yeah, yeah, caulk, it’s high up on my list

O N E

The house is silent when he wakes up. 

So silent that Joel can hear the sound of his slow and steady heartbeat. So silent that he can hear birdsong as he moves into his workshop, intent on working on some shelving. But it's also so silent that he finds himself pushing from the table moments later with a grunt, unable to shut out the ugly refrain going through his mind. 

You're alone. 

Alone. 

Not for long though. Today is the day he gets his roommate. A fucking roommate. Some stranger to live here. 

He moves through the house, feet slapping against the creaking wood stairs. The ones that won't stop moaning no matter how many repairs he attempts on them. The rest of the house is pristine, barely touched. Only a bowl remains in the sink, a dented soup spoon next to it from last night's supper.  

Joel may exist in this house, but he doesn't live in it these days. It's more like he haunts it, going from room to room aimlessly unless he has a personal project. 

He moves slowly, looking at the large space as if seeing it for the first time. Despite the light of the day streaming in through the windows everything seems tinged with grey. He's not sure if its age that does it, but his world looks muted. 

He moves to grab a coffee in the kitchen, a ritual practically as old as he is. Black coffee, toast if he has it. But he pauses today, a small twitch to the corner of his mouth.

"Juice," he murmurs to himself. "S' healthier." 

Juice in hand he moves to the sitting room, eyes moving over the hearth to the single image that remains there in a wood frame he carved himself. An old, faded photograph of he and his daughter.

He stares at it, and if he hasn't already memorized everything down to each blade of grass.  His arm is around Sarah's shoulders as she holds up a soccer trophy in victory. Her eyes are squinting in joyful abandon, her cheeks swollen with a wide smile.

Forever thirteen. 

He can remember the scent of the cut grass of the field, of Sarah's coconut sunscreen, of the sweet juice of the sliced oranges he had ready for her at halftime. He remembers how the mothers used to look at him when he arrived at practices. The way they fluttered around him. 

His hair was thick and a rich chestnut brown, no threads of silver in the curls like they have now. His beard is longer in the photo, darker, his face unlined and his smile is one he hasn't unearthed since before the outbreak. Even on his best day.

He stares until the photo gets blurry, middle and pointer fingers pressing against his lips. He kisses them gently before moving them to his daughter's photograph, pressing against her faded cheek.  

"Mornin', babygirl."

THEN

"What the fuck do you get a thirteen year old girl for her birthday?" 

Tommy wipes his sweaty head with the back of his hand, giving his older brother an amused laugh. The brothers are on a job site, the July heat oppressive on their bare shoulders. 

"You haven't got her a gift yet?" 

"Obviously not," Joel frowns, foot planted on the edge of the shovel. 

"Cutting it close." 

"Yeah, thanks Tom, I figured that part out for myself," he grunts as he thrusts the sharp of the shovel into the soil, lifting the dirt into the waiting wheelbarrow.  

It's Sarah's thirteenth birthday on Saturday and Joel is stressed. He's been scouring the mall for something special all month, but he's so far out of his element. 

"Thought about a necklace or ring but Sarah doesn't wear that kind of stuff. Thought about new cleats but that seems so... " He shrugs. "It needs to be special." 

Joel's calloused hands readjust around the wood arm of the shovel, wincing when he gets a splinter in the webbing between his thumb and forefinger. 

He hisses, and wishes he and Tommy could have their own construction company so they wouldn't have to work for Brett Wiggins and his cheap fucking materials. 

"I don't see why you're all up in arms about this," Tommy says shrugging.

"Because she's not a kid anymore," Joel says. "Thirteen is a big deal. She isn't gonna be satisfied with a sheet cake and the batting cages." 

"Guess not," Tommy says scratching the side of his nose. "You got anything planned yet?"

"Sleepover," Joel says, eyes on the task at hand. "Which reminds me, make yourself scarce on Saturday night unless you want five teenage girls doing your nails." 

"Copy that," Tommy chuckles. "Shouldn't be a problem. Melanie from the cafe mentioned something about us having a sleepover ourselves..." 

He trails off as Joel rolls his eyes, getting back to the work. Tommy goes quiet, eyes thoughtful as he watches Joel work in silence. 

His older brother is bronzed dark from the sun, body damp, dark curls wet with sweat. He looks exhausted and a pang of guilt goes through Tommy at the sight of it. 

"She call?"

Joel doesn't even slow down his shoveling. "Does she ever?"

"You'd think she'd call to wish her own daughter a happy birthday." 

"She hasn't for the last eleven years, don't know why it would be any different this year," 

The two brothers continue to work quietly, ignoring the catcalls of women driving by them in expensive cars. 

They take a break for lunch, sandwiches dusty in their mouths before they get back to shoveling. This lot will be a swimming pool by the end of the month. 

Joel fantasizes about a big house, a swimming pool in the backyard. What a dream. 

"She still like care bears?" 

He looks at Tommy. "Huh?"

"Sarah. Does she still like Care Bears?" 

"Not anymore." Joel shakes his head. "Says those are for babies." 

"Guess it's more makeup and boys she's interes-" 

"No," Joel says harshly, eyes blazing. "She's too young for that shit." 

Tommy bites back a grin, holding back the desire to tell Joel that by thirteen he'd already broken several hearts. What Joel doesn't know won't hurt him. 

"She likes horses," Tommy says, snapping his fingers, inspired. "Why don't you call up that ranch by Barton Creek and see if you can get her some riding lessons? Bet she'd love that." 

"With what money?" Joel snipes, loading another shovelfull of dirt into the wheelbarrow. "This damn sleepover party is gonna take a big chunk outta my cheque. Pizza, snacks, movies and all the rest..." 

Work has been sporadic this summer, much to their annoyance. Money is tighter than usual. 

"A combined gift then," Tommy offers as he begins to shovel again. "You and I could afford a few lessons between the two of us." 

Tommy watches the pink crawling up his brother's neck; trait he's had since his childhood. He's embarrassed. Embarrassed that he can't provide how he wants to for his only child.

"I'm not a charity case." 

"Never said you were. I just don't know what to get my niece and this sounds like a good gift." 

Joel pauses to take a long gulp from his nearby waterbottle, throat bobbing as Tommy leans against his own shovel, face stern. 

"Joel, you don't charge me rent. You let me eat your food. Just lemme do this so I don't have to go to the fuckin' mall this week." 

Joel screws the lid back onto his waterbottle, lower lip pouted in thought. He thinks about the years slipping away from him, how one day his bright and shiny child will grow up, won't need him anymore. 

He'd sacrifice anything to give her the world, his pride included. A moment passes before Joel's dark eyes rise to meet his brothers. 

"Fine," Joel says quietly. "You win." 

He's just draining his juice glass when he hears the sound of footsteps over wet grass. The window, propped open to let in the fresh air alerts him. He turns, moving stealthily towards it, noticing a dark head moving across the side of the house, shoulders hunched, a sketchbook shoved under one armpit. 

Ellie. 

She's grown so much since they arrived here in Jackson five years ago. Back when she was a scrawny teen with a chip on her shoulder who thought Joel was something to be idolized.  

Now she's nineteen and her body is taller, her formerly spindly arms muscular. But her freckled face is leaner, her eyes wiser.  

They haven't talked for three months. Three months of her sidestepping him when they run into each other in the house. Three months since she told him she never wanted to speak to him again. 

It hurts something fierce.

He moves quickly to the porch, juice forgotten on the counter. The rain has slowed some, leaving only a drizzle against the grey sky. 

Ellie walks by the porch as he exits, not even turning her head when he calls out to her. She knows he's there and clearly doesn't want to talk to him, pale face pinched under the rain slicker, eyes set forward. 

"Ellie!" He shouts again, temper flaring. "Ellie I'm talkin' to you."

He watches as she pauses mid-stride,, turning to him. That venomous look she seems to wear only for Joel already in place. 

"I'm busy." 

"Not too busy for this." He motions for her to approach and she does a firm trudge. When she's close enough he starts. 

"We have someone moving into the house tomorrow. A woman." 

This startles Ellie enough to pay attention. "Why?" 

"Refugees need places to stay and your room is empty so..." 

"It's not my room anymore," Ellie is quick to remind him. "So what does that have to do with me?" 

Joel blinks away the hurt of that comment. "Well, you use the bathroom inside and-"

"I'll be fine," Ellie says quickly. "Move whoever you want in." 

He shouldn't let his temper flare but it does anyway. That small scratch on the inside of his brain, the one that sees ingratitude, teenage rebellion, haughty indifference. 

"Yeah, well, last time I checked this was both out home. In fact I think it was you who said it." 

Immediately she's defensive, arms crossed. "I don't give a shit what you do in that house, Joel." 

He's desperate for her to stay, to have a real conversation. But she's already shutting down, that familiar look of disdain curling her upper lip. He softens, regret etching the lines on his face.

"Ellie, how long are we gonna go on like this? Can't we-"

"I’m late to meet Eugene," Ellie interrupts, pulling the hood of her rain slicker up. 

Joel watches as she turns quickly from him, tiny form moving around the house and away from his defeated expression. 

When the knock comes a short while later he's standing by the window, still in a daze of guilt and hurt. 

"Brought by some supplies," Tommy says when he steps into the house, not bothering with pleasantries.

A new mattress, blankets, toiletries. Some other stuff Joel and he move up the stairs.

“Why are you carrying all of this for her?”

"She's got a busted leg," Tommy says between grunts as they hoist the mattress up the stairs. "Almost broken, but not quite so Maria insisted." 

"And she's gonna be going up and down the stairs?"

"Says she'll manage." 

Great. That means Joel will be playing nurse.

Fuck, this day just keeps getting worse. 

Joel drops his end of the mattress unceremoniously onto the wood frame of the bed, hating every second he remains in this bedroom. This bedroom with its empty walls and cold floors. No curtains, no rugs, no life. This bedroom that used to be full of posters and light and Ellie's bubbling giggles. 

He exits with Tommy, the two clamoring down the creaking steps. 

"This woman, she's okay living alone with a man?"

"Like we said, it's a roommate situation. And she was fine with it. She found out you were my brother so," Tommy shrugs, "figure that set her mind at ease." 

The two brothers move to stand in Joel's living room. Joel adds some wood to the fire, poking it with his metal tong. The flames lick a little higher, warming them. 

"Where exactly is this one from?" He asks, distracted by the glowing embers. "Another QZ defector?" 

"Mike and Tara found her actually." 

"Found her?" Joel turns away from the glowing fire, eyes narrowed on Tommy. "What do you mean found her?"

"As in they found her during their patrol. She was hiding out in one of the outpost buildings with a broken leg and no food. Looked like she'd been there a few days."

Joel frowns deeply, lines creasing between his thick brows. 

"And no one thought this was odd?"

Raiders often travel around Jackson cities perimeters, weapons ready. Either trying to scavenge off of patrol teams, or wayward travelers. 

Some of the more clever ones try to sneak inside, pretending to be refugees, or lost travelers. They were always found out at the gates. 

"Course they did," Tommy says rolling his eyes. "They scouted the whole area. No tracks, no sign of anything but her." 

"So she's clever."

"She didn't even want to come here, Joel. She trusted Mike and Tara about as far as she could throw 'em." 

"So then why did she?"

"You know Mike," Tommy shrugs. "He's a soft touch for wounded things. Told her she could check it out and leave if she wanted and she agreed." 

Joel swallows a groan. Mike is a teddy bear of a man. Overly large - perhaps the tallest in Jackson - and bald with ruddy cheeks. He's got the softest voice imaginable and no matter what animal wanders into Jackson, he's the one to rehabilitate it. 

Already on his property he's got a goat with a lame leg, a sheep that bites anyone who comes close, a cat with one eye and a dog who is very charming but very stupid. Inside are a mix of injured birds and rodents that make Joel's skin crawl. 

Joel calls his place the land of misfit animals. He prods at the burning logs again, just to have something to do. 

"She say what happened to her?"

"Not much. Only that she was travelling with a group to Canada when they were attacked by raiders, beat up for her supplies and left for dead. Luckily she managed to crawl to the outpost in Elk Creek." 

A knock comes, interrupting them as they turn. Maria opens the door without waiting to be invited in, irritating Joel to no end. 

"Morning," she says with a lilt to her normally stoic voice. "You both decent?"

"Ha ha," Joel says in a humorless tone. 

Maria gives a wink to Tommy who approaches with a kiss to her cheek. 

"Come help me grab the extra slats for the bed," Maria says, eyes drifting back to Joel. "And you put the kettle on." 

Joel rolls his eyes to the heavens, jaw clenched. Maria has that uncanny ability to both endear herself and irritate the shit out of Joel. He moves to the kitchen, resting the dented kettle on the element, ears pricked. 

"Go on in but take your time," Maria is saying. "We'll be right in." 

There is a shuffle, a small grunt and Joel hears the end of a wooden crutch place itself gently inside his home. His shoulders jump to his ears. He still can't imagine living with someone who isn't his family. Touching his things. Eating his food.

Sleeping in Ellie's room. 

The last thought makes his skin itch uncomfortably. 

The kettle will take some time to heat up, so he moves back to the hallway slowly. He doesn't realize he's walking like he's stalking prey until he reaches the arch leading from the kitchen into the hallway. 

Joel was always good at this part back in the QZ. The way he maneuvered his boots so that no sound escaped. The incredibly still way he could hold himself for long periods of time. He employs both of these skills as he draws over, back pressing against the faded blue wallpaper separating the rooms and goes still, watching and waiting.

He can't explain it, but for some reason he feels the need to wait and assess this new body who will be living alongside him. 

You enter the home wearing a backpack and a frown. Your fingers are curled around the crutch nestled under your right armpit. 

You shuffle in, attention drawn to the entryway table. It's where Joel normally puts his various keys and important notes. You're face is partially hidden by your hair, but he can see sharp eyes and a stern expression. 

You don't linger long on it, moving forward with a limp as you rest heavily on your crutch. Joel can see the bandages wrapped snugly around your left calf and ankle. No cast which means no break. 

He should introduce himself now, but he stays hidden, completely still as you continue your investigation. 

Your back is to him now, but Joel watches raptly as you take in your surroundings. Your head moves, left ear pointed in Joel's direction as you scan the shelves.  He holds his breath. 

The sound of Tommy and Maria outside distracts you, catching your attention enough to glance over the window. You do so slowly, taking your time, not a trace of discomfort. You don't seem very nervous for a woman who's going to be bunking with a man she doesn't know. You just seem to be assessing everything, silently taking everything in. 

Something about it sets Joel on edge; something about your placid attitude as you shuffle around his home makes his pulse tick anxiously. You move to the fireplace, likely drawn in by the warmth. Today's rain is light, but the temperature borders on biting. 

His record player sits waiting by the front window, his latest Glenn Campbell record sitting in the dish. You don't linger there. Your eyes continue to rove over the room, landing on Joel's guitar leaning by the couch from where he was practicing last night.  

You bend down to look at the photograph sitting on the mantle; the one of Joel and Sarah. A small swell of pain pinches at his chest. A pain that never really goes away. Joel realizes there are too many personal touches of himself all over here. Ones he doesn't want a stranger to see and comment on. Ones he should've hidden. 

You hunch over the coffee table where his latest read sits tented next to his reading glasses. You scan the title, an unreadable look on your face. Your eyes move to the bookshelf across the room, one of several in the house. 

The kettle gives a violent whistle, causing your spine to immediately straighten. It takes Joel by surprise, he doesn't have time to move away entirely before you're twisting your attention his way. 

The movement is quick, like the strike of a viper when you pierce Joel with your sharp gaze. The sight makes the hair on the back of his neck rise almost painfully. 

You don't look startled to see him there or even frightened. You just stare at him with the look of a hunter finding prey. 

You both remain still, your body coiled, watching Joel still standing there half hidden behind the wall. Joel immediately feels caught out, cheeks warming as he moves to the kitchen to remove the kettle. His heart is in rabbiting in his chest, humiliation quick and sharp.

Maria and Tommy re-enter the house holding several slats of wood. When he hears them enter, he walks back.

"There he is," Tommy says smiling, clapping Joel on the shoulder. "Thought you took off." 

"Nope." 

"This is your roommate Joel Miller," Maria says motioning to Joel who now steps out from behind the wall. "Brother in law and the best shot here in Jackson." 

You stand by the fire, looking at Joel with that surveying look, like he's been found wanting. He takes you in now, noting your hair is knotted, your lower lip cracked by a split that's been recently repaired. Your clothing is oversized, likely found in the community sharing bin. 

Joel tries to appear pleasant, a thin smile and extended hand at the ready. He knows this must be intimidating for you considering he's a head taller and at least a few years older. 

"Nice to meet you, ma'am." 

His southern charm is polite and natural. The women of Jackson fall easily for his smooth drawl and intense gaze. But you don't take his hand. You don't simper. You don't even smile. Maybe you're offended at being called ma'am by him. He's not sure. 

You're impossibly quiet, eyes surveying him with an inscrutable look before you give a small nod. Then you look away, attention sweeping back over his house. 

Tommy hides a smirk behind his hand, exchanging a look with Maria who is poorly concealing a giggle. Joel scowls at them both, temper flaring like a match. 

He can only watch as your eyes continue traveling to the sculpture along the mantle, the overstuffed couch, and the wood floors. You don't give anything away with your face but a suddenly insecure part of Joel wishes he'd dusted. 

"C'mon, lemme show you your room," Maria says, pausing to look at Joel. "That okay, Joel?"

She’s just saying it to be polite. Joel knows that if he said no, she'd just do it anyway.

"S'all ready for you," he informs you, eyes on the ground. "Don't have any extra soap or toothpaste-"

"Already taken care of," Maria assures him. She looks back your way. "C'mon." 

Maria leads you towards the stairs. When you're a fair distance away Joel turns to his brother. 

"She a mute or something?"

"No. She just doesn't talk much," Tommy murmurs, a small hitch to one side of his mouth. "Thought you of all people would appreciate that." 

Joel gives a soft grunt in the back of his throat, watching as you're led up the stairs, hobbling with your one crutch. 

You don't look like the typical refugees he's seen rescued from the elements. Those ones come in sickly and emaciated, hollow eyed and trembling. But you? Aside from a split lip, busted leg and ragged hair you look healthy. Walking with a bit of a limp, but that's to be expected considering how they found you. 

Tommy mutters something about fixing the bed, leaving Joel with his own thoughts. 

You're not a talker, which is a plus. And with the crutch he'll be able to hear you coming from a mile away. It'll give him the ability to avoid you completely. That cheers him up a little bit. 

Joel looks at the picture of him and Sarah, crossing over quickly, plucking it from hearth magnet and slipping it into a nearby drawer. It doesn't feel right that some strangers should see such an intimate part of his life. 

He glances up when he hears Maria and you coming back down the stairs. He turns, busying himself with the tea. 

He pours the steaming liquid into the teapot that came with the house. Floral and feminine, something Joel would never choose for himself. But it's good; it keeps the tea warm, so he can't complain. 

The only tea he has is herbal, so hopefully that's good enough for you because he has no intention of going around to find something different. 

"Meals are in the hall, but you can get your own groceries if you prefer to eat alone," Maria tells you, voice drifting closer. "Joel can tell you all the ins and outs if you have questions. But for now just worry about settling in and healing up that leg." 

Joel says nothing, but his lip twitches slightly in irritation. He doesn't like the assumption that he's going to play tour guide. Isn't it bad enough that you're going to be living in his house?

"In here," Tommy calls out. 

You and Maria eventually wander into the kitchen, Maria still chatting away about supplies and how she'll find you a job when your leg feels better. 

Joel covertly watches from the corner of his eyes as you move into the kitchen, leg dragging slightly behind you. Again Joel watches your eyes take in your surroundings. A familiar trauma response. 

He knows because he still does it himself, appraising every new situation, every new space he finds himself in.  

Your eyes trail over one of Ellie's hair elastics, forgotten in her haste to move into the shed. Joel doesn't have the heart to return it to her. Little items like this make it feel like Ellie hasn't actually moved out, like this is just a short phase that she'll get over. 

You trace the kitchen table with one forefinger, as if testing it before continuing on, scanning the room, eyes avoiding Joel entirely.  

The other three silently watch your assessment; Tommy and Maria bemused, Joel distracted with thoughts of Ellie in the shed. She claims she won't be upset, but he knows that she was just saying it to get on his nerves. He has no doubt she'll be as irritated as he would be running into a stranger in this house. 

"Ellie, Joel's daughter lives in the shed out back," Maria tells you as if reading Joel's mind. "You might run into her here. But she's a good kid, mostly keeps to herself."

You nod, un-phased. Maybe you already knew about Ellie. Maybe you just don't care. Whatever the reason, the moment stretches into what feels like an uncomfortable silence. 

"We have other folks to move in today, so we're gonna take off," Maria finally says, arm weaving around Tommy's elbow. "If you need anything, just come see us. We're on Cotton Street, number eighty four."

You nod over at Maria, pulling your bag tighter over your shoulder.  

Joel watches Tommy and Maria head out the door, a quick farewell at their backs. He wants to follow suit and head out the door after them, but he feels like it's rude to walk out.  

He tries once more to be hospitable. 

"There's fresh tea in the pot," Joel murmurs, indicating towards the pot behind him on the counter. "S'mint I think."

You say nothing, only glancing over his shoulder before your eyes continue their journey around his kitchen. It doesn't feel much like gratitude, but Joel doesn't care. You seem quiet and like you'll keep to yourself. 

That works for him. 

"Listen, I figure you stay out of my way and I'll stay out of yours. We do that and this can work just fine, yeah?" 

You're still scanning his cabinets, the knife block, the mismatched mugs in the sink. But at his question you nod.  

"Good." 

Now your eyes stop their inspection of his kitchen, coming to slice through the air and rest on his face. His breath catches in his chest when he sees the chill in your empty stare. One that makes his skin prickle unpleasantly before you turn away. 

You move quietly out of the kitchen to navigate the stairs with your crutch. You move as quickly as possible up the creaking staircase. Joel waits, good ear tilted to hear you make your way up each stair.

When the bedroom door shuts behind you, Joel finally feels he can exhale. 

what do you think of this 'You'?

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@orcasoul

You should have done something as soon as you heard the squeaking. You've never been good with cars but no car squeaks and that should have been your tell. You had been driving back from campus when you noticed the squeaking become louder and your headlights started flickering. You had made it back home just as the engine began to stall and you knew as soon as you had turned it off that it wouldn't be turning on again. Weren't Volkswagen's meant to be super reliable or something?

Now, you're standing near the hood of your car and looking up mechanics near you on Google Maps. The first three hadn't picked up but you're hopeful about the fourth. Or at least you're trying to be, even as you can feel a tension headache building behind your eyes.

"Hello," a man says and you slump in relief. "Marty here with Marty Mechanics. How can I help ya?"

"Hi," you say. And then stall. You're not sure how you'd even describe the issue. "Um, I think there's something up with my car."

You hear a chuckle on the line and you can feel yourself flush.

"Figures, people don't really call to make small talk. Your engine not starting up?" he asks and you nod before you remember he can't see you.

"Yeah," you say. "I've been hearing this squeaking noise and then today on my drive back home, the lights started flickering. It felt like it was stalling when I parked and turned off the car. Now it won't start up."

"Sounds like your alternator failed on ya," he says and he might as well have spoken a foreign language.

"Right," you say. You can feel sweat beading at your forehead. "I'm not so good with cars —"

Marty interrupts you with a snort. "I figured, sweetheart."

Your jaw clenches and you tamp down the annoyance that bubbles up inside of you. Today's been a shit day already. You woke up late and then skipped out on lunch in favour of getting a report done and even then, your advisor had been displeased with your writing which he had made very clear. And now you're hungry and your car has gone to shit.

"How much will it be?" you ask, ignoring his condescension. On the other side, Marty hums in contemplation and you tamp down the urge to end the call.

"Well, I'll need to come tow it to the garage. And I reckon we might wanna replace the serpentine belt and tension pulley at the same time as we're looking at the alternator because they're likely fried too. Reckon it should take a few days given I can get my hands on the parts so you're looking at around twelve hundred with labour."

The amount settles in your stomach like a rock. Fuck. You know car things are expensive. The last time you did a full service was two years ago and it cost you nine hundred. But you had planned for that, had saved for it. You have not planned for whatever this is. What the hell is a serpentine belt anyways?

"Okay, um. Can I call you back?" you ask, because you cannot commit to twelve hundred dollars right now. You don't even think you have twelve hundred dollars in your checking account. Marty chuckles, clearly amused.

"Sure," he says. "But you're not going to find anything much cheaper. Especially with imports being more expensive lately."

"I'll keep that in mind," you say. "Could you text me the quote please?"

Once he agrees, you end the call. Your phone buzzes with a calendar reminder.

Boxing Session - 1 hour

You look at your car and then back at your phone. It usually takes you around twenty minutes to drive to Joel's gym but without your car you'll have to take the bus. You could Uber but if you need to spend twelve hundred dollars on your car, you better start saving now. You pull up Google Maps and type in the address to the gym. There's a bus that'll drop you ten minutes away which is decent enough. You already have your gym bag with you because you had planned on going straight from campus but your hunger had gotten the better of you and you had come home with the intention of having a late lunch. Having to take the bus however, means you have to leave now if you want to make it on time. You know you have a granola bar in your backpack so hopefully it tides you until later. You make your way towards the bus stop, thankful that it's only a block south of your apartment building.

The weather is colder today then it should be for October in Austin. You zip up your hoodie and pick up your pace. By the time you make it to the stop, you can see the bus a block down. You're thankful you never clear out your purse because hidden between one of the card flaps is your faded metro card that you haven't had to use in at least three years. You've become spoiled.

The bus driver barely glances at you as you enter and the bus is thankfully, mostly empty. You find a seat near the back and pull out your phone once more. Marty's texted you the quote and the total amount mocks you. You open up your banking app and the total amount in there, mocks you too. You have a grand total of two thousand dollars in your account. Rent is due within the next week and you won't be paid until two weeks after that. You could put it on your credit card but the idea of racking up that much when your credit limit is only fifteen hundred leaves you nervous. You can feel the muscles in your back begin to tighten with stress and your nose begins to tingle in the telltale sign that if you keep thinking about your dire circumstances, you're going to start crying. And once you start crying, it's hard to stop. You lock your phone and shove it into your gym bag. You reach around in your bag before feeling the plastic wrapping of the granola bars you always carry with you. Pulling it out, you peel the packaging apart and bite into it. It's dryer than you'd like but it's something to tide you over until dinner. You continue chewing, angling yourself to face the window.

Houses blur past, shades of red and grey smudging together as you blink back tears of frustration. You focus on something else, deciding to try spot as many types of trees as you can. You get to a grand total of five before the bus comes to a jerky halt at your stop and you make your way off of it, taking in the feeling of the cold air and warm sun against your skin. It's your favourite kind of weather, rare in Texas for it to be so cool even though it is technically fall, and you decide you're going to try enjoy it. You try take it in as you walk in the direction of the boxing gym, but your mind keeps snagging on the tiny little issue of your car being basically dead. You could pick up extra shifts at the coffee shop you used to work at before you received an offer of funding. You make a mental note to call Kylie, the owner and manager who always had a soft spot for you and would let you take all the leftover blueberry muffins home after your shift, and ask her if she could put you back on for weekends.

You swallow down the rest of your granola bar in three big bites and stuff the wrapper into your pocket before you open the door to the boxing gym. Joel is at the front desk this time, looking right at you.

"Evenin'," he greets and you smile, still trying to swallow down half the granola bar. He gives you an amused smile as he watches you chew. After what feels like ages, your mouth is empty and you're able to speak.

"Hey Joel," you say. "How are you?"

"M'alright," he says. "How about yourself?"

You think of your car and your bank account and the amount of editing you have to do in the next forty-eight hours.

"I'm alright too," you say, the lie coming easily. "I didn't get a chance to change into my gym clothes so could I use your bathroom?"

Joel nods, standing up. He's wearing a soft black shirt and matching sweats. The broad expanse of his shoulders stretches the cotton of his shirt and his hair looks wet, as if he's just showered. Usually, you'd admire how handsome he looks but today you just don't have it in you. You're all wound up with stress and you can feel frustration simmering inside of you, growing into something ugly.

"It's right through here," he says, gesturing to a corridor. "There's a shower too, if you need."

"Thank you," you say and go down the corridor. The changing room is nice, actually. The tiles are an eggshell white and the shower looks newly done with shiny faucets and clear, spotless glass windows. You change quickly, slipping out of your hoodie and shirt and into your sports bra and tank top. Your pants are next and then you're pulling on your yoga pants and adjusting the back so the lines of your underwear aren't as prominent. You couldn't find a pair of thongs or seamless underwear this morning so you had settled for a regular pair. You catch your reflection in the mirror and you look as tired as you feel. There are dark circles under your eyes and your hair falls limply. You gather it up into a ponytail and stuff your clothes into your bag before you head out.

Joel's by the mat, the jumprope you warm up with twisted around his knuckles. He looks up when he hears you, his eyes tracing over your form. Silently, he hands you the jumprope and you take it.

"Ten minutes this time," he instructs, and your eyebrows raise in a silent question. "Need to build up your stamina, get your heart rate up."

"I'm not going to lie to you, there's about a ninety percent chance I'm not making it past seven minutes," you warn and Joel's cheeks dimple. He has some stubble today, the dark brown against his tan skin highlighting the sharpness of his jaw.

"We'll cross that bridge when we get there," he says, voice low. "C'mon now. Time's tickin'."

You make it to seven minutes and fifty-three seconds before it feels like your heart might give up. For however cold it was outside, the gym feels about a hundred degrees right now. You know you must look flushed and you can feel sweat gathering in terrible places like behind your knees and under your boobs. You glance up at Joel, finding his eyes trained on you. You give him a pleading look and he nods. You drop the jumprope and place your hands on your knees, trying to catch your breath. You sound like you've run a marathon and you would be embarrassed at your subpar fitness if you could muster the energy to care.

Joel's shadow comes to stand above you and you straighten up. You can feel your pulse in your throat. Maybe you won't have to pay to fix your car. Maybe you'll die from cardiac arrest first.

"Deep breath in," Joel instructs and you follow. "Hold it in for a second."

You do.

"Now exhale, slow and steady," he says and you do. "Again."

You do that too, and three minutes later, you feel like you might just survive this session. When you've caught your breath, you finally speak.

"Be honest with me Joel," you say. "Have you ever had anyone else almost die from the warm up?"

You smile as you say it, trying to mask your embarrassment. To your relief, Joel smiles too, shaking his head.

"You did fine," he says, his accent dragging out the last word.

"Fine huh? That's glowing praise," you say and Joel snorts.

"C'mon," he says. "We're goin' to review last week and then work on defense."

It takes you less time to wrap your hands and once you do, Joel's handing you a pair of gloves. You still need help securing the strap, holding your wrist out for Joel who does it for you. He slips into his gloves too, quick and practiced, like it's second nature. It probably is, for him. You start off with your stances, the movements coming more naturally this time around. You had practiced over the weekend, pivoting your leg the way Joel had told you how. You jab the air in front of you, taking turns to switch hands.

"Now in a circle," Joel says and you follow. It's almost like he's a puppeteer and you're his puppet. You circle your imaginary opponent, throwing in jabs whenever it feels right. Joel stops you when you're halfway through, kneeling down and pulling off his gloves.

"May I?" he asks, all southern manners. You nod. He places his hands on the foot that supports your stance. His right hand cups your heel and his left presses down on your toes. You can feel the shape of his strong fingers even through your sports shoes.

"Y'need to make sure you're not puttin' any unwanted pressure on the heel of your foot," Joel says. "You want to be bouncy on your toes and the front half of your foot. Your heels stay off the ground unless you're holdin' a stance. That make sense?"

"I think so," you say. He looks up at you and this angle is new. And something you might store away for nights where there's an ache between your legs. His hands are still on your foot and he squeezes your heel once, before he taps it. You lift it up, settling on the front half of your foot.

"How's that feel?" he asks, now moving his left hand so it lies below your heel, forcing it to stay lifted.

"Like I'm a ballerina," you say just to see him smile. He does, huffing a laugh through his nose.

"Perfect," he says, and then stands up. He's closer to you now than he was before. You can smell him, the scent of some sort of woodsy body wash and laundry detergent combining. You watch as he pulls his gloves back on, his bruised knuckles disappearing. He steps away and you continue, pulling your focus back into the task at hand. You move through your sparring circles a few more times, extra conscious to keep your feet the way Joel had instructed. His eyes stay on you the whole time, tracking your every move. You don't think you're ever going to get used to being his singular focus.

"Alright," Joel says after what's probably you're sixth circle. "Now we move to defense. The most import thing about sparrin' or fightin' or whatever you want to call it is to make sure you don't get hit."

"The best punch is the one you don't get hit by," you say and Joel's brows raise in surprise.

"You know Willie Pep?" he asks.

You can't help the sheepish smile on your face. You absolutely do not know Willie Pep. You did however, watch a YouTube video last night titled TEN THINGS A BEGINNER BOXER SHOULD KNOW by IronFistFighter67.

"I do my research," is what you tell Joel to which he looks amused.

"Alright, alright, I get it. You're doin' a PhD," Joel says and this time it's you who raises a brow.

"It was on your intake form," Joel explains. Right. That makes sense. You don't think Joel's the type to cyber-stalk someone. Still, a silly part of you hoped that he had been as curious about you as you are of him.

"So defense," Joel starts, going back into instructor mode. "Blockin' and dodgin' are just as important as throwin' a punch, if not more. Bein' able to avoid bein' hurt means you conserve your energy which means you're able to fight for longer. Endurance and stamina are just as important."

You bite your lip to stop yourself from saying oh I'm sure.

"Makes sense," you say, instead. "Which one are we starting with today?"

Joel smiles. "Dodgin' first. I want you to try hit me."

This time, you don't hesitate. You get into position and swing your right fist, muscles locked so that you have full control of the movement. To your relief, you watch as Joel moves low, missing your fist entirely.

"That is what we call a duck'," Joel says when he's upright. "It's how you dodge a punch comin' right at you. I'm goin' to throw jabs at you and I want you to watch my movements and then move in a way that allows you to keep your stance and not get hit."

"Okay," you say. And then, just so he knows, you add, "Joel, I really don't think I can handle being punched."

Joel's gaze softens, and he shakes his head. "I'm goin' to go real slow. I promise I won't hurt you, okay?"

"Alright," you say, nerves in your stomach alight. You get into position, holding your hands up in two fists and positioning your feet so that you feel stable. Your eyes stay on Joel's large fists, his swollen knuckles where the skin looks thicker and worn. Slowly, you watch his left fist move towards you and you move lower, feeling the air above you whoosh as he completes the swing.

"Good," Joel says. "But you gotta keep those eyes open for me."

You hadn't even realized you had shut them. You blink them open, feeling yourself warm with embarrassment. You straighten up and meet Joel's amused gaze.

"Let's try again," he says. "This time I want you to remember to meet my gaze when you're done duckin', okay?"

"No promises," you say but you steel yourself.

This time, you duck the other way and think of Joel's warm eyes the entire time, remembering that you have to see them. He gives you a pleased nod when you meet his gaze.

You keep going, and it's almost as if the two of you are dancing, your steps slowing becoming more fluid and natural. Eventually, you come to a standstill.

"Good," Joel says. "We'll pick up the pace with that in our next session. Now, I want to teach you some basic blocks. Dodgin' is good but it isn't always possible to do. That's where blockin' comes in."

"Should I try punch you again?" you ask and Joel's mouth curls into an almost smile.

"You're catchin' on," he says. "Jab whenever you're ready."

So you do. You watch him bring a forearm up, blocking you. His bicep flexes with the movement, straining against the sleeve of his shirt.

"Look at how my elbows are positioned," Joel says, voice low. You move your eyes lower, seeing what he means. His elbows are tucked to his side, close to the top of his ribs. "The top of my glove is near my forehead. You're protectin' your face the whole time but you still want to stay in control. Keepin' your arms close to you helps with that."

You nod, taking in his stance.

"Wanna try?" he asks and you nod again. He gives you a moment to position yourself, fixing your stance so your front foot is firmly planted against the ground. You focus on him, tracking both his gloves hands. When his left hand comes out, still slow, but moving towards you, you're quick to block it. Your gloves shield the sides of your head and you maintain your eye contact, tracking Joel's every move.

"Attagirl," he says and you wonder if he knows the impact those words have on you. The liquid heat that zips through your spine at his low drawl. You push away those distracting thoughts and continue blocking Joel's slow strikes. You go on like that until Joel reorients himself.

"Remember that lead hook punch I showed you?" he asks. You nod, positioning yourself. You bring your right elbow up so that it's almost in line with your shoulder and then swing towards Joel. His brows are furrowed in concentration, his eyes trained on you, as he brings his left arm up to block you. This time he pivots himself a bit, bringing up his entire forearm to stop the swing of your arm.

"So I pivot on my back leg?" you ask and he nods.

"We'll take turns," Joel says. "You punch and then block and we keep goin'. Remember to pivot on opposite feet. Sound okay?"

"Yeap," you say, positioning yourself. You practice the movement once and then nod at Joel. He blocks your first swing and then you block his. Slowly, he starts moving in a circle and you follow, still throwing punches and blocking. You stay focused, watching the flex of his arm as he moves. You can feel his gaze trained on you. You're not sure how long the two of you move like that, back and forth until you can feel your muscles beginning to protest. Your bicep twitches with the effort and you meet Joel's eye, hoping he sees what you're feeling.

"Let's call it," Joel says, blocking your final punch. "You did good."

You relax, letting your arms fall to your sides. You know you'll feel the strain in your muscles tomorrow but it feels good. At least you've achieved this today.

"Thanks Joel," you tell him, as he begins taking his gloves off. You follow suit, leaving them on the bench. Once you've unwrapped your hands, you flex your fingers. You dig your thumb into the meat of your palms, massaging the strain away. It's only then that you notice it's ten minutes later than when your session should have ended. Which also means you only have five minutes to get to the bus stop or else you have to wait another thirty minutes.

"Shit," you curse. "M'sorry Joel but I have to go. I'll see you next week, yeah?"

He nods, his brows furrowed. You grab your bag and run out, picking up your pace into a sprint so you can try make it there on time. Your heart is thumping against your chest, fast and erratic. Even with the chilled air, you can feel sweat beading at your forehead and down your neck. You're definitely going to have to wash your hair tonight. You turn the corner and relief courses through you at the sight of the bus, still stalled at the stop. When you come up the doors however, they stay closed. You knock, hoping to catch the eye of the driver. He looks about your age, nose pointy and his mouth pulled into a frown when he notices you. You raise your bus pass in the air, gesturing for him to let you on. He watches you and then, he begins pulling away from the curb, ignoring your mime work.

"Hey!" you yell. "Please let me on."

He must hear you but the bus doors stay firmly closed and he has the audacity to look at you as if you're boring him. Then, he's gone, pulling onto the street as if you hadn't spent the last minute waiting at the stop.

"Asshole!" you yell, and catch the scandalized look of a woman with a stroller. You don't care. Whatever good mood you had been in because of your boxing session has disappeared and you're back to feeling overwhelmed and furious, all at once. You look down at your phone to see that the next bus won't be there for another thirty-two minutes. Your anger bleeds into sadness, and before you know it, tears are streaming down your face. You wipe them away quickly. Your phone dings with a notification — an email from your advisor by the looks of it — and you quickly put it on Do Not Disturb.

The Uber app faces you, almost mockingly. Fuck it. It's not like saving thirty dollars is going to to get you any closer to the twelve-hundred you need. Just as you're about to confirm your ride, you hear a soft honk and jolt. You look up to meet a familiar set of brown eyes. Joel's driving a red pick-up truck, and saying something to you that you can't understand. He waves you over, and when you walk up the rolled-down window, you finally hear what he's been saying.

"Get in," he says. "Please."

The man in the car behind him honks once, then twice, and then rolls down his window..

"You're blocking everyone, get the fuck out of the way!" he says, voice booming. The lady with the stroller looks even more scandalized now, as she hurries away. "Get the fuck outta the way man, you're holding up traffic!" he yells again even though there are no other cars behind him. Joel's jaw clenches as he glares at the man through the rearview mirror before he looks back at you. It's either this or an Uber. You open the passenger door and slide onto the warm leather seat. Joel starts driving as soon as you've clicked your seatbelt into place.

"You good?" Joel asks, taking in your blotchy face and frown. You nod even though you're still irrationally angry at the bus driver.

"Thank you," you say, though you're not sure for what. You're not even sure why you're in his car. He pulls into a side street and shifts the gear into park.

"What happened to your car?" he asks and you let out a humourless laugh.

"Alternator's broken or something," you say. "And the snake belt too."

Joel's mouth twitches. "I reckon you mean the serpentine belt."

Your cheeks heat but you nod.

"I can give you a ride home," Joel says. "The buses don't come by often."

"I know that," you snap, voice harsher than you intend it to be. You're still so angry at everything and everyone around you. "Sorry. I appreciate it Joel but you don't have to do that. It's out of your way."

"You don't know where I live," Joel says, voice gentle. "I don't mind, really."

"Don't you have to get home to Sarah?" you ask, looking up at him. His eyes are kind, as they trace over your face.

"Nah," he says. "She's stayin' over at a friend's until nine p.m. to study."

You hesitate before you nod. "Alright, if you're certain."

"I am," Joel says. "The bus driver was an asshole by the way."

Your mouth ticks up in a smile, some of your anger dissipating. So he had seen the entire commotion then.

"Right?" you say. "I had my bus pass and everything. He was still parked when I showed up."

Joel shakes his head, shifting the car into drive. You give him your address and he doesn't even need to pull up the navigation for it before he begins to drive. About two minutes later your stomach grumbles, so loudly you're pretty sure the cars across the street can hear you. Right. You haven't had anything today except for oatmeal this morning and the poor excuse of a granola bar right before your session.

"Hungry?" Joel asks, as your ears heat up.

"What gave it away?" you say, trying to mask your embarrassment. Joel chuckles, a lovely sound.

"You have somewhere to be right now?" he asks and you glance at him. His side profile is lit by the dusky sky, his strong nose standing out against his face.

"Just home," you say, curious why he's asking. "How come?"

"You can say no," Joel starts and you shift in your seat, facing him more fully. He glances at you, before focusing back on the road. "But I'm starvin' too and from what I've seen and heard, it sounds like you've had a bit of a day."

You snort. "That would be putting it lightly."

"There's a taco place not too far from where you live that's pretty good," Joel says. "Wanna go?"

Your heart picks up and you can't stop the smile that breaks over your features. You look back ahead, away from Joel, hoping he doesn't notice.

"Okay," you say. "That sounds nice."

Joel hums. You watch him grip the steering wheel more firmly, the veins in his hands prominent. The drive there is silent but not uncomfortably so. Joel has a cassette playing old songs, low and crooning. The taco place is pretty close to your apartment building although you've never been. He finds a parking spot right outside the restaurant.

It's a small place, lit by soft yellow string lights. The chairs and tables look rickety and the air smells warm, with spices and coriander. You follow Joel to the front, where a woman with grey sits at the till. When she notices Joel, she gives him a big smile.

"Joel Miller," she says. "It's been too long."

"Evenin' Mrs. Alvarez," he says. "How are you doin'?"

"I'm alright dear," she says. She notices you then, her eyes brightening. "And who might this be?"

Her tone is teasing and you watch the apples of Joel's cheek flush pink.

"She's a friend," Joel says and your stomach swoops. You and Joel Miller are friends, apparently. At least, according to him. You smile at Mrs. Alvarez, introducing yourself. She hands you a laminated sheet of paper and you look over the menu. There's so many options and when you glance at Joel, he's patiently waiting. He must already know what he wants.

"You can go ahead," you tell him. "It might take me a minute to figure out what I want."

"All good, take your time," Joel says and then continues waiting. You're torn between enchiladas and tacos, both sounding too tempting.

"What do you recommend? Between the enchiladas and tacos?" you ask Joel and his brows furrow as he thinks.

"That's a tough one," Joel says. "How do you feel about splittin'?"

"Oh," you say. "You don't have to!"

Joel smiles and then he's telling Mrs. Alvarez that the two of you will split an order of tacos and enchiladas. You're reaching for your card to pay but Joel beats you to it, waving you off.

"It's the least I can do," you say. "For the ride."

"Nah, there's no need for all that," Joel says. He takes the token from Mrs. Alvarez and you follow him to a table. When you take a seat, it sinks in that you're getting dinner with Joel. The same Joel you've been nursing a crush the size of Canada on. You spent last Friday telling Anika about the way his arms looked in his worn t-shirts. Now, you're sitting across from him waiting to split Mexican food.

Joel clears his throat.

"You call a mechanic yet?" he asks, pulling you away from your thoughts.

"Sure did," you say. "He called me sweetheart and told me it'd cost me twelve-hundred so I'm considering selling a kidney. Know any buyers?"

"I might know someone on the black market," Joel says, the low timber of his voice distracting you from the fact that he just made a joke. You let out a laugh through your nose, settling more comfortably in your seat. "He's robbin' you. No way do the parts cost that much, even with labour."

"It'll be okay," you say, more to reassure yourself. "I think I'll pick up a couple of extra shifts at this cafe I used to work at so that should help cover it."

It'll have to be more than a few shifts but Joel doesn't need to know that.

"I could do it for you," Joel says.

"The cafe shifts?" you ask, brows furrowing. Joel shakes his head. Before he can speak, a server comes by with two plates of food. The smell hits you and your stomach grumbles again as you take in the enchiladas placed in front of you, drenched in salsa verde. The tacos, which are placed in front of Joel, look just as good.

"The car," Joel says once the server has left you alone with the food. "I used to work in a garage."

"I thought you were a contractor," you say and Joel shrugs.

"I've done a bit of both, I suppose," he says. "Car work is more of a hobby."

"And you could do it for less than twelve-hundred?" you ask and the left side of his mouth lifts up in a half-smile.

"How about for zero hundred dollars?" he says and you still.

"No way could I ask you to do that for me, Joel," you say. He can't possibly be serious. He can't possibly like working on cars that much either.

"You're not askin'," Joel says. "I'm offerin'."

You contemplate it for a few seconds and then shake your head.

"It's too much," you say. "I appreciate it, really. But I can't have you do all that work for free."

There's a permanent line between Joel's brows that deepens when he takes in your words. Still, he nods. You begin splitting the enchilada in half just as Joel moves two tacos to one of the side plates. You follow suit with the enchilada and soon enough you've got two halves of a delicious meal in front of you. You bite into a taco, and make a noise that's half a moan. It's the best taco you've ever had. Once you're done chewing you look at Joel, who's already watching you with amusement colouring his features.

"Good, right?" he says and you laugh, delighted.

"I can't believe I've lived here two years and never realized that the best tacos were right around a block away from me," you say.

"Well I'm glad you like 'em," he says, a pleased smile on his face.

You get through your tacos quicker than you'd like but so does Joel. In between bites, you ask him questions about his life without trying to be pry.

"I moved to the suburbs once Sarah was born," he explains. "Felt more stable and the schools in our area are pretty good."

"Do you ever miss living in the city?" you ask and he shrugs.

"I reckon I sometimes miss not thinkin' about taxes and makin' sure there're enough whole foods in the house," he says. "But Sarah's been the best thing to ever happen to me. Wouldn't have it any other way."

You smile, nodding. You've never felt so sure about anything before, not even grad school. Sure, it had been something you wanted but it was also something you had stumbled upon when you were desperately trying to figure out what it meant to be an adult outside of college.

"How about you?" Joel asks.

"I moved here for school," you say. "Grew up on the east coast though so I'm still not used to the weather."

You miss the snow all the time but you don't tell Joel that.

By the time you've polished off your plates, you've told Joel about the statistics paper you're working on and how your advisor's driving you insane with his edits. In turn, he's told you about the worst contracting job he had, for a couple that used the house they were renovating to cheat on each other while the crew was around.

"I live right around the corner," you tell Joel. "I can just walk it. You probably have to pick up Sarah soon."

Joel looks as if he wants to argue but when he glances at his wrist watch, now almost 8:15 pm, he nods. It'll take him at least forty minutes to head back to the suburb he lives in and that's only if traffic isn't heavy, which it usually is around this time, from all the people returning home from their office jobs.

You're about to thank him again when he speaks.

"I have a proposition for you," he says. "For your car."

You cock your head to the side. "You're not gonna let this go are you?"

"Sarah has a midterm comin' up for math. She mentioned you helped her out a bit last week and well, I love my girl, but math isn't her best subject. How about you tutor her for her midterm and in turn, I fix your car."

It's better than having him do it for free. You'd never be able to owe him for that. Still, it doesn't feel enough.

"I don't know if that's a fair trade," you tell him, wringing your hands together. His insistence at helping you is also most definitely not going to help your crush on him go away.

"Trust me," Joel says. "It's a fair trade. If you don't do it, that means I've gotta and I'm no math whizz. Not the way you are, that's for damn sure."

Your cheeks warm at the compliment. Don't look a gift horse in the mouth, is what Anika always says. Tutoring eighth grade math to get your car fixed for free is probably going to be one of the best deals you can get. It's also one of the kindest offers you've ever had.

"Alright," you agree. "If you're sure."

"I am," Joel says. The air is even colder now, and his cheeks are flushed red from it.

"How about I start this Saturday?" you say and he nods.

"I can pick you up and get your car back to mine too," he says. "If that's alright with you."

"That's perfect," you say, unable to hold back your smile. "Thank you Joel. Really. I appreciate all the help."

"We're helpin' each other out," Joel says and you shake your head, letting out a small laugh.

"If you say so," you say and Joel smiles again. You could get used to that, seeing his dimples.

Joel glances at his watch again. "I should probably head out if I wanna get to Sarah on time. You sure you're good to walk the rest of the way?"

You glance behind you, pointing at the four story building a block down. "That's where I live. I reckon I can survive the journey."

Joel nods but doesn't seem entirely pleased. You wave at him and turn around, heading down the street. You force yourself not to look back. When you get to the front of your building however, you chance a glance to find him looking at you from inside his red pick-up truck. You raise your hand again, giving him a wave. He returns it and only then, does he pull out of the parking lot.

summary: There’s something about Jackson’s newest resident that gets under Joel’s skin. It’s not just Javier Peña’s cocky attitude that Joel can’t stand - it’s his tight pants and his too-smooth voice, and especially the way he’s sleeping with half of Jackson. But Joel can’t deny that Javi is a damn good shot, so when raiders make camp in the nearby mountains, he begrudgingly agrees to partner up. Soon their rivalry shifts into an attraction, as fever-hot as it is terrifying. But Javi’s not the kind of guy who does commitment, and Joel doesn’t want to let him get too close. As feelings start to spiral and raiders close in, Joel and Javi both have to fight for their lives - and maybe for each other, if they decide it’s worth the risk.

tags: 18+ only MDNI. takes place after tlou s1 and long after narcos s3, with some timeline fudging to make them the same age. slutty bi javi. grouchy bi joel (he's sorta comphet coded?). horny medium burn with a lot of TLOU-style plot. mutual pining. dual POV. one-sided enemies to lovers. eventual smut. angst. jealousy. tension. flirting. canon-typical violence. javi has two canons worth of trauma and it shows. commitment issues. joel being a dad to ellie. javi and ellie friendship. possible minor character and animal death. more tags will be added on the chapters. status: in progress.

andrea says: This started as me watching Javi shove his gun in his pants and thinking "Joel Miller would not approve". Then it was a one-shot, then a three-parter, and now a full blown series. I've officially redone the outline to accommodate these boys' emotional problems, and am looking forward to sharing the story with you all.

EDIT 7-30: updates will temporarily be posted on ao3 only.

read on ao3 | playlist | taglist

chapter one: Crosshairs

chapter two: Locked and Loaded

chapter three: Misfire

chapter four: Hammer (ao3 only)

chapter five: Shoot First, Ask Questions Later (ao3 only)

chapter six: Coming Friday, August 14th

chapter seven

chapter eight

chapter nine

chapter ten

chapter eleven

chapter twelve

Your safe and sensible Subaru pulls into the driveway just after 8 AM on move-in day, and the cul-de-sac is peaceful in the autumn late morning.

You know some renovations need to be taken care of… the bathroom is ancient, showing its age with bright pink tile and a toilet to match, the carpet in your bedroom is still shag, and the backyard garden is only growing weeds. But, step by step, you’ll get everything cleaned up and make this house into a home. After six years in Dallas, you’re back home, back where you started, and you’re trying to tell yourself it’s not failure.

Your old boss, Stu, called at the right time, needing your help at the record store. It was a simple decision… a job you already knew how to do, your parents close enough to help you with Layne, and a fresh start. God knows you needed it.

“We’re home,” you happily chirp to Layne in the backseat, who’s already wriggling with excitement in his car seat. You get him out, hoist him onto your hip, and kiss the crown of his head, letting this small moment with your little boy help heal you from the past year.

You unlock the door to your home with a proud smile on your face. You’re going to make this work.

—-

"I think our new neighbors are here,” Sarah beams, purple backpack slung across her shoulder.

“Oh yeah?” Joel asks, tossing his tool belt into the back of Tommy’s truck, squinting against the morning sun.

He follows her eyes as the front door of what once was the Marleys’ house opens. You step out, your hand holding the small hand of a smiling little boy whose mouth is moving a mile a minute. You’re… beautiful, and he swallows thickly, stopping in his tracks. You’re looking down at the little boy grinning and nodding along to whatever he says. Joel recognizes the way you look down at him, like he’s your whole world. He can’t look away, even as he opens the door for his own world.

Tommy grins, leans in, and lets out a low whistle. “She’s cute as hell,” he whispers to Joel, with an elbow to the ribs.

His eyes stay on you, and all he can afford is a nod and grunt.

“Go ahead, introduce yourself,” Tommy teases, “or I’m gonna go over ‘n introduce myself.”

Joel shakes his head, eyes wide, lips together in a firm line. He’s not going to let Tommy anywhere near her if he can help it. “Gotta… Sarah’s gotta get to school now,” he says as an excuse, as if Sarah is ever on time when he’s depending on his little brother for a ride.

Tommy slides into the truck, and the ignition rumbles to life. You’re now kneeling in the grass, wiping something from the boy’s cheek. He wonders what brought you to this street, if there’s a dad still inside the house or already at work, or maybe your story is similar to his.

—-

Your parents arrive around noon, your dad manning the small U-Haul while your mom’s car holds a couple plants and more fragile items.

You and your dad team up to unpack the truck, and you’re a sweaty mess by the third trip. At least it doesn’t take long, and by the time you’re done, your muscles ache with an accomplished pain. You’re going to do it all yourself.

You have no other choice.

Your life changed only ten months ago, a week after Layne’s second birthday. Devon couldn’t “deal with” being a father any longer… or he fell in love with his band’s pretty new singer. Either way, he no longer wanted you… nor Layne.

You left your perfect downtown Dallas loft the next day, drove the three-hour trip to your parents’ home, and became the sole parent to your little boy. You promised yourself that night, lying in your childhood bedroom, holding your world, that you’d make it on your own. Move home, pick up the pieces, heal from the past, and start again.

Now, the blue house on Goldenrod Lane will be where your son will grow up happy and healthy. He’ll go to good schools, play in the park a street over, and only be ten minutes away from grandma and grandpa. Layne will always know he’s wanted.

It doesn’t take long to unpack and set the house up, it’s not like you have much furniture. The IKEA in Round Rock is calling your name. You take care of the most important room first… Layne’s. Your dad’s putting together Layne’s new bed, complete with sheets covered in construction vehicles. Your mom helps unpack and put Layne’s books and toys away as he “supervises” in the specific way a toddler can. You hang the decals of cars and trucks on the wall, and you note to yourself to draw roads, buildings, and the sky around them one day.

After your parents leave, the closest pizza place turns out to be good enough for dinner. You and Layne eat it on the new couch—your parents’ housewarming gift and watch a DVD of Elmo episodes. It’s certainly not a housewarming party, but it’s just right after a day like today.

That night, when you tuck Layne in, he tells you, “I love my new house, Mommy.”

You snuggle him a little longer than usual. At the end of the day that had the chance to be so much sadder, lonelier, or worse, you let yourself be okay and happy. You kiss him goodnight, and he’s asleep before you finish closing his door.

It’s so quiet now. The house is unfamiliar in the dark, full of new noises. The ancient thermostat ticks, the fridge compressor whirs loudly, and the wind occasionally rattles the back door. You walk the rooms, checking the locks, then head to your room. You’re used to an empty bed now, and sleep comes quickly.

—-

Joel’s sure the lawnmower’s been trying to die for three straight summers. He knows every trick to get the battered red thing to keep it limping along. Today, he chooses to swear at it. It stutters, hacking up the smell of grass and gas. He wants to lift the damn hunk of junk up and toss it into the Colorado River. This is the last thing he wants to be doing on a Saturday morning. He wipes sweat off his brow and grumbles.

Sarah bounds out the front door, oblivious to any type of strife, skipping down the step. She pauses, watching across the street, and Joel follows her gaze. The new neighbors are outside.

You’re standing in the sun, bare-legged in cut-off jean shorts and a baggy black tee, a coffee mug in your hand. Your kid’s on the grass, trucks splayed out in front of him.

Sarah sighs a little. “She looks so cool. We should go over and say hi. C’mon, Dad.” She yanks him by the wrist, and he has no other option than to be dragged into the street before he can protest.

You look up at the sound of footsteps, and you grin a tired but wide smile that Joel couldn’t look away from, even if he tried. Up close, he can see you’re in a tee with a Soundgarden logo in the middle of the chest, tiny holes across the worn shirt, because of course you like one of his favorite bands.

“Hi!” Sarah says, more to the boy than you. “I’m Sarah. From across the street.”

“I’m Layne!” the kid introduces, then points at you. “That’s Mommy.”

You laugh and introduce yourself with your actual name, and Joel lets your sweet voice repeat in his mind, until he realizes he’s just standing there in silence. “Joel,” he blurts. “I’m Joel. Also from across the street.”

You hmph a sound like you’re entertained by his nervous antics. “It’s nice to meet you, Joel,” you say, and he knows he’s blinking like an idiot.

Sarah’s already got Layne enthralled, squatting down to play truck versus tractor with him. Joel’s fingers patter at his thigh, trying to think of something, anything, to say. He’s not so good at the small talk stuff, especially when it’s with someone as pretty as you.

“It’s a good neighborhood,” he finally offers. “Safe. Quiet. Been here since Sarah was four.”

“It seems it,” you say. “We’re back in Austin from Dallas. It was never quiet there.”

“It’s quiet here,” he repeats. Christ, this is close to the first normal adult conversation he’s had outside of work in… years, and he’s pretty sure he’s screwing it all up.

“So, I’ve heard,” you jest.

Joel lifts his hand to the back of his neck, feels how hot it is when you smile. His eyes drop to your mouth, but snap right back up. Sarah was right. There is something cool about you. Maybe it’s the way you lounge on the step in the bright patch of sunlight, your smooth legs on display, your oversized shirt giving him a glimpse of your shoulder. Maybe it’s in the way you talk, quick and bright, but a bit of reserve there too.

“Well, uh, should go back.” He clears his throat. “Got yard work.”

“Aww,” Sarah groans disappointingly.

“You can stay over here, if it’s okay with your dad,” you offer.

“S’fine with me. I, uh, better get back to mowin’ the lawn. Welcome to the neighborhood.”

“Thanks, Joel.” You gift him an amused smile, and he responds with a dopey, uneven nod.

His feet can’t move fast enough as he rushes back across the street, feeling like a damned fool.

—-

Sarah doesn’t stop talking. She’s fourteen, a Cancer, plays soccer, and loves butterflies. She can’t wait to be a counselor at the summer camp she’s been going to since she was eight, is into X-Men, and is amazing with Layne. Her giggle is high-pitched, and her comedic timing is sharp and a little sarcastic. She instantly charms you.

And yet, all you can focus on is her hot dad. Joel’s keeping busy in the front yard, mowing the lawn. You pretend to be present and listen to Sarah tell you all about Beyoncé’s VMA performance. Still, you’re locked on across the street watching her dad and the way his forearms flex on the mower handle, the way the sheen of his sweat shines under the sunlight even all the way across the street. You’re thankful for your dark-lensed wayfarers and how they block out your eyes following him and the steady back-and-forth as he turns at the end of each row. He stops to wipe his brow, pulling up his shirt to his face, gifting you a peek of golden belly, and you hide your gasp with an “oh wow,” to Sarah. The mower sound begins to fade as he makes his way to the backyard, and you mourn the loss of your show.

“Lemonade?” you ask Sarah.

The first thing Sarah does when she gets in your house is make a beeline for the small CD tower you have by the TV. She spins through it, fingers running down the spines of each jewel case.

“Pearl Jam, my dad’s obsessed. He has like, all their tapes.”

“I didn’t know Nirvana had this many CD’s.”

“Jeff Buckley! I have a picture of him on my wall.”

Sarah’s high-pitched squeal makes you jump as you put away the lemonade. “Oooh!” She pulls a CD out, Combat Rock by The Clash is thrust up into the air, her smile beaming behind it. “Can we listen to this?”

You walk into the living room with two glasses of lemonade and Layne’s lidded juice cup tucked under your elbow. “Of course.”

The opening chords blare.

This is a public service announcement with guitars!

“My dad loves them too,” she says, her head bobbing along to the jangly guitar and drum beat. She grabs Layne’s hand, and they spin in awkward circles, both laughing, and it’s genuinely the happiest and most alive your house has felt since you moved in.

Sarah still talks your ear off, even as the Clash plays. She tells you about school, her favorite movies (Legally Blonde, The Brave Little Toaster, the first Curtis & Viper), and her secret hope to one day dye her hair neon blue, but she’s pretty sure her dad will kill her if she does.

Layne toddles over, climbs on the couch, and lays his head in your lap, too tired to keep up with Sarah. You smooth his hair and wonder if he’ll end up a music nerd or a soccer kid. Sarah’s the kind of older kid who makes you hope he’ll end up like her one day.

Sarah tells you she should head home after “Overpowered by Funk” fades out and you tell her not to be a stranger. You watch from the front door as she crosses the street and talks to Joel, who's now bent over his lawnmower that’s flipped over in the driveway. She looks back at you, and his eyes follow. He holds a grease-stained hand up and waves. You return it and close the door, wondering what it would be like to listen to Joel’s favorite songs with him.

—-

“You’d love her CD collection. She’s so cool, Dad!”

“Oh! And she went to school for business management! She could probably help you get Miller Contracting even more established!”

“Layne’s named after the lead singer of Alice in Chains!”

Sarah doesn’t shut up about you all day. Not from the moment she plopped down on the grass after leaving your house while he struggled with the lawnmower, to eating the slightly burnt Stouffer’s Lasagna he forgot to set the timer for. Hell, even when he said goodnight to her, she had to mention that you also love the Curtis & Viper movies.

The inner quandary of whether it’s good or bad luck that his dream girl has moved in across the street from him makes him toss and turn in bed. He faces the dead plant that sits on his side table, then turns his back to it, staring at the exercise machine stroke closet, and the cluttered dresser. One day he’ll get his life, and this bedroom, together.

Can’t sleep. Stupid. He’s too old to be lying awake thinking about somebody he’s seen for all of five minutes.

You just looked like someone he’d like to know.

—-

“So, new records usually come in on Thursdays, the day before release, and they’re delivered in—”

“I got it, Stu, I worked here all through high school and my summer breaks, remember?”

“Sorry, mind’s just not the same.”

Everything else has changed since you last worked here, and yet River City Records is exactly the same. Rows and rows of records, paperbacks, used CDs, folded band tees, a wall of used VHS and DVDs, and posters upon posters ranging from At The Drive-In to ZZ Top are hung across the walls. The place hasn’t changed, and neither has Stu... though you see how much older he is, his beard is even whiter, his godawful tie-dyed tees hang looser on his skinny frame, and he coughs a hell of a lot more.

You instantly pick up everything, like six years haven’t passed. You man the register, restock, and recommend Mudhoney to a high schooler with raccoon eyeliner and a Nirvana pin.

You get twenty minutes of precious alone time when you leave work to pick up Layne from your parents’. The sun’s beginning to set, and as you pull into the driveway of the home you grew up in and get out, it almost feels like you’re back to being a teenager, especially when you pass the concrete slab near the basketball hoop that still holds your handprints. But then, you hear Layne’s high-pitched laughter and feel the past years and all of its ups and downs age you right back to where you are now.

Your family’s in the backyard, dad sitting in his beloved wicker patio recliner, mom at the patio table, with a book in her hand, keeping an eye on Layne, who’s busily dumping pebbles into a dump truck like it’s his job. Everything feels normal and domestically sweet, as if nothing’s ever gone wrong and you didn’t waste five years with your ex… like this is where you were always meant to return to. You take a seat at the table and tell your parents about your first day back at the record store. They’re happy for you, and even happier that you’re back doing what you love, letting the music you love surround you.

Your mom sends you home with a giant container of her famous triple chocolate chip cookies and some leftover pepper steak, “just in case” you’re too tired to cook. You see right through her, knowing she made double portions just to help you.

You smile when you pull into your driveway at dusk, kids are still outside playing as the sun begins to set over your suburban cul-de-sac. Layne’s going to learn to ride a bike on these sidewalks, learn to walk off a skinned knee, get grass stains all over his jeans here, and always know someone will be waiting at home for him.

Layne hops out of the car once you unbuckle him, and he's off, arms pinwheeling. You're still folding yourself out, diaper bag on one shoulder, your purse on the other, giant containers of cookies and pepper steak balanced in your hands. 'Layne!' you shout.

Layne doesn’t listen, in true toddler fashion. You hurry after him, across the lawn, fighting through the end-of-day exhaustion. You and all the contents in your arms nearly tumble, as Layne sprints straight for the street where the older neighborhood kids are playing basketball. There’s no real danger in a cul-de-sac, but the sight of your little boy barreling into the chaos makes the adrenaline spike inside you.

“Layne! Wait!”

He’s already past the curb, velcro’d light-up sneakers on the pavement, heading straight for the teens. The older kids are in the zone. One goes for a jump shot right as your son heads towards the chaos. All you can see is disaster, straight out of a mother’s worst nightmares. You’re fumbling with panic, half-running, shouting Layne’s name.

“HEADS UP!” Joel’s voice calls from across the street so loud and commanding, it freezes every kid in place.

He bounds out, fast, striding across the street quicker than you ever could move. He lifts Layne up, hauling him out of the way. Layne laughs, completely unbothered, like this is all fun to him and Joel’s just a broad human jungle gym. You want to cry when you catch up, especially when you see how gentle he’s cradling your son.

Your heart is racing, and you try to calm your voice. “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry—”

Joel shakes his head, dark brown eyes serious under furrowed brows, but his smile is soft and comforting. “S’okay. Toddlers are going to be toddlers.” He holds Layne out to you. “Here, trade ya’.” He relieves you of the heavy containers and Layne’s diaper bag as Layne settles against you.

“I go fast!” Layne repeats, proud of himself. You nod, try to smile, and wonder if you’re a terrible mother or if this is just what parenting small boys is like.

“Thanks,” you say, a little bit of embarrassment heating your face and voice. Joel just shrugs with a half-smile, following you to your porch, where you lead him inside your home.

Other than his daughter and your parents, Joel’s your first guest, and when he steps into your living room, you’re aware of how empty the house is. No personality, no art on the faded beige walls, the only decor in the living room is a framed photo of you and Layne with your parents from last Christmas, and a pile of toddler toys in the corner. Layne’s already upended his bag of trucks, metal and plastic, clattering across the floor. You’re too tired to feign hostess, and you lean against the kitchen counter while Joel hovers in the threshold.

“Been in here once before, when Mr. Marley needed help moving his freezer,” he notes, as if you know every last bit of this house’s history.

You don’t answer, you just let him keep looking around as you grab a Ziploc bag, load it with cookies, and offer it to him. “Here. Take these, as a thank you, for, um, saving my kid… and my dinner.”

Joel eyes the cookies. “Really?”

“I insist.”

“Thanks.” He takes the bag and gifts you a soft, grateful smile.

You walk him out, allowing yourself to admire how his broad shoulders fill your doorway. For a second, when he steps onto the porch and turns back to you, you both just stare. His warm eyes search yours, the setting sun bronzing his skin even more golden, and you forget to breathe and think, but you do see a flicker in his eyes when he studies you.

“Thanks again, Joel,” you almost whisper.

“Course,” he half-smiles. “Sarah used to take off like that. She was a hellion. If you ever need any help, I’m right across the street.”

You mumble a thank you, your eyes tracking down to his strong arms.

Joel turns and walks away, and you let yourself imagine what it’d feel like to have his big arms wrap around you after a long day like today. But before you can dream too much, a large yawn escapes you, and Layne whines that he’s hungry.

—-

“Put that out,” Joel grumbles.

“Happy birthday to you.” Tommy flicks the cigarette out of the truck.

Joel buckles his seatbelt, and when he looks up, you’re outside, putting Layne in the car. You’re in a denim dress he swears is the color of the sky. It really is his birthday.

The truck revs to life, Tommy backs out of the driveway, honking twice when he passes your house. You jump a little, look up, and wave with a smile.

Tommy rolls down Joel’s window. “Hey neighbor! It’s his birthday today!”

You take a few steps forward, hand blocking the sunlight that’s lighting you so beautifully, Joel can hardly focus. “Happy birthday, Joel,” you grin.

Joel’s sure he can feel the deep, red blush taking over his cheeks, and all he can offer is a “thanks,” before Tommy drives off.

“Happy birthday to you,” Tommy repeats, with a shit-eating grin.

—-

“I take this pill for my blood pressure, and this one to keep my liver from shitting out,” Stu’s saying, holding up his Monday-thru-Sunday pill organizer.

You dig through stacks of trade-in CD’s behind the counter, armpit-deep in OK Go and Counting Crows, pretending not to notice his Gollum-like knuckles trembling as he pops open his Wednesday door.

“You need to drink more water,” you tell him. “The human body is like seventy percent water. Yours is at least half bong resin.”

You’ve been spending the past week reorganizing, re-cataloging, stacking, sorting, and calling distributors, and in between, listening to Stu half-joke about his impending doom. The place is a mess, but you’ve made progress: at least the bins are labeled, and the floor isn’t full of half-opened boxes and stray price guns. You’ve even found time to put up a display by the register. Women In Rock. A full spread of Patti and Janis and PJ and Karen O.

At four, you clock out, leaving Stu to take care of himself for the last two hours of store operation. You pick up Layne from your parents’, your mom and you fall into a quick routine of handoff, hellos, and I love yous before you head home.

You’re three streets from Goldenrod Lane when you spot Sarah, walking down the sidewalk, backpack and hair bouncing. You slow the car and roll down the passenger window. “Hey, Sarah!” you call. “You want a ride home?”

“Yeah!” she shouts.

You pull over, and she slides in next to Layne’s car seat.

“Hi Sar-uh!” he shrieks with delight, and she turns in her seat, grinning wide. There’s no awkwardness between the teen and toddler. She gets him.

“Why you walking home? Where’s your dad?” you ask.

She shrugs. “Double shift today. It’s his birthday, and he still has to work.” There’s an edge of betrayal in the way she says it, but she masks it with a smile.

“That’s a shame, working on your birthday is never fun.”

“He’s supposed to bring a cake at least, but I’m sure he’s going to forget.”

You look at her in the rearview mirror and see the slight sadness in her bright eyes. “Tell you what, if you’d like, we can make him some cupcakes. I haven’t had a chance to break in the new kitchen.”

“Really?!”

“Really.”

“Awesome! This will get me out of having to go to the Adler’s,” she grins widely. “She always bakes the worst cookies.”

“I know,” you say. “She brought me over a plate after I moved in. Who puts coconut in a ginger snap?”

—-

Another late night, another late shipment. Tommy drops Joel off at 10, an hour after he promised he’d be home. An hour after he was supposed to bring home a cake for his own goddamn birthday. His whole body aches, 16 hours of hard labor will do that. What a way to spend his 36th birthday.

Joel sighs, sticking the key in the door, happy to find it’s actually locked.

“You remembered to lock the door for once,” he notes to Sarah when he walks in.

She’s on the couch, magazine in her lap, and a chocolate cupcake half-eaten in her hand. “Welcome home,” she says, mouth full of cupcake.

“Cupcakes?” he asks, brows rising.

“Homemade cupcakes.”

“Mrs. Adler actually let you make something good?”

“Not Mrs. Adler.”

Joel freezes when Sarah says your name, and he can only respond with an “oh.”

Sarah reaches the tray out, and Joel plucks a cupcake from it. “Layne put the sprinkles on. Don’t worry, I helped him wash his hands before.”

He kicks off his boots, settles on the couch with a huff, and takes a bite. He hums at the first taste, and he can feel his exhausted body loosen just a bit, thanks to the lightness from your kindness. He can’t remember the last time someone’s done something this sweet for him.

—-

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