wields the Force, but does not travel with Jedi, has he been kidnapped by those who would seek to eliminate him? This whole thing could be a trap. The thought barely forms when you feel the danger before it strikes. Spinning on your heel, you act first, removing the dagger from your belt and throwing it. It spins end over end before burying itself in the soft spot between the helmet and armor of a stormtrooper’s throat. A blaster strike goes wide, clipping your shoulder, as he gurgles and falls to the ground. From behind the trees, three more stormtroopers emerge, weapons drawn. Instinctively, you tuck and roll, wrapping an arm around the child to carry him out of harm's way behind the wing of the ship. Blaster strikes ping off the metal as you place the child behind one of the landing gears. Grogu whimpers as you press a hand against your bleeding shoulders, grunting in pain as you pull away red-stained fingers.

Stay hidden.

You turn and risk poking your head out, the firing having ceased for now. The stormtroopers advance, blasters raised. Your eyes fall to the ground where the fallen stormtrooper's blaster rests on the ground. Mustering as much strength into your concentration as you can, you reach out with your mind and hand, summoning the weapon to you.

“We just want the child!” Barks a stormtrooper. “Release him to us.”

You can’t focus on what they’re saying. The blaster twitches from its place on the ground. Sweat beads along your forehead as you pour more energy into summoning it. You’d never managed to pull more than a fork across a table, let alone something this size. Something inside you called to protect Grogu and that drives you to give this everything you’re able. Something wet leaks down your face, seeping into the clay of your mask. It takes a moment to realize its blood. Your nose is bleeding. The stormtrooper says something, but it’s distorted as if underwater. When black spots begin to dot your vision, you fear your attempt will be futile, but then a rush of energy slams into you and the blaster flies into your hands.

You don’t even think before fully emerging from your position of safety. Blasters are child’s play in terms of use. Your finger flutters over the trigger and you don’t hesitate to squeeze it, aiming at the chests of the stormtrooper’s. The first two fall easily, not suspecting their own weapon to be turned against them. The last one standing is not so foolish. He takes cover behind a thicket of trees, emerging only to take shots at you. You seek shelter behind boulders neighboring the ship, mirroring his tactics.

As he fires at you, you duck down, taking cover behind the rock face. A sudden cry followed by the sound of a body dropping puts you on high alert. He didn’t fall by your hand. After a minute of silence passes, you risk checking your surroundings and find no one except for the fallen bodies of all four stormtroopers.

The child.

You hold the blaster close to your chest as you jump to your feet and sprint across the short distance to where you left him hiding behind the landing gear. He smiles and coos upon seeing you and you breathe a sigh of relief as you fall to your knees in front of him. A wave of dizziness washes over you and you have to squeeze your eyes shut to avoid fainting. It’s been ages since you’ve expended that much energy to tune into the Force and your body feels the toll, but you’re not out of danger yet. Grogu teeters over to you where you kneel, chest heaving as you try to catch your breath.

He raises a hand and closes his eyes. You watch, confused, as his small features pinch with concentration and tiny grunts emit from him. It’s not until you feel the torn and tattered flesh of your shoulder start to knit back together that you realize what he’s doing. The second the wound closes, Grogu releases an exasperated sigh and collapses onto his butt.

You quickly scoop him into your arms, breathing a sigh of relief when you realize he’s not been harmed, he’s just fallen asleep. Unsure what to do, you rise on shaky legs, still not fully recovered from your own use of the Force. As you move out from behind the safety of the ship, you feel the cool metal of the barrel of a blaster press into your hair.

“Release the child,” commands a modulated voice.

You breathe in slowly through your nose, not turning around for fear of the wielder’s trigger finger. You swallow and speak calmly. “Are you sure you want to play this game? Or did you miss what I just did to your friends?”

“Friends,” he says, even through the modulator, his voice is laced with disdain. “Did you miss the part where I took care of the last one?” He says, and the sound of the hammer clicking into place makes you squeeze your eyes shut. You adjust your hold on the child, unsure why you feel so compelled to keep him safe.

Muttering a quick prayer to nothing and no one in particular, you drop to the ground, drawing on the Force to drive your movement even harder as you kick out your legs to sweep those of your attacker. He grunts in surprise as he falls and you reach for the knife on your belt, shouldering Grogu’s weight into your other arm. You slash out and your blade screeches against metal, not so much as scratching the silver armor.

What the—

Before you can process what’s happening, a gloved fist collides with your face, shattering the clay of your mask. Stars whirl across your field of vision as the broken shards of your mask slice into the skin of your cheeks before falling to the ground, and you to your knees right along with them. The same gloved hands carefully peel the child from your arms as you mutter a strangled, “No.”

Despite feeling naked in front of a stranger without the cover of your mask, you raise your eyes to your attacker, your vision doubling as he tucks the creature into a bag on his hip. At first you think he’s some kind of stormtrooper, but the armor is all wrong. As your eyes rove over the wide planes of his chest and broad shoulders, you realize that once you take in the helmet just who and what he is: one of the Mandalorian.

If he is the one who has taken the child, then the creature is in far more danger than you originally realized. The Mandalorian’s hatred for the Jedi runs deeper than any abyss and the feeling is mutual, though the masters encourage not thinking in such black and white terms.

“We have people that can train him,” you say weakly, tasting the blood from all the cuts in your face. Though your movements are awkward, you shift your weight to your knees. The Mandalorian is quick to level his weapon on you. You look up from beneath your lashes to find the barrel of the blaster aiming right between your eyes.

“If you’re going to kill me, I’d prefer to be on my feet. Let me have a little dignity.” You slowly drag your limbs to cooperate, your earlier use of the Force completely betraying your body as you shakily find your footing. “By the fucking three moons,” you grumble as blood rushes to your head causing you to stumble, but you still manage to draw up to your full height.

For the first time, the Mandalorian’s hand twitches. “What did you just say?”

You blink hard, trying to find the energy to tap into that well of power and save yourself, but it’s dry. “I said I’d like to die with a little dignity.”

The Mandalorian takes a step towards you and you flinch back. “About the three moons, what did you mean by that?”

“Nothing,” you answer, though you’re not sure why you’re explaining yourself at all to someone about to kill you. “It doesn’t matter.”

He hisses through his modulator, voice commanding. “Where are you from?”

Everything the masters have instilled in you over the years tells you to lie, even moments before certain death, lie. For some reason, you feel compelled to share the truth. “Aq Vetina.” There’s nothing left of your village as far as you know. It’s not like he can go there and wreck more havoc than what’s already been done.

The Mandalorian’s hand shakes. You can’t see his face to read his expression, but it’s as though he can’t decide whether to keep it leveled on you.

“The scar of your forehead,” he says, pointing with his blaster. “Where did you get it?”

This line of questioning causes the hairs along the back of your neck to stand on end, not quite like the way they do when you feel a ripple in the Force, but as if a ghost is passing through you. No one outside of your master has seen your scar. After they’d cleaned your wounds, they’d given you your half mask. No one in your village knows of it. The only people that had ever seen it would’ve been when it was freshly hewn; your aunt and uncle, your mother, and…

“Din?” Your voice shakes. You’ve not said his name aloud in well over a decade.

The Mandalorian lowers his weapon. He breathes out shakily through his modulator as he says your name.

The world around you slams to a standstill. You don’t feel the pain from the cuts on your cheeks, just a dull ringing in your ears. As the ground rises up to meet you, Din leaps forward and catches you as you fall. He scoops you into his arms and quickly boards his ship, lying you down on a small bed that must’ve belonged to him.

Your name sounds strange in his modulated pitch as he smooths your hair back from your bloody face. You taste the iron tang of it on your lips. You blink heavily, once, twice. Din removes the child from his hip and places him in a hammock overhead where he continues to sleep, the use of the Force having taken a far heavier toll on his small body. He then turns his attention back to you, muttering curses to himself as he crouches to inspect your face. He curses under his breath and rises, blurring with the quickness of his movements. An overhead hatch clicks and there’s a rattling as he searches for something. He grunts a sound of approval when he finds what he’s looking for and crouches back down beside you with a bin of medical supplies. You focus your eyes on him as best as you’re able.

“Take—” you start and stop, taking a deep breath as your vision blurs. You’re far too out of practice for what you’ve done today. Your master would have your head if he knew that you’d long since abandoned your daily practice sessions with the Force. “Take your helmet off.”

The Mandalorian’s fingers stiffen, tightening around the vial of bacta spray in his hand. Something of a sigh emits from his modulator, “I can’t do that.”

“Says who?” you counter, irritation mounting.

He shakes his head. “You wouldn’t understand.”

“Try me,” you bite.

“I’ve taken an oath, a sacred vow, to uphold the way of the Mandalore.”

You balk at this, shifting your weight to sit up, which only causes your head to spin. Din’s hands shoot up on instinct but you slap them away. Black spots dot your vision as you narrow your gaze on him. Hot tears prick the backs of your eyes. You speak slowly, almost through your teeth. “For twenty years, I have mourned your loss. This entire time I thought you were dead because of my cowardice, because of my inability to cry out for you when I was taken away. Every night I am plagued by nightmares of that day, of my parents falling, of your parents falling. Do you even remember their names?” Tears spill over your eyelids, diluting the drying blood on your cheeks and stinging your open wounds. “Because I can’t. I try and I try, but they don’t come. Yours was the only name I could remember. Yours was the only one I held onto because you were the only family I could remember having in this sea of anonymity. When I finally got the courage to speak up, to beg them to take me back to find you, they told me it was pointless; that no one else would’ve survived the attack on Aq Vetina. Now, after twenty years, you suddenly reappear in my life and you can’t even show me your face because of some oath you took up after being ripped away from the only life you knew? By people who didn’t even know you before you took on this identity?” You swipe an angry hand across your face, smearing tears and blood along your sleeve. Your voice cracks when you speak again. “Did you try to find me? Did you ask them for help? Or did you just fall in line like the little soldier they wanted you to be?”

He says nothing. You stare into the black T of his visor, recognizing it as the one from the vision. You wish that you could see his eyes, to look into the same ones you did as a child, but all you see is the reflection of your own, bloodshot and rimmed with tears, staring back at you.

You push past him, standing and wobbling for a moment, before moving through the ship towards the exit. “That’s what I thought.” Holding the wall for balance, you’ve nearly rounded the corner when you hear an unmodulated voice speak.

“I never stopped trying.”

Your blood runs cold as you hear his voice, his real voice. It’s deeper than when you were children, but you recognize it all the same. You squeeze your eyes shut, what tears remain slipping down onto your cheeks. On shaking legs, you slowly spin on your heel, a soft gasp escaping your lips when you see him.

You barely recognize the man standing before you. His dark hair is a mess of curls, flattened by the helmet. You’re shocked to find he has facial hair above his lips and scruffing the sharp bones of his cheeks and jaw. His nose hasn’t changed and neither have his eyes, shining and sad beneath the dim lights of the inner cabin.

“Din,” you breathe.

“I never stopped,” he says, a tear slipping down his cheek now.

You’re not sure who advances first as you both move towards one another. With trembling fingers, you reach up to brush the backs of your knuckles against the sharp line of his jaw. Tears well in your eyes, hot and heavy as you shift you bring your other hand up to cup his face in your hands. His brown eyes shine with uncertainty, his irises flicking over your face, both of you seeing the children you once were in one another’s faces despite the gentle lines betraying the long years you’d spent apart. You break the silence as a sob breaks free from your throat and you throw your arms around his neck. Din immediately swallows you into an embrace, holding on to you with tight desperation.

“I never stopped looking,” he repeats, voice choked with emotion. He rocks you back and forth in his arms, his gloved hands splayed in your hair. “I knew I’d find you again someday.”

“I’m sorry,” you breathe, and Din pulls away, brows drawn together.

“For what?”

“What I said,” you begin. “We both did what we had to do to survive. I said what I said in anger. I just—” Your vision blurs in and out, your body reminding you of its injured and exhausted state. Your knees wobble and Din has to brace an arm around your waist to keep you from falling to the floor of his ship. No longer protesting, you allow him to guide you back to the bed. Your limbs feel heavy and your eyelids just as weighty, your body craving rest.

“Din,” you say weakly, fighting to keep your eyes open.

He crouches by your side, taking your hand into his. “I’m here,” he answers.

“Please,” you start and stop, blinking your eyes hard to fight your fleeting consciousness for just a moment longer. “Please don’t leave me.”

“I won’t,” he promises, squeezing your hand. As your eyes drift shut and darkness curtains your vision he says, “I’m not going anywhere.”

“It’s the legs, I knew it was going to be the—” Harry spit out this next word with extra drunken fervor, “—fucking legs.” He drops his head against his hand, propped up on the bar by his elbow. He stares down into the near empty glass of scotch dangling from his long fingers.

“It wasn’t the legs,” you assure him for the fourth time. “That was a hyper analytical woman who still maintained that you are a unicorn. Vapid women don’t say those sorts of things.”

Harry aims a look in your direction over his now empty glass. “You’ve never called me a unicorn.”

You steal away his glass and place it in the sink so he can’t fill it a fourth time. “Guess that makes me a vapid woman.”

That earns a laugh from him, or at least a huff of air blown out through his nostrils.

You move around the expanse of marble countertop and hop onto the barstool next to him, swiveling so your knees are touching his. Taking his large hands into yours, you offer a warm smile as you meet his deep brown eyes with your own.

“It wasn’t the legs, Harry.”

His gaze falls beneath his downturned brow. “She was the first person to recognize the scars for what they were.”

“It was her job to notice things like that,” you say. “And based on what you told me, it sounds like she celebrated you for it and shared that she’d had work done too.” You squeeze his smooth palm. “At the end of the day, did you really want a marriage that was a business deal?”

Harry tugs his hands free of yours to smooth them back over his dark hair as he groans. “Business deals are simple. A contract is written. Boxes are checked. Terms agreed to. Sign the dotted line…” he mimics scribbling with a pen in the air, ending with a flourish of his hand. His voice falters. “And that’s that.”

You implore him with your eyes, pleading with him to see how unnatural it is to approach life like that. “But love isn’t transactional, Harry. It’s supposed to be easy, like breathing, like…”

“Like riding a bike across the top of the retaining wall?”

“If I remember right, you were the one who dared me and swore it would be easy.”

“I was a 10 year old boy. You probably could’ve convinced me jumping off the roof into the pool was easy…” His eyes lightened for the first time that evening. “Oh my God, how did we never think about doing that?”

You laugh and stand up, hooking your arm around his to usher him out of his seat. “I don’t know, but I’m glad our childhood pre-dated Jackass or I might not have made it out. One broken arm was enough, thanks.”

Harry’s thumb brushes against the thick scar tissue on your arm from the surgery where they’d had to insert pins to fix the break to your radius and you can’t help but wonder if he’s thinking about the scars on his legs.

Your lips curve into a half smile as you lead him down the hall to his bedroom. “I don’t think those hydrangeas that broke my fall ever recovered properly.”

“Your mom certainly tried her damndest though, didn’t she?”

You nudge the door to his room open with your foot and lead him to the wide California king occupying the center of the space. Spinning slowly to avoid any potential stomach upset, you help Harry plop down onto the mattress where he immediately flops down onto the pillows. Fortunately, he was already dressed in sweats and a tee shirt when he called you, but you had a feeling he wouldn’t want to be wearing his clunky Rolex to sleep.

It takes a few seconds to unclamp the weighty accessory and you lie it gently on top of the nightstand before reaching over and pulling the covers up and over his shoulders.

His eyes, hooded with sleep and alcohol, focus on a suitcase pushed up against the wall. “I was supposed to be on the plane tomorrow morning.”

Your heart clenches in response to the emptiness in his tone. You step into his line of sight, cutting off his view of the suitcase, and click off the lamp. “Get some sleep, Harry.”

•••

Sweat beads on your forehead beneath the heat of the sun burning overhead. It was pruning day for the hedge of rose bushes growing around the perimeter of Harry’s Summer home and you’d only made it about halfway since starting at around 7AM.

As your shears snip, snip, snip back the thorny branches, last night replays on a loop in your mind. He called you. After all this time, he still called you and you didn’t hesitate to answer and go to him. Yes, you’d grown up and lived on this property all your life, taking over the management of it when your mother died, but Harry seldom made an appearance. You texted now and again, managed to squeeze in a call or a FaceTime here and there, going to the rare event with him every few years or so, but really, your paths had split long ago.

He’d only been here for the summers anyway when you were kids and his parents wanted to get away from their big city dreams and big city jobs, even though this property was only thirty minutes outside of the city and they often retreated back to their offices…leaving Harry in your mom’s care and the two of you all the time in the world to get into a mess of trouble. Between foot races across the wide yard, seeing who could climb the highest in the old elm tree, or make the biggest splash in the Olympic sized pool, there was no shortage of adventures…yet, he’d gone on to travel the world and you, well, you stayed right here.

“Morning!”

You startle at the voice that cuts through your reverie and accidentally lop off a rose fully in bloom. You drop your shears onto the ground and pick up the fallen stem to inspect the full pink blossom for damage.

Harry jogs up to you, cursing and apologizing between breaths. “I didn’t mean to scare you,” he says, offering you a bottle of water like it’s an olive branch.

You accept the water and tuck it beneath your arm as you pluck a damaged petal from the flower. “You’re extremely chipper this morning,” you grumble as you pluck another ripped petal. You glance up at Harry from beneath your sweat soaked brow. He looks fresh as a daisy in a loose striped button up and soft linen pants. You’d predicted he’d be in bed nursing a hangover for most of the day after last night.

“Not sure if chipper is the right word,” Harry responds, pursing his lips as he searches for a better fitting one. “Motivated is more like it.”

You arch a brow and level him with an inquisitive look before unscrewing the proffered water bottle and taking a long sip. The water is cool as it slides down your throat and you feel Harry’s eyes on you. You let out a sigh and take a breath, tucking the cap into your pocket and slipping the rose’s stem into the now half-full bottle of water. “Sorry, is this a call and response thing?”

A smile quirks at the corners of his full lips. “Something like that, but I see you’re not interested in playing at the moment, so I’ll just come out with it.” His smile widens, and an eager sparkle shines in his brown eyes as they, too, round out. With a wave of his hand he utters a single word, “Spain.”

You narrow your eyes a bit, brow furrowing. You press your lips together and nod your head waiting for him to elaborate, but he just keeps looking at you with an excitement that he seems to be struggling to keep bottled up.

“It’s a country,” you state. The sun beats down overhead and you use the hem of your shirt to wipe at your brow, exposing the blue of your sports bra.

“My God, you’re really no fun at all in the morning,” Harry prods, lips still curved into what is now a cheeky smile.

“Spain!” he declares. He gestures between himself and you. “Spain, well, specifically Mallorca. You and me. Plane leaves in a couple hours.”

This finally grabs your attention and you drop the water bottle-vase as you splutter out a shocked, “What?!”

“Damn!”

“Shit.”

You both curse simultaneously as you drop to your knees to pick up the battered rose once more. Harry, true gentleman that he is, has the same thought and your heads crack together as you both go for the flower.

“Ow!”

Harry winces and shakes the daze off, immediately moving forward to inspect your forehead. The sun glints off the emerald in his pinky ring, nearly blinding you. He gingerly pads the skin where your heads collided. “I don’t think it’ll bruise,” he says and sits back on his heels. He scoops up your rose, which is now beyond saving.

You take it anyway and mutter some form of thanks as you roll back to sit on your ass in the patch of shade provided by the tall hedge. You pull your knees up and brace your elbows against them. “Harry, I can’t go to fucking Mallorca.”

“Why not? Can’t get off work? Whoops, I just talked to your boss. I’m your boss and he says it’s fine!”

“There’s too much to do. Your parents have their Summer gala coming up and—”

He says your name, voice firm. “We have kept you on as our gardener because we adored your mother and we adore you. We’d have hired a whole team of people to maintain this place and take care of you, but you love this stuff. Getting your hands on the earth and making things grow brings you so much joy, but you never take any time for yourself. I looked back through our timekeeping system and you haven’t taken any vacation since 2022. I spoke to the airline and I was able to finagle a connecting flight from Iceland to Spain. I cut my losses on all the deposits for what we’d have done in Iceland…” he waves that off, “but it doesn’t matter. I’ve booked us a suite at a luxury resort and come on, you’ve always wanted to go to Spain.”

You stop looking at the damaged rose in your hands and lift your eyes to meet his. “You remembered that?”

His lips curve into a half smile. “You mean, do I remember lying on the floor of the sunroom helping you cut pictures from my mom’s travel magazines for your dream journal? Cutting out the individual letters from ads to spell out SPAIN in mismatched fonts? Do I remember you following me around going—” he pitches his voice up an octave, “—Harry, teach me Spanish, pleaseee. How am I supposed to get around Spain someday if I can’t speak Spanish? You have to help me.” He folds his hands together in mock begging and shakes them in your direction.

Blood rushes to your cheeks as a wave of embarrassment crashes over you alongside a warmth you can’t quite place, a tender nostalgia, maybe. You can’t believe he remembered your dream journal of all things, the one you still have tucked away in the top drawer of your nightstand.

“¿Aprendí español, no? ”

Harry smiles, knowing he’s won you over. “Only because you had such a great teacher. Don’t think you’d have made it through high school Spanish without me either.”

You shake your head. “I can’t believe you remembered all of that.”

“So,” Harry leads, seeking confirmation from you.

You wipe your hands on your shorts before getting back on your feet. You offer a hand to Harry, which he takes, and you pull him up. “I need to pack. I don’t really have anything that screams luxury-european-vacation, but I’m sure I’ll figure something out.”

Harry pumps his fist enthusiastically and surprises you by catching your face between his hands and pressing a kiss to your forehead. “This is going to be great,” he promises. He turns and jogs back towards the house, leaving you blushing in place.

•••

“Oh, thank you,” you say as the flight attendant places a bowl with a steaming towel on to your tray table.

Your eyes flick from it to Harry, who is watching you with an amused expression.

“Love how they’ve turned a wet rag into an amenity,” you say as you watch Harry pick it up and wipe his face and neck with it before running it over his hands. “What’s the point?”

Harry pauses, thinking it over, before placing the cloth back in the bowl. “I guess I’ve never really thought about it. Probably to help you feel refreshed after a long flight, I imagine.”

“Ah,” you respond. “Yes, let’s refresh ourselves by pushing around the oils that have accumulated on our faces and neck over the last six hours in this dry, recycled plane air.”

Harry laughs, “Someone’s crabby. Did you sleep okay?”

Even though this was by far the most comfortable you’d been on any flight; from the fully reclining seats to the blankets and pillows offered alongside the complimentary eye mask, sleep had eluded you.

“I don’t sleep well on planes, or, well, anywhere that’s not home. I’ve always been that way, I don’t know why.”

Harry nods in understanding. “That’s tough, I’m sorry.” Then, more teasing, “I bet you were a real joy at slumber parties.”

You roll your head to the side and take in Harry’s soft smirk. You close your aching eyelids, smiling as you shake your head, “Dick.”

He takes your hand and squeezes it. Your heart squeezes in turn. “Try and get some rest. We’ll land in a couple of hours.”

He doesn’t let go of your hand.

You drift off into a dreamless sleep.

•••

“Harry, you didn’t tell me it’d be a freakin’ honeymoon suite.”

He pushes past you into the large room after tipping the gentleman that helped cart your bags to the suite. “Yeah, I think there was a miscommunication…I may have still been a little drunk when I woke up and made the arrangements.”

A wide sliding glass door overlooking the ocean lets in natural light that spills over the large room. A king sized bed covered in clean, white sheets takes up the center of the room closest to the balcony. Carved wooden nightstands flank either side of it. The biggest walk in shower you’ve ever seen takes up the center of the space, a gleaming stainless steel waterfall shower attachment hanging overhead. Of course, all the walls surrounding the shower are made from glass…An expansive vanity, fit with lights and a tall mirror, lines the wall adjacent to the bar, which is lined with top shelf liquor. There’s a cozy breakfast nook tucked in next to the door leading to the balcony, which is also furnished and…

“Holy shit, is that a pool?”

Forgetting your luggage and the one bed element, you cross through the room and throw open the sliding door, stepping out into the warm air. A salty breeze tosses your hair as you take in the wicker daybed, sun loungers, and pool that extends right up to the edge of the balcony, almost as if you could fall right off the edge. The sun reflects off of the water onto the sea below, which glimmers just as brightly.

It hits you then, slamming into you. “I’m in Spain.” A thrill trills through your veins as it hits you that in the strangest turn of events, Harry has made one of your childhood dreams a reality. You turn to go back into the room to thank him, but he’s behind you, leaning against the open door with his hands tucked into his linen pockets with a soft smile on his face and a glimmer of something you can’t quite place shining in his eyes.

You run and throw your arms around him, burying your face in his neck where his Armani cologne envelops you. “Thank you.”

Slowly, and then all at once, Harry’s arms snake around your waist and he squeezes you tightly in turn. “Anything to make you smile like that.”

•••

4 days later…

You feel his eyes on you as sip from your glass of sangria, but you train your gaze on the live singer and the sway of her hips as the classic sounds of Spanish guitar and percussive drum beats enhance the allure of her voice.

The lounge is full tonight. Men and women alike drape themselves over their partners in the luxury seating lining the sleek dance floor, but you and Harry occupy seats at the bar. You’re twisted in your chair with your arms draped over the back of the seat, wine glass dangling from your hands as you watch the guitarist’s fingers rapidly pluck the strings with expert technique. You cross a leg over the other, showing off the length of skin as the black slitted silk fabric of your dress spills over the expanse of your thigh.

You catch a glint of green as one of the soft hued lights moving over the dance floor catches on the emerald adorning his pinky finger. From the corner of your eye, you watch him sip from a glass of top shelf whiskey, his Adam’s apple bobbing delicately as he swallows.

He turns to you and heat rushes to your cheeks knowing he caught you staring. You try to cover it up by bringing your sangria to your lips, the sweet taste sliding over your tongue to warm you from the inside out.

The song ends and immediately the band picks up a new rhythm. It’s slow and steady and soon the singer’s vocals flood the lounge, eliciting goosebumps across your arms as she sings about heat and passion. You can’t understand everything she sings, but you try to. Harry stands and sets his glass on the bar. Your brow furrows slightly as he steps into your line of sight, blocking your view of the stage. Without breaking eye contact and without words, he removes the sangria from your hand, placing it next to his drink on the bar, and wraps his long fingers around yours to pull you down from the barstool.

Your eyes widen in horror as he starts to walk backwards, leading you onto the empty dance floor. As his arms snake around your waist to pull you in closer, you shake your head rapidly from side to side. “There’s no one on the dance floor, Harry, I don’t know what I’m doing! Are you drunk?”

“I’m not drunk.” Harry makes pointed eye contact with you, dipping his chin. “Do you trust me?”

You swallow nervously, eyes darting around the perimeter as couples crane their necks to see what you’ll do.

“Don’t look at them, look at me.” He says smoothly, adjusting his palm along the small of your back. Gently, he coaxes your body against his so that you’re brushing up against the buttons of his tailored slacks. The deep browns of his irises search yours, imploring you. “Do you trust me?”

Silently, you nod. He smiles. “Follow my lead.”

With both hands, he slowly drags them up the length of your arms, thumbs gliding along your skin as he guides them up and around his neck. It feels natural to splay your fingers to curl around his neck and slide into his hair. The warmth of his palms presses through your dress as he places one hand on your hip and replaces the other against the small of your back.

“Feel it in your hips,” he says in a voice only you can hear, pressing more firmly into his palm against your hip. You take a deep breath and listen to the music; the sway of the melody and the gentle percussion guiding it. “And then let your feet follow.”

Harry starts slow, his hips moving naturally in tune with the music. He uses his hands to help guide you until you pick up the rhythm and it feels more fluid. Harry nods emphatically. “Good, that’s good!”

“Now, I’m going to take this hand back,” he says, pulling your one arm down to take your hand in his. “And I’ll lead. You’ll know what to do.”

Your lips part to protest, but a wry smile from Harry shuts you up. “I trust you,” you say.

Implicitly.

As Harry takes two steps back, you take two forward. His hips sway in time with yours as he guides your upper half. You anticipate his movements, and the way he twirls you out and away from him before spinning you back into his arms. Someone whoops from the crowd and a smile splits your face. As if sensing your confidence growing, the music kicks up. You feel the music moving you, your hips a fluid extension of your body as you curve into Harry’s hands and as the song draws to a close, he braces the other against your back and leans his chest into yours as he dips your body down towards the dance floor. As he guides you in the semi-circular motion, his lips grace the column of your throat and you’re surprised by the way you let him use his other hand to lift your other leg to curl around his thigh.

As the last notes trill into the evening air, Harry’s hand shifts across your back to guide you upright to press against his torso, your chests heaving against one another’s as your breath mingles and your eyes meet. Applause rings out around you and you don’t hear it for the ringing in your ears.

You don’t know who leans in first for the kiss.

•••

Maintaining any sense of decorum as Harry rushes you through the halls is a challenge unlike any other. The heat pooling between your thighs is begging to be tended to, but the resort is thrumming with guests drinking and dancing and taking in the shows it has to offer during their late hours.

As you wait for the elevator, Harry pulls you in close, his fingers skirting along your ass. The elevator dings and a couple spills out, laughing and clearly inebriated. Once they pass, you step inside and Harry quickly smashes the button to close the doors despite another couple trying to reach the elevator.

“They could’ve—”

Harry’s hands are quick, one clasping the back of your head, his fingers curling into your hair as the other curls around your throat. He crushes you against the wall as his lips descend on yours. Between kisses he rumbles, “They’ll get the next one.”

Wet heat soaks your panties. Your pussy aches to be touched, your clit thrumming with need to feel his tongue or fingers. Instinctively, you push your hips into him, a pathetic mewl slipping past your lips when you feel his hard length press into you.

Harry drops his arm to your waist when your knees quiver and threaten to give out from under you. He untangles the other hand from your hair and sweeps it across the skin exposed by the slit in your dress. His hand eagerly dips underneath the fabric, moving up to where you need him to touch you most. Just as his thumb glides over your panties, feeling how wet you are, the elevator dings.

He immediately withdraws his hand and adjusts your dress, stepping in front of you protectively as the doors open. Two couples, paying you no mind, don’t even wait for you to slip out before trying to cram their way inside the elevator.

Harry’s hand finds yours and guides you out and through the hall to your room. A scarlet heat crawls across your chest, flushed from what you’d just done in the elevator and the couple glasses of sangria you’d enjoyed at the bar. Harry swipes the key card against the lock and the light blinks green

As soon as the door swings open, all bets are off. You and Harry are like wild animals as you lunge at each other, a tangle of limbs, moans, and uncoordinated movements as you both fight to undress the other. You’ve unbuttoned half of his shirt by the time he finds the zipper for your dress. It slips down your frame like rain on a windowpane, pooling in a puddle of silk around your feet leaving you bare in your lacey bra and thong. Harry’s hands feel over your ass and hips, his thumbs pressing into your lower belly as he admires your figure unveiled for him.

You undo the last button on his shirt and curve your fingers over his shoulders to help pull it off. You lock eyes with him once it hits the floor and your fingers begin to work his belt. All you hear is the hammering of your heart and the clink of his belt buckle followed by the whoosh of pulling it free from his belt loops.

The feral look in his eyes suddenly shifts into something tender as his hand folds over yours, stalling your movements. You look up from what you’re doing, confusion pinching your brow. “What are you doing?”

Harry slips his hand into the one you’ve got tucked into his waistband, intertwining his fingers with yours as he lowers himself onto the bed. He gives your hand a gentle tug and you sit next to him.

“Are you ok?” you ask gently.

Harry swallows and nods, eyes on the floor as his thumb sweeps across the skin on the back of your hand.

“We don’t have to—”

“No!” Harry protests, head jerking up and eyes filled with panic. He chuckles nervously and shakes his head, relaxing slightly. “Sorry, no, it’s not that. I just—” His eyes meet yours. He lifts the hand he’s holding and presses a kiss to your knuckles.

“I don’t want you to think this is some kind of rebound. I need you to know that when you answered my call…when you showed up with no questions asked, the way you’ve always shown up…the way you’ve always been there. The way it’s always been you and me, one way or another, all these years.”

You slip your hand out from his and press a finger to his lips, shushing him. Harry’s shining eyes look up at you from beneath downturned brows. You smile warmly. “Harry, we could’ve gone anywhere.” You remove your finger from his lips and gently swipe your thumb across them. “You told me everything when you took me to Spain.”

“Mallorca,” Harry adds. You meet his eyes and a soft smile tugs at the corner of his mouth.“I know what I want,” he says resolutely.

You tilt your chin down so that your lips hover over his. With a cheeky smirk and voice coy, you whisper, “Show me.”

His hands firmly grip your ass before he roughly tugs you down onto his lap, eliciting a gasp and groan of longing from you as the erection bulging through his pants presses up against your needy clit. Harry touches his lips to the hollow of your throat before dropping his mouth to kiss the curve of your breast. You twist your fingers into his hair, gently raking your nails against his scalp as his hand travels up the length of your spine. With a flick of his fingers, the clasp on your bra snaps open and you let it fall down from your shoulders, exposing your breasts, and Harry slips it free from your arms before tossing it aside and immediately taking one of your peaked nipples into his mouth. Your lips part and a desperate sound spills out in some form of a plea or a prayer as his tongue laves around the sensitive skin there.

“I need more,” you whine, feeling your pussy throb against his cock. You sit back on his thighs and drop your mouth to claim his from where he continues to tease you, though his hands take over, his wide palms cupping and squeezing your breasts before he pinches your nipples between his thumbs only to rub soothing circles over the stinging flesh a moment later to soothe the ache he causes. His tongue slips between your lips and you taste the whiskey on him as he devours your moans.

“I can give you more,” he says breathlessly, voice husky. “Lie on your back.”

You shift your weight and he helps you roll over his lap onto the mattress, the veins in his throat tensing as you make sure to press against his hard cock in the process. You crawl to the center of the bed and lie down, bending your knees and allowing them to fall open to either side.

Harry stands and looks down at you, his eyes filled with lust and admiration. He kicks out of his shoes and reaches down to tug off his socks before rising to his full height and unbuttoning his pants. As he drops his pants, his cock strains against the black Tom Ford briefs gripping the taut muscles of ass and thighs.

“You’re so fucking beautiful,” he says. “I’ve always thought you were so beautiful but I never thought you’d ever want me in this way so I…I never—”

A smile splits your lips as you shake your head and beckon him closer. “Harry Castillo, if you don’t get down on this bed and fuck me right now, I swear to God I’ll never let you know another moment’s peace.”

He huffs out a breath of laughter before climbing onto the bed. He braces himself on a forearm beside your head as he lays his body down over yours, keeping one knee bent over your waist so that he has access to the space between your legs. Your back arches into the mattress before he even touches you, your body seeking him out of its own accord.

Harry uses his free hand to palm your breast, circling the hard tip of your nipple with the pad of his thumb. His cock jerks against your hip when your breath hitches in your throat in response to his touch. A choked sound escapes your lips when his hand shifts away from your breast to travel down the soft skin of your stomach to your soaking wet cunt.

Harry groans and ruts his pelvis against your hip, unable to help himself as his fingers trail over your soaking wet panties. “I’ve barely touched you,” he murmurs in your ear.

You twist your neck to angle your lips against his in a sloppy kiss. “Please,” you beg. “Show me what I’ve been missing all these years.”

Harry’s pupils blow wide, black pools devouring the warm browns of his irises. A fierce hunger replaces the careful hesitation and a new wave of heat surges your veins at the change in his demeanor.

He trails his fingers up the center of you, over your panties. The sensation of his fingers brushing over your clit through the soaked cotton sends a shiver through your core as your hips jerk in response.

“If that’s how you respond when I touch you over your panties,” Harry whispers, curiously. “What happens when I—” His hand slips between your skin and panties where he immediately sinks one long finger into your tight pussy. Your walls clamp around it as you arch your pelvis into the heel of hand to stimulate your throbbing clit.

“More,” you plead, as you involuntarily start to ride his one finger.

Harry arches a brow, his lips tugging into a wicked smirk as he acquiesces and slips a second finger into you. Your wet heat squelches around the thickness of his digits, but it’s still not enough as you continue to pump your hips.

“More, please, Harry.”

You cry out when the third finger slides in, filling and stretching you. Harry curls his fingers inside you so that with every thrust of your hips, his finger strikes your g-spot. His cock jerks helplessly against your hip, but you’ve got him hypnotized by the way you ride his hand with his name spilling from your lips. When his thumb starts to circle your clit, you lose yourself entirely, overcome by the overwhelming pleasure building deep inside your lower belly.

As your orgasm rips through you, rattling your bones and muscles spasming, you barely feel Harry tear your panties down off your legs. He shoves his boxer-briefs down and shifts his weight to straddle you. He fists his cock in his hand, pumping the length. Pre-cum slicks the tip of his cock and you nod, unable to speak as your chest heaves in response to the orgasm that just tore through you, knowing Harry was about to wreck you even further.

Harry drags his cock up through your folds, the fluids of your release slicking his tip as he aligns it with your entrance. He curls his hands around your knees as he presses into you. You both release guttural sounds as he slides into you inch by inch and lifts your legs to fold around his lower back.

You swear you can come right then and there as the weight of his cock fills and stretches you. You squeeze your legs around him, welcoming him in, groaning at the slow torture of it all as he slides in and out gently, allowing you a few moments grace to accommodate his length before he begins to pick up speed.

Harry’s fingers dig into the flesh of your thighs, holding you in place as he grunts and pounds a steady rhythm into your tight little hole. Your breasts bounce in time with his thrusts and the high pitched wail of your screams of pleasure mixing with his deep moans is enough to send you over the edge.

“Not yet,” Harry orders through clenched teeth. His commanding tone surprises you, drawing you back, but only just, from giving in to your release. “Touch yourself,” he instructs. “I want to see you touch yourself when I fuck you.”

He ruts his hips up into you, one, two, three times, before withdrawing just to the tip before burying himself into you again. You cry out and bring a shaking hand down over your pussy, your trembling fingers finding the oversensitive aching bundle of nerves. The sensation of your fingertips rubbing circles over your clit combined with his thrusts causes stars to explode across your field of vision as your eyes roll back, unable to cope with the mounting pleasure.

“That’s it,” Harry encourages, voice strained as he buries himself in you. “Go on, baby, you can come. I’m right behind you.”

Blood pounds in your ears as you do as he says. You circle your clit in, fingers moving rapidly to take you over the edge. Harry thrusts into you wildly, his balls slapping against your skin. On the next thrust, he buries himself so deep inside you, his own release finds him as you free fall into the oblivion of your own. Harry falls forward onto your chest, his lips kissing your breasts, throat, and cheeks as his cock pulses inside you and you feel his come start to drip from where you’re joined.

Harry mumbles praise against your skin. “You did so well, you took me so well.”

His thumb swipes under your eyes where tears involuntarily spilled over your lashes during sex. An exasperated laugh tumbles free from your lips as you tangle your shaking hands into his hair.

“That was…” your mind struggles to catch up as you revel in the aftermath of what you just did. “There’s no words for what that was.”

Harry smiles, holding your face in his hand as his thumb sweeps across your cheek. “I’m sure I could think of several.” He cradles an arm around you and hoists you up into a sitting position. He slips his other hand into yours and stands, pulling you to your feet. Your knees shake when you fill his warm come leak out onto your inner thighs. Harry wraps a supportive hand around your waist, drawing you nearer to him as he chuckles low in his throat and presses a kiss to your hairline. “Let’s get you cleaned up.”

You close the door behind you to the private water closet and relieve yourself as Harry warms up the shower. The muscles in your legs shake as you clean yourself up, the final aftershocks pulsing through your body as you stand and flush the toilet. You exit and wash your hands, afterwards bracing your hands against the sink as you take a deep breath; smiling to yourself as you blow out a sigh of disbelief and look at your reflection. Runny, black streaks of mascara stain your flushed cheeks, your hair is tousled, and hickies bruise the round curve of your breast. You flick your eyes up to see Harry’s reflection smiling back at you as he walks up behind you to pull your bare ass against his semi-hard dick. He buries his nose into the crook of your neck, lips brushing against the skin of your shoulder. Your hand naturally stretches back to greet him, fingers sliding into his hair as you turn your cheek to kiss his face.

“Come on,” he says, pushing you gently towards the direction of the shower. “Let me help clean up this mess I’ve made of you.”

“Hmm,” you hedge, tone teasing. “I thought you always paid someone else to clean up your messes.”

He swats your hip playfully. “There isn’t enough money in the world.”

•••

You plop down onto the bed, feeling renewed and fully relaxed with a towel wrapped around your hair and a fluffy white robe branded with the resort’s name loosely tied around your body. Harry had taken his time with you in the shower; using careful movements to wash the makeup from your face and soaping a wash cloth to wash your body. He’d knelt on the tiles, kissing soft kisses against your belly and thighs as he tenderly cleared away the traces of him from between your thighs.

He joins you on the bed,dressed in a fresh pair of boxer briefs and a matching robe, though he leaves his open. His arms encircle you, pulling you against his damp chest for another kiss.

He glances at the clock on the nightstand, the digital green font blinking back 12:18AM. He reaches over you and takes the phone off the hook, pressing the button for room service. He places an order for two flatbread pizzas and chocolate covered strawberries before hanging up. “I’m fucking starving,” he admits.

“It’s a bit fancier than the pizza and ice cream sandwiches we’d have as kids.”

Harry smiles fondly at the memory. “Do you remember when we dared my brother to eat the whole box of ice cream sandwiches that one time?”

“He threw up, it was so disgusting.”

You both laugh and you shift to support your weight on your hands before folding your legs over top of Harry’s. He places a hand on your knee, absentmindedly stroking the skin there as you wait for your food to arrive. “We did a lot of stupid shit when we were kids, didn’t we?”

“Got the scars to prove it,” you remind him, lifting your one arm so your sleeve falls to reveal the surgical scars.

“I wish one of us would’ve dared the other to admit the feelings we had,” he lifts his eyes to meet yours. “Maybe it wouldn’t have taken us so long to get here.”

You shrug. “Maybe that’s why neither one of us ever chose ‘truth.’ We were too scared to admit it.”

“When did you know?” he asks.

“I don’t know, Harry. I think it was our senior year of high school when everyone started thinking about who they wanted to take them to prom. I realized I’d never really cared what any other guy thought about me besides you. I thought about telling you, but I freaked out, and by the time I got the nerve to do it, you’d asked someone else.”

Harry’s brow turns. “I had no idea.”

You laugh. “Of course you didn’t! I didn’t want you to know! Anyway, we graduated. You went off to college. You came back every semester with a new girl on your arm and we grew apart; seeing each other at the holidays and over summer, but I’d always just felt like I’d missed my chance.”

You shove him in the shoulder, grabbing him and playfully shaking him. “Hey,” you chastise. “Don’t go getting all pouty on me again. We’re here now, aren’t we? When did you know you liked me like that? Couldn’t have been high school or college…maybe after that gala you invited me to about four or five years ago. Ya gotta admit, I looked really good in that green dress.”

“Always,” Harry interrupts coolly.

Confusion washes over your features. “What?”

His mouth tugs up into a gentle smile as he shrugs one shoulder. “When I first saw you cannonball into the pool when we were kids. I looked at you and thought, ‘She’s awesome.’” He rolls his eyes and laughs. “Awesome was probably the best I could come up with at that age but c’mon, I think, I think I’ve come to realize that the reason I’ve never been able to settle down with someone is because I knew deep down in my heart, that it was always you.” He shakes his head and blows out a sigh. “I’m just sorry I let so many years pass by for me to realize it.”

You reach for him, clasping his face between your hands as you press a kiss to his lips. “Doesn’t matter anymore, we’re here now.” Harry folds his hands around your wrists, reveling in the feeling of your hands cradling him so lovingly.

There’s a knock at the door followed by a voice calling, “Room service!”

You both laugh, breathing out your nerves and excitement for everything that is to come. Harry tips the server and carries the food back to the bed. You grab the remote and flick on the TV, scrolling through the movie options on their streaming platform before settling on Can’t Buy Me Love.

“Oh my God,” Harry says as he sits down on the edge of the bed, arranging your food out in front of you across the duvet. “I haven’t seen this in, god, I don’t even know how many years.”

“It was our go-to movie back in the day.”

“I remember, yeah.”

Overlapping voices stir your senses. Lights and shadows dance behind your eyelids but you can’t summon the strength to crack them open. Your lingering consciousness fights to make sense of what they’re saying. Someone is shouting, but it sounds far away. A metallic clang echoes from somewhere nearby followed by more raised voices; but then there’s a white hot flash of pain that eliminates all thought, the smell of flesh sizzling, and then by the grace of whatever bastard God exists, nothing at all.

•••

Your first thought when you open your eyes is that you’re definitely dead. A clean, dry bed and warm low lighting in a room that isn’t covered in filth and decay just didn’t exist anymore.

The flower printed quilt is soft as you scrunch your fingers into it, wondering if this is some sort of afterlife…but then the pain in your shoulder stabs through you and you hiss in pain.

Definitely not dead, you think to yourself. It’d be pretty fucked up to feel pain like that in heaven…unless this is hell. Surely, after all you’ve done to survive that’s where you’d end up. Shit, heaven itself is probably a QZ at capacity for all the innocents taken in the initial outbreak. There’s no sanctuary for those of us left down here. There’s no hands left on this Earth free of blood and ill-gotten gains.

You reach across your chest and finger the gauze pad taped over the bullet wound. A quick glance over your shoulder reveals a matching one where the bullet exited. The tank top you’re wearing isn’t yours. It’s clean and dry and fits loosely over your body. Your skin is dry, signs that the fever that had driven you to near madness had broken. You didn’t feel strong, not by any stretch of the imagination, but your vision and mind are clear enough.

“How did I get here?” you whisper aloud to no one, voice hoarse. Fear ricochets through your chest as your mind flashes back to the men who attacked you and Joel. Could this be their settlement? Did their friends find their bodies and track you down, nursing you back to health just to finish you off in some form of brutal torture and execution?

Whatever this is, you’re not waiting around to find out. You tear the covers back and swing your legs over the edge of the bed, which sends a rattle of pain up your arm and into your shoulder, but you ignore it. There’s a hoodie hanging off the bed post and a pair of boots at the edge of the bed. You shrug on the hoodie, groaning as the movement irritates your injuries and zip it up to your neck. After shoving your bare feet into the boots, you scan the room for any supplies you can shove into your pockets. There’s no sign of your pack and you don’t want to waste time searching in case whoever brought you here comes back. The drawers in the nightstand are filled with medical supplies. You shove surgical tape and gauze pads into your jeans pockets. There’s a syringe and a vial of penicillin on the night stand. You shove the vial into your pocket and take the syringe. The gun you pilfered off of your attacker is in your pack and with that gone, this is the closest thing to a weapon you’ve got.

On shaky legs, you slowly move towards the door, pausing and listening for any sign of life beyond. When you crack open the door, you’re greeted by a dark living room. Not taking any time to overthink your next move, you move through the space to a front door that isn’t locked. Again, you listen and proceed with caution. The streets are dark, not a soul in sight.

You can’t make sense of where the fuck you are to figure out any semblance of a plan, but you can’t even focus for how bitterly cold the air is. You know this hoodie won’t cut it. There’s no point in escaping if you die from exposure. Heaving an exasperated sigh, you crouch low and move with haste across the street to the neighboring house. There’s no lights inside that you can see and with trembling fingers, you try the door knob, breathing a sigh of relief when it turns.

The door yawns open into a furnished living room, the outlines of which you can only just make out by the light of the moon filtering in through the windows. You stick to the balls of your feet as you pad into the house, not even bothering to close the door behind you. An oversized jacket is slung over the back of the patchwork couch and you waste no time pulling it on over your hoodie. For the briefest second, you think you catch a whiff of cedar and leather, but you’re too focused on what you can scrounge up to entertain thoughts of missing Joel.

You pull open drawers and cabinets in the kitchen, shoving packets of what look like food rations into the deep pockets of your stolen coat. The sound of feet hitting the floor overhead causes your heart to slam against your chest. They move fast, footsteps echoing off the stairs. You take off, dodging furniture as you flee through the screen door in the kitchen into the backyard. There’s a small fence, but you can hurdle it. You’ve scrambled over worse in an escape. You’re halfway across the yard when you hear sounds of someone gaining on you. You pump your arms, your injured shoulder screaming in protest, but you don’t care. As you prepare yourself to jump, someone tackles you from behind. The wind knocks clear from your lungs as you hit the snow covered ground. You kick out at your attacker, your foot connecting with what you think is a jaw.

They’re much heavier and as you scramble for purchase, they pin your legs down under their knees. Your arms flail as you fight against their attempts to hold you down, but when the point of a knife digs into your throat, you stop fighting.

Your breaths are ragged and rapid, your chest heaving as your attacker’s face comes into view.

The second your eyes meet, his grip on the knife loosens. A sob chokes his voice as your name spills from his lips, a plea and prayer.

“You can’t be real,” you breathe, unable to make sense of this. “At the motel, you weren’t—”

Joel drops the knife and scoops you into his arms. His mouth crashes against yours, his lips hungry and desperate. He tastes like whiskey and saltwater and you realize it’s from tears streaming down his cheeks. He pulls away and rests his forehead against yours. “I’m sorry I wasn’t there. I’m sorry I couldn’t-that I didn’t…” he shakes his head and tears drop into your lap. He presses a kiss to your forehead, a promise in the tender gesture. “I’m here now. I’m here and I won’t let anything else happen to you.”

He shifts his weight off of you and slips an arm under your legs while simultaneously curving one beneath your spine. He grunts as he stands and shifts your weight evenly between his arms. He kicks open the screen door and carries you to the couch, where he gently lays you down onto the cushions.

“Gimme a minute. I need to run over and leave a note that you’re here with me. Otherwise, there’ll be a door to door search and we don’t want that headache. Then I’ll get a fire going, see if I can’t get it a little warmer in here.” He pulls his jacket tighter across your chest and tugs your boots off, letting them hit the floor. He notices your bare feet and wraps his large hands around them, trying to stimulate the blood flow back through your purple skin. He pulls a blanket off of a nearby chair and covers you with it, his finger skirting your chin before darting out through the front door.

It’s dark and cold. You sit up, taking in as much of the space as you can now that you’re not scurrying about for survival. It’s still too surreal, waking up to supposed safety and permanence.

Joel returns a few minutes and looks at you for a long minute, as if he’s still trying to process that you’re actually there with him, before dropping in front of the fireplace. You’re having just as hard of a time accepting any of this as reality. The muscles in his back flex as he stacks logs and strikes a match. He mutters curses under his breath and he strikes two more matches before the small pile of kindling catches. Within minutes, a blazing fire illuminates the hearth, casting shadows and flickering light across the entire room.

Joel wipes his hands on his jeans and sits back on his heels to turn and look at you. You can just make out the tear tracks drying on his cheeks, disappearing into the dark scruff of his trimmed beard. It’s then you notice the trickle of blood matting the hair on his chin and the bruise blossoming up and across his chin from where your boot collided with his face.

You sit up abruptly and wince. Joel jumps, holding his hands out in front of him. “What’s wrong?” he asks, voice tinged with panic.

“Your face. You’re bleeding. I–”

Joel’s expression relaxes as he touches his chin, pulling back his fingers and nodding as he examines the blood on his fingers. “Figured I’m owed a kick or two for not getting to you before it was too late.”

He stands, crossing the living room into the kitchen. The sound of running water befuddles you and Joel returns, drying his hands on a dish towel before pressing it against his chin.

He sits down on the edge of the couch, using his free hand to tuck the blanket in around your legs.

“Running water?” you ask.

Joel huffs out an amused breath. “There’s a lot to explain about this place. Promise I’ll get you caught up.” He regards you with soft eyes and his hand rests upon your hip, thumb sweeping gently backing forth.

“What happened?”

“What happened?”

You both smile as you ask the question at the same time. Joel nods, inclining his head towards you. “You first.”

You lick your lips and swallow. “I didn’t realize I’d been shot, not ‘til I stopped running.” You breathe out through your nose. “I don’t think I’d ever run so hard in all my life. I didn’t know where I was. I looked for you until nightfall, but was so turned around.” You continue your story, recounting how you survived those four days and how you’d hallucinated him at the end of it all. You slip your hand into his when his posture goes rigid and his jaw tightens. He shakes his head and apologizes. You rub small circles on his back when he sobs and begs your forgiveness. You soothe and shush him until he eventually stops shuddering. He breathes in deeply and swipes the back of his hand under his nose.

“C’’mere,” he says after a long minute. He adjusts a throw pillow at the opposite end of the couch and angles his body, so he can stretch out his legs and pull you into his lap, careful not to jostle your shoulder too much as he does so. “You okay?” he asks as he fluffs the blanket out to cover you both.

You lay your head against his chest and breathe in his scent. A small laugh bubbles from your lips and you feel Joel’s confusion.

“What is it?”

“You smell clean.”

“I am clean,” he protests.

“You smell clean, clean.”

“We’ve got working showers,” he says and you lift your head to look at him bewildered.

His lips quirk into a smile. “You need rest. I could’ve broken your ribs tackling like that.”

You settle back down against his chest, grumbling to yourself. “I’d rather be clean with broken ribs than smell like a dead rat without.”

He wraps his arms around you, holding you securely in place against his warm body. “I don’t care what you smell like, just that you’re alive and that you’re here. With me.”

Your eyelids begin to droop, the adrenaline of the night’s events finally wearing off. Sleep calls to you and as you snuggle in against Joel, you say his name.

“Hmm?” he hums by way of answering.

“Will you sing to me?”

Joel hesitates, but only for a moment before he starts singing in a low voice like Johnny Cash, “You are my sunshine, my only sunshine…”

•••

Joel’s heartbeat pounds steadily beneath your ear, the heat of his body keeping you warm as you turn your face to nuzzle into his shirt, inhaling his familiar scent, something you thought you’d never smell again. He breathes softly into your hair as his quiet snores rumble through his chest.

There’s a slight chill in the air, the fire having gone out long ago.. It’s still dark outside but the occasional twittering of birds beyond the windows usher in the first signs that dawn is breaking. As you adjust your weight to try and get a little bit more comfortable and go back to sleep, you brush your shoulder against the back of the couch and the sudden onslaught of pain jolts through you so fiercely that when you blink, you hear the crack of the gunshot and Joel screaming at you to run.

Panic seizes you, stiffening your limbs and eyes widening in fear as flashes of you tearing through the forest, of your blood staining the fallen snow while you deliriously wander the woods and highways flicker across your mind’s eye. Joel had felt so real when you’d envisioned him in that motel, the way he’d squeezed your hand. Is this just a continuation of that deluded reality? There’d been no one else around. Who would’ve found you and treated your injuries? And then the one person to find you running is Joel? It can’t be real. It’s too good to be true.

“Baby?” Joel murmurs sleepily. He stirs beneath you, adjusting his frame into somewhat of a sitting position. “Honey, what’s wrong? You’re breathin’ too fast. You gotta calm down and tell me what’s happening.”

You squeeze your eyes shut as you sit up, cringing as pain slices through your shoulder. “Y-y-you’re not real,” you start and stop, trying to stabilize your breathing. You inhale sharply and exhale shakily "This isn’t real.” Your hands shake as you reach for anything to hold on to as your eyes dart about the unfamiliar space.

Joel shifts out from under you and kneels on the floor beside the couch. “Look at me.” His voice is firm, yet gentle, as he takes your hand into his. He squeezes it tenderly before guiding it beneath the fabric of his shirt to rest over his chest where his heart thuds against his ribcage. Your eyes flicker nervously across his face and the surrounding space.

“No, no,” Joel’s voice draws you in. “Eyes on me.” Your eyes focus on the deep brown of his. “Come on now. Thatta girl.” He smiles and dips his chin to where your hands joined beneath his shirt. “Ya feel that? That there is the same heart that’s beat for you for five years. It’s the one that you listen to when you fall asleep on my chest and I’ve got my arms around you. I get these little panic attacks too sometimes and I know—I know they’re scary as hell and it feels like the floor has fallen out from under you.” His thumb strokes across the skin of your hand as he continues to hold it tight to his chest. “Now I can’t begin to know what you went through out there, but you’re safe and you’re here now, honey. I’m here.” He huffs out a laugh and shakes his head. “Tommy’s here too.”

Your head jerks up. A hallucination wouldn’t be so specific. “Tommy?”

Joel nods. “That’s whose house you woke up in. Believe it or not the bastard found this place first and with us on the move, he had no idea we’d had to abandon our radio back in Denver.”

You swallow thickly, the steady thumping of Joel’s heart beneath your palm and the scratch of his callouses against your skin grounding you, slowly but surely. “I was on the 191 North,” you say slowly. “I saw the signs for Jackson—are we—is this?”

Joel nods, tears glimmering in the dawning light filtering in through the windows at his back. “Yes, darlin’. I couldn’t have imagined any sort of settlement existing like this when we first started dreamin’ of a place that was safe and felt like somewhere we could really call home, but dammit, I think this is it.”

“Home,” you repeat.

“Home,” he echoes. Slowly, he slips your hands out from under his shirt. He folds his large hand over yours and presses a kiss to your knuckles. “Our home.”

The word soothes you like a balm. All at once, the panic that seized you minutes earlier rushes out of your body like the tide back out to sea. This isn’t a trick of a fever-addled mind. This isn’t a dream. Well, that’s not true. It’s a dream come true, really. Your dream. Joel’s dream.

Joel stands, still holding onto your hand. “C’mon, it’s early but I don’t think you and I are getting any more sleep this morning. Let’s get you showered and fed and then I’ll show you ‘round.”

•••

Joel showers with you and you can’t remember the last time you had a real shower, let alone a warm one. He’s gentle with you as he massages shampoo into your tangled hair and sudses your skin with a bar of Irish Spring soap. It’s funny how that’s something you never would’ve purchased for yourself before, the smell had always been a bit too strong for you, but now it feels like a luxury branded item and you can’t get enough of the sharp, clean scent. The water stings your stitches but you don’t care. The pain helps you know this is real.

“Maria will have better fitting clothes for you,” Joel says after he helps redress your wounds with your pilfered supplies and you dress in a pair of socks, sweatpants, and a flannel shirt that had been provided to him.

“I can’t believe Tommy is married,” you say as you sit at the counter in the kitchen.

Joel busies himself with pulling out fixins for what he’s been referring to as a “proper breakfast.” He throws a dish towel over his shoulder as he pulls out a frying pan and lights a burner with a match.

“Me neither,” Joel says. “We’ll head over there after you eat. Maria will wanna take a look at your shoulder and get more meds in you.”

You slip into a comfortable silence as Joel bustles around the kitchen. Joel cracks eggs into the pan and your stomach rumbles as you listen to them sizzle. The scent of coffee stirs your senses and you swear you start salivating. You hadn’t even noticed the French press burbling on the side counter until Joel pours out a piping hot cup and places it in front of you.

A smirk pulls at the corners of his lips as he holds up a finger, signaling for you to wait. “Get a load of this.” He turns and cracks open the refrigerator, pulling out a small container of white liquid. “They’ve got a whole fuckin’ barnyard here. Access to fresh meat, eggs, and milk.”

He goes to pour some into your mug before stopping, tilting the container upright. “Except you’ve always taken your coffee black.”

You smirk in response as you raise the cup to your lips. “Unless some handsome contractor is tipping bottom shelf cinnamon whiskey into my cup.”

A blush creeps across Joel’s cheeks as he turns to take the pan off the burner.

“You look comfortable here,” you state. “Like you’ve always been here.”

Joel slides the eggs onto a ceramic plate followed by a slab of cured meat and a thick slice of bread. He places the plate down in front of you and pulls a fork from a drawer. It clinks against the plate and your stomach audibly rumbles. “Eat slowly,” he cautions as you pick up the fork. “Your instinct will be to shovel it all down, but that’ll only make you sick. Trust me.”

You nod in understanding and set the fork down, choosing to start by ripping off small pieces of bread and popping them into your mouth one by one.

“I gave Tommy a black eye when they brought you through the gate.”

You stop chewing. Joel’s staring at his folded hands, his forearms braced against the granite. “I thought you were dead, I thought—” He shakes his head. “A patrol found you. Tommy and I were on Main Street. Tommy immediately rushed over because believe it or not, he’s some kind of a leader ‘round her. I caught a glimpse of your face and I just couldn’t think straight. Tommy was hollerin’ at me that you were still alive, but that they had to take you to quarantine and see the doctor they’ve got. I wasn’t allowed to see you and well, yeah.” He pauses and inclines his head towards your plate. Once you resume eating, he continues. “They kept you in their hospital overnight after making sure you weren’t infected. You had a fever of 104 and had suffered major blood loss. Everyone was amazed that you’d survived as long as you had. They’ve got a handful of O Negative blood types in the commune that donate blood regularly, so they were able to give you a transfusion and pump you full of antibiotics. It was touch and go there for a bit, but you pulled through. When your fever broke, Maria and Tommy took you in. They told me this house was mine if I wanted it. It was filthy, not quite up to code, but it had a bed and a shower. I knew you were gonna wake up so I needed it to be ready for you. I spent those three days you were unconscious scrubbing this place top to bottom. Tommy helped get me stocked up on basic supplies that were available to everyone, trading with others to get others. I barely ate. I barely slept. I just, I had to keep my hands busy or my mind would wander to such terrible places.”

You reach across the counter and fold your hand over his. “Thank you.”

Joel’s brow furrows. “For what?”

A sound of disbelief rushes past your lips. “For everything. For caring for me and loving me as deeply as you do. For waiting for me. For,” you laugh, somewhat hysterically, and lift your coffee cup. “For somehow always finding coffee for me after the world went to shit.”

His features soften, his shoulders relaxing. There’s a light in his big, brown eyes that you’d been missing. To see it shine again causes your heart to swell.

“I love you,” he says and the words wrap around you like a tight embrace, like a promise.

“I love you, too.”

•••

Tommy clasps your face in his hands before drawing you in for a tight embrace.

Maria claps him on the back. “You’re going to hurt her shoulder! Loosen up!”

You squeeze him back, not minding the pain it causes. Tommy lets you go and smiles sheepishly, apologizing. The bruising around his eye had faded to a sickly greenish yellow color. “I just can’t believe you’re both here.” He shakes his head and tucks his hands into the pockets of his jeans. “Frankly, I can’t believe you pulled through.”

This earns him another clap on the back and Joel chuckles from behind you. “Finally, someone else to keep him in line.”

Tommy’s lips part to no doubt deliver some sort of zinger in response, but Maria raises a finger and he presses his lips together. “You two can squabble later. Or, better yet. Tommy, why don’t you go help Joel replace that broken window in his spare bedroom while I see that she gets her antibiotics.”

“Oh, yeah.” Joel steps out from behind you and rifles around in his pockets. He withdraws the vials of penicillin and gauze pads you’d stolen and places them in Maria’s hand. Her brow arches in response and you shrug your uninjured shoulder. “What? I thought I’d been kidnapped.”

Tommy covers his mouth with his hand to stifle a laugh. Joel sucks air in through his teeth. “I hope you’ve got another one of those syringes because the one she pocketed may have gotten smashed when I tackled her in the backyard yesterday.”

Maria’s eyes widen and Tommy’s jaw drops, though the smile is still evident on his face. “Is that why your chin looks like that?” He shifts his gaze to you. “Did you punch him?”

“Kicked him.”

Joel side-eyes you, his lips pressing together in a firm line.

“I thought you were one of the kidnappers!”

“And I thought you were a raider!”

“Well, I know you’re both idiots.”

You both level hard stares at Tommy. He raises his hands in surrender before zipping up his jacket and picking up a tool kit off the coffee table. “How ‘bout that broken window then, huh?”

“Good choice,” Joel says flatly. He presses a kiss to your cheek and squeezes your hand. “I’ll be right across the street, baby.”

The door clicks shut and Maria invites you to sit on the couch. It feels strange, sitting in another person’s living room like that’s a normal thing that happens nowadays.

“Let’s take a look at you,” Maria says, smiling warmly as she helps you shrug out of Joel’s flannel. She peels back the bandages Joel taped over your stitches and clicks her tongue in approval. She then stands and retrieves a slim box from the other room.

“Lucky for you we’ve got a decent amount of these,” she says as she pulls a syringe and sticks it into the vial of penicillin. You don’t even flinch when the needle slides beneath your skin. Maria gently presses the bandages back into place and fixes the sleeve of your shirt back over your shoulder.

“I can’t imagine what you’ve been through—”

“Stop,” you say, eyes fixed on the ground in front of you. Pressure builds behind your eyes as hot tears well along your eyelids. You blink hard and they spill over onto your cheeks.

“I know you don’t know me very well—”

“No,” you say, swallowing thickly as you try to stifle a sob. “No, it’s not that, fuck, I’m sorry. I just can’t get my head wrapped around all of this and I just feel so…” You press the palms of your heels against your eyes and take a deep breath. You sniff and clear your throat before lifting your eyes to meet Maria’s.

“You’re right,” you say. “I don’t know you, which means you have no obligation to sugarcoat anything for my benefit.”

Maria’s expression remains neutral, though she regards you coolly. She nods her head. “Go on.”

“I’m going to ask you some questions, and I really, really, need you to answer honestly because I’m having a hell of a time knowing what’s real and what’s not.”

“With the fever you had and seven days of your life being one, long traumatic blur, I’m shocked you’re as calm as you are now. Ask away.”

“Where is here?”

“Jackson Hole, Wyoming.”

“Who’s in charge?”

“There’s a council of sixteen members of the community, though, you’ll often be told that I’m the one in charge.”

“How many?”

“About 300. We have houses, jobs, food, electricity, and water. We trade for most things, but we have community stores as well.”

“That house. Joel said it’s ours. Is that true?”

Maria nods. “If you want it.”

“And we just, what, live here?”

“That’s the idea.”

Maria stretches a tentative hand out, waiting for your nod of approval before placing it over yours. “I’m sure Joel has told you this, but you’re safe here. It’ll take time to settle in, for that urge to constantly be looking over your shoulder and the adrenaline rush any time there’s a loud sound to go away. It will. It did for me. It did for Tommy. It’ll be like that for you and Joel, too. God only knows what you went through out there. Take a few weeks to start settling in. When you’re ready and if you want, we have a psychotherapist in the community. Her name is Gail.”

A sudden burst of laughter bubbles up your throat. “Un-fucking-believable. You guys have a shrink.”

You shake your head and stand. Maria rises with you. “I think I’m going to go lie down for a bit, but thank you. Joel means well, but I needed to hear it cut and dry like that. I think these next few weeks will be tough, but I hope what you say is true and all, about it getting easier.” You move towards the front door and after you crack it open, you turn once more to look at her. “I have one more question.”

A kind smile graces Maria’s lips. “Shoot.”

“What day is it?”

“December sixth.”

•••

Snow flutters down from above. Your breath puffs small clouds of air as Joel tugs you along after him down Main Street.

“Joel,” you whisper-shout to avoid drawing any attention to yourselves. It’s late and the whole town is asleep save the night watch up on the gate.

Joel shushes you, throwing a smile over his shoulder as mischief and amusement dance across his irises. “Stop your worryin’. We’re almost there.”

Rolling your eyes, you pick up the pace. Your boots crunch against the snow as you cut across the street into the town square when Joel stops abruptly. You catch yourself before you plow face first into his back.

“This is it,” Joel says.

You look around and nothing looks out of the ordinary. You pull your hood up over your head and wrap your arms around yourself as a chilly wind stirs the snow about your hair.

“This is what, Joel?” You take another look around. The shops and restaurants are all dark, shut down for the evening. The tall pine in the center of the square stretches up towards the swirling sky and you can hear the gentle neighing of the horses in the stables nearby. It seems altogether normal.

Joel shakes his head in disbelief. “Christmas Eve and not a whimsical bone in your body.” He turns and shuffles off.

Your brow pinches as you try to make sense of what he just said. “Joel Miller, did you just use the word ‘whimsical?’”

You can’t hear his response, but you watch his shoulders shake with laughter as he disappears into the corner store.

The wind whistles through the square and you have half a mind to traipse after him and demand an explanation when an array of color springs to life before your eyes. Your mouth falls open as you crane your neck to take in the sight of the lit up pine tree filling the town square. Rainbow lights of varying shapes and sizes string together from top to bottom to create a charming display of Christmas cheer.

Joel emerges from the shop. His lips curve into a smile as he watches the look of childlike wonder on your face. His boots crunch along the snow as he returns to your side, sliding his gloved fingers between yours.

“How did you—”

“Tommy,” Joel answers. “They usually wait to light it on Christmas, but I wanted to do something special for you, what with everything that happened…” He stops, not going into further detail. He doesn’t have to. “I know these last few weeks ain’t been easy and I—”

His words are cut off as you press your lips against his. Your hood slides off your head as he slips his arms around your waist, deepening the kiss. Snowflakes melt as they connect with your skin, though they stick in your eyelashes and eyebrows. Your breath mingles together in an icy fog when Joel pulls away to rest his forehead against yours.

“I just want you to know everything is going to be okay.”

You press another kiss to his lips. “As long as you’re with me, I will be.”

“There’s one more thing,” Joel says, reaching into the inner coat pocket of his winter coat. The snow is slowing, only a few flakes skittering down as he withdraws a black thermos.

He arches a knowing brow as he passes it to you, smiling. You unscrew the lid and the rich scent of coffee fills your nose.

“Remind you of anything?”

“Our first Christmas.”

Joel nods. “One of the best days of my life. I just didn’t know it at the time.”

You smile wistfully, nostalgia sweeping through you at the thought of Tommy’s Christmas party all those years ago. So much had changed between then and now. Joel had changed. You’d changed.

“If only we had—”

A small amber bottle sits in the palm of Joel’s outstretched hand. The label is faded but you recognize the red dragon and what stamped letters remain of what would’ve spelled out: Fireball Cinnamon Whiskey. Without words, Joel unscrews the cap and tips the airplane bottle into the thermos.

“I didn’t know shit about starting fires back then.”

You nudge him in the ribs with your elbow. “You still don’t know shit about lighting them now.”

“Yeah, well, you didn’t know North from South. You’d have lost your own head without me.”

“I’d have lost a lot more than that,” you admit and you both fall silent as you hold one another’s stare.

Joel wraps an arm around you and takes a look up at the sky. “Well, look at that,” he says. “Clouds parted just for you tonight.”

You raise your eyes to the sky and sure enough, shining brighter than ever, the thing that had brought you and Joel together and always kept your paths bound together through life, death, and everything in between…

The North Star.

“Merry Christmas, Girl Scout.” Joel murmurs, using the teasing nickname from the night you first really talked.

As long as you live, you’ll never forget a minute of that first night; of the thing that crawls out of Mrs. Adler’s lips, of the streets you grew up on being torn asunder by sheer chaos and panic, of the sound of the gun that rips Sarah from this world, and the cry of anguish from Joel when he realizes he can’t save her.

•••

“If anything happens, if we get separated. Go North. Don’t stop.” Blood leaks from Joel’s knuckles as he desperately grasps your face in his hands.

He folds you into his arms and drops behind an abandoned vehicle as a spray of gunfire hits the asphalt mere feet from you. FEDRA is evacuating what remains of Austin, but they hadn’t expected to be met with resistance.

He grabs your hand as someone launches a homemade explosive towards the encroaching lines of FEDRA officials. Joel grabs your hand and roughly pulls you after him, tearing down a side street as the earth shakes from the explosion and screams rend the air. Smoke and dust burn your lungs and tears involuntarily leak from your eyes.

“Promise me,” Joel begs between deep breaths. “Go North. Wyoming. Open land. No crowded cities. No swarms of infected. No FEDRA. We can survive there. You and me.”

Gunfire cracks like lightning and a choked sob escapes your throat. Joel grabs your shoulders, squeezing too tightly. “Say it, baby. Repeat it back to me.”

“Wyoming. Go North. I promise.”

Joel’s shoulders sag and his eyes quickly dart across your face like he’s trying to map it out and commit it to memory. “I love you,” he swears, tears pooling in his brown eyes. “We’ll make it out of this.”

You nod, forcing yourself to believe it even though it seems nothing more than a fool’s hope.

•••

The things you do to survive.

The unthinkable.

The unimaginable.

With Joel and Tommy, you stay alive.

You learn to move faster.

To aim better.

To kill first, think later.

You don’t think about your family.

The one you never got to see at Christmas.

The one that never got to meet Joel.

You head North.

•••

Moving North comes to a grinding halt in Denver, Colorado.

The QZ treats you well enough for several years. Tommy and Joel earn rations performing repairs and builds across the zone. There’s not much in terms of supply chain management when FEDRA controls the flow of everything, but you find work when and where you can.

In your small apartment, a layer of dust and dirt covers everything; nature’s attempts at reclamation. There’s limited electricity, but you have running water.

While you wait for Joel to return home, you pull a map of the states out, tracing your finger along the highways and by ways that lead to Wyoming.

One day…

•••

Tommy joins the Fireflies. He doesn’t want to live under the thumb of FEDRA, trapped like animals.

Joel refuses to follow. He doesn’t like FEDRA and he hates collaborators, but doesn’t trust that the Fireflies have everyone’s best interests at heart either.

Joel just does what he has to to get by, to keep a roof over your heads and food in your stomachs. It’s all anyone can ask for these days. He tries to get Tommy to understand that the Fireflies won’t be able to deliver on their promises of grandeur and a better life…but then you remind him that your dreams of a safe haven in Wyoming border on delusion. People hold on to what they can to give them hope. Tommy’s hope currently lies with the Fireflies and Joel lets him go.

Joel continues to work in construction.

You learn to smuggle.

Over time, Joel does too.

•••

Lips press against your temple and you stir awake. Hazy, gray light streams through the threadbare curtains onto your stained bedspread.

Joel rests his head in his hand, propped up by his elbow. He smiles as you blink the sleep from your eyes and he reaches an arm across your body to pull the quilt up when he notices you shiver. His hand rests on your shoulder, his thumb stroking the bare skin there. “Happy birthday,” he says quietly as he leans in to kiss you.

“Is it really?” you ask, voice still thick with sleep. It’s too easy to lose track of time. Sometimes weeks go by and you can’t remember what month it is, let alone the day.

“Is it happy? Or is it your birthday?” Joel asks, a hint of amusement betraying his usually gruff tone.

You groan and roll over to press your back into the warmth of his body, not quite ready to face the day. The heat FEDRA allows to trickle into the apartment complex is not enough to compete with the outside temperatures. Joel leans into you and pulls you in closer with his arm securely placed around your waist. His wide hand stretches up and across your chest, resting just above the round curve of your breast.

“Well,” Joel says as he places a kiss on the soft skin beneath your ear. “It’s definitely your birthday. Hell, it’s one of the only things worth giving a shit about timekeeping for…” He litters your neck with a trail of kisses as he adjusts himself behind you and the hard length of his erection presses against your ass. “And as far as happy goes, well darlin’, I’m willing to do just about anything you’d like to make it so.”

A slow, languid smile spreads across your lips and you reach an arm behind you to curve your hand around his neck as his tongue swipes at the hollow of your throat. A low sound rumbles from Joel as he shifts again behind you and a rush of heat surges through your core.

You let out a breath as his calloused palm curves around your hip and his fingers slip beneath the waistband of the loose pants you sleep in. “I can think of a few things that might help,” you admit, breath hitching.

His fingers dip lower; seeking, feeling, wanting… and you shiver with anticipation knowing how thoroughly Joel is about to fuck you.

•••

The sweat slaking your skin turns cold without the friction of Joel’s body rubbing against yours. You sit up in bed, drawing the blanket over your shoulders and around your bare torso. There’s a pleasant ache between your thighs and you find a smile still rests upon your lips as you lean back against the cracked headboard.

The floorboards creak under Joel’s weight as he crosses the short distance from the kitchen to your room. He’s got two mugs and two bowls cradled awkwardly in his arms and you have to reach out your hands to catch a bowl as it teeters.

“What’s for breakfast today?” you muse. “Let me guess, lukewarm oat rations and hot water.”

Joel sits on the edge of the bed and places his bowl and the mugs on your shared nightstand before dipping down to pull his shirt from the ground. He passes it to you and you tug it over your head, grateful for an additional layer. You slide over and pat the bed beside you. He slips between the sheets and you pull them up to your laps as you huddle in closer to him.

He passes you a mug and you wrap both hands around it, inhaling the steam. Before you can take a sip, Joel places a hand over the top of your cup.

You let out a wry laugh, “Sorry, did I forget to say grace?”

Joel arches a brow and smirks. “No, smart ass.” He reaches into his pants pocket and pulls out a small paper satchet. Your brow furrows as you take it and read the faded lettering: Folgers.

Your eyes nearly pop out of your head. “Shut the fuck up, Joel, Coffee?!”

“Five year old expired coffee,” he admits, “but coffee nonetheless.”

You tear open the packet with your teeth and dump the dark granules into your cup. Before you get the chance to even stir, the smell reaches your nostrils and you could cry for how good it smells.

“I never thought I’d have coffee again, where the hell did you find this?”

“In an abandoned pack I found out past the East Ward’s fence.” Joel flicks another small packet from his pocket, this one smaller and pink. “Splenda?”

“Joel Miller, what did you do to get that?”

He shrugs, “I guess whoever that pack belonged to must have been saving them for something.” He rips it open and dumps the tiny crystals into your cup. You lick the sticky oats from your spoon and stir the contents before closing your eyes and taking a tentative sip. A moan rumbles between your lips as the drink warms you from the inside out and Joel is smiling when you open your eyes, his eyes warm and not so unlike the color of your coffee.

“Here,” you encourage, thrusting the cup in his face. Joel raises his hands in protest. “That’s a gift for you. I know it ain’t Starbucks, but I wanted you to have something different, something special.”

You press your lips together, “When someone has cake on their birthday, they share it with others. This is the closest thing we’ve got to that, so please.” You press the mug into his open hand. He maintains your stubborn glare for only a few seconds longer before relenting and taking a small sip.

“Oh fuck, that’s good.”

“Right?”

You both laugh over the simple pleasure of a morning cup of coffee, so out of place in the apocalypse, but at least for a moment, you can pretend you’re a normal couple in your normal house doing normal things on what you think is a normal Sunday morning.

As your laughter fades, a smile remains on Joel’s lips and it’s so nice to see him like this. “It’s like when we first met,” he says, nostalgia lacing his words as he passes the coffee back to you.

“Tommy’s Christmas party.”

He dips his chin in response. “Except instead of Splenda, I was tipping Fireball into your coffee.”

You blow a puff of air out through your nose and smile at the memory. “It was so gross,” you admit.

“I remember lookin’ at you in the fire’s glow, holdin’ onto your cup of coffee like you are now,” he points a finger at your hands wrapped around your mug. “And I thought to myself, ‘this girl is so damn pretty, how the hell do I keep her interested in talking to a grumpy asshole like myself?’”

You laugh and lay your head against his shoulder. “You were only half as grumpy then as you are now.”

Joel continues. “You kept lookin’ up at the sky, talkin’ about how nice it was that Tommy lived outside the city where the light pollution couldn’t reach the stars. You couldn’t tell constellations for shit, but hung on to every word I’d said like I’d hung the stars myself.”

“Still learned though.”

Joel nods. “True, but just in case we ever do get separated and you can’t find the North Star to orient yourself…I made you something.”

Your heart flutters in your chest. “There’s more? Joel, baby, you’ve already done more than enough for me.”

He pulls open the nightstand drawer and retrieves a small newspaper wrapped parcel. He holds it out to you and you trade it for your coffee, which he takes another sip of.

You carefully unfold the worn out paper and the morning light glints off of a tarnished silver chain tucked inside. You carefully hook a finger under the chain and lift it out of the paper, a nickel sized pendant hanging off the end. Your lips part in surprise as you notice it’s a working compass face.

“Found the chain in the boarded up department store across town. I guess jewelry wasn’t people’s first priority when everything went to shit. Pried the compass free from a broken watch,” he explains. “Nabbed a bit of wire from the builders supplies and fashioned the casing.” He trades your coffee cup back to you for the necklace. With surprisingly gentle hands, he makes quick work of the clasp and the pendant falls just above your breasts.

“You’ll never lose North, now.” He says softly, wistfully.

“Not with you to guide me,” you respond, smiling up at him from beneath your lashes.

Joel’s expression turns serious, “But if I’m ever not around. If we get separated or the worst comes to pass—”

You press your lips to the corner of his mouth to stop him from wandering down that dark path. “I know, baby. Head North. Wyoming. I promise.”

•••

Rough hands on your shoulders cause you to jolt awake.

“We gotta go, now!” Joel thrusts a packed bag into your hands. “Get dressed.”

“What’s happening?”

“FEDRA found out about our smugglers' route into the QZ. Probably a collaborator. I don’t know. If we go now, they won’t catch us.”

You do as he says; quickly pulling on a pair of jeans and a flannel shirt over your plain long sleeve top, tucking your silver compass into your shirt before zipping into your thicker winter coat. After shoving your feet into your boots, you throw your pack over your shoulder and follow Joel out of the apartment you’d called home for the last five years.

•••

“Not her,” shouts Joel as two raiders fight to hold him back as another stands over you from your place upon the ground. “Fuckin’ coward!” he cries, veins bulging in his neck as he screams. He delivers a punch to the throat of one of his attackers before pulling the knife from his hip and driving it into his side. The man wails as he falls to the ground and the other charges Joel, arms grappling around his waist as he tackles him to the ground.

You scramble back across the snow on your hands and feet, clambering for purchase as your frozen limbs struggle to cooperate with your flight or fight response.

The man smiles as he regards you with apathy. “We’re all just trying to survive,” he says. “I’ll make it fast,” he promises, as he pulls a gun from the holster on his hip. “Your boyfriend though, well, he’s gone and killed my friend so I’ll take my time with him.”

Your eyes dart past his tall frame to Joel fighting for his life against the other raider. He’s too far away. Your lip trembles as fear grips you with strong hands. The sun catches on the steel barrel of the gun in his hand.

The world slows around you as he begins to raise his and all you can hear is the blood pounding in your ears as you prepare yourself to die. There’s a dull thud, a gurgle of blood, and a crack of thunder followed by a sting of pain. Your ears ring and you hear a muted voice yelling at you to run.

“Run, dammit! Run!”

Joel. It’s Joel.

All at once reality sweeps back into place. There’s a spray of blood darkening the snow at your feet. The man that held the gun lies face down in the snow with Joel’s knife in his back. You look up and Joel is fighting the final attacker, face and knuckles bloody.

“I’ll find you!” he cries, ducking as the raider swipes at him with a hunting knife. “Godammit, run!”

Without thinking, you drop down, pick up the discarded gun, and turn on your heel and run into the thick forest.

Wind whips across your chapped cheeks as you tear through the trees. Branches creak and shutter overhead, their boughs heavy with snow. It hurts to breathe in the sharp, frigid air and you think you’ll die for how it pierces your lungs with each breath. You run until your legs give it out and you fall face first into iced over powder.

You can’t move, not immediately. You lie there, gasping for air. It isn’t until you notice the red staining the snow that you finally try to sit up.

The pain is dull at first as your frozen senses try to send the right signals to your brain to process what you’re seeing. Blood stains your winter coat and for a moment you think it belongs to the man that tried to kill you, but then you remember he was stabbed in the back. Slowly, you unzip your jacket and a strangled cry leaves your lips when you find your flannel and shirt underneath soaked in crimson. It was your blood staining the snow back there, not his.

“No,” you mutter to yourself as you finger the torn holes in your shirt to the gory wound beneath. “No, no, no.” You reach across your chest and slip your opposite hand behind your shoulder and feel an exit wound from the other side. “Fuck!” you grit out. You zip your jacket and stumble to your feet, spinning a slow circle to orient yourself, but you don’t recognize any of your surroundings. It’s nothing but snow covered aspens as far as the eye can see.

“Joel!” you shout, listening for a response as your voice echoes back at you. Birds abandon a nearby tree in a flutter of wings and feathers, but you hear no response. “Joel!”

Again, nothing. Hot tears blur your vision. He had to make it out of that fight, he had to.

I’ll find you.

“He’ll find me.” You blink away your tears and sling your pack over your uninjured shoulder. With shaking hands you pull your necklace out from its place beneath your layers. Blood sticks in between the bent wires making up the casing and smears across the tiny glass window. You wipe it on your collar and take another look as the dial spins lazily before the needle settles.

You head North.

•••

Shivers wrack your body as you curl in on yourself on the sodden mattress inside a room in the long-abandoned motel you’d sought refuge in. You’re so fucking tired and this seems as good a place as any to give into the exhaustion and stop fighting.

It’s been four days.

Joel isn’t coming to save you.

A tear leaks from your bleary eyes and you fumble for the chain around your neck but your snow and blood soaked clothes are too bulky and you struggle to find it.

You want to hold on to it as you go, to hold on to this last piece of Joel. If you’re holding on to it, maybe it’ll feel like holding on to him and it won’t feel so scary to go alone like this; to die in a run-down motel where no one will ever find you or know you existed at all.

Holding on to that sliver of comfort grants you just enough strength to drag yourself up against the dry-rotted headboard. You cry out in pain as you shrug out of your thick coat, whimpering as the fabric sticks to your wound, disturbing the infected and torn flesh as you peel off the offending garment and shove it away from you.

On the first night, hiding from the elements beneath a shelf of boulders, you cut the sleeves off of your long sleeved shirt, trying and failing to bandage the wound and stem the blood flow. You risked a small fire, hoping Joel would see the flickering shadows and small chimney of smoke.

You woke up alone; woozy and disoriented.

For the next two days, you continued to decline, blood loss and the onset of infection stealing most of your strength; surviving only on small bits of jerky and snow that you’d packed into your cracked water bottle and let melt in the sun. A small surge of energy struck once you’d stumbled onto the highway, smiling upon seeing a faded highway sign for Route 191 North.

It was dangerous to travel on the open road, especially alone, but what did you have to lose?

You walked, burning through your reserves until there was nothing left and you were running on empty. You mumbled Joel’s name as you stumbled down the pavement, holding on to stalled out vehicles to support your weight as you set your sights on what you assumed would be your final resting place: Aspen Motel.

Cold sweat plasters your hair to your face as your head lolls to the side. With clammy fingers, you hold on to Joel’s necklace, the one he gave you all those years ago.

Your eyelids grow heavy as you try and picture that day in Denver in your fucked up little house with your fucked up little lives, but God, it had been perfect. What you’d give right now to feel his warmth beside you, to have him holding your hand as you go.

“Joel,” you whimper, your voice barely audible. Another tear leaks from your eye. You taste saltwater on your cracked lips.

“Shh, I’m right here darlin’.”

You blink slowly, each one more painful than the last as Joel’s rugged features come into blurry view, a soft smile on his full lips and his brown eyes shining as he regards you from where he sits on the edge of the bed.

“You found me.”

He leans forward and cups your face in his wide hand. “I told you I would.”

Your voice breaks when you speak. “I don’t want to die.” You lean into his hand and he strokes a thumb across your cheek, but you can’t feel the warmth of his touch. “Not like this.”

“I know, baby,” Joel says quietly. “I’m right here.”

You sniff weakly. “You won’t leave me?”

He’s smiling as your eyes fall close. “Not a chance.”

“I—” You struggle to form the words as your consciousness fades. “I went North, like I promised.”

There’s a shuffling of footsteps, a door thudding against the drywall, and a rush of voices. Joel’s outline shimmers and fades suddenly and there’s a blur of figures in the room. You should be afraid, but you’re already gone.

•••

chapter one: how it started

word count: 2.3k

The plastic wrap crinkles under your fingertips as you grip the plate of cookies you’d made for tonight’s party. They’re simple sugar cookies and the lights strung across the porch reflect in the sugar crystals dusting their tops.

Tinsel-clad silhouettes of reindeer light up the front yard. Large, plastic ornaments of all shapes and sizes hang from the branches of the wide oak tree on multi-colored ribbon. A plastic row of waist-high candy canes light the path leading up to the porch where strings of rainbow lights glitter and cast a gentle glow across the wooden planks at your feet.

You feel awkward, crashing Tommy’s Christmas Eve plans with his family and friends; but you hadn’t had anywhere else to go and when he caught you at the office between supply pickups feeling glum about not being able to see your family for the holidays there was no fighting him in it. He wouldn’t take no for an answer.

As you raise your fist to knock, the low rumble of an engine and the slow creak of brakes draws your attention back to the street. You make out two silhouettes behind the glow of the headlights and swallow nervously. You startle as the passenger side door flies open and a spry teenager jumps out, her curls bouncing as she dashes around the hood of the car and up the path towards the house.

She draws up short when she notices you standing there, still and unmoving. You ought to say something. You’re probably scaring the kid.

“Hi, uh, I—”

“That’s my coworker, honey. She’s not usually so stiff.”

You both shift your gazes at the tall man lumbering up the driveway. Your heart slams against your chest as you take in the red and black flannel covering his broad shoulders and wide hands with splayed fingers holding on to a stack of presents. His eyes are hard, but a glint of amusement shines in his eyes; reflected by the Christmas lights.

How did you forget that Joel Miller was Tommy’s older brother?

“My daughter,” Joel says, inclining his head towards the girl. “Sarah.”

Sarah smiles in turn when he introduces you by name.

“Great, now that the two of you have been acquainted. Can someone please either take half these boxes before my back gives out or open the damn door?”

Your senses rush back to you and you immediately move towards the door. “Right, sorry!” You reach for the handle, realizing that you’ve clearly moved past the point of knocking and feel doubly uncomfortable as you turn the knob and the door swings up into a party in full swing.

“I’m sure he’s that grumpy at work, too,” Sarah quips with a cheeky smirk as she slides past you into the house where she is greeted immediately by warm hugs and enthusiastic exclamations.

You step inside and a wave of Christmas cheer washes over you. A 7ft pine decorated with tinsel and ornaments illuminates one corner of the room. The smell of cinnamon and balsam scented candles wraps around you like a warm embrace and you don’t even recognize the person that’s taking the cookies from your hands and placing them on a table in the kitchen lined with sweets.

“You made it!” Tommy says, clapping you on the shoulder. He’s wearing a Santa hat with a t-shirt that reads: I Promise I’ve Been Nice with cartoon string lights woven in between the graphic script.

You nod, still trying to take it all in. “I thought you said it was a small party.”

He shrugs and takes a swig from the open beer bottle in his hand. “This is small! Go on, get something to eat and drink. There’s coffee and cocoa on the counter!” With another clap on the back, he waves at someone behind you and strides off to engage with his guests further.

Moving through the guests, you idle into the kitchen and pull a foam cup stamped with reindeer from next to the commercial coffee dispenser and you realize it looks suspiciously like the ones from the staff break room. The steam from the steady pour of brown liquid tickles your nose and you don’t add any cream or sugar before slinking towards the back door and out onto the back porch.

Tommy’s house sits on a wide piece of property that stretches way back towards a creek not quite frozen over. It’s mild for Christmas, but in the dark, goosebumps rise along your skin beneath the sleeves of your open cardigan and a slight puff of air is visible with each breath. Someone had attempted to start a fire in the stone ringed pit, but it had burned down to mostly coals.

Slightly slurred (and off key) renditions of Rockin’ Around the Christmas Tree echo from inside the house and you sip your coffee as you step toward the fire pit, coals glimmering molten orange.

Your eyes roam about the grass and gravel around the pit and you notice piles of kindling and lumber nearby. Setting your coffee on the railing, you crouch down onto one knee and set to breaking down small twigs. You form them into a small teepee-like cone, careful not to burn your fingertips on the idling coals. A small flame catches as you blow the coals. You continue to blow, sending a ray of sparks into the air and start to feed additional bits of kindling until enough has caught to add bigger fuel to the fire. You retrieve your coffee from the rail and take a sip, admiring your handiwork.

“I didn’t take you for some kind of Girl Scout,” rumbles a gruff voice from behind you.

You startle, sloshing hot coffee onto the bare skin of your hand and a yelp escapes your lips as it singes your flesh.

“Ah, shit, I’m sorry!”

You shake the excess liquid off your hand as Joel rushes towards you. He whips out a wrinkled bandana from his back pocket and takes your hand in his, inspecting it for serious damage as he dries it off.

You let out a sigh as the pain subsides and shake your head. “There’s 101 uses for a bandana,” you say, bypassing his apology.

His face screws up in confusion, his brow pinched as he lifts his eyes to yours. “What?”

You dip your chin towards his hand, which is still holding yours wrapped in the bandana. “Something else they taught me in Girl Scouts,” you offer him a wry smile. “Unless they’ve changed some shit. It has been 15 years since I last earned a badge.”

The corner of his lips lift into a half-smile. “Sorry for scaring you.” He drops your hand and it tingles from where his callouses had brushed against your palm. He points a finger to the now blazing fire. “Nice work.”

You nod, pleased with yourself. “It’s a bit too loud in there for my taste and I don’t really know anyone.”

Joel shrugs and nods in agreement. “I get the feeling. Except for me, it’s too loud and I don’t really like anyone.”

You lock eyes, both of you only maintaining your straight faced expressions for about five seconds before bursting into shared laughter.

Joel moves past you, and you get a whiff of leather and cedar as he does so. He scoops two plastic deck chairs from their place by the glass patio table and tucks them in around the fireside.

He sits, groaning as he leans back into the chair. You arch a brow as you occupy the chair next to him. “Jesus, you’re what, 32, 33? You can’t be much older than me and Tommy yet you sound like my father, grumbling like that.”

Joel scoffs and stretches. “You work construction for over a decade and tell me your back doesn’t hurt.”

“I think I’ll stick with supply chain management, thanks.”

He huffs out a sound you assume is laughter and you both settle into a comfortable silence, both of you just staring at the flames flickering and curling in around one another. The only interruption is the sound of metal clinking against metal as he opens a flask and takes a sip of its contents.

He catches you looking at him from the corner of your eye and raises the flask in offering. In answer, you hold out your cup and he tips some of the amber liquid in.

You take a sip and grimace as the pungent cinnamon flavored whiskey burns your throat.

“What, you don’t like whiskey?” he asks, sounding only semi-offended.

You lick your lips. “I like good whiskey. That tastes like Fireball.”

“That’s because it is Fireball.” Joel takes another sip and smacks his lips. “I don’t love it either, but the liquor store is closed today and this was all I had on hand.” He nods towards the house. “I’ve got high hopes that Tommy has a top shelf bottle for me in there beneath the tree.”

“I’ve got half a mind to go find it for you now to save you from yourself.”

Joel waves it off, smiling to himself. “Nah, this will keep me warm and relaxed enough to endure the rest of the festivities.”

You laugh at the strangled way he says festivities and cradle both hands around your mug and take a long drink, feeling the whiskey burn down your throat. Joel passes you his flask as he bends down low to pick up another piece of lumber and throws it on the fire. A shower of sparks bursts into the air and disappears into fading embers.

Joel lets out a satisfied sigh as he eases back in his chair, nodding his thanks when you return his flask. He raises it in cheers, “Merry Christmas, Girl Scout.”

•••

Your empty coffee cup sits on the ground next to Joel’s empty flask. A warm buzz hums through your veins and you finally feel more relaxed; enough so that you don’t mind the way your knees are currently brushing up against Joel’s or that your hip is bumping up against his as you shimmy your chair closer to him, craning your neck to try and see what he’s seeing up in the sky.

“Follow my finger!” he exclaims for a third time. “That’s the North Star.”

You squint your eyes and try to look exactly where he’s pointing, but you just see millions of identical specks. “That one?” you ask, pointing just under where he is.

“No.” He deadpans. “That’s an airplane.” He folds his long fingers around the palm of your hand and places his pointer finger over yours. A tingle runs up your arm as he guides your joined hands several inches higher. “Straight up,” he says, a whisper. “The big bright one. If you’re ever lost, find that star and you’ll always find North.”

You finally see the difference, the size and brightness of it outshining its celestial neighbors. It’s actually painfully obvious and you’re only mildly embarrassed that you didn’t recognize it until now, but then again, you’re so aware of how close you are to Joel that you know his cedar and leather scent will linger on your cardigan as he lowers your arms back down. He doesn’t let go of your hand.

“What’s North?” you ask quietly.

“Always something,” Joel answers, and you know he’s no longer looking at the sky.

You lift your chin and the back of your head presses into his chest as you shift to look up at him only to find he’s already looking at you. He dips his chin, eyes shining in the dying glow of the fire, and hesitates for only a moment before pressing his lips to yours.

•••

The two weeks between Christmas and New Year’s pass in a blur. It takes Joel three days to call you and ask you out on a proper date. He takes you dancing at the local dive, his hands politely holding your waist at the start of the evening and dropping lower onto your hips as the night wears on and the liquor runs dry.

Days turn to weeks and dates turn into lingering on the porch into invitations inside for a nightcap into you both accidentally falling asleep and Sarah finding out dad has a girlfriend when she wakes him up the next morning asking what’s for breakfast.

A bouquet of carnations with a note signed J.M. appears on your desk come Valentine’s Day and you don’t share who they’re from with your coworkers, savoring the privacy of your budding relationship with Joel as he passes a signed requisition to you with a wink before heading back out to work.

Winter turns to Spring and Spring to Summer and you spend weekends camping with Joel and Sarah. He shows you how to fish with nothing but a bit of line and a stick, arguing that it’s how his grandfather had taught him. To your surprise, you manage to catch a few and grimace as Joel scales and guts them. He teaches you how to safely fire a gun and shoot archery, two things Sarah is shockingly good at her young age. The three of you ‘cowboy camp’ without a tent; arranging your sleeping bags so that all of your heads are together so that Joel can point out constellations and Sarah shares the mythology behind each one.

Back to school draws a lot of Joel’s attention making sure all of Sarah’s paperwork is signed, that yearbooks are ordered, and dues paid. They fall into a rhythm of work and school and along the way, they fit you into their routine too. Joel is actually going to talk to Sarah about you moving in by Christmas…but come the end of September, well…

All hell breaks loose

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