no, you move.

“It’ll happen when you least expect it!” 

What a load of state-issued bullshit. And always printed on pamphlets with those glossy couples holding hands in a meadow or shoved in your face at school assemblies and doctor’s offices. As if romance was a civic duty. 

Though, you supposed it was now. Ever since the birth rate had sunk so low—first in the country then across the world—that evolution, desperation, whatever you wanted to call it, had bent the human gene pool until people came out stamped with new instincts, wired to reproduce like animals. 

They called it an outbreak, some invisible hand steering evolution into a corner. Alphas, omegas, betas—new designations, new rules. And when the government saw the numbers, they did what governments do. They took control, dressed it up, and made it sound like butterflies and rainbows, like destiny would just fall into your lap. “Love” became the new national project.

That’s how they’d always pitched it, anyway. The stories of finding your true love through fate coded glands and scents. The moment it hit your nose, you’d ‘just know!’ Your entire nervous system alight with the need to reproduce—that only happiness in living was to find your other half, your mate, to make pups for the government to label and distinguish. But biology had its own kind of tyranny over the mind too, something that couldn’t be controlled as easily. Because scents were messy and subjective. Suppressants failed more often than they worked, lab trials often skewed. And, in truth, it was dangerous too. Heats weren’t tender or romantic, but hard, brutal things. Days of pain and fever that left omegas restless and simpering, begging for relief, stripped down to something soft and humiliating. Ruts were the other side of it, angry and territorial, alphas wound tight with aggression until their temper snapped and their hunger came out sharp. Together, it was volatile, dangerous, nothing you’d want turned loose in polite society.

But still, FEDRA had clenched its hand around it anyway, twisting the language, rewriting the setting. They built the whole thing into a system, one that could be measured, filed, and controlled.

You still had the letters to prove it. Three of them, all from FEDRA, stacked and half-opened on the table where you dropped your mail. Their corners were curled and coffee-stained from use as coasters, but the words inside were always the same in their polite, firm, and chokingly bureaucratic ways. “Unmated Omega citizens of age between twenty-five to thirty-one are required to report for compatibility testing.” “Unpaired subjects are required to participate in the Partner Allocation Program for their own safety and well-being.”.

Safety and well-being. What a joke. What they meant was: You failed to find someone and now you’re a liability. 

You’d managed just fine without their help. Sure, your heats were rough, but they were yours. You handled them in the privacy of your own bed, sweat-slick and aching, fingers buried inside yourself while the fever rolled through you until the world blurred. Days of hunger and pain, yes—but survival all the same. You didn’t need some stranger assigned by the government to climb inside your body in the name of population recovery.

And yet… the idea of a perfectly curated mate…

You needed to stop fantasizing about it by now. You had to. You thought you might go crazy. Maybe you were going crazy. Because, in truth, the thought of finding an alpha that would love you and care for you had infiltrated every second of your waking hour. You’d tried to resist, tried to starve it out of yourself. No more hoping someone would notice you in line at the gas station, no more swiping through strangers online or dreamily wondering if the person behind the register at the store was your soulmate and they just didn’t realize it yet. It felt like a sickness wired into your brain, a hunger that wouldn’t quit. Other people seemed to know when to stop, seemed able to push their plates away and say they’d had enough, try different avenues or settle with a beta they enjoyed the company of. But you never felt…satiated by any of that. You knew there was something more for you. You wanted it so badly it rotted inside you. And when you tried therapy, you hadn’t learned a thing. Because even the therapist was mated and talked about how amazing it would be when the day would come. That the wait would be worth it in the end. You’d left after the second session.

And the cruel thought that lingered in the quietest hours was that maybe, one morning, you’d just wake up to find your hormones had thrown in the towel, your body converting you into a beta as punishment for being so stupidly, achingly alone. Welp—couldn’t find anyone to knot you? Congratulations, welcome to the neutral zone.

And honestly, would it even be so bad? Your friends were betas. Solid, dependable people. Their lives weren’t any worse for it. Sometimes you even envied them with their steadiness, the way they weren’t ruled by the fickle roulette wheel of scent and heat and being breeding stock for humanity. 

But envy never erased the one thing you’d always wanted. You weren’t ambitious by any means, at least not in the way other people were—the ones who worked their lives away to get to the top, sustained by promotions and financial portfolios and all those glittering markers of success. Because even if the outbreak had changed the gene pool, life had remained mostly the same for people. Lives went on. And still, the only thing you had ever cared about, from the moment you could name it, was love. Stupid, stupid love. And the thought of it made you sick to your stomach, queasy and restless, as if some tide were rolling inside you.

But you were done with that. You had to be. Sooner or later you had to come to your senses. If therapy couldn’t cure you, if your willpower refused, you had to take action. You were desperate to quit the daydreams that made your heart swell and ache and hurt.

So tonight, under the harsh fluorescent glow of the pharmacy lights, you stood at the counter, sliding over your insurance card. When you walked away, the orange bottle felt like a brick in the bottom of the little white bag. Heavy, inevitable, final. 

You hardly noticed how bright the sidewalks seemed once you stepped outside, bathed in pale wash from the moon overhead. You weren’t sure whether to hurry home or drag your feet, but you kept walking, your thoughts circling the first dose waiting for you. Blockers. One pill and maybe you could finally be free of this tender wound. Turn off these hormones that made you crave and want like the needy little creature you were. The thought made your stomach turn, but then again, everything did these days.

You wondered if someone nearby had lit a fire. This time of year, plenty of people did as the leaves began to fall with the turn of autumn, where houses tucked into the narrow yards sat at the edge of the city where they pressed up against the riverbank. The air carried the smell of woodsmoke and pine and the damp breath of the river, something sharp threaded through it, like whiskey or brandy burning faintly in your nose.  It made your stomach clench, heat curling low as your mouth watered, your senses alive for it. You slowed, searching for the source, but every house was shut tight. 

Warm yellow light spilled from their windows, glassy reflections rippling against the black skin of the water. Dogs barked from behind fences, children argued with tired parents about bedtime routines. The neighborhood was settling, folding itself into the quiet of the evening. But the scent hung stubbornly in the air, richer, heavy enough to press against your tongue.

As you followed the riverbank, the sidewalk gave way to cracks of neglect, weeds forcing their way through as the neat grid of town dissolved into the rougher edge of your neighborhood. The houses thinned, the dark pressed closer, and then the street broke open into a stretch of woods. The scent struck you full force there, thicker, headier, cloying at the back of your throat until you almost gagged. It tangled with the damp musk of earth and leaves, but something sharper rode beneath it, metallic and copper-sweet. 

Your pulse kicked hard. 

Just ahead, in a break between the trees, something moved. Half shadowed in the dark of the forest, half bathed in the pale spotlight of the moon, you saw a creature there.

And he was enormous.

Black fur so dark it seemed to drink the moonlight, rippled over his frame, the sheen shifting into deep brown where it caught on the pale glow spilling through the trees overhead. He crouched low, balanced on his haunches like a shadow coiled to spring, the air around him vibrating with restrained violence. He had paused his mastications on whatever lay behind him, dead at his feet, too hidden behind his monstrous body to see. Like he smelled you too, heard the twigs snap under your footing as you stood and watched, frozen. And as he turned to look at you, his snout curled back in a snarl, jowls slick with saliva, jagged teeth flashing wet as his chest heaved.

And his eyes, full of muddled colors you couldn’t quite name, fixed on you. You could see the twitch of his nose, hear the rough, greedy pull of air as he took in your scent. And beneath the smell of damp earth of his fur, his scent rolled over you in waves: that heavy musk of cedar smoke, the faint sting of whiskey you recalled from your walk, sharper in your nose now. You wondered if that was his poison, if he drank himself senseless when he woke from nights like this. The ones that left him feral and bloodied.

Because there was blood.

You smelled it too, an iron rich copper that sharpened over the rest. It darkened the fur around his muzzle, tacky and wet where it clung to his jaw. Fresh from whatever lay behind him. Your stomach dropped with the idea that it might not be deer or some kind of game. The thought landed sharp—what if he had eaten someone? Would he eat you, too?

There weren’t many alphas like him left. Ones that would turn into a creature of night when the moon bloomed full. They were rare, most of them killed off in the first waves of the outbreak, hunted down before people even understood what the world was turning into. And if one was found after, they were dragged off by the government and locked away when their first moon waned—kept for testing, for containment, for “safety”. Some even volunteered for it once they realized what they were, too afraid of themselves to risk what they might do. There were stories. Enough that had been told of the wolf that would come, the person inside disappearing, No memory, no reason, no control. Just animal and instinct. 

And hunger. 

You could not move. Your body held its own counsel, muscles locked, lungs refusing to draw too much attention, as if stillness might convince the predator you were merely part of the path you walked, that you could disappear into the trees. You tried to read him and found nothing human to catch on, only the prickle along your skin that said you were being measured. 

The strangest thing, and only later would you be able to pinpoint the feeling as you’d think back on that night, was the feeling of insurmountable want. Hot and low, molten as if a furnace door had swung open inside you, a slow thrum that tapped along your spine and gathered in your throat until you had to wet your lips. You thought it was the sheer terror, the adrenaline. It felt tingly and wrong, and yet… you wondered. The black of his fur and the burn of his eyes and the curiosity of how coarse that pelt would be beneath your palm tickled the back of your mind. Fear ran beside it, not weaker, just… different, a second current braided into the first, and the two of them turned you into something bright and stupid.

It felt like forever, to stand there under his gaze, but it couldn’t have been more than a handful of seconds— minutes at most. The silence, rented by breath and the pulsing of your heart was stretched wide between you, weighted with the question of what came next. Would he let the shroud of instinct overtake him now, or would his humanity slip through, letting you live?

You licked your lips without thinking, caught between terror and hunger, between life and whatever this was becoming. And just as your pulse began to skyrocket with the will to live, as your feet began to shift ever so slightly— ready to turn, to flee—

He lunged.

Joel

There was a heaviness to him as he woke.

Every inch of him ached as though he’d been dragged through the nine circles of hell and spat back out again. His bones throbbed, his muscles burned, even his skin felt raw, regrown and stretched too tight over something that wasn’t meant to be contained. He lay there for a long while as he gained his consciousness, his humanness, and he realized he was naked and sprawled across the old leather couch, the familiar stains of water damage above him on the ceiling. He was in his living room. The cool surface of the couch pressed into the ridges of his spine before he finally let out a groan that rattled low in his chest, sitting up. 

At least he had made it home this time.

The change was always both curse and reprieve. Joel could admit there was something in it he clung to, a silence he never found anywhere else, a forgetting of all the endless hours spent pacing in his own head. For one night a month, his memories didn’t claw at him, his worries didn’t fester, and the grinding guilt that gnawed at his gut seemed to vanish. But morning always came, and with it the cruel blankness. Not knowing what he had done, not remembering where he had been. It made his stomach turn more than any nightmare could. He told himself he had learned to live with it, and twenty years of hiding forced that sort of resignation, but some mornings it rose like bile regardless. This morning was no different. The heavy fullness of his belly made him nauseous as the thought struck. Maybe he had eaten something he shouldn’t have. Someone’s pet. A goddamn cat allowed to roam outside, a dog left out after midnight. He hated seeing them out in the dark in his waking, normal nights, hated knowing what could happen on the full moon, but people didn’t know better. He always turned on the news the next morning of his shift, hoping, praying, he didn’t do anything worse.

Joel dragged the heel of his hand over his eyes and sat forward, his joints crackling like firewood, his shoulders tight as if someone had hammered him into the wrong shape. And as he pressed a button on the remote, pointing to the small box television in the corner, he froze.

There was a smell.

It wasn’t the sharp tang of blood or the musky sweat of himself. It was something sweeter, something that clung to him, pressed against the back of his tongue. Vanilla and lilac, delicate and yet heavy enough to make his cock stir half hard against his thigh. He stilled, nostrils flaring, the strangeness of it settling into him in a way that made the hair rise on the back of his neck. This wasn’t spring, when he sometimes woke coated in pollen, burrs sticking to his skin, flowers bruised into his shoulders from rolling through the underbrush. This wasn’t the lingering damp of the river either, the smell of earth clinging to him. No, this was something else entirely. Something new.

He stood, slow and stiff, rubbing at the thick line of his beard as he shifted his weight off the couch. Scratches ran across his chest, bruises scattered over his ribs, but nothing out of the ordinary, nothing to explain the sweetness that clung stubbornly to him as he moved through the house. And then he realized the scent grew stronger as he reached the hallway, seeping through the small crack beneath the bedroom door, that uneven gap in the floorboards he had been telling himself he would fix for months.

He paused there, hand resting against the knob, his body tight with the sudden thought that something could be waiting on the other side. The air was thick with it, saturating his lungs, stirring something restless in the pit of his stomach. He turned the handle at last, careful, silent, and pushed the door open just enough to see inside.

There was a girl in his bed.

You were stretched across his sheets, one leg drawn up, knee planted beside you, arms folded beneath your cheek like you’d been posed there. Peaceful. Picture-perfect. Like you belonged.

He had no idea who you were, or how you got into his bed.

Joel stood just inside the doorway, stomach tight, arms crossed over his chest like maybe if he held himself still enough, some explanation might come. Something to make sense of why you were here, why the room smelled like a bouquet of sweat and lilac, why your pants were discarded on the floor like you’d peeled them off mid-dream. 

Through the red veil of what was left of last night, he could find only flashes. He remembered trees. The silvered shape of their limbs against the sky. His own shadow stretching in ways it wasn’t meant to, bones rearranged beneath his skin, heart pounding with a rhythm older than thought. He’d been in the woods. That much he knew. He remembered scent before sound, instinct before memory. He could…he could remember the smell. It was you, then. That clicked enough to piece together, that he’d found you during his shift. And god, the smell of you. Thick and heady, it had invaded him. Coated the back of his tongue and sunk down into the part of him he’d long forgotten, long let go of any hope of finding. And it was here now, that same scent pressing against the walls of this room, pulled from the heat of your skin and settled into the linen.

He swallowed hard, mouth dry, and felt the ache behind his eyes grow sharper.

His gaze dropped again, against his better judgment, drawn to the long line of your thigh where the sheet had slipped back, to the strip of lace that clung to the curve of you in a way that felt too intimate for his prying eyes. It didn’t cover very much, and could feel the reaction begin to rise in him, uninvited and pulsing. A scalding low in his gut that made him clench his jaw and tear his eyes away. Some creature behind its cage, yearning to take and devour. 

There were too many possibilities of how you’d ended up here, vulnerable and unbeknownst to his searching gaze. Too many blanks his brain refused to fill. The wolf had done something, or maybe nothing at all. Maybe you’d found him. Maybe you’d followed. Joel wondered if you had walked straight into the mouth of a monster and lain down.

He didn’t know why you were here. But he suddenly, assuredly, made up his mind. When you woke, he’d send you on your way. Because a man like him—an alpha like him—unpredictable, dangerous, selfish, cruel… he was not the one for you. 

After tearing his eyes from your peaceful body across his sheets, he crossed the room, jaw clenched tight, his bare feet whispering across the wood. The bathroom door was open and waiting, frame still warped from the last time he’d slammed it. He stepped inside and closed it behind him. He needed a shower. A long, cold shower.

You

You woke with a molten star in your belly. 

A slow burning ember of a planet being formed inside you, it made your limbs feel heavy, your eye lids lazy, your mouth parched for more than just drink. As you turned into the sheets, the sunlight beginning to pour in from somewhere high and warm, a sound reached your ears—water, running steady from just beyond the wall. Some sort of talking in the next room, pointedly and animated, almost like a television. Blinking your eyes awake, you were suddenly very, very aware that you did not make it all the way home last night. 

The bed beneath you was lumpy, but forgiving. The sheets were thin, rough washed cotton with the faintest scent of woodsmoke in the fibers. The walls were wooden slats, long and narrow, stained with age as if you were in a cabin. 

You could’ve melted into it, if not for the smell.

That woodsmoke and pine and earthy sweat and…whiskey. Some kind of spice, like cinnamon or oak or something that aged in a barrel for a decade before being ready to consume. 

And as your brain began to form coherent thought, the star still burning low in your belly, that hum of a shower—yes, that’s what it was—had gone quiet. And soon, the door was opening, steam billowing, and before you was a man.

A devastatingly—terrifying—beautiful man. 

And as he emerged into the room, skin dappled with pearls of water and a towel low around his hips, his hair was a dark mess from his hands working through it under the water. His eyes locked onto you, and for a moment neither of you moved. He didn’t speak. 

But… you recognized those eyes, had no reason to fear now, because the man in the doorway was your wolf. 

No, no, not yours. Not yours. Just: The Wolf.

And your body responded without permission and without thought. A soft, involuntary purring began in your chest, barely audible but bone deep. A sound you didn’t think to make. Something soothing, submissive in nature. You curled further into the sheets and clutched them against your chest, a sudden shyness crossing your mind.

He moved.

Crossed the room without looking at you again, barefoot, quiet, his back broad and wet and scarred. You mewled—soft, confused, aching—as he passed, and his shoulders tensed, but he didn’t turn to you. He opened a drawer, pulled something out of it, and disappeared back into the bathroom.

You blinked. What a strange man.

You looked around and saw your pants strewn far away on the floor as if pulled off in the night. You scrambled to grab them, the cotton clinging as you yanked them over your hips and perched on the edge of the bed, arms drawn around yourself like a child trying to pretend you weren’t still trembling.

When he emerged again, he was dressed. A black tee clung to his chest, soft and damp in places. Gray sweatpants rode low on his hips, worn at the drawstring. His hair was still wet, pushed back like he’d tried and failed to tame it. And his eyes found you again.

Darker than before, focused. Not angry, though. Somehow you knew that. 

You swallowed and tried to sit up straighter. “Who are you?” The words came out thin, your voice like a thread pulled too tight. You sounded softer than you wanted to, smaller than you meant.

He didn’t answer right away.

The muscles in his jaw worked as something in his chest moved, slow and low, a sound that wasn’t speech. A kind of hum. A rumble. Not threatening. If anything, it was… soothing. Like the sound a large animal makes when it’s trying to calm a frightened pup. You didn’t recognize it with your mind—but your body did.

Your shoulders softened. The tension in your belly didn’t go away, but it uncoiled a little. You weren’t cold anymore. You weren’t exactly warm, either, but almost held in something. The space between you vibrated with it. That sound, that tether.

He saw the shift in you almost immediately. “You shouldn’t be here,” he said finally, voice rough, unused. “It ain’t safe.” 

You watched him, head tilted just slightly. That hum still echoed in you, like it had settled in your chest cavity. “I found you,” you said, not entirely sure if it was true. But it felt true. “You didn’t hurt me.”

He let out a slow breath, “Don’t mean I couldn’t.”

You opened your mouth, but nothing came out.

There was heat curling through you now, more than just the remnants of sleep or the residual burn of adrenaline. It was deeper, hormonal, almost chemical. You could feel your blood thickening with it, the pulse between your legs starting to ache, slow and low and shameful. It spread through you as your thighs pressed together, the ache between them unmistakable. You hoped he wouldn’t notice.

His eyes flicked down once, just for a second, then away again, jaw tightening like he’d tasted something bitter.

“You need to go.” he said.

Your glare cut into him, defiance sparking even through your shame. “You brought me here,” you snapped, words like a curse spat from your throat. “You attacked me, and you brought me here.”

His whole body shifted, a sudden pivot as if he couldn’t hold still under the weight of you. “Exactly why you can’t stay. I told you, it ain’t safe. Now get goin’.”

You pushed yourself up, folding your arms tight across your chest. He towered over you, massive and immovable, every inch the animal he swore he was. But you refused to shrink from him.

The air between you crackled, tense and charged until a sudden burst of sound cut through it.

“Breaking news! Spotted only last night!”

The voice carried sharp and urgent from the next room. Both your heads turned toward it, the tinny television static a reminder of a world outside this little standoff.

You moved first, brushing past him, and his body followed, heavy footsteps at your back. The small living room flickered blue with the glow of the old TV. On the screen, bold letters shouted across the bottom: ALPHA SIGHTING NEAR THE RIVER.

“Just last night, witnesses report seeing a wolf by the Lenape River past downtown Bucks, running rampant in the neighborhood.” the announcer was booming, “if you see something, say something. Contact FEDRA at this number if you have any ideas of who this monster could be.”

At that word, monster, you turned toward him. The man who had dragged you from the woods in claws and fur, who now stood in the blue glow of the television with his chest rising and falling too quickly, shoulders straining as though the word had been aimed like a blade straight into him. Something inside you shifted. To your surprise it wasn’t fear or the terror you should have felt standing in the same room as a creature who could shed his humanity beneath the moon, but something stronger, stranger. Worry. 

“Are you okay—” The words left you before you could stop them, your hand lifting toward his arm. His chest was rising and falling too quickly, shoulders tight as if the walls were closing in.

“You need to go. Now.”

“But they just said—they’re going to come after you!” Panic broke into your voice. His hands clamped onto your shoulders, spinning you, pushing you toward the door with rough insistence.

“And you smell like me.”

The words pooled low in your stomach, heat blooming and oh, oh god his hands were so big and thick on the caps of your shoulders. You opened your mouth, but he shoved harder, urgency overtaking everything.

“Get out,” he growled, “go shower, scrub it off. Get the smell of me off you, omega. Don’t come back.”

“Hey!” You struggled in his grip, your voice cracking between defiance and something you didn’t want to name. His size swallowed you whole as he pushed you out the door without even breaking a sweat. But his eyes, when you turned and caught them, weren’t only hard, but there was something frayed behind them, something you couldn’t put your finger on at the time.

Grief, you’d realize one day.

Joel

FEDRA had been scoping the area again.

And Joel knew they would be. With that newscaster blasting his secret all across town, he knew they’d be here any minute. Not to his home, not yet at least. They hadn’t figured out who it was, but they would eventually. A lone alpha in the woods, living in a half collapsed cabin like the feral thing...he was couldn’t stay invisible forever. It was only a matter of time before the pieces pointed true.

By the time he’d kicked that little omega out of his house, he felt awful for it, yes, but there wasn’t much room for guilt when survival was closing in on him from every direction. He’d dwell on it later, when the world went quiet again. For now, he told himself the distance was for her sake, though the memory of her smell and the way her eyes watched him at the door stayed fixed behind his lids longer than he wanted to admit.

He went out not long after, walking the trails that circled the land, the same ones he always did after the wolf receded and his skin stopped burning. The forest felt different now—thinner somehow, less forgiving. He could trace where he’d been in the dark, what the animal had done, by smell alone. He found the carcass of a deer by the river and covered it with loose soil, murmuring something like a prayer for the thing, wherever its soul lay now.

As the day went on, he caught himself looking toward the road she’d taken when she left. The sky was silver with an incoming storm, the trees black against it. He told himself he was just making sure she’d made it home as he followed her scent, to be sure that soldiers hadn’t found her. Before the rain would take it from him. But even as he saw the lights go on in the little house, small in its cottage-like stature, its sweet sage green curtains in the windows, he kept watching. Even when no sound or signs of other life made themselves known from inside. But once the lights went out in the dead of night and the rain started to fall, he returned home.

He wasn’t sure what made him come again the next evening, but he stayed longer. Sat beneath the tree line until the crickets quieted and the air stayed heavy with the storm. A faint light burned behind your window again, a lamp or candle maybe, and once he thought he saw your shadow move across the curtain. He told himself he was only here to keep an eye on things. Just in case. That was all.

By the third day, he thought he should know better. He’d told himself again and again, it was only to make sure you were all right, that FEDRA hadn’t found you, that this was caution, nothing more, but that lie had worn itself out. He was still there all the same, crouched in the brush just beyond the tree line, eyes fixed on the little house that hadn’t made a sound since you’d gone inside. He told himself that if he just saw you move, even once, he could go home, but every hour that passed without a flicker of light or the shadow of your figure behind the curtain kept him rooted where he was, tense and waiting.

It was then he caught something on the wind. 

The air coming off the house had changed. It carried something sharp now, something chemical and wrong, cutting through the clean damp of the woods and the faint musk of wet soil. Even from where he stood, he could smell you, but it wasn’t the same; what had been soft and alive had turned sterile, bitter, like bleach or toner, like pouring antiseptic over a bed of flowers. The animal part of him bristled before the rest of him understood. His shoulders drew tight, breath catching low in his chest as recognition clicked into place.

Blockers.

The wolf inside him stirred, the hackles of its neck rising at it pressed against his ribs as if it meant to climb out, restless and hungry, agitated by the loss of something that wasn’t his. It didn’t understand the concept of safety or distance or restraint—it only knew that what had once belonged to its senses was gone, buried under something false. The sound that left him wasn’t quite human, a rough exhale that felt like a growl breaking through the cracks of his chest. His teeth ached, his pulse staggered. The trees around him seemed to tremble with the threat of what lay within them. 

He tried to quiet it, soothe it’s waxing and waning for freedom. Tried to remind himself that this was what he’d told you to do: to get out, to rid yourself of his scent. But this…this wasn’t what he meant. But who was he, some stranger you didn’t even know, to expect anything else?

He stayed there longer than he should have, kneeling in the undergrowth with the rest of the world turning, pressing down around him, the hum of insects carrying on without a care for the war in his chest as the air clung heavy with the stinging, foreign smell. He should’ve turned back toward his cabin, should’ve put distance between himself and the thing clawing at his chest, but he didn’t. 

He kept staring at your dark window, waiting for any sign of movement, for proof that you were still breathing in there.

You

You’d taken the blockers the second you’d gotten home.

Not even ten minutes after he’d kicked you out. You didn’t think about it; you just tore open the bottle and swallowed two dry, the bitter little pills catching in your throat like sand. If he’d wanted nothing to do with you, fine. You’d make sure your body got the message.

The first few hours were fine. You cleaned the apartment—half just to move, half to burn him out of your head. The sky began to gray outside as you did your dishes, laundry, scrubbing the counter until your hands stung. But the longer the day went on, the worse you started to feel. It came in waves: the ache in your stomach, the pounding in your temples, the sweat beading along your hairline even though the window was cracked open.

​​Maybe it was his stench still on you. The thought came quickly and unwelcome. That heavy, smoky scent clinging to your skin, caught in your hair, curling inside your lungs until it made your stomach roll. “You smell like me,” the man had said, eyes hard. “Go shower. Scrub it off.” Fine. You would. You stripped and stood under the scalding water until it turned lukewarm, scrubbing until your skin burned, until you couldn’t smell him anymore. Erase his smell. Erase his memory. Stupid wolf. Maybe that was all this was—your body reacting to the way he’d touched you, the way he’d looked at you before he’d thrown you out.

You would never call the authorities on him. You weren’t that kind of person. You wonder if he knew that, if you should’ve told him. Did he throw you out thinking you’d show up hours later with a gang of FEDRA agents pounding on his door? Was he still there? Had he made a run for it?

You didn’t care, you told yourself stubbornly. Stupid wolf. He could do what he wanted, it didn’t matter to you.

By evening, you were curled up on the couch, a blanket wrapped around you, alternating between too cold and too hot. You told yourself it was a flu, some stupid food poisoning. Maybe stress. Everything was caused by stressed, anyway. You just needed to sleep it off. 

The next morning didn’t bring any relief, though. You woke clammy, mouth dry, every muscle sore like you’d been running in your sleep. The cramps started mid-morning, deep and mean, dragging up from your gut and wringing low in your belly. You hunched over the sink, breathing through them, cursing yourself for ever touching those pills. Still, you refused to connect it. He hadn’t made you sick, not really. You just felt off, that’s all.

You tried to keep doing normal things. Took another shower, sitting on the floor of the tub this time and letting the hot water open your lungs. You tried to eat a mug of soup that went cold before you ever touched it. You watched the rain outside the crack in your curtains blur into the same gray lines for hours, lit a few candles. But every sound hurt: the hum of the fridge, the drip of the faucet, even your heartbeat sounded too loud.

By day three, you stopped pretending you were fine. You moved like you were underwater, head heavy, vision slow to focus, feverish but shivering. When you caught sight of yourself in the mirror, you looked worse than you felt—eyes glassy, skin pallid, dark circles underlining everything you didn’t want to admit.

That bastard had to have done something to you. The thought came sharp, stupid, but you fisted your thoughts to it anyway. The snarling, bullish, mean alpha with the rough hands and rougher stare. Maybe he’d passed something on when he’d grabbed you. Maybe it was his scent still stuck on your skin that made your body rebel.

You drank water. Took another round of blockers, even though your hands were trembling when you did it. Told yourself you just needed rest.

But rest didn’t help. You kept sweating through your shirt, heart racing. Dreams came hot and confusing when you’d close your eyes just to try and nap. You’d wake with your sheets twisted and your thighs slick, shame rolling through you in slow, nauseating waves.

By the time your next work shift came around, you looked like hell and felt worse. But rent didn’t wait for pity, and you weren’t going to call out over some mystery illness. You threw on clean clothes, tied your hair back, and told yourself it’d pass.

But it was brutal. 

The air was thick with espresso and burnt milk that first morning of your shift, and instead of comforting, it only made your head pound harder. Every hiss of the steamer grated at your nerves, every clink of mugs rattled in your skull. Your body felt dragged out, sore in ways you couldn’t quite place, like you hadn’t slept, though truthfully maybe you’d slept too much.

The café itself was warm as ever, with its wood counters and brass fixtures, the smell of beans and sugar syrups hanging in the air. Usually that mix of roasted coffee, cinnamon, and vanilla felt cozy, but today there was something sour cutting through it. A sharp, acidic tang that reminded you of bleach. It stuck in your nose no matter how you tried to ignore it.

Ellie came up beside you with another ticket, the sleeve of her hoodie brushing yours. You took a whiff, testing your senses. But she smelled like she always did: fresh-cut grass, parchment, a tart bite of apple. Something youthful and clean, bright against the heaviness of the room. She handed you the order slip with a look that said she smelled something too, though she didn’t say anything.

“Two cold brews with sweet cream,” she muttered, exhaling like she’d been holding her breath. Then she turned to the register with her easy voice, “How can I help you?”

“Just coffee, black.”

The voice hit you like a strike of flint—familiar and heavy with its drawl. You looked before you thought better of it.

He was there. Broad shoulders, steady as ever, handing Ellie a bill but watching you. His eyes locked on yours, steady and unflinching, and your stomach dropped. The bleach sting in the air sharpened, and you could see it made your wolf’s face twitch where he stood.

Agh, you needed to stop using that term. Your. He was a stranger, after all. Even if days ago he’d seemed like there was a promise of something, it had been pushed out the front door with you.

He moved from the counter and made his way to the end of the bar near you, while you finished drinks for the girls in front of him. His eyes never moved.

“You smell awful,” he said when you finally reached for a paper cup and the customers walked away.

You grimaced at him, your lip curling. “Screw you too.”

“What’d you do?” His tone wasn’t casual, though he tried to make it sound like it was. “You took blockers, didn’t you?”

“That’s none of your business.” You poured his coffee.

“They ain’t doin’ much. Can smell you out the damn door.”

Your mouth twisted. “Are you always this charming, or am I just a lucky girl?”

He sighed, flattening his palms on the counter between you. “Blockers ain’t workin’ ‘cause you were already startin’—” he looked around, lowering his voice, “that’s your heat fightin’ back. And it’s probably because of me.”

Your chest tightened with a burning fury as you shoved the coffee cup at him and escaped the counter, pushed through the double doors into the back storage room, and pretended to rummage for more cups and sugar. It was dimmer back here, the shelves rising around you like walls, and the headache eased just enough for you to breathe.

The doors creaked open behind you. 

“Go away.” you spat, but it came out more like a desperate croak.

“I was rude,” he said gently. His voice was quieter now, nearly coaxing with how it purred. Your stomach churned for it. “Shouldn’t have thrown ya out. Shouldn’t’ve talked to ya like that, ‘neither. I’m sorry.”

You crossed your arms, leaning your back against the shelves to face him. The bleach tang was fading, replaced by something heavier as he stepped in towards you. The shelves creaked softly as he braced a hand against them, leaning in until he eclipsed the light from the ceiling. His scent rolled over you then, heady and thick, cutting through the astringent: woodsmoke and cedar, honey and something darker, like earth after rain, that barrel aged whiskey note to him. Your lungs betrayed you, drawing it in greedily.

His nose brushed your cheek, and God help you, you let him. It traced up to your ear where your gland throbbed. He breathed in, low, and the sound rumbled out of him, more purr than growl.

“I’m sorry I did this all wrong,” he said, his voice deep, sounding thick and animal. “But your heat belongs to me. It’s because of me. It’s mine to take.”

“No,” you whispered, weak, hands fisting in his shirt, willing yourself to push him back, but you couldn’t. Everything about your actions was betraying you, “You were so mean. I don’t want you.” Lie, lie, lie.

“Let me make it up to you, then. Such a pretty thing don’t deserve that,” he murmured, and the words sank down your spine, tingling through each vertebrae, body giving way to your mind with the smallest arch toward him. His voice was rough but low, coaxing, like he knew every nerve in you was already tuned to hear him. “I’m sorry I was a nasty old man. Shoulda started differently, hm?”

Your throat worked around a nod, a whimper slipping before you could stop it when his lips brushed your neck. The antiseptic tang that had been suffocating you all morning vanished in an instant, swept aside by the weight of his scent. Smoke and cedar, sweetened at the edges. He was everywhere—his chest brushing yours, his breath warm on your skin, the gentle prodding of his nose against your gland behind your ear.

And then he did something that made you want to scream. His lips pulled back, and…and his teeth, blunt and wet, pressed against the tender spot, not biting, only pressing against you, a bullish growl rumbling out of him as he inhaled. And god damn you, you answered with a sound that broke halfway between a whine and a keen, something desperate and shameful.

And then he pulled back, cold air rushing in where he’d been, sharp and sterile, and you despised it. You couldn’t stand the way you instantly wanted to lean forward again, to close that space.

“I’ll come get you from work. Tomorrow.”

“You—you what?” The words wavered, your headache flaring as you squeezed your eyes shut.

“Poor thing.” His hand came up, calloused fingers tilting your chin. You let him, even as every human instinct told you not to. “Feels awful, don’t it? Don’t take no more of them blockers, and I’ll come get you tomorrow.”

So close, his eyes right there in front of yours, the scrape of his thumb against your skin, the sheer size of him blotting out everything else—you wanted to claw at him for it, wanted to crawl inside it, wanted him gone. It was unbearable, the way your body leaned one way while your head screamed the other. All you could do was nod.

And as he started going towards the doors, you remembered yourself, calling out to him, “Wha–what was your name?”

He turned to you, light from the open doors casting him in stark contrast to the room, a sad little grin spreading across his face.

“Joel.”

Joel

He kept his word. It was one of the few things left of his humanness that still meant something, something he could stand by when he’d let everything else in him turn animal. So the next day, late in the afternoon, he was there, standing in the coffee shop, hands in his front pockets as if he belonged anywhere near civilization anymore. 

And just when he thought he’d have to order something and pretend to be a random customer while he waited for you to show, you came out from the back, pulling off that hat with the shop’s logo. Your hair was flat under it, pushing your fingers through the strands with a sigh of relief of a day done. You didn’t see him at first as you hung it up along with your apron, but your eyes eventually flitted up, catching him.

They narrowed.

So you hadn’t believed him when he said he’d come. 

“Hi,” he said, quietly, trying not to sound like a stray dog in a nice shop that held one of his favorite smells. Coffee had always been his favorite thing—the taste, the smell, the feeling. The ground beans and nutmeg and spices that always accompanied the fall filling the air swelled in his nose. Well, it was his favorite smell. Because now, a day off your blockers, you smelled heavenly to him. That changing of seasons, of warm vanilla and yet sweet and clean of lilac. Something new there, too. Soft and velvety that made his nostrils flare, greedy for it. 

“Well? On with it.” you said sternly as you approached. You were mad, he'd known you would be. It still didn't make him feel any better. Your brows furrowing over those pretty eyes, clearer now without the sickness or daze of blockers. Clear enough to take him as he was, a mean, jaded old alpha. One that should’ve known better than to ever make you think he didn’t want you. 

He couldn’t keep you. He told himself again and again. He couldn’t. But you deserved to understand, at least. He could give you that. Because you already knew more about him than anyone had in decades, and he’d always been so careful too. But you’d found him or he’d found you, he still couldn’t quite remember that part. And you’d slept in his bed—in the sheets he hadn’t changed because he was too much of a coward to get rid of your sweet smell, especially after you’d doused it with that astringent for days. He’d go home and breathe you in like a fool, push his face into the pillow where your head had been, feel his body react like it didn’t belong to him anymore. He’d rutted against the sheets once—only the one time—and hated himself for it after. That animal part of him had liked it too much. Liked you too much.

He left that beast at home now, he had to be under control now, because he needed to make you understand. 

“What do you mean?” he asked, shaking his head, remembering you'd said something. 

“You don’t have to tell me not to tell anyone what I saw,” you said. “I’m not gonna snitch you out, or tell FEDRA. I wouldn't do that.”

“That’s not…” his eyes narrowed, checking the surroundings for eavesdroppers, but the late afternoon had kept everyone locked in their last hours of work, your fellow barista in the back to restock. And when he looked back at you, he tried to study you. There was something strange going on, the way you bristled but leaned in, the way you clenched your fists but let your tongue dart out to lick your bottom lip, “That ain’t what this is.”

“Oh? So what? You’ll take my hand and we’ll go skipping into the meadow like some happy ever after?”

You were being a brat. If it didn’t get so under his skin so bad he might’ve laughed.

“Would you just walk with me, dammit? What is the matter with you?”

You stepped past him, muttering something about needing air, and pushed through the door.

He followed, the little bell above it giving a halfhearted ring as he stepped out into the street. The sky was still bright above, a crystal clear blue, for once.

You were walking fast, arms crossed tight, the soles of your shoes tapping sharp against the pavement. He caught up in a few long strides, his boots heavy beside your lighter steps.

“Look—” he said when you’d stayed silent for another block, “I’m sorry—”

“You already said that yesterday.”

“I didn’t mean to upset you—you have to understand—”

Your arms seemed to tighten around yourself, chin tipping up as you muttered, “M’not upset.”

Yeah, and he didn’t turn under the full moon every month. Okay. 

He sighed, shaking his head. “Would you let me walk you home?” he said finally after a few steps, “Let me explain.”

“I don’t need you to explain why you turn into a fucking wolf every month, Joel, I got the basics down in Biology 101.”

“Keep your voice down.” he seethed, teeth bared.

“Or what?”

“Jesus, girl, I’m tryna make things right and you’re bein’—” He scoffed through his teeth, looking away, jaw tight enough to ache.

You shot him a look and stopped in your tracks, the midday hour throwing your face into brightness against the sunlight, glowing in your hair. Your hands dropped at your sides, balled into fists as you stepped closer. “Listen,” you said, and he felt the heat rolling off your skin, the pulse of your body too close to his. You were so damn small compared to him, but when you glared up at him like that, with your curled nose and your furrowed brow and those pretty eyes, you didn’t look scared. You looked furious, and it made him swallow hard.

“I don’t need anything from you,” you said. “So if you’re planning on just skipping town now, just get it done and over with.”

You stood there, seething, and he was breathing deep just to keep from matching your fire. The two of you toe to toe by the edge of the river now, having walked a few blocks in silence and spite. The water below caught the baby blue of the sky, rippling in silver, the sound of wind starting to hum through the reeds.

Something passed between you then, too heavy for air, too alive for language. His throat worked around the taste of it.

“Let me walk you home,” he said again, quieter this time.

You didn’t answer right away, only stared up at him, the wind catching your hair, lifting it across your face. Your breathing had evened out, but he could still feel the pulse of you from where he stood.

He waited. He didn’t want to push, or move, he only stood as if waiting for a verdict.

Finally, you exhaled, shaking your head, but your voice was smaller when you said, “Fine.”

He only nodded once and fell into step beside you again, the two of you walking the river path in silence. 

You

He was so strange, this man.

Days ago he was pushing you out his front door like you were nothing, like you hadn’t just shared something that felt bigger than either of you, his smell lingering as it followed you home, even when you’d scrubbed until you stung.

And then he showed up at the coffee shop.

Stupid wolf. Playing with your mind like this. You’d always been too sensitive for things like this, like him—too soft, too hungry for meaning where maybe there wasn’t any. You told yourself it wasn’t your fault, not really. The world had made you lonely, biology had made you desperate, foolish. But God, you wanted him anyway. Wanted him too much, maybe.

But you couldn’t have him. Wouldn’t. Not if he didn’t want you back. You weren’t going to do that to yourself again.

“Do you…like making coffee?” 

It took you a second to realize he was talking to you. You blinked, looking down at the grass beneath you. You didn’t even remember sitting here, in the little clearing along the trees where the woods opened into meadow. But somehow you were. The sunlight caught the soft fuzz on your arms, your skin warm and a little damp, your heart thudding lazily against your ribs.

He sat beside you, elbows resting on his knees, quiet. You could feel the size of him even when he wasn’t touching you. That quiet, immovable stillness of him, so different than most alphas you’d come across. Joel, he’d said. His name was Joel. You thought it was such a nice name, old-fashioned and solid, the kind of name that felt like home when you said it in your head.

You nodded.

“It was good coffee,” he said softly. Was he trying to get to know you or something? Why? Why drag this on any longer? He was going to leave, you were going to go home and be sick for days again. Not because of blockers this time, but of a broken heart. You’d done this before, fallen too fast just from idealizations, romanticized strangers in the street. It just happened that this man…he’d been different, hadn’t he?

You nodded again, pulling blades of grass from the dirt. You weren't sure what else to do, but then, a thought struck you suddenly, that prickle of worry flitting across your mind.

“Did anyone show up for you?” you asked, quietly, remembering. Your brows furrowed together, but you still didn’t want to look at him any more. It hurt your chest, your stomach twisting with the pain of what would come tomorrow. 

You saw in your periphery, his head tilt, so much like his animal self, before a realization must’ve struck him of your meaning, “No, no one came.”

“Why?”

“I clean my tracks well.” 

You looked up at him now, eyes narrowing. “But…?”

He drew in a slow breath, almost a sigh. “But I can’t stay for long before they figure it out.”

You studied him, the deep lines at the corners of his mouth, the way his eyes didn’t quite meet yours when he said it. There was something in the air now, heavy and fragile.

“How many lives have you lived?”

You didn’t mean for it to come out that way. It was a silly question, and you knew it, maybe too sentimental, something a romantic might ask in a different world. But he didn’t laugh at your simplicity, your honesty. He just looked at you like he was deciding whether to answer at all.

“Too many,” he said.

“What was your favorite?”

He looked lost, suddenly puzzled. And then, all expression dying from his face as he looked away from you, a frown deepened his features. As if a mask had formed, he turned formal and cold, beautiful, yes, he really was beautiful, but it was like watching his mind go far, far away from here.

“I’m sorry,” you said softly, “I didn’t mean—”

He shook his head, squeezing his eyes shut for a moment before taking a slow, uneven breath.

“I had a daughter.”

“Had?” you asked quietly, your heart was in your throat. You wondered briefly, the last time he’d spoken these words to anyone.

He nodded, opening his eyes again to look at you. And the mask was gone, no longer vacant or cold—but full of something deeper. Pain simmered there, unspoken but poured in from memory, flooding the quiet spaces of his mind. You could see it, all of it, written in the way he looked at you.

“She was my favorite part.”

“What…” you knew you shouldn’t ask, “...what happened?”

He sighed, letting his head fall, and you couldn’t help it, the need to reach out too great. Your hand came up to cup the bowl of his skull, petting the soft hair there—you’d wondered what he’d feel like against you, your fingers in his hair like this. It was softer than you’d imagined, warm from the sun. You could feel his breath slow under your touch, feel the pulse at his neck like a quiet, hidden heartbeat. Your stomach churned again with the way his smell filled your lungs this close, the gland at your wrist throbbed with the nearness of his at the neck, the two of them so close it made your body hum. 

You felt so warm. The sun, the smell of him, the ember of something turning in your gut.

He reached up, pausing your petting, and your throat closed with the thought of rejection, again, he didn’t want you, stop trying to make him want you. He made it clear from the first time you’d met him, in his human form, that he’d never wanted you. You were meant to be alone, and he wanted to be alone.

Two lonely strangers meeting, resisting, wanting. It was an odd thing, a paradoxical torture, really. 

As if reading your mind, as if feeling the way your heart was severing, he took your hand down from his neck, holding your wrist for a long moment. His skin was rough with callouses, hairy over the back of his knuckles, and so goddamn warm. Everything was so warm suddenly. His thumb brushed over the gland there, a soft spongy strip of skin that flushed with pheromones at his touch, oh you really wish he’d stop that. If this was all going to end, he really needed to stop.

Joel

“You have’ta understand,” he said, shaking his head, the words catching low in his throat, “this ain’t about want.”

Joel closed his eyes, he couldn’t speak it if he was looking at you. You, with your big, glazed eyes and warm cheeks, the way he could see the fever starting in you, “I have to be alone. For safety, for other’s…” 

He couldn’t answer you, of what happened to her, he hadn’t spoken of her in such a long time. And the past still lived vividly behind his eyelids like a soreness. Blonde hair in the dirt, blood soaking through his shirt, God, the blo—

“Joel,” you said, hushed, your hand suddenly on his chest. So gentle, delicate little fingers against the thick expanse of him. He opened his eyes, saw your furrowed brow, your little frown. He didn’t want to make you like this. Couldn’t stand himself making you like this.

“It’s okay,” you whispered, “I understand.”

“You understand?”

“Yes, I think so.”

He swallowed, your hand not moving from him. 

“I’m sorry,” you said after a while, when he didn’t speak, “it must be so lonely.”

The word snagged like a shot in the ribs. Lonely. He almost laughed because it sounded too juvenile, so small for what it was. Loneliness had been his country for years. He’d built walls out of it, carved roads through it, learned how to move inside it as a man who’d made peace with the dark. But you saying it now, soft and sad and meant for him, made it feel raw again, open, like he was bleeding from a wound long scarred over. 

“I’m lonely, too.” you added quietly, letting your hands finally fall from him. He fought the urge to grab them back. You weren’t looking at him anymore though, eyes downcast in the grass at your knees, “I was…I was thinking of going to FEDRA.”

Joel bristled.

“To join their matchmaking program, to be paired with someone. Anyone. It’s been so lonely.”

He thought his shoulders would drop in relief at your intended meaning. Not going to FEDRA to turn him in, to tell them about the big scary monster that lived in the woods. No, you were going to turn yourself in. To find…someone else. Another alpha. Better suited to you. Who would take you, knot you, mate you. 

The wolf in him thrashed against the cage of his ribs at the thought. 

“I’m sorry,” he said instead. It was all he could say. He wasn’t sure what for, or why he was saying it now. He quietly hoped it would make up for all of it, though.

“For what?” you asked.

“Being rude.” he decided on.

You smiled faintly, the corners of your mouth twitching, and his heart swelled at the sight. He wasn’t sure he’d ever seen you smile yet, and it was so, so pretty. “Okay. Apology accepted.”

Joel couldn’t help but grin back a little, a foreign feeling in his cheeks, with a little huff of laughter through his nose. He felt your fingers drag along his knuckles where he knelt in the grass. 

“I know you said… you don’t want—” a tsk’ of his tongue and you changed course, “that you can’t have…anyone. But…I don’t know.” you shook your head again with thought, eyes still denying him, a thin sheen of sweat now at your forehead, oh, you smelled so damn good now. He could feel it in the back of his throat, could taste it almost, and every part of him screamed to move, to step closer, to breathe you in until the ache in his chest finally broke. He must get up or leave or force his feet to move away. 

But he couldn’t, wouldn’t.

“I don’t think it would be so bad. To be with you.” you finished.

Joel pulled his hand from your light touch, wrenching away, “It would be. Don’t you see? Look at me.”

You didn’t.

“Look at me, omega.”

Your eyes, oh god, your eyes, they were glassy with fever, your scent filling his lungs—vanilla, spring and summer and cunt, and he was really done for if he stayed even another moment. But you had to know, he had to tell you.

“I need you to listen to me.” he began, breathing in a calming breath, willing the slam of his heart to quell, to soothe the beast that wanted to take your sweet, wide eyes and warm velvet keep and pin you to the ground and fill you there. It was all coming on too quickly, he thought he’d have time to explain himself. He had to explain himself.

“I am selfish, I am not a man worth wantin’. I would ruin you, your life. Always on the run, coverin’ tracks, lookin’ over your shoulder. It ain’t a life I want for anyone, let alone you. And if…” he squeezed his eyes shut for a moment, willing the memory of her from his mind, of the blood in her hair, the dirt, the night air, and then looked at you, hard and serious as he continued. “If we were to have children, they’d never be safe from me. You’d never be safe. When it happens…I ain’t the one behind the wheel anymore. I don’t remember anything and it…goddammit, it terrifies me. What he’d do. He don’t know you, he barely even knows me.”

“But you did.” 

Your voice was shaky, yes, fevered now, he watched the bob of your throat as you went on, “You knew me, Joel. Even as a…wolf, you never hurt me. Even when I didn’t know you, you knew me.” your hand now folds over his, warm and soft where his is calloused and hard in the dirt, “I trust you.”

“Don’t.”

You tilted your head, “What’s the matter, Joel?” whispering, you went on, “You don’t think you deserve anything good, is that it?”

His brow furrowed, gaze turning away. His body wouldn’t fucking listen. He wanted to get up, to run from this, from you, from that unbearable way you looked at him like you saw through all the grime and guilt. A dog with its tail tucked. That's what he was, caught and seen for what he was.

But then you moved. Bent yourself in half, hands pressing to your stomach, a soft sound breaking from your throat that made every muscle in him lock up. A moan, quiet but crooning, and his hand was on you before he could think, palm running up the curve of your back.

“Are you oka—?”

“I feel funny, Joel,” you mewled, the sound high and broken, and it did something to him that terrified him because it was instinct, pure and simple, “Everything hurts.”

Christ above. He should leave. He should get up and run and not look back. But suddenly he felt more himself than ever before, every part lit up in response to that word. Hurting.

And the instinct was as old as his bones rose within him. An alpha soothes and omega in distress—he must soothe and touch and reassure. When the scent turned sharp and pained, his body moved on its own. 

“You’re hurtin’, baby?” he heard himself say, voice gone low, rough at the edges, completely unknown to him. “S’okay, s’okay,” he murmured, his hand rubbing up and down your back in slow circles, the sound that followed not quite words, a soft rumble from deep in his chest meant to calm, meant to tell you that you were safe.

You looked up at him through your lashes, lips parted, panting, eyes glassy. “What’s it like?”

He froze. “What?”

“I’ve never… been with an alpha.”

His throat went dry, “I…we can’t…I can’t, honey, please—”

“Joel,” you cried out gently, as if knowing, knowing what your desperate little cries would do to him, "...alpha."

This was not going to plan. He was so far gone from himself, and yet utterly more himself than he’d ever felt in his entire existence. The way you said his name, the smell of your cunt and panting breath thickening the air until it was all he could breathe. The heat of your back seeping through his palm. The beast paced under his skin was awake now, snarling, drooling at the edge of his restraint.

“It’s so good,” he heard himself whisper, his voice slurred, too honest to be mistaken for anything but animal.

You moaned at the sound, eyes flicking to his mouth, and he felt that look like a pulse through his whole body.

Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck.

“We need to get you home,” he forced himself to say, clearing his throat, trying to clear his goddamn head too.

“No!” you gasped, sitting up straighter, and so fast he reached out to steady you, his hands catching your shoulders. But you were already climbing into him, moving before he could think—legs sliding around his waist, your chest pressed to his, his boots braced in the dirt.

No, no, no. He couldn’t be this close. But he didn’t move. His arms found your back, his hands spread flat between your shoulder blades, holding you there like he’d been made to. His nose went to your neck, to the soft skin just below your jaw, and before he knew it he was breathing you in as you blabbered above him, rutting your hips against his belly.

Don’t take me home, don’t leave me alone, please, please.

“Okay, okay,” he heard himself whisper, nuzzling into your skin. “You’d let me take you here, huh? Out in the woods, for everyone to see?” His voice was quiet, nearly a growl. Hee was done for, he knew it. “That what you want, baby?”

“Oh, yes,” you moaned, delirious now, he could tell. The moment your lips touched his gland behind his ear, he was screaming inside. His eyes went wide, mouth open as he felt your tongue trace it light and curious, and he almost lost himself right there.

“Jesus,” he gasped. Your fingers buried in his hair, tugging until he looked up at you. You leaned down, licked the edge of his lip, and his breath came out shaky, a sound too close to a whine.

And then you kissed him. 

Soft at first, and then increasingly hungry and messy, the wet smacking sound of lips and tongue filling the air. Your mouth opened around his, your tongue slipping against his, and his brain went white. You tasted so sweet, like everything he shouldn’t have, better than he imagined. He groaned into it, a deep sound vibrating up from his chest, your whimpers melting into it, your hips grinding down against his lap.

You were so close, breasts pressed against his chest, your little cunt so fucking close now. It was only a few layers, so warm, he could nearly feel how you drooled slick for him. It would be so easy, easy as breathing, to let himself have you here for the world and God to see.

“You have to know—fuck—please, I have to tell you—” he gasped. But you kept mouthing at his open mouth, suckling his lips, licking between words, until his hand came up behind your neck. If this was happening, because he sure wasn’t going to be able to stop himself if this continued, he needed to tell you. He fisted his hand through your hair and scruffed you, pulling your face back. You went pliant, panting deeply, eyes on him but gone, dreamy and glossy. 

“My rut—it ain’t like a normal alpha,” he shook his head as you moaned, jutting your hips against his, the heat of you bleeding through the layers. “Listen to me, little one. Listen. I need you to listen, baby, okay?”

You nodded. He needed to be gentle, was all. Needed to heed his instincts. 

His fingers softened through your hair, petting you slowly, trying to calm the tremor running through your body. He could feel the damp heat of your skin against his palm, the way your breath shuddered every time he touched you. His hands slid down, finding the small of your back, pressing your center against his lap, your hands spread flat on his chest where his heart pounded hard enough that you could probably feel it.

You were so fucking pretty. Hair tangled, lips parted, eyes glazed and soft, pupils wide and drowning every trace of color he’d memorized. You looked wrecked and fevered, and still, you looked at him like he was something worth wanting. That was it. Yes, he was done. He couldn’t fight this anymore. He could feel it all bleeding out of him, replaced by the kind of need that felt as natural as the wind against his cheek.

“When I get into a rut, sweetheart…” He had to stop and breathe, the words catching in his throat as your hips shifted against his. “It can—sometimes I change. Or I start to.”

Your eyes went a little wide.

Good, you finally were afraid of him. 

“Not always,” he went on, voice low, barely holding steady, he must soothe, “it ain’t always a full change, and sometimes I can stop it. But with—” He exhaled through his nose, shaking his head. “with an omega, I don’t know if I’ll be able to.”

“Okay,” you whispered, cheeks aflame.

“Okay?” he repeated, tilting his head, a half-smile that lightly tugged at the corner of his mouth at your simple answer, your naivety. You smiled gently back as he reached up to brush the damp hair from your forehead, fingers lingering there, “If I change—if I turn into…if the big guy comes out, I need you to stay calm, okay? Don’t fight me or run. It’ll only make it worse.”

You nodded, “What…can I do?”

“Nothin’,” he said softly. “It’ll be okay.” He caught a stray tear that began to bead at your eye with his thumb, rubbed it away, then brought the dampness to his lips before he realized what he was doing. “Such a sweet little omega,” he murmured, almost to himself. “So fuckin’ pretty, too.”

You keened at that, a soft sound fluttering through you as you tilted your head back down to catch his lips with yours.

You

Eventually, he forced himself to his feet, you still clinging to him. He walked a few paces like that, your arms looped around his neck, your legs tangled around his hips. For a while he didn’t seem to mind it—having you pressed to him like something he needed to keep safe. But then, little by little, he eased you down, letting you walk beside him.

Your hand never left him. Always reaching, always touching. His arm, his shoulder, your fingers brushing his sleeve, afraid he’d disappear if you didn’t keep him tethered. His skin was so warm it almost scalded you. Every breath of him was heat.

You felt like something new—like the world had cracked open just to make room for this one impossible thing. It burned and hurt and bloomed all at once.

He took you to his cabin now, opened the door for you slowly and gently. His hand stayed at your back the whole time, steadying you as you stepped inside. The space was dim and quiet, the air heavy with the smell of wood and smoke—and him. You froze for a second, realizing your own scent still lived here too, faint but unmistakable. You hadn’t been erased.

“Make yourself comfortable, baby,” he murmured, voice thick against your ear. “I’m gonna fix us something to eat.”

“Eat?” you echoed, frowning a little, the word feeling foreign now.

“Yeah. Eat.” His hand brushed your arm as he moved past you toward the kitchen. “Go on. Lay down. Rest a minute, whatever you want.”

You stood there a long while, watching him move around the space like a memory come back to life. Then, drawn by something small and helpless in you, you drifted down the short hall to the bedroom.

You couldn’t help it, your nose led you. You climbed into the bed, pressing your face into the pillows where his scent was strongest, warm and smoky and familiar. And…there, faint beneath it, was yours. Lingering, just barely. He hadn’t washed you away.

You pulled the blanket back, smoothed it down, then fluffed the pillows, your hands moving without thought. You rearranged, touched, tucked. It was a little delirious, silly even, but you let your instincts take over as you made your little nest.

And when you looked up again, he was there, the smell of chicken and potatoes and a gravy with some sort of green all heaped onto a plate for you while he watched from the doorway. 

“Come on,” he said softly, ticking his head back behind him, “Made somethin’ for you.”

You did, following him out to the little dining table that only had one chair, and he hefted you up onto his lap, feeding you little bites, your lips closing around the fork in his hand, sometimes fed with just his fingers, tasting the salt of his skin. He made you take big sips of water too, your throat parched for more than drink though. You weren’t really hungry either, your stomach fluttering with need instead, a low ache deep in your core already slick and aching for him.

You made a small sound against his throat when you felt how hard he was beneath you, thick and pulsing, and your body rocked before you could stop it. He groaned low and rough, the sound tearing out of him.

The fork clattered onto the table when the plate was empty. His hand found your throat, thumb brushing up your jaw as he turned your face toward him. “What’re you tryin’ to do to me?”

You keened, leaning into his chest, letting your legs spread across his knees.

“If we do this,” he murmured, his voice almost a growl, “you won’t ever fuck anyone else. Do you understand, little omega?”

Ohhh, that word in his mouth, so filthy. Your eyes rolled back, hips undulating against his thick pressing of his lap. 

“Answer me,” he said again, rougher now. “Or are you too far gone to think of anything but my cock?”

“I understand,” you gasped. “Please, alpha—please.”

He groaned, catching your mouth in an open, wet kiss, breath shared. “Fuck,” he muttered against your lips, “let me see—let me see you.”

His hands slid down, slow, peeling your pants away. You kicked them off haphazardly, trembling and dizzy with want.

“Oh, look at that,” he rasped, tugging your panties down to your thighs. Slick clung between the cotton and your skin, stringing in threads that caught the light. “All this for me, huh?”

Your mind moved sluggishly, everything molten in your veins, every pulse a thread of fire. Vision blurred with the relief of his fingers spreading you open, finally, finally touching you as he parted you for his gaze. With the last threshold of fabric gone from it, his chin hooked over your shoulder, beard scratching against your skin as he looked.

He touched you then, slowly at first, two fingers gliding over your center, flat and sure, tracing every soft place as if he needed to know it all by touch. Your head dropped back against his shoulder, his breath filling the space beside your ear. He kissed the curve where your neck met your shoulder, breathing deep, greedy, like he could scent the need coming off you. Beneath you, his lap was solid heat, the strain of him pressing up against you with every shift of your hips.

“Hurts, Joel, please…” you crooned, voice cracking under the plea.

“Oh, baby, I know. I know. How’s this? What about this?” His voice broke into a low murmur as he slid a finger in, curling it up, cupping your mound as pet the walls of your slick heat. Your mouth opened around a gasp, breath ragged and thin.

“I know,” he whispered again, over and over, breath heavy against your ear. “Feels good, don’t it?”

“More,” you murmured. “More, more, more…” You turned your head toward him, lips brushing his beard as your back arched, chest pushing into his touch. He shoved your shirt up, tearing it off when it wouldn’t stay, your bra dragged down until your breast spilled free into his palm. You cried out when he grabbed it hard, kneading, jostling, his hand too big, too eager.

“Perfect,” he growled, voice rough and unrecognizable. “Perfect little thing.”

Your spine bowed nearly to pain when he pushed a second finger in, twisting them just right to make you cry out again. Then a third, slow and deep, his hand slick and obscene between your thighs. You were unraveling, breaking apart in his lap, his breath wild against your skin. Your first orgasm came with bursts of ecstasy that lasted only a moment, gushing around his fingers.

“Yeah, yes, that’s it,” he rasped into your ear, teeth catching your lobe. “That’s it, good girl. Gonna make it feel so good.”

But it didn’t feel good—not entirely. Or maybe it did, but the pleasure only sharpened the ache burning inside you, twisting it higher until it was unbearable. Your hands clawed weakly at your own throat, sobs beginning to shake through your chest.

Joel continued petting your cunt, but gently now, pulling his fingers from you until he circled his arms around you, pulling you in close, “Okay, hush now. It’s alright. You’re in your heat now, baby, it’s okay—I got you.”

“Joel,” you sobbed, voice cracking as tears streaked down your cheeks. Everything felt too hot: your skin, the sounds, the steady thrum beneath your skin. Your vision swam as his voice coaxed softly in your ear.

“C’mon, honey, we’ll get you in the bed, c’mon now,” he cooed. Lifting you easily, he turned you in his arms as he stood. Your slick soaked through his shirt, riding up until your cunt was pressed to the soft trail of hair leading below his jeans, and you couldn’t help but push your hips hard against the tickle of it. He sat down on the bed, bracing himself against the pillows, stripping off his shirt and pushing his pants away while keeping you in his lap, your body trembling against his chest.

You rolled your hips against him, desperate, chasing any friction that would ease the ache.

“Hey, hey,” he said softly, brushing your hair from your face, tilting your chin so you’d look at him.

You blinked up, dazed by how beautiful he looked, how impossibly lucky you felt to have such a pretty alpha.

He smiled as if he could see all the thoughts across your delirious face. 

“You still with me, little baby?” he asked, kissing your top lip, pulling it into his mouth. You kissed him back, greedier and greedier, both of your mouths parting wider with every pass until your lips were slick, your chin wet where his tongue chased the corner of your mouth. You could taste salt, skin, the faint mint of breath; his beard scraping your chin as he kissed you deeper, until it felt like he was trying to drink the sound of your moans out of you.

And you could feel him—his cock, hot and heavy between you. You shifted down, rutting yourself along him, coating him in your slick until he groaned, a sound so deep it made your stomach tighten painfully. You wanted to hear it again and again and again.

Then his hands gripped you, rougher now, his mouth devouring yours with wet, hungry sounds. You whimpered, clutching at him as he fisted himself, guiding his tip to your entrance. The moment he notched just the head, that first push of warmth and stretch, you arched, trembling at the feeling of him. Both of you broke the kiss only to gasp, mouths agape, lips brushing, tasting the shared air as he eased you down slowly.

He sat upright against the pillows, belly to belly, your chest dragging against his as you sank lower, nipples catching in the dark tufts of his chest. The slide was endless, thick and overwhelming, until you were seated fully, his thighs flush to your ass, his cock buried deep inside you.

“Fuck,” he groaned, voice rough with awe, his hands locked at your hips to steady you, to hold. They slid to your back, palms broad and firm, guiding you closer until your chests were pressed together, “She’s squeezin’ me so tight, huh?”

You moaned breathlessly, eager for more more more, because everything was still so painfully needy inside of you, burning and hungry despite how good he felt stretching you. You started moving, just a slow roll of your hips, testing the give of him, and god he felt so damn good like this, so close, so warm, thick and pulsing inside. His breath broke at the shift of your body, a sound somewhere between a growl and a plea. 

“Yeah,” he murmured against your throat, voice thick with arousal as his tongue flattened to lick your salty skin. “That’s it. Just like that. Pretty little omega takin’ cock so good.”

He leaned in more, mouth finding your shoulder, kissing up to where your gland throbbed beneath the skin, that sacred spot no one was ever meant to touch. The moment his tongue licked over it, your body went white hot. A helpless, keening sound left your throat as he suckled, slow and deep, drawing at the pheromones there, inhaling the scent of your climbing state. It wasn’t a bite, but the feeling of the light graze of his teeth sent a lightning jolt through you all the same, your cunt clenching down tighter, every instinct clawing toward him. Your hips rode faster, not able to help yourself.

“Alpha, alpha, please—” you mewled, wanting more, wanting, more than anything, to feel his teeth sink into you—and your nubby nails clawed into his wide breadth of shoulders, hot to the touch, a fire blazing just beneath his skin. The wet slap of skin over your whining and his grunts sending your eyes rolling.

“Stop, stop, don’t,” he rasped, the words coming out broken, strained, as if something deeper inside him was tearing loose as he unlatched his lips from our skin. And in your haze of misery and ecstasy and pure bliss, your vision swam, but you could see him. 

And he was…changing. 

His face, once so human, began to twist and shudder, his body tensing like it might split apart from within. More dark hair pushed through his skin, coarse and wild, his jaw lengthening, teeth flashing for a moment in the light from the window. His hands gripped at your waist, fingers curling, nails hardening to sharp edges that caught and pricked at your hips. Each sound he made was rougher than the last, more beastial, until you could barely tell if he was groaning in agony or pleasure.

You held on tighter, your body trembling against him, your own heartbeat stuttering at the sight. It felt wrong and beautiful at once, terrifying in its rawness, this man unmade before you.

“Joel—Joel—” you said, still connected, so close, his sounds more and more deep and snarling and angry, even through the pleasure. But how could it be? There was no moon, no reason for the wolf to come. He said something earlier, when you were seeping into your most saturated state, something about… about…

“It’s—ahh—” he breathes heavily, eyes squeezing shut, “—my rut, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, fuck—”

His neck arched back, muscles straining, bones shifting under the surface of his skin, the motion almost too much to look at. You caught his face in your hands, forcing his head down until his eyes met yours, wild and flickering with rage, all the while still that forest green and river blue, the yellow of the animal within. Holding him there, you were trembling, panting, trying to stay rooted in this moment even as your body burned around him, your cunt clenching in waves as he pulsed inside you, deep and thick and steady, like your bodies were made to answer one another. You swallowed down the sounds threatening to pour from your throat, that helpless litany of moans and whimpers, tried to find your way back through the haze of need and heat and fear, tried to be here, with him, with Joel, even as the wildness in him began to rise.

“It’s okay, I’m here, Joel, I’m here, you’re here, with me. Stay here, Joel. Listen to my voice.” 

You cradled his face in your palms, thumbs brushing across the damp heat of his cheeks, his sweat slick against your skin. Beneath your hands you could feel it still, the cracking and grinding of his bones, but they were bending back into place, the hair and beast retreating slowly beneath his skin like a tide drawing away from the shore.

His whole body trembled, heat rolling off him in waves, and for a moment it felt like the room itself had lost gravity, like the air was holding its breath. Then, he exhaled. A long, shuddering breath that left him heavy and slack beneath you. The tremors in his chest eased. His hands, still curled tight at your hips, softened back into something human. His face lowered into the crook of your neck, and you felt the weight of him return all at once—flesh and bone and man again.

“That’s it,” you cooed, pressing your lips to the corner of his, the tickle of his mustache pearled with sweat on his upper lip. 

He gathered you close then, still trembling, still hot, his nose tracing along your jaw, humming. You felt the brush of his lips there, reverent and unsteady, and a single shiver ran the length of your spine.

“You smell so good,” he whispered, human in its softness now, kissing your chin, your lips gently, shivering and sweaty. You held him closer, letting your face fall into his neck, rolling your hips more with a whimpering. 

“I got you, little omega,” he said gently, holding you close, no more space between you, his cock still buried and full of heat inside, “S’just us now.”

Your body trembled around him, legs wrapped tight, chasing the feeling of friction again. Your cunt puffy and slick and full as his breath came heavier, harder, until he was groaning again, his hips thrusting up up up into you with the rocking of your hips.

“Oh! Ah—Joel,” you whispered, overwhelmed and feeling him in your tummy. He only answered in a purring hum, teeth nipping at your skin now, hands gripped hard at your hips once again, hauling you down onto him over and over. 

“Alpha,” you mewled, helpless. It was as if he’d come back alive, completely human but animal in his instincts. Maybe it was the way your body gripped around him, the scent of your slick heavy in the air, or maybe it was just how you knew that word would affect him. You felt it in the tension that suddenly returned to his grip, in the way his breath caught sharp at your throat. His body had steadied, but his rut hadn’t passed—it had only been quelled by his will, now human in its need.

“I know, baby,” he panted, voice cracking with its eagerness. “You feel that? Hmmm?” hips slapping into you, his back pushing further into the pillows, pulling you closer onto him and grinding upward at the end of each thrust. “Gonna fill this sweet pussy, stretch her open, knot you right on my cock where you belong.”

His fingers bruised your waist as he drove up into you again, again, again.

“How’s that sound, pretty girl?” he murmured in your ear as you moaned. “Gonna take all of it for me?”

“Yes,” you cried, high and desperate, animal yourself, needy, instinctual. “Please, please, I want it—”

“Yeah,” he grunted, mouth open, panting. “I know, I know, gonna make it feel so good, baby. Take my knot.”

He slammed up one last time as his cock swelled thick inside you, pressure blooming sudden and perfect, locking you down on him, sealing every inch between you. You gasped, feeling him pulse as his spend shot into you, your body arching, clenching, held wide around the thick, throbbing heat of him. 

“That’s it,” he groaned, voice rasping into your ear. “There you go. That’s it, baby. I got you. You’re so fuckin’ full now, ain’t ya?”

You could barely breathe.

“Want you to come on my knot,” he said, almost soothing now, but still panting, voice thick and dark and low. “You’ll feel better, promise. There won’t be no more hurt, just this. Just me inside you.”

You whimpered, trying to grind down but finding yourself stuck in place. 

“Good girl, sweet girl,” he whispered, chuffing in gentle amusement, “I got you,” his hand slid between your bodies, sitting the both of you back up, his thumb dipping into the flood of slick you made for him, circling your clit, pushing and pressing until your legs were shaking around him, “There you are, c’mon now, be a good little girl and come for me. Come on my knot,”

The sound of your mewls filled the room, matched by his own ragged breath. The tension coiled tighter and tighter until it broke, your body shaking against his, all sound spilling out of you as he held you through it, whispering to you, your name, calling you a good little omega. His arms clenched back around you, holding you down as your climax tore through, soaking him, pulsing against him, moaning and shuddering as you gave yourself up to it. You broke apart in his arms, crying out, your body clenching down impossibly tight around the swollen knot keeping you together.

When it passed, you let your cheek fall onto his shoulder, his chest was rising and falling fast beneath yours, but he was quiet now. The beast in him stilled. No more teeth or snarling, just the wet warmth of your bodies, drenched in sweat and the nectar of you, every inch of you felt locked together.

You stayed like that for a long time, every inch of your body felt sated, split wide open and remade around him. His knot remained swollen, seated deep, keeping you in a hold that felt almost holy as the room turned gold with the evening spilling its honeyed light through the windows. It caught on your sweat drenched skin, warming the curve of his beard lined jaw, the shine of your shoulder. Outside, the world was still with the night slowly creeping in. And inside, only the sound of breath. Yours and his, slowed and matched.

He was petting your head like you were a fragile thing, soft and gentle, fingers carding sweetly through your hair. The pads of his fingertips dragged lightly against your scalp, the two of you purring in your bliss. 

Your eyes blinked open against the warm slope of his throat.

“Can I feel?” you whispered.

“Hm?” he hummed, softly, gravely. 

You turned your face up toward him, your cheek still pressed to the sweaty heat of his skin. “The knot.”

He stilled for a moment, as if the question took a moment to compute in his foggy brain. Then he shifted, large hand slipping beneath your smaller one, lifting it gently from his shoulder. You didn’t move, just watched as he guided it between you, slow and careful, sitting you up.

Your hands descended to the place where your bodies met. You could feel the heat of it before you touched it, wet and swollen and impossibly thick where he filled you.

He wrapped his hand around yours, guiding your fingers to where he stretched you. “Just there,” he murmured. “Most of it’s still inside.”

Your fingertips brushed the swollen ridge where he was seated deep. It was hot, firm. A strange, thick shape, different than the rest of him. Not smooth, but ridged and tight, sensitive to the touch. You could feel the pulse of blood still moving through it, feel the fullness of it stretching you open.

Your voice came out quieter than before. “What does it do?”

He huffed a soft breath, the closest thing to a laugh, the corner of his mouth curling as he looked at you. “Thought you took Biology 101.”

You chuffed back, nose wrinkling faintly, your touch still exploring. The knot was firm but not unyielding, your walls held taut around it.

“It keeps me inside,” he said finally. His voice had gone soft again. “Keeps everything where it needs to be. My spend. All of me. Makes sure it takes.”

You sighed dreamily, your body curling closer as you laid your head back to his shoulder. “Oh,” you whispered. And then, a hum. “I like that.”

He turned his head to kiss your nose, your cheekbone, the shell of your ear. You shuddered against the feeling of his lips on you, blissful in your state. Finally, that ember that burned every month, was soothed. And yet…

“Joel?” you murmured.

His lips paused at your temple. “What is it, baby?”

Your voice turned small. “I want to run away with you.”

His body went rigid beneath yours. A long silence stretched between you before your brain began to tingle with worry.

“I want to stay here,” you said, softer still. “Like this, just like this. Forever.”

You nuzzled into the crook of his neck, your breath warming the sweat damp skin there. 

“Don’t say that,” he said, brokenly. “Baby, don’t say that kind of thing to me. You know…you know what I am, we can’t…I can’t.”

You pulled back just far enough to look at him. His face was flushed, damp, his hazel eyes darkened and stormy. Like the woods after rain. His lips parted around breath that came too fast, like it hurt to breathe at all.

“But I mean it,” you said. “I don’t care what happens. I don’t care who comes looking. I don’t care about anything but this.” Your fingers lifted to his face, brushing his cheek, his thick beard at his jaw. “I want you.”

He made a warning rumble, a deep sound from somewhere in his chest as his hips jerked slightly beneath you. His knot throbbed. You felt his body tense again, that wildness stirring beneath the surface. He was fighting it.

“Joel,” you breathed.

You kissed him before he could say anything. Deep and open, no hesitation anymore. He kissed you back as if his restraint pained him, his mouth wet and urgent, his hands sliding up your back, clutching you like you might disappear. One hand tangled hard in your hair, gripping, guiding, grounding.

“Bite me,” you whispered against his mouth, “Please,” begging, voice thick and trembling. “Joel. Bite me.”

He pulled back, his hand tightening in your hair as he stayed silent.

But your hand cupped his cheek, thumb stroking just beneath his eye. “Please.”

He was shaking his head before the words even left you, the tremor in his jaw betraying how close he was to losing what was left of his restraint.

“I have nothing else,” you said, softer now. “No one else. All I’ve ever wanted is for someone to see me as I am. To love me as I am. And you… Joel, you showed me more than I even knew how to want.”

You pushed your hands into his hair, tugging at the nape, both of you mirrors of one another in more ways than one. Your loneliness, your need, your bodies.

“Please,” he begged. What was he pleading for? For you to stop asking? For you to make him do it? You weren’t sure. You only blinked at him, your chest tightening.

His fingers twitched against your scalp like he wanted to pull you closer but couldn’t justify it. His body was still beneath you, thick and locked inside you, his knot stretched wide in your cunt, and yet the air between you suddenly felt distant.

“Joel—” you asked.

“I can’t claim you.”

The silence that followed was sharp in your ears, a painful ringing behind your heartbeat, and you didn’t understand what he was saying because your body was still clinging to him like you were meant to, because your blood was still singing with it, because your scent had already changed and the fire in your belly had already gone still and calm in the shape of him.

“Cant? Or won’t?” you asked, your voice so soft it barely survived the space between you.

He turned his head, eyes low, jaw clenched so tight the muscle there jumped with tension. 

You felt the pain in your stomach before you knew the feeling of it, the way your blood was rushing cold now, heart thundering against you. You saw his nostrils flare, his eyes suddenly darting back to your face, searching you.

“No,” he said, suddenly urgent, his hand cupping the back of your neck gentler now, thumb brushing soothingly behind your ear. “No, baby, don’t do that. You’re okay. You’re safe. I got you.”

You swallowed hard, blinking fast.

“So all of this is for nothing?” you whispered, the panic blooming behind your ribs now. “You take me. You fuck me, knot me, you say all these things—and I feel it, Joel, and I know you do too—and you’re gonna try to tell me it means nothing?”

His face crumpled, something inside him cracking open.

“It means everything,” he choked out.

He dragged in a breath that shook through his chest. “I ain’t ever wanted anything this bad, and it scares the hell outta me.”

You felt the tension in him, the way he held himself as if one more inch of movement would undo the last thread of restraint he had left. For a heartbeat you thought he might pull away. Instead, to your heart's relief, he bowed forward, pressing his forehead to yours, his breath coming uneven, hot and ragged.

Your hands found his jaw, the coarse rasp of beard biting your palms. His knot, swollen and fierce moments ago, began to ease, the pressure softening between you until you could both breathe again.

For a long time neither of you spoke. You just listened to the slow, broken rhythm of his lungs filling and emptying, the quiet thud of his heart under your chest. When he finally moved, it was only to guide you down beside him, pulling himself out of your clenching entrance, his arm still around you, his body curved close, your spin to his chest.

“I want this,” he said after a while, voice barely above a whisper in your ear. “Want you. Want somethin’ good, for once. I’m just—” he exhaled, the sound almost a sigh, “—I don’t…I don’t know how to do it with…with him.”

You turned toward him, eyes wet but steady. “You won’t lose yourself,” you said. “I trust you. I trust the wolf, I want to be with you.”

Your body remained warm, so warm, the ember settled but still burning bright, like a star made anew in you, still demanding more of him. You couldn’t help the way you wanted to be close to him, and he let you. His thick arm winding around your body, both of you warm as you pushed your bottom up against him. The ache quelled in the feeling of new safety, of him giving in to his most natural needs and instincts. He breathed you in as he nuzzled against you, his nose dragging slow along your ear, his mouth grazing that searing gland just behind your jaw before opening his mouth against it, breath hot, lips trembling. There was a sound in his throat, something unformed and low, half growl and moan, like the beast still stirred in his chest, caught between wanting and ruin.

His hand slid over your stomach, callused and large, fingers pressing into the softness of your belly before dipping down. Not teasing or slow, but needing. His breath hitched when he felt how hot you still were, how slick, how your thighs opened up easily for him, your body responding while your brain went slack again.

He turned you over, reverent in how he moved you to his liking, his chest pushing into your back as he slid his cock back into your velvet clutch, thick and hard, pressing you down into the mattress with the weight of his body, a gasp tearing from your throat that tipped into a cry as his mouth closed over your neck, hot, open, and shaking—before his teeth sank into your flesh.

Your brain splintered at the feeling. The overwhelming surge of being claimed, his groan deep and animal as he fucked into you again, harder now, each thrust sealing the two of you tighter. His tongue lapped at your neck, as if he could soothe even while claiming, and your body gave out beneath him, boneless and burning, undone, finally and completely satiated. You felt the swell of him, the edge of something even deeper, and then he was spilling inside you again, just from the taste of you surrendered, the heat of your skin, the knowledge that he’d finally taken you as his.

And as he unlatched from you, his mouth warm against your skin as he licked and soothed the tender punctures, purring low in his chest, he stayed pressed to your back as he nuzzled, kissed and licked, his breath a balm where he’d marked you.

And as you purred along, soft and sated, your heat quieted, your womb at last content, you heard him chanting between each breath, each kiss.

Mine.

A small smile settles on your face as you meet his gaze, purse on your shoulder, ready to go. Joel rubs the back of his neck, but he’s not nervous. He knows what he wants to ask, and the raw energy of that desire buzzes beneath his skin. 

“Feels like you just got here,” he laments as he lowers his arm. If that were true, the moon and stars wouldn’t be visible in the night sky. 

You nod despite the fact that you’d eaten dinner with your knee against his, talked through a movie tucked into his side, let yourself relish the comfort of being in his home. These days, it feels like yours too. 

“You make it harder to leave every time,” you admit. It’s a light dig.

Joel tilts his head just enough for you to notice. “Do I now?” 

You nod thoughtfully. “You treat me really well,” you say. “Really, really well.” That hadn’t been the case with everybody who entered into your life. Perhaps you’d already expressed that to him in a million different ways, but the emphasis doesn’t feel wrong on a night like this. 

You’ve never had a relationship as steady and constant as what you have now with Joel. The sincerity of  your words warms a proud part of him. 

“I’m happy to,” he says. “You know that, don’t ya?” 

That’s what terrified and delighted him—the ease of it all. Maybe things would be different if it felt like a chore. 

“I know.” 

A smile tugs at Joel’s lips as he steps closer. “Also reckon you know I gotta steal one last good night kiss.” 

Butterflies burst to life in your stomach when Joel cups your cheek and presses his soft lips to yours. He pulls away much too soon, and you’ve never felt the lingering ache of want quite like this. The feeling weaves itself between the bones of your ribcage. 

“I’ve been thinkin’,” he starts, hopeful. “Would you wanna stay the night?” 

A lump forms in your throat. You hadn’t brought any extra clothes or toiletries. And you’d left the light on above your stove to ensure you didn't come home to a dark apartment. Even then, the response to Joel’s question is a reverberating yes in your mind. It’s the only answer that makes sense when you’ve been unsure about so many decisions in this life. 

“If you’ll have me.”  

He kisses you in place of an answer, large hands kneading your waist like you’re his tether to Earth. A small sound rises up your throat when his tongue runs over your lower lip in a light, almost ticklish sweep. 

Joel pulls away, eyes searching yours. 

“M’sorry,” you breathe shyly. 

He strokes your cheek with his thumb. “I like hearin’ ya.” 

The new warmth that spreads through you is deeper, unfamiliar, more consuming. Joel has never been one to refrain from dishing compliments or a well-timed remark. Now something different burns beneath the gruffness of his voice. 

“Wish I heard you more sometimes,” he continues. “You’re my little church mouse.” There’s a disarming glimmer in his eyes.

You pout as a smile threatens to break through. “No I’m not.” 

You could be loud if you needed to be. Joel had the singular ability to hear you even when you hadn’t said a word. You never had to vie for his attention or assert yourself for fear of going unheard. 

As a stillness settles between you, he slips his thumbs beneath your shirt to brush your stomach. He smirks when you look down at his hands to escape his gaze. 

A pleasant flame has kindled within you.  

“Might as well get comfy again since you’re stayin’,” he says, then amends, “Since you can’t seem to get enough of me.”

You huff a laugh and look up at Joel again. He’s handsome in the dim light of the foyer. A few strands of silvering hair fall onto his forehead. His dark eyes bear that same intensity that always drew you in instead of away. This time, it’s you who raises a hand to his face. Your fingertips run over his prickly scruff, and his eyelashes flutter when you run a finger down the slope of his nose. 

That indescribable tug within you hasn’t faded away 

“Like what you see?” Joel asks, voice low, partly teasing. 

He doesn’t move for fear you’ll pull away. You trace the dip of his Cupid’s bow, and when you go lower, he puckers his lips against your finger in a delicate kiss. Your gentle touch and heavy eyelids have made more warmth kindle low in Joel’s belly. It’s your thoughtfulness that does it for him. You’ve never been quick to rush into anything. You always think, then think some more, and he can see that’s what’s happening now. 

“I’ve always liked what I’ve seen,” you finally say. 

“Well, there’s a whole lot more of me.” He presses in. “We can take this upstairs if you’d like.” 

“Alright,” you murmur, lowering your hands from his face. 

“Yeah?” 

“Yeah.” 

Joel offers his hand. It nearly engulfs yours as he leads you towards the staircase. 

•••

In his bedroom, his lips find yours in an fervent kiss, hands firm where they grasp along your sides. You’re so dizzy, you lose track of everything except Joel. Reality rushes in when you begin to fall backwards. 

After your back hits the mattress, Joel’s plush lips trail a line to your jaw and down your throat. His body is solid above yours, but you don’t feel the brunt of his weight. Your hands shakily comb through his disheveled hair as your heart hammers in your ears. It feels like you’re a live wire and he’s the water making you spark. 

When he stands, leaving you lying there, the rise and fall of your chest is embarrassingly pronounced. You watch with hooded eyes as he pulls off his shirt. Wispy hair is splayed across his chest, and a darker line of it leads down from his navel. He’s broad and rugged. 

“Told you there was more,” he drawls with a smile in his voice. 

You’ve never wanted another person as more as you want Joel now. But you can’t help but be aware of the fact that you’re out of your depth. Aside from what you’ve gathered vicariously, this is new. You don’t have half the courage you imagined you would. 

You manage to push yourself upright on shaky arms. That’s when Joel notices the look in your eyes. 

“I didn’t hurt ya, did I?” his brows furrow with worry. “M’sorry.”

You swallow and shake your head. “I’m just a little nervous.” 

“Nerves are okay,” he assures. “Long as you want this.”

“I do,” you promise. 

Joel studies you to be sure. “I want you real bad, but the world’ll keep turning if we don’t have sex tonight.” 

There’s something about his shamelessness and directness that makes you want him even more. 

“Don’t wanna screw this up.” You exhale a self-deprecating laugh, and Joel purses his lips. Then the deeper truth comes out, “Want it to be good for you.”  

Joel scrubs at his scruff with a husky chuckle. “Got me all wound up, so I’d say you’re off to a helluva start,” he says, then his gaze softens. “It’s already good for me.” 

His words give you enough courage to lift your shirt over your head. Your bra is trimmed with lace, and the crotch of his jeans grows tighter. You’re so beautiful that sometimes he can’t believe it—mind and body. 

You still his hands as he begins to unbuckle his belt. 

“May I?” The way you blink up at him makes him curse under his breath. 

You pull his belt free from the loops when you’re done. After popping the button and dragging the zipper down, Joel goes weak in the knees when you peer up at him with a sweet, shy smile. Then his breath catches when you lean forward to kiss the pudge of his belly. You bite your lower lip as he pushes his pants down and kicks them to the side. 

The bulge between his muscular thighs is prominent through his gray boxer briefs. It swells as you unexpectedly unclasp your bra and toss it to the floor. 

“Christ, sweetheart,” he groans, palming himself. 

With his free hand, he gingerly cups one of your breasts and runs his thumb over your pebbled nipple. The sensitivity makes you jolt. 

“Wanna scoot up the bed for me?” 

You move before the full sentence has left Joel’s mouth, a little braver now. The mattress dips as he crawls overtop of you. It all happens so fast. His lips find the pulse point of your neck, then descend along your sternum in a line of kisses. He strays off course to pepper some over the supple skin of your breasts, then even lower. Your hips shift as he kisses your stomach. 

With deft fingers, he undoes your shorts and helps you shuck them to the floor. Joel guides your knees to a propped position, then lays between your legs like he belongs there. The muscles of your thighs twitch with the threat of closing as his finger teases along the seam of your panties. 

“Joel…” you say his name because you’re not sure what else to say and it feels like you’re on fire. 

“Just admiring,” he assures, stilling. “You doing okay? Just say the word.” 

The thought of this ending pains you. “Please don’t stop.” 

Joel hides his knowing smile in the hot kiss he presses beneath your bellybutton, then over the top of your mound, then over the damp fabric where you ache for him. An unsteady breath leaves you when he hooks both index fingers beneath your waistband and stares into your eyes so deeply you want to hide. 

“How ‘bout we get these outta the way...” 

Joel is nothing short of careful and attentive as he drags the fabric down your legs. Upon resettling between them, he kisses your inner thighs, noting the way your muscles jump. He’s so close, the fan of his breath feels cool where your arousal has gathered.

“So here’s the deal,” he starts in a low timbre that makes you clench around nothing. “I’m really good with my hands… amongst other things.” He pauses to trace the crease of your thigh. He’s surprised his own voice doesn’t waver at the sight of you glistening for him, because of him. “Just gotta let me know when something’s workin’ for you and we’ll be aces.” 

It’s a miracle you don’t melt straight through the mattress. 

“Okay.” It’s your quietest response all night. 

“Okay,” he parrots with a glimmer in his eyes. 

You’ve never been this turned on in your life. This hot. 

“I don’t think I’m gonna make it,” you admit in a murmur.  

The thicker, dazed quality of your voice makes Joel kick up in his boxers. As his lips twitch in amusement, he fights the urge to take you right this second. 

“Guess we’ll pray for the best then.” 

The world freezes when the pad of his middle finger finds your clit and begins to rub firm circles. When your brows pinch together, he trails it downwards through your slick entrance as it flutters in want. 

He ventures back to your swollen bud to work a steady pace. The pleasant tension within your core roots even deeper than before, snaking and expanding. Holding your breath and tensing your muscles seems to make it swell faster. 

“Relax, sweetheart,” Joel soothes. “It’ll feel better on the tail end if you do.” 

You’re too worried he’ll stop not to listen. 

“There ya go,” he praises. “Think I’m ready for a taste.” 

There’s no further preamble before he presses a feathery kiss to your clit. At your jolt, he suckles it into his mouth and feels out your reactions. Your fingers immediately curl into his taupe sheets, but that’s not enough, so you bury them in Joel’s hair to scratch against his scalp. The stimulation paired with the warmth of his mouth grows to be so much that your thighs involuntarily close around his head. His stubble prickles against your velvety skin. 

The vibrations of Joel’s hum remind you that he’s a real person down there, and you force your legs back open with what’s left of your coherency. He rewards you by running the flat of his tongue from your opening to your clit. Electricity prickles beneath your skin as you arch off the bed to chase him. 

This time, he sucks your clit into his mouth with more pressure than before and you lose yourself in the sensation. 

Before long, he lifts up and replaces his mouth with his finger. 

“Feelin’ good?” His question comes as you cant up into his touch with a quivery breath. “What’s my baby want more of?” 

You whimper because, as impossible as it seems, he hasn’t done anything you don’t prefer. You want more of everything—whatever he’s willing to give. If he does happen to fall off the mark, you’re certain he’ll find it again before you even say a word. 

Joel is gracious enough not to make you spell it out. He takes it upon himself to draw an orgasm so strong and concentrated out of you, that all you can do is shut your eyes and surrender to the swell as he sees you through. 

Your eyes flutter open just as he shuffles back off the bed to push his boxers down. His cock lifts towards his stomach in a smooth, impressive swing. Traversing veins are strained along the length of him and his mushroom tip is flushed in a testament to his need. Dark, wispy curls surround his base. 

A fresh surge of eagerness and anticipation warms you down to your toes. Joel smiles shyly when your eyes flit up to his, and it’s the first time all night he’s looked a little self-conscious. You’re the first person he’s bared himself to in quite some time. 

Words escape you as he crawls back over your frame. He braces one hand beside your shoulder and uses the other to give himself a few tugs to ease the ache. You’re beautiful beneath him, all wide-eyed and longing. 

His stomach clenches when you reach out to replace his hand, tentative and careful as if he’ll break. You give him a couple strokes, and even though there’s a bit more friction than he would normally prefer, it feels good because it’s you. He’s rigid in the palm of your hand, throbbing in dull pulses. You’re not sure if gorgeous is the appropriate word, but it’s the only one you can think of. 

“I’ve been missing out,” you lilt after working up the courage. 

Joel flushes as he laughs, those lovely crinkles forming at the corners of his eyes. He lowers to kiss you, then guides the tip of his arousal to your cunt. The beady pearl of his wants mixes with the glide of you, and you frown when he stops to reach towards the nightstand drawer. 

As he resumes his position, you realize he’d grabbed a condom. He rips the packet open with his teeth and promptly rolls the rubber down himself. 

“Think m’gonna pass out if I don’t get inside you soon,” he says, eyes searching yours to check in. Even in his brazenness, there’s a familiar honeyed quality to his voice that sets you at ease. 

You laugh even as a small spell of apprehension returns. Joel notices, and refuses to let the levity dissipate so you don’t fall back into your head. 

“Is that funny?” he asks in feigned offense. “You’re the one who’s got all the goddamn blood in my head rushing south.” 

He playfully pinches at your waist and a breathless giggle stutters out of you as you squirm. When you helplessly look up at him, Joel smooths a hand over your skin as fondness settles in his dark eyes. 

“Hey. Remember what I said?” he asks as he lines himself up between your thighs. “Just say the word.” 

The sensation of him pressed hot and heavy against your entrance has cleared everything from your mind except desire. 

“I’m okay.” An encouraging smile pulls at your lips. “Just need you really bad, Joel.” 

Hearing his name makes him twitch as he runs himself through your folds. 

“M’right here, baby.” He notches at your entrance. “Deep breaths for me, okay?” 

A dull ache thrums through you as Joel eases into your warmth. You whine after the thickness of his tip has breached. 

“That’s it,” he coos. “Just like that.”

All you can do is hum airily and watch where he disappears within you.

“Feels like heaven already,” he compliments. “Keep breathing, we’re getting there.” 

Tears prick in your eyes because the stretch is new, and beautiful, and overwhelming. That soft, focused look in his eyes only adds fuel to the fire because pleasure and eagerness burn just beneath. You never realized how harrowing it was to be wanted so intensely. For the longest time, you wondered if it was possible for someone to feel such a way about you, and here Joel was in the flesh. 

“Know there’s a lot of me,” he grits. “Doing so well…”

When he bottoms out, both of you sigh in relief. It feels like you’re floating even though you’re pinned beneath his strong frame. Warmth radiates from his skin. 

“Oh—god,” you breathe. 

Joel chuckles as he eases out of you, “Close.” He thumbs a circle around your clit. 

The initial pressure subsides as Joel begins to thrust, biceps flexing as he shudders with pleasure. He takes it slow and steady, each drag more intoxicating than the last. His reach deepens as he lowers himself onto his forearms and you hook your ankles around the backs of his thighs. Stroke after stroke, he hits that spongy spot within you just right. Joel can hardly believe how snug and warm you are. 

“You’re in trouble,” he rasps. 

“W-why?” you whimper. 

“I’m never gonna get my fill of this.” 

You paw at his biceps and shoulders, not exactly sure how or where to touch him to ground yourself. Scratching your nails down his back earns a satisfied growl, and when you dig your fingernails into the meat of his backside, he gives a pointed thrust that makes you bite back a cry. 

“Lemme hear those pretty sounds, mouse.” 

You’re unable to help the next breathy moan that escapes you. 

“You’re perfect,” The moment has you so blinded that’s all you can see him as—his cock included. 

It’s a broken confession.

Joel dots a few lazy kisses over the apple of your cheek, then touches his forehead to yours. It’s almost too much—his wrecked grunts, the graze of his chest, the sound of skin meeting skin where he stretches open the most tender part of you. 

It is too much.

“I’m gonna—” your breath catches in your throat. “Joel.” 

“Let go for me, babygirl,” he coaxes. “Lemme have it.” 

The tension embedded within you winds undone in an instant. Pleasure radiates as your walls contract around him in strong, rhythmic pulses. In another life, where he wasn’t completely gone and taken by you, Joel would’ve been able to hold out. But he’s only a man. 

A gasp escapes you as he gives one last deep thrust. His balls draw up as the insistent tug low in his gut drives him to spill into the condom, stomach tensing with each relentless spurt. You rub his back as he rides it out with a shudder. You’re achy, but more than content to shiver through the aftershocks. The two of you stay like that for a while, basking in each other’s closeness, the haze. Still joined as one. 

Something in the air shifts, the gravity of it all finally pressing in. 

Joel looks spent and satiated as he lifts up to meet your gaze. “You okay?” he wipes the tear off your cheek. The way you look at him suggests you’re expecting him to answer for you. As if you’ll be whatever he says. 

“You’re okay,” Joel decides, kissing your forehead. 

You weakly cup his cheek and guide him to kiss you. 

“I love you,” he whispers against your lips. 

Your chest flutters. “I love you too.” 

All Joel can think about as he reluctantly slips out of your heat is that he’s glad you stayed. When he begins to soothingly massage your thighs, you’re almost certain you’ll never want to leave again. 

-

Thank you so much for reading! Please know that you’re feedback means the world to me. I love reading your thoughts and it makes writing for you guys all the more worth it. Likes, comments, and reblogs greatly appreciated. ♡

JOEL MASTERLIST 

(*denotes smut)

Ⅰ. troubled cure, for a troubled mind - “It’s called E. This is what you were asking about, right?”

Ⅱ. the things behind the sun - “I would always rather be happy than dignified.”

Ⅲ. look out, she'll pull you in* - “I’m proud of you.”

Ⅳ. mine's a tale that can't be told - “So this is… Dungeons and Dragons, huh?”

Ⅴ. crazy, for thinking my love could hold you* - “You like control? In bed. When you fuck.”

Ⅵ. in the midnight hour, I can feel your power* - “I had a dream about you.”

Ⅶ. every time it rains, you’re here in my head - "Yeah. Beautiful."

There were worse ways to start a Sunday. In fact, there weren’t many better.

You were turned away from him, your back bare, one leg pulled up slightly beneath the quilt, the other kicked free like always. His Henley clung loose to your frame, collar slipped wide enough to show the curve of your shoulder. That same freckle. That same spot he always kissed first.

He could’ve reached for you then, but he didn’t.

Not yet.

Something about this, just watching you breathe, chest rising and falling in slow rhythm, felt like it should be savored. Like a blessing you didn’t look in the mouth.

Because some mornings he still didn’t believe it. Still thought maybe he’d wake up and find himself back in that old life, back in the silence that came after Sarah left for college and the house got too quiet too fast. Back when mornings were just time to kill before work and evenings were beer and whatever was on the TV loud enough to drown out his own thoughts.

He hadn’t known he missed softness until he had it again.

And now?

Now he was scared of losing it. Not in the way that had him checking locks three times or holding his breath every time you drove somewhere after dark. No, this was quieter. Deeper. This was the kind of fear that curled low in his gut when you smiled at him across the table, when you laughed into your coffee mug, when you kissed him without a reason.

Because this—you—had cracked him open. And it was beautiful. And it was terrifying.

His hand moved before he even meant to, fingertips ghosting along the bare curve of your hip where the shirt had ridden up in the night. Your skin was warm. Soft. He let his thumb trace the edge of a stretch mark, a place his mouth had memorized long ago.

You didn’t stir.

Not yet.

Joel shifted onto his side, slowly, the mattress dipping under his weight. He propped himself up on one elbow, leaned close enough that his breath stirred the strands of your hair where they fanned across the pillow.

He stared.

Let himself really look.

You were beautiful when you were awake, God knew he thought that every time you rolled over, hair a mess, lips dry from sleep. But this, this version of you, still caught in the safety of sleep, unconcerned and soft—was something else entirely.

He didn’t deserve it. But he had it. And he was learning not to flinch from that truth.

“Hey,” he whispered, not loud enough to wake you.

Just enough to say it.

A pause.

Then he leaned down and pressed a kiss to your shoulder. The kind that wasn’t asking for anything. The kind you’d feel before you registered the touch.

Another one, just under your jaw. Slower.

You made a small sound, barely audible. A hum, more breath than voice.

His hand slid up, palm curving to your waist, thumb brushing skin just beneath the hem of the shirt. He didn’t move beyond that. Just held you. Felt the shape of you.

“Still sleepin’, huh?” he murmured, voice low, rough with the weight of morning.

You didn’t answer. But your body shifted slightly toward him, that familiar unconscious reach for his warmth.

That got him. Every time.

He buried his face in the crook of your neck, breathing you in. Cedar and salt and something only you. His mouth brushed the curve just beneath your ear. No intention, not yet. Just presence.

You stirred again, and he smiled into your skin.

“Got coffee waitin’,” he said softly, words more vibration than sound.

Then, reluctantly, he pulled away, leaving a final kiss at your spine before slipping out from under the sheets. The quilt tugged with him, and you groaned softly, curling into the warm place he left behind.

Joel stood at the edge of the bed for a moment, looking down at you like a man trying to memorize every goddamn detail.

Then he turned, bare feet creaking quietly over the floorboards, and padded toward the kitchen.

He liked the kitchen best in the morning.

Especially on Sundays, when the light came in pale through the window over the sink, slicing across the counter in quiet gold. The old tile still held last night’s cool, and the walls echoed faintly with silence. No traffic. No phones. Just the quiet breath of a house that knew how to rest.

Joel poured two mugs, the French press heavy in his hand. He left them both black, knew you liked to doctor yours after the first sip. Knew exactly how much sugar you’d eventually add, even if you claimed not to have a sweet tooth.

He stood there for a moment, one hand on the counter, watching the steam curl from the mugs. Then he turned the record player on low, just a little vinyl static, something mellow, something that wouldn’t wake you too quick. A habit now, this. Soundtracking your mornings like a goddamn movie.

One sip burned his throat in a way he liked.

He took both mugs, careful not to spill, and made his way back down the hall, footsteps instinctively soft on the old boards.

When he reentered the bedroom, the shape of you had shifted.

You were on your back now, one leg still tangled in the quilt, the other stretched long toward the far corner of the mattress. Joel’s Henley had ridden up a little higher, exposing a sliver of stomach, soft and warm-looking in the morning light. Your hair was a mess. Your lips were parted.

His chest tightened. God, he loved you like this.

You blinked once, slowly, and he saw it, the moment you registered him. The way your eyes softened, still hazy, the way your face didn’t quite smile but looked like it wanted to.

“Mornin’,” he said quietly, holding out the mug.

You took it without a word, fingers brushing his, the ceramic still warm between your palms.

“Didn’t know if you’d want it sweet yet,” he added, settling beside you on the edge of the bed.

Your voice came low, scratchy from sleep. “Gimme a second.”

He chuckled. “Didn’t mean to wake you.”

“Liar.”

Joel grinned down at the mug in his hands. “You caught me.”

You sipped slowly, eyes closing on that first taste, and Joel watched the line of your throat shift as you swallowed. His free hand came up to tuck a piece of hair behind your ear, knuckles trailing along your cheek just a second longer than necessary.

“You always do that,” you said without opening your eyes.

“Do what?”

“Stare at me like I’m a sunrise or some shit.”

Joel made a low sound in his throat, something between a laugh and a protest. “Ain’t my fault you look like that in the mornings.”

You cracked one eye open and squinted at him. “Like what?”

He let the quiet stretch. Sipped his coffee. Finally said, “Like peace.”

The word dropped into the room like something sacred.

You didn’t tease him for it. Just looked at him for a long moment, then reached for his free hand, sliding your fingers between his like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Which, by now, it was.

Joel leaned in and kissed your temple, then your jaw, then the corner of your mouth. Not asking for more. Just, touching. Just needing.

You set your mug aside on the nightstand, then shifted toward him, knees folding beneath you as you crawled into his lap. One leg over his thigh, arms loosely looped around his neck.

His coffee went to the floor beside the bed.

Your face tucked into the curve of his neck, and Joel wrapped his arms around you, one hand smoothing up your back, the other resting at the small of it. He could feel the warmth of your thighs against his skin, the softness of your belly through the thin cotton of your shirt.

Neither of you spoke.

You just breathed like that for a while, wrapped up, limbs tangled, chests rising in slow rhythm. Like two people who’d remembered exactly what Sundays were for.

Eventually, you pulled back just enough to look at him. There was still sleep in your eyes, but the smile was there now. Real. Warm. Easy.

“What time is it?”

“Don’t matter.”

You hummed. “You got somewhere to be, Miller?”

He shook his head slowly, forehead brushing yours.

“Just here.”

And he meant it -

The kitchen smelled like butter and heat and something warm rising in the skillet, pancakes, maybe. Joel hadn’t quite been paying attention. He was too busy watching you move.

Not in any kind of hungry way. Not yet, anyway. This was slower. Deeper. Something that hummed low under the skin.

You were barefoot, standing in front of the stove, one hand on your hip, flipping something with practiced ease. Joel leaned against the counter nearby, mug still half-full, pretending not to notice how the hem of his Henley danced higher up your thighs every time you reached for the spatula.

He was content just to be here. Watching you hum under your breath. Listening to the lazy sizzle of batter on cast iron. The light filtered in golden through the windows and caught in your hair like a memory.

Joel didn’t say much. Neither did you.

Didn’t have to.

Your movements around each other had become a kind of quiet language. You shifted left, he stepped right. You reached for the sugar, he slid it closer. His palm brushed your lower back once as he passed behind you, and your hand found his waist without looking. Just touch, passing like breath. Natural. Easy.

It wasn’t lost on him how rare that was.

He thought of all the years when mornings meant silence for a different reason. When the kitchen was just a place to grab coffee and stare out the window for too long. When conversation felt like a thing you had to push through. Back then, peace had meant being alone. Now, it lived in the space between two bodies who’d learned each other by heart.

You leaned down to open the cabinet, and the shirt rode up again—God help him—and Joel had to turn back toward the sink or he’d forget what breakfast even was.

“You makin’ ‘em crispy on purpose?” he asked, voice low, half a smirk curling at the edge.

You turned, spatula still in hand. “You like ‘em crispy.”

“Mm,” he grunted. “Didn’t say I didn’t. Just sounds like you’re tryin’ to seduce me with pancakes.”

“Is it working?”

He shot you a look over his shoulder—dry, amused, and entirely undone.

You grinned.

Then—

The creak of the front door.

Joel straightened instinctively, spine going taut for half a second before relaxing again.

“You better not be making out in there,” Sarah’s voice rang out, footsteps soft on the hallway rug.

You muffled a laugh behind your hand.

Joel sighed like a man ten years younger, already tired.

“She always comes in loud,” he muttered under his breath, and you nudged him with your hip.

Sarah appeared a second later, Trader Joe’s tote slung over one shoulder, her other hand holding up a brown paper bag triumphantly.

“Peaches,” she declared. “From that little stand off Lamar. Like actual good ones. You’re welcome.”

Joel arched a brow. “You’re late.”

“I was acquiring produce, Dad. Calm down.”

You stepped forward, already grinning. “Those the ones with the white flesh or the orange?”

“Orange” Sarah dumped the bag on the counter. She kicked off her shoes, dropped her tote by the fridge, and launched into a story about getting cut in line by a man in cowboy boots and a full kilt. You listened, head tilted, asking all the right questions, laughing in all the right places.

Joel listened, too. But quieter.

He poured her coffee the way she liked it—cream first, then the hot pour. Something he never did when she was younger. Something he didn’t even know to do back then.

He set the mug on the table as she launched into an impassioned argument about why yellow peaches were superior to white ones.

And he just… watched.

Watched the two of you banter across his kitchen like you’d always been this way. Like this house had always sounded like this.

Sarah kicked her feet up onto the chair beside her, loose ponytail falling over one shoulder. She looked lighter these days. Happier. And Joel couldn’t tell if that was college, or the peaches, or you.

Probably you.

He leaned in the doorway, arms crossed, trying not to let it show too much. But his chest ached a little with it. The good kind. The kind that reminded him he’d been given something he didn’t think he’d ever get again.

A family. A real one.

And underneath all that—tucked quiet and sharp—was the guilt.

Because Sarah hadn’t always gotten this version of him. Not the one who made coffee soft, or kissed you slow in the morning, or remembered to say I love you out loud. She’d gotten the rough version. The survival-mode version. The man who worked too much and said too little. The one who was always there, but only just.

He was better now. He knew that. But some mornings—like this one—it still caught up to him. The years he couldn’t rewind. The words he should’ve said.

His eyes found you again. You were cutting the peaches now, smiling as Sarah leaned over your shoulder to steal one off the board.

Joel swallowed hard.

Yeah. He hadn’t known how to be soft then.

But you made him want to be better now. -

The screen door creaked as Joel stepped onto the porch, two plates in his hands. Yours and Sarah’s were already on the little round table, cracked enamel, legs uneven. One of the chairs was half-broken, but Sarah always chose it anyway.

You sat across from her, legs tucked up in Joel’s old flannel, sipping your coffee like it was a ritual. One bare foot stretched toward the sun. Sarah was already mid-story, arms moving as she narrated something about her roommate’s attempt to make sangria in a salad bowl.

“She swears she read it somewhere online, but I’m telling you, it was just fruit soup. With tequila.”

You laughed, head tipped back, the sound catching in the warm breeze like music.

Joel didn’t sit right away.

He just stood there for a moment, plates in hand, letting the scene sink in.

The porch sagged slightly in the middle. The chairs didn’t match. One of the steps creaked loud enough to wake the neighborhood if you weren’t careful. The hydrangeas needed water. A neighbor’s dog barked every ten minutes like clockwork.

But fuck if it wasn’t perfect.

You looked over at him and smiled, easy and soft, and he realized he hadn’t moved yet.

Joel cleared his throat, set the plates down, and finally lowered himself into his chair. It groaned under his weight, another thing he needed to fix, but you reached for his hand under the table, thumb brushing over his knuckles like a quiet good morning all over again.

Sarah bit into a peach slice and moaned dramatically. “Okay. Okay, I take it back. White peaches are elite.”

Joel raised a brow. “That the official ruling now?”

“I reserve the right to change my opinion as often as I like.”

You grinned. “Just like your dad.”

Joel cut his eyes at you, but there was no real heat behind it. You knew that.

Sarah snorted. “Please. He’s been a stubborn old man since he was thirty.”

Joel took a slow sip of his coffee. “That so?”

“Uh, yeah. Remember when you refused to buy a dishwasher? Said it was a government scam.”

“It was overpriced.”

You smiled at him over your mug. “You still rinse everything by hand, even with a dishwasher.”

“Outta principle.”

You squeezed his fingers under the table. “You’re adorable.”

Joel groaned.

Sarah looked between you, amused, one brow raised.

“So when are you guys gonna get a dog?”

Joel nearly choked on his coffee.

You, though, cool as anything, just tilted your head. “You think he could handle a dog and me at the same time?”

Sarah smirked. “Barely.”

Joel held up a hand. “Y’all better be grateful I made pancakes.”

“You flipped two,” Sarah said, stealing a piece off his plate. “She made the rest.”

You laughed into your mug, and Joel shook his head, trying not to smile.

The sun rose higher, heat beginning to settle over the porch in slow waves. Somewhere down the block, a lawnmower sputtered to life. Cicadas started to buzz in the hedges. The wind stirred the edge of the curtain behind the screen door, and for a moment, everything in the world felt settled.

Joel watched you and Sarah trade stories, about music, food, places neither of you had been but wanted to see. You mentioned a little bookstore downtown she’d love. Sarah said you two should take a pottery class. You asked about her job; she asked about your garden.

He didn’t say much. Didn’t need to.

He was too busy watching this new thing unfold in front of him. This version of his life where his daughter and his woman shared space not out of obligation, but ease. Out of something deeper. Something earned.

Joel leaned back, one ankle crossing over his knee, plate balanced on his thigh.

You said something that made Sarah laugh loud, hand smacking the table, and Joel just sat there for a long moment, looking between the two of you.

His hand slipped from under the table, found the warm skin of your thigh beneath the hem of the flannel. He didn’t squeeze. Just rested it there, like an anchor. Like a prayer.

No one said anything about it.

Didn’t have to. -

The screen door clicked shut behind her.

Joel stood at the end of the driveway, hand still raised in a small wave as Sarah’s car disappeared around the bend, brake lights flickering once before vanishing behind a hedge. The cicadas were louder now, the sun hanging high above the rooftops, pressing heat into his skin through the fabric of his shirt.

He waited a beat longer than he needed to.

Just stood there, hands on his hips, like he was still watching. But really, he was just listening. For the quiet. For what came after.

When he finally turned back toward the house, something in his chest shifted. Not relief exactly—not that. Just a kind of... settling.

He loved Sarah more than he knew how to say.

But the house always felt right again when it was just you.

He stepped back onto the porch, boots scraping against the weathered boards. The plates were gone now, probably rinsed and stacked by the sink like always. The table was empty except for the peach pits and a mostly-melted pat of butter.

The door was still ajar.

Inside, the living room was dim and cool, ceiling fan spinning slow. A low hum came from the kitchen, maybe a record still playing. Or maybe just the dishwasher. Hard to tell.

Joel grabbed the cold bottle of water he’d left by the back door and headed outside.

The backyard was mostly shade now, pecan trees stretching tall and rustling lazy in the breeze. His tools were already laid out on the makeshift work table he’d set up last week. Two planks, a few brackets, the half-built bench he kept putting off because weekends like this one had a way of getting away from him. In the best kind of way.

He rubbed the back of his neck, stretched once, then bent to it.

Sanding. Measuring. Adjusting the level with that slow precision he’d always liked. There was something about wood and sweat and the ache in his shoulders that made him feel real again. Grounded.

He didn’t hear you at first.

Didn’t see you either.

But halfway through aligning the corner brackets, something pulled at the back of his neck. That sixth sense. That little hum he always got when you were close.

He looked up, and there you were, framed in the kitchen window.

Your hands were buried in the sink, sleeves pushed up, hair pulled back loosely at the nape of your neck. The curve of your jaw caught the light. Joel could see the way your brow furrowed as you scrubbed a dish, the way your eyes flicked up for just a second—

Caught him.

You didn’t look away right away. Neither did he. Then your mouth curved, slow and knowing, before you ducked your head again. Joel exhaled through his nose, something warm and aching blooming low in his chest. You didn’t need to say anything. You never did.

He turned back to the bench.

Hammered the next screw in with just a little more care than he had before.

The dryer buzzed softly, then fell silent. -

Joel wiped the back of his hand across his brow, tossing the wrench aside as he stepped back from the bench. The wood was coming together, finally, but the sun was too damn high, and sweat had soaked through the collar of his shirt hours ago. He tugged it over his head with a grunt and let it fall over the back of one of the porch chairs.

Inside.

That’s what he needed.

Cool air. A glass of water. Maybe your voice calling his name from the hallway.

The screen door creaked open behind him, the sound familiar, worn like the rest of the house. He stepped inside and paused. Let the difference wash over him, the hush of indoors, the gentle churn of the washer somewhere down the hall.

And you.

You were standing in front of the dryer, basket on the floor, half-folded towel in your hands.

His shirt hung low on you, his old Henley. Sleeves pushed up, collar askew. It barely skimmed the tops of your thighs, and every time you reached into the dryer, it shifted just enough to show a flash of bare skin. The warm weight of your body outlined beneath the fabric.

No underwear.

He knew it before you even turned.

He leaned against the doorway, arms crossed, eyes dragging down the length of you with the kind of hunger he didn’t bother hiding anymore.

“You do that on purpose?” he asked, voice sanded raw from the heat and the silence.

You looked over your shoulder. Innocent. But not really.

“Do what?”

Joel pushed off the frame, took a step closer.

“Walk around like that. On laundry day.”

You shrugged, back to folding, calm as you pleased. “Didn’t plan it.”

“Uh huh.”

He didn’t touch you. Not yet. Just circled—slow, steady—like he was stalking something wild and soft and meant only for him.

The air between you thickened.

You reached for another towel and bent slightly. His shirt hiked high on the backs of your thighs, exposing just enough to make his mouth go dry.

Joel’s voice came low, tight. “Y’ain’t wearin’ anything under that.”

“Nope.”

He closed the distance in two steps.

Then came the heat of him—sun-soaked, earthy, undeniably male—filling the room like smoke. He was behind you before you could breathe right, his body close but not touching, radiating a tension that made the hairs at your nape rise. You didn’t flinch when his hands slid under the hem, palms grazing up the length of your thighs until they found the swell of your hips. His grip firm. Possessive. Like he needed to feel you. All of you.

You sucked in a breath. It hitched when his thumbs stroked slow, coaxing.

“I was just folding—”

“I know what you were doin’,” he murmured into the back of your neck. “Doesn’t mean I ain’t gonna interrupt.”

Your body leaned back into his instinctively. And God—he swore he could’ve come undone from that alone. That trust. That give.

Joel pressed his mouth to the curve where your neck met your shoulder, open and hot. His stubble scraped lightly against your skin, and you shivered under him, hips shifting without meaning to.

“That for me?” he asked, voice gone dark and low, fingers gliding forward across your stomach, pulling you tighter against the hard press of him.

“What?”

“This whole little setup. No panties. My shirt. You in the laundry room…”

He let the question hang as his hand slid lower—one deliberate inch at a time.

You turned your head just enough for your lips to brush his jaw. “Maybe.”

Joel groaned low in his throat, nose dragging along your cheek.

“You’re trouble,” he said.

“You like trouble.”

He backed you toward the dryer without a word. Not rough. Not rushed. Just steady.

The moment your thighs bumped against the edge, his hands slid lower—beneath the swell of your ass, lifting you easily onto the warm metal surface. You gasped, one hand fisting in his hair, the other curling around the back of his neck to pull him closer.

“Jesus, darlin’,” he muttered, pressing his hips forward so you could feel just how hard he was. “Look what you do to me.”

He bent his head to your chest, unbuttoning the Henley slowly, reverently, lips following every inch of exposed skin.

“You been thinkin’ about this all day?” you whispered, voice caught somewhere between teasing and breathless.

Joel lifted his head just enough to meet your eyes.

“No,” he said. “I been tryin’ not to.”

Your breath caught when his mouth wrapped around your nipple, tongue flicking soft, then sucking slow. His hands were already between your thighs, one spreading you open, the other holding you there like you were his to keep.

“You’re already soaked,” he rasped, fingers sliding through the wet heat of you. “Fuck, baby…”

“Joel—”

He kissed you hard then, swallowing your gasp, tongue deep and slow and claiming.

You rocked against his hand, the edge already close, sharp. Joel watched your face as he worked, fingers curling just right, thumb teasing that perfect rhythm against your clit.

“Come on,” he whispered against your cheek. “Let me feel it. Wanna feel you come on my fuckin’ fingers.”

Your nails dug into his shoulders, and when you came, sharp, sudden, full-body—he kept you grounded, arm tight around your waist, mouth at your throat, murmuring good girl against your pulse.

But he wasn’t done.

Not close.

He dropped his jeans enough to free himself, thick and hard, the head already glistening. He stroked himself once, twice, watching your eyes go dark.

“You want me like this?” he asked, voice a low growl. “Right here?”

You nodded, dizzy with it. “Joel—please.”

That word did something to him.

He grabbed your hips and sank into you in one long, devastating thrust, and the both of you gasped like the world had cracked open.

“Fuck,” he groaned. “So tight, baby. Always—goddamn—always so perfect.”

The dryer hummed beneath you, matching the rhythm of his hips as he fucked into you slow, deep, dragging every inch.

You clung to him—mouth open, breath hot against his ear.

“I love you,” you whispered, almost broken.

Joel stilled. Just for a second. Just long enough to cup your jaw and kiss you like he meant it.

“I love you more than anything,” he said, voice wrecked. “More than I ever fuckin’ thought I could.”

And then he moved again, hips snapping harder now, deeper, building that pressure between you both until everything blurred, your name on his lips, his name on yours, the heat and the sweat and the scent of laundry and sex hanging thick in the air.

When you came again, he followed seconds later, buried deep, breath ragged, body trembling.

He didn’t move.

Didn’t pull out. Didn’t speak.

Just held you there, pressed against him, chest to chest, skin slick and hearts pounding.

His hands stroked your back. Slow. Tender.

Like he was thanking you without words.

Like he was terrified of the world starting up again. -

Joel stayed inside you longer than he probably should’ve.

He’d always done that, lately. Let the moment stretch.

It wasn’t about the sex—though God knew that part was always good, better than he’d ever thought it could be again—but this… this after part, where your skin stuck to his and your hands rested soft on his back, nails just barely grazing, that’s what undid him.

You were quiet.

So was he.

The only sound was the dryer humming beneath you, slowing to a lazy spin. The scent of detergent hung in the air, edged now with something more primal. Sweat. Salt. You.

His hands rested on either side of your ribs. Just holding. Just being.

Then he felt it, the faint shift in your legs, the sharp little twitch of your thigh muscle.

Too much.

He pulled back, slow and careful, and even so, you winced as he slipped free.

Joel caught it.

He always did.

“Easy,” he murmured, brushing his knuckles along your cheekbone. “You alright?”

You nodded, but your eyes were glassy. Body still trembling from aftershocks.

He leaned in, kissed your temple, then the tip of your nose.

“I got you.”

He stepped back, dragging a hand down your thigh as he went, watching the way you shivered from the loss of contact. Then he bent to scoop his boxers off the floor, tugged them up one-handed as he crossed into the bathroom.

You heard the faucet run. The cabinet open. The soft clink of glass against porcelain.

When he returned, it was with a warm washcloth, steam still rising from it, folded in the cradle of his palm.

Joel went to one knee in front of the dryer and touched your hip gently.

“Lean back for me, baby.”

You did, and he came closer, slid the cloth between your thighs with care, wiping away what he’d left behind, slow and deliberate. The first swipe made you gasp. The second had your hand curling in his hair.

He looked up at you once through the curtain of lashes, eyes darker than before, but softer too. Unspoken things lived in that look.

He finished cleaning you, but didn’t pull away.

Just stayed there, hand resting on your thigh, thumb stroking absently across the skin.

“C’mere,” he said after a moment, rising.

He didn’t wait for you to stand. He just hooked his arm beneath your knees and lifted you clean off the dryer like it was nothing.

You gave a startled laugh, fingers gripping his bare shoulders. “Joel—”

“I told you,” he grunted, adjusting your weight against his chest, “not lettin’ you wobble around like a baby deer.”

You let your head fall against his shoulder.

He carried you down the hall like that, one hand bracing your thigh, the other pressed to your back, your body curled into his, loose and sleepy and bare. The hallway felt quiet again, sun pouring in from the front window in wide yellow slats.

The bed was still unmade. Sheets tangled.

He set you down like you were made of spun glass, careful not to jostle you too much, then climbed in behind you, the mattress dipping beneath his weight.

His arm curved around your waist. His nose tucked into your neck.

He didn’t ask how you felt. Didn’t need to.

The way your fingers laced with his said everything.

“You want water?” he asked after a while, voice quieter now. Almost hoarse.

You shook your head, turning slightly so your forehead pressed to his collarbone. Your breath was warm against his skin.

“I just want you.”

Joel’s throat tightened.

He kissed the crown of your head. Let his lips linger there.

“You got me, darlin’,” he murmured. “Always.”

The ceiling fan clicked overhead. Somewhere outside, a dog barked. The rest of the world waited politely on the other side of the door while you both stayed like that, tangled and warm, held together by more than just skin and sweat.

It wasn’t over.

It never really was.

But this moment, this stretch of quiet, when everything slowed down again, was the part Joel never skipped. The part he never rushed.

Because this? This was the part he never had before you.

And he was never giving it up. -

The sun had tilted west by the time Joel stirred.

He hadn’t fallen asleep exactly, but he’d drifted. That in-between state where your body rests and your mind just hums.

You’d shifted at some point. Rolled away to grab a robe. He heard the rustle of fabric, the soft pad of your feet down the hallway. He let you go. Let you leave the warmth of the bed without reaching for you, because he knew you’d come back. You always did.

He rose slow, tugged on a clean shirt from the dresser drawer, then padded barefoot to the kitchen, rubbing the back of his neck.

The light had gone amber. That burnt-soft shade of early Texas evening. You were at the stove again, hips swaying gently as you stirred something in the pan—cherry tomatoes, maybe, or garlic—he couldn’t smell it yet, but the sound was there. That low sizzle. The rhythmic clink of wood spoon against skillet.

You turned slightly as he came in.

“Hey, cowboy.”

Joel felt the corner of his mouth twitch. “You always call me that when I’m not wearin’ boots.”

You smirked. “Exactly.”

He stepped up beside you, hand brushing the small of your back, just lightly, before reaching for the cutting board. You’d already laid out zucchini, basil, half a lemon. No words exchanged, just movement, shared space, shared task.

He sliced while you stirred. You salted while he flipped.

It wasn’t a recipe. It was a feeling.

Dinner for two. No measuring cups. Just what sounded good. What looked right.

Every so often, you’d lean into his side, shoulder bumping his gently. His hand would drift to your waist for a beat before going back to the knife. At one point, he kissed your temple mid-stir, like he couldn’t not.

The music was low—Otis Redding again, or maybe something else with horns and heartbreak, but Joel barely noticed. He was too aware of the way your hair curled against the nape of your neck. The way your laugh, soft and full of nothing at all, curled under his ribs and settled deep.

When the pasta finished, you handed him the plates.

He filled them carefully. You poured two glasses of wine.

No rush.

The light outside was slanting lower now. The breeze through the open window carried the smell of cut grass and something faintly smoky from a neighbor’s grill.

Joel watched you as you stepped barefoot onto the porch, robe tied loose at your waist, two glasses in your hand.

He followed.

And for the first time all day, he didn’t feel like he had to say anything.

He just wanted to be. -

The porch groaned beneath Joel’s weight as he settled into the old rocking chair, a plate of steaming pasta in one hand, his wine glass sweating in the other.

Across from him, you were already tucked into your chair, legs folded up like you always did, robe loose at the collarbone. The soft lamplight from the kitchen behind you made the outline of your body glow faintly. You were eating slow, careful, like the meal, and the moment, deserved to last longer than it would.

And maybe it did.

Joel watched you a second too long. Then looked down at his plate. Ate a bite he didn’t fully taste.

Not yet, anyway.

His chest ached in that way it always did after a day like this, after a day spent not just touching, but being touched. Not just looking, but being seen.

He wasn't used to it. Even now.

This peace had crept up on him quiet. Unassuming. It didn’t knock or ask first. It just showed up one day, in your laugh, in the way your hands fit around his coffee mug, in the sound of you humming in the hallway. He hadn’t known how much of himself he’d boarded up over the years until you started slipping through the cracks.

And now?

Now, it terrified him. The idea that this could end. That the world might change its mind.

He took a sip of wine and glanced out at the yard.

Cicadas had started up again, buzzing low and steady from the trees. The grass looked soft in the dim light, dotted with fireflies blinking like slow heartbeat pulses across the dark.

The porch smelled like earth and leftover heat. The way Texas always did this time of night.

“Good?” you asked, voice soft and half-lidded with contentment.

Joel nodded, unable to lie. “Perfect.”

You didn’t look at him when you smiled. Just took another bite, slow and quiet.

He wanted to reach over and touch your ankle where it was draped over the arm of your chair. Just lay his hand there and feel the warmth of you. He wanted to say something. But his thoughts were too full. His hands too tired. His heart, if he was honest, too loud.

Because this wasn’t just dinner.

This was proof. This was evidence that it could be good again. That he could live soft without losing himself. That he could sit on a porch with a woman like you and feel full.

“I think,” he said eventually, setting his plate aside, “I could sit here every damn night and never get tired of it.”

You turned your head.

“That right?”

He nodded slowly. “Could get real used to this. Us. Just… sittin’ here. Bein’ quiet.”

You smiled. “We’re very good at being quiet.”

Joel swallowed around the lump in his throat.

“We are.”

And God, wasn’t that the truth?

Because it hadn’t always been this way. There’d been years—decades, even—where silence meant distance. Where quiet was the loudest thing in the house. He’d known a different kind of stillness then. Cold. Hollow.

But this?

This was warmth wrapped in hush. This was the stillness that came when nothing was missing.

His eyes drifted to your wine glass. You were reaching for it now, sipping slow, the tip of your tongue catching the rim before you set it down again.

He couldn’t stop watching your hands.

“How long d’you think we’ll get this?” he asked suddenly, then hated himself for it.

But you didn’t flinch.

“Joel.”

He looked up. Met your eyes.

You didn’t answer the question. Just looked at him.

And somehow, that was enough.

He breathed out slow.

“Think you’d ever get tired of me?”

Your voice came light, like it didn’t matter. But he heard the weight under it. The quiet question behind the joke.

And he hated how often that thought haunted you. Hated that the softness you carried came with a bruise beneath it.

He set his plate down gently.

Then leaned forward, forearms on his knees, eyes locked on yours.

“I’ve spent a lotta years not havin’ this,” he said. “Not havin’ you. And I didn’t even know what I was missin’.”

The porch light buzzed softly. A wind moved through the trees.

Joel pressed on.

“So no. I wouldn’t get tired of you. Not in ten years. Not in fifty. You could drive me up the fuckin’ wall and I’d still want you right here. Next to me. Every night.”

You blinked once, smile caught somewhere between laughter and tears.

He sat back again, breath slow in his chest.

Because it was true.

He would never get tired of you. But he would ache for more time, always. He’d always worry that this version of life—this second chance—was something too good to be held onto. Too delicate for hands like his.

So he would love it quietly.

He would love you like this, soft and silent and constant.

And never look away. -

The house was dim when you came back in, porch door clicking shut behind you.

Joel followed, wineglass still in hand. His shoulder bumped yours as he passed, and you leaned into it briefly, the kind of casual touch that meant everything and nothing all at once.

Inside, the record spun, Otis again, maybe the same side looping because neither of you had flipped it. The room was just warm enough to make the couch feel like gravity. You dropped into it with a sigh, legs folding beneath you. Joel settled beside you, arm draped along the back of the cushions, his thigh pressed against yours.

Neither of you reached for the lamp.

Didn’t need to.

The only light came from the kitchen, a soft spill of gold over the floor, catching dust in the air, turning everything honey-colored and slow.

You pulled the old knit blanket down from the back of the couch, tossed half of it over Joel’s legs, the other over your own. Then you shifted. Just a little.

Enough to lean against his chest.

Joel wrapped his arm around you without thinking. Held you like he was built for it. His hand found your hip beneath the blanket, resting there, just weight, just warmth.

“You tired?” he asked, voice low, close to your ear.

You nodded against his shoulder. “Not ready for bed though.”

“Me neither.”

The silence after that wasn’t empty. It was alive. Filled with the sound of the record, the faint rattle of the AC kicking on, the soft rhythm of your breathing. The world outside the windows had gone fully dark. No more kids in the yard next door. Just porch lights blinking across the neighborhood like slow blinks.

Joel looked down at you.

You were tucked into him so naturally. Head just beneath his chin. Fingers tracing idle circles against his ribs through his shirt. That was your habit, touching him without even knowing it.

He swallowed hard.

Because right now, all he could think about was the way the day had unfolded, quiet, slow, full of nothing important and everything that mattered. You in the kitchen. Sarah on the porch. The shape your body made in the morning light. Your laugh at dinner. The way you folded into him afterward like you were always meant to live right there, beneath his hand.

He thought about a porch swing.

A proper one. One he could build and hang and watch you fall asleep on in the summer evenings when the air got heavy and slow. He thought about adding a shade over the back deck. Planting more rosemary in the garden. Fixing the squeak in the screen door.

He thought about you being here through all of it.

And he wanted—God, he wanted—to ask.

Ask if you’d want more.

Ask if you saw this lasting. Years from now. Decades. Ask if you could picture a version of this life where you both got older in this house, where you both woke up in that bed every Sunday morning until your hair went gray.

He didn’t.

Not yet.

But the words pulsed just under his skin, unspoken and heavy.

Instead, he kissed your forehead.

Pressed his lips to your temple like a vow he hadn’t said out loud.

You shifted slightly, your voice barely a murmur.

“I like our life.”

Joel closed his eyes.

Let that settle into him like a balm. Like something he didn’t have to earn anymore.

“Yeah,” he said, his voice quieter than he meant it to be. “Me too.”

You stayed like that for a long time.

Until the wine ran warm.

Until the record clicked in its groove.

Until your breath slowed against his chest and your fingers stilled beneath the hem of his shirt.

Joel held you close and whispered into your hair, words almost too soft to hear.

“You’re my whole damn world, you know that?”

And when you answered, I know, it felt like something permanent had been carved into the bones of the room.

He appeared to be at least fifty years old, unless he had aged prematurely due to a difficult lifestyle, which you doubted. He was the type of man who had been attractive in his twenties and had matured into his handsomeness by the age of forty; his features were masculine but softened by gentleness. Silver slithered steadily across his temples and through his still-brown hair. His face had character due to its prominent nose, which lifted slightly when he gave you a half-smile. In contrast to you, it made it to his eyes, winking at you from the faint crow's feet at their corners.

After swallowing and letting your eyes widen for a heartbeat, you put the mask back on, smiling a little more genuinely this time.

“Good evening! Pick any table you like; I’ll be right with you.” From your position behind the counter, your voice drifted across the diner, singing an octave higher than your typical speech.

He nodded firmly, then slipped into a booth near you, his fingers neatly laced on the shiny vinyl tabletop. Breathing slowly, he looked around the vintage décor, not so much admiring as analyzing.

You washed your hands before approaching his table, carrying yourself with a sway that disguised your exhaustion.

“What can I get for you tonight, sir?”

The notepad stayed tucked away; instead, you clasped your hands lightly in front of you, voice honeyed as you addressed him. You felt a sudden flutter in your stomach as his eyes raised to meet yours and his brows arched subtly.

“Just a coffee’s good for me, sweetness,” he said, his voice gravelly, worn with age and possibly a bad smoking habit.

“Any cream or sugar?” Ignoring your accelerating heartbeat, you continued speaking.

“No, thank you. Bitter as this old man suits me just fine.” When your giggle slipped, a smirk pulled at his mouth, and his self-deprecating remark turned into a smile.

With a playful gleam in your eyes and a slight tilt to your posture, you teased, "I don't know." “You seem plenty sweet to me. Would you like a pastry with that? The kitchen’s closed, but I can still pull something from the warmer.”

He seemed to ponder, gaze flicking briefly to the menu propped at the edge of the table before he clicked his tongue.

“Not sure. I can be a bit picky with my sweets.”

You tapped your chin and leaned an elbow against the booth's divider, creating a playful tilt in your posture.

“Well, our special today," yesterday technically, you thought, "is classic American cherry pie.”

His eyes sparked at the mention; the lines at the corners deepened, though the thought tugged at something nostalgic. "Oh… please don’t tempt me.”

You laughed softly, straightening as you moved your hands to rest on your lower back, the sway of your hips betraying your amusement.

“Temptation’s half my job description,” you teased, lowering your voice just enough to let the words linger.

His shoulders relaxed as his fingers drummed absently on the tabletop while he leaned back against the vinyl seat. “That so? Then I suppose the real question is whether your pie is as sweet as your smile.”

The quip caught you off guard, and heat rose in your ears and cheeks. You tucked a stray strand of hair behind your ear, hiding the flutter behind another polished grin.

"So," you said, tilting your head, "why don't we let you be the judge?"

He responded with a nod, "I suppose it's only fitting that I have a sweet treat when I get a sweet server."

To hide the curve of your smile, you cocked your head away from his stare and then looked back over your shoulder. “Coming right up.”

As you walked carefully and methodically across the diner, the weight of his eyes followed. Behind the counter, you placed a slice of cherry pie—probably a little past its prime—in the warmer. The scent of coffee lingered on your hands as you lifted the pot and returned to his booth to pour a tall, steaming mug. Before stepping back for the pie, you gave him a gentle smile and acknowledged him as the earthy scent rose in a swirl of vapor.

The heat from the pie permeated the plate as you carried it back. He took a deep breath through his nose when you placed it in front of him. His posture softened as a quiet sigh escaped, and the tension in his shoulders seemed to release with the exhale.

With a half-smile, he looked up at you after picking up the fork and turning it once between his fingers.

“You always serve dessert with this much attention, or am I just lucky tonight?”

With your arms folded loosely in front of you, you shifted your weight onto one hip and grinned.

“Depends. Most folks don’t notice appreciate slow and steady.”

“Mm.” He cut into the pie, the fork sinking into the soft cherries with a satisfying scrape against the plate. "They're idiots then."

You laughed lightly, though the heat in your cheeks betrayed you. “Careful, sir; keep that up and I’ll start thinking you’re trying to sweet-talk me.”

He raised his mug in a small toast before taking a sip, his eyes never leaving yours. “And what if I am?”

Your laugh slipped out, colored by a faint scoff. Flirting with men older than your grandfather was hardly new territory. Half survival, half performance, it was part of the job. Watching a man who is well past his prime brighten from a little feminine attention can be endearing, but you've never experienced it quite like this.

He seemed to be seeing more of you than you were letting on, and there was something about that that made the routine act feel different. More like choice than routine.

He caught your laugh and smiled, his fork hovering above the pie. “Joel.”

You tilted your head. “Hm?”

“My name—S’Joel. As much as I like you calling me ‘sir,’ I reckon I’d like to hear you say my name more.” His southern drawl tugged on something in your chest.

“Joel…” You test the name's weight by letting it roll over your tongue. “Can’t say I know any Joels around here. You here for business or pleasure?” You reasoned that if you had to work overtime, you might as well engage in some conversation with a handsome older man.

He finally lowered the fork, slicing into the pie with slow precision before answering. “Bit of both, I s’pose,” he said, the twang in his voice rolling smooth as whiskey. He lifted the bite but didn't eat it right away, his gaze fixed on you as if deciding whether to give more. “World’s got a way of mixin’ business and pleasure, don’t it?”

Your arms were folded loosely across your apron as you leaned a hip against the edge of the booth. “Depends on the kind of business,” you teased, but beneath the lilt of your words was a real curiosity.

Joel smirked around the fork as he finally tasted the pie, chewing thoughtfully before nodding once. “Sweet. Just like you promised.” His gaze moved briefly to your hands before returning to your face. “Don’t often get both in the same place.”

“I suppose not.” You let your eyes wander to the diner's glass, street lamps illuminating an old pickup parked in the lot by itself, except for your vintage beauty, a present from your grandfather on your sixteenth birthday. There was something charming about it, even though the gears were old and the engine shuddered. Not so different, you realized, from Joel.

You didn't hesitate when he motioned to the seat across from him and asked you to humor an old man. The next hour was spent sitting there, chatting aimlessly as the aromas of black coffee and warm cherry blended together. He grimaced as though you had cursed him when you mentioned that you preferred iced coffee, mocking you by saying that coffee was supposed to be hot. A warm flush rose up your neck as you struggled to defend your decision, laughing nervously.

Time passed you by unnoticed until you looked at the clock and saw it was 12:47 AM. The reminder brought the exhaustion back, and the mental fog that had lifted during your effortless conversation returned. Joel seemed to notice and began wrapping up quickly. You cleaned and put away his dishes as he left, leaving only a faint trace of his presence.

Closing the diner didn't take long—just wiping down his table, double-checking the ovens, and turning off the lights. It was nearly 2:00 AM when you stepped outside. Your keys jingled, each step you took crunching against the gravel, but the sharp scent of smoke made you look up. A familiar figure leaned against his pickup, the vehicle still untouched. Smoke drifted lazily from the small ember in his hand, curling into the cool night air.

You came to a stop a few feet away, your stomach twisting. You'd enjoyed his company inside, but seeing him waiting for you outside made the hairs on your arms stand up.

"Joel?" you squeaked, trying to keep the fear out of your voice.

“Hey… I know how this looks. I just… God, uh, this is gonna sound pathetic…” He muttered, scratching the back of his head and shifting his weight from one foot to the other.

You tilted your head while listening. Maybe it was foolish to hope he wasn't a creep, but something in his voice seemed genuine. You trusted your instincts and decided to listen to him.

“I really enjoyed talking to you,” he said, dragging the words slowly. “Haven’t had that… in a real long time. Hell, probably haven’t had that since… 'fore you were born.” His calloused hand rubbed across his face, brushing against the stubble on his jaw before dropping to tap the cigarette with his other hand. He took a drag, inhaling deeply and allowing the smoke to curl into the cold air. “I was just… I don’t know, being honest. Figured I’ve got nothing to lose. Was hoping you might want to… humor an old man?” He let out a nervous laugh at the end, nodding toward his car as if to soften the request.

Your lips tightened into a playful line, trying to hide the smile tugging at your cheeks. “Humor an old man?” You teased with a low, sultry voice.

He gave a rough laugh, the sound catching in his throat, before lowering his head slightly and returning your gaze. “Yeah… if you’re willin’.”

You swayed on your feet for a heartbeat, feigning hesitation as you considered your "decision," then took a slow step closer, and another. You felt his gaze as his breath hitched, just enough to make your pulse skip. You had to bite down lightly on your lower lip to keep a giggle from escaping.

Your fingers reached for the cigarette that still dangled between his fingers. With a grin, you flicked it away and stomped it out, then lifted your gaze through your lashes to meet his.

"So?" you murmured, allowing the single question to hang in the cool night air while waiting.

He didn’t answer immediately. Instead, the tension coiled in his shoulders, the slight shift of his stance telling you he was waiting—wanting. His hand hovered near yours for a moment, the warmth radiating from his skin brushing against yours.

Then, as if you had reached a silent agreement, he leaned forward, allowing his lips to brush yours in a gentle, testing kiss. It was soft and light at first, but it was enough to make your knees weak and your breath catch as you felt his beard tickle your face. You returned it by tilting your head and allowing your tongue to slip across his lips.

A strong pulse rushed from your stomach to your clit, and you felt your anatomy begin to pulse in anticipation. You let a foot lift ever so slightly to press your thighs together, but you underestimated Joel's expertise, it seems, because he immediately took note. And you knew when he began to grin into your kiss, his tongue more confidently brushing yours while grunting low and heavy into your mouth.

His hands reached out to pull your face closer to him, curling your upper lip between them before releasing it to do the same with your lower lip. His breath warmed against yours in the few moments between kisses, his teeth taking the place of his mouth and gently tugging on your lower lip. With a fleeting kiss, he leaned back, one hand leaving your cheek to reach for the passenger-side door, the other cradling your face and pulling you along.

It clicked open as he dragged you along, kissing you once before allowing you to enter the tall vehicle; his gaze followed your figure as he held your hand to keep you steady. He stepped in and immediately leaned over and reached to the side of the seat; his hand leaning on the head caused it to fall back, dragging you down with it. Joel crawled over you before carelessly slamming the door. His eyes softened when he saw you jump at the unexpected sound, and he apologized softly as he laid his body over yours.

He lowers his forehead to yours before catching your mouth again, your hand mirroring his as it cups his cheek. You can taste bitter coffee and cigarette, but there's still a hint of sweet cherry on your tongue when his lips brush against yours again. His other hand moves from your cheek to your neck, then down your chest. It stops below your breasts before it rises again, pushing one up as his thumb presses in between the space separating them.

His cheek scratches yours as he moves to your neck, leaving wet, open-mouth kisses on your skin. You tilt your head to the side to give him more access, shivering with a gasp as his thumb passes over your clothed nipple. You can feel his fingers under and alongside your breast press as he hears you.

You let your hand fall down his chest, to his belt, and eventually to the bulge growing in his worn jeans. It hovers at first before you press your palm into it—you gasp as he groans into your neck; you can feel the heat from his cock through his jeans—it feels thick and heavy in your hand.

The hand on your chest jumped to your waist as he tightly squeezed you in his palm; his eyes were closed tightly, his mouth hanging open, and a few soft groans floated out of his throat as you palmed him. His face nuzzled your neck absentmindedly while he tried and failed to keep his hips from gently rolling into your hand.

"Fuck... stop, baby." His hand wrapped around yours and gently pinned it to the head of the seat. "Gonna end this 'fore it starts." He grins playfully against your cheek.

He pushes himself up to face you, scanning your features before lowering himself. His knees crack as they slide from the seat to the floor, and his rough hands gently pull your hips closer to his face. You used to enjoy the convenience of having undershorts built into your skirts for work, but now you did anything but that. Your hips twitched against Joel's face, his nose pressed into the fabric as he inhaled, and his lips kissed your clothed pussy. He licked a slow stripe from your hole to your clit, and as you looked down, you saw his eyes rise and his lips curl into a grin at your response. Your head fell back with what was nothing short of a whimper, your hands meeting his hair. Grey twisted with a faded brown, it was soft and thick in your hands. He kissed your covered clit again before sliding his hand into your undershorts' crotch from the side. His knuckles brushed against your damp panties as he grabbed and roughly pulled on the shorts. You let out a yelp as the seams tore, briefly digging into your hips before the cloth gave way. You had little time to react before your panties were pulled to the side and his tongue was inserted into you.

His nose brushed your clit as his delicate muscle explored your walls, the mix of your wetness and his saliva making squelches much louder than you thought possible. He shook his head a little and growled, sending a tremor through you. He did nothing to stop you from rolling your hips greedily for more.

You cried, "Joel..." as you clenched your fists and tugged at his hair roots.

He pulled away to exhale deeply across your heat, kissing it repeatedly as if it were his long-lost love. Every other time he kissed, his tongue touched your clit before his lips found your inner thigh, and his fingers moved to take its place. He spread your lips and watched your hole tighten around nothing.

"Look how fucking needy she is, baby... leaking like a damn faucet." His middle finger poked at your entrance while his pointer and ring fingers kept you spread. "S'okay, I can fix that." He muttered before wrapping his mouth around your clit, his middle and ring fingers sinking into you. You groaned as your back arched off the seat, the old leather sticking to your sweat-soaked body. As his arm began to piston his fingers, he quickly added a third, flattening his tongue against you. There was no resistance, only a grunt against your clit with each twist of your hips. As his saliva trickled from your pussy, his name slipped from your mouth. He drew away from you briefly, panting just a hair's breadth from your skin. He heaved, his chin gleaming in the dim streetlights. "Tastes so good, baby..." inside of He kissed your pussy tenderly, as he had done with your lips. He kissed you as a lover would. Each time he moved his mouth, your hips were pushed closer and higher. He allowed it, even appreciated it, and smiled every time. He withdrew again, causing you to whine. He watched you intently as your gaze fixed on his. "You wanna cum?" He teases.

You stumbled, nearly every thought in your head hazy, "Fuck—Please."

"Don't worry, sweetheart, I'll make you cum." He scraped your inner thigh with his teeth. "Gonna make this pretty pussy push all that sweetness out for me." He took his time returning his mouth to your center, dragging a slow groan as his tongue dove back in. His hands were on top of your thighs, thumbs stroking the sides, but he did nothing to keep you down as your thighs cinched around his head. He sucked down your arousal with every groan you were struggling to cover up. You could feel every hushed moan he made but couldn't hear. His facial hair needled your inner thighs, but even with your head tilted back and your eyes sewn shut, you could feel the heat of his stare. Your mouth hung open as he continued to pull every sound out of you. He seemed as loud as you were, and as he lapped at you like a thirsty dog, the heat coiling inside you grew. With each drag, your muscle would clench around his. He could feel them growing in quick succession, his hands gripping your thighs tighter as he breathed you in. You were unable to think; all you could feel was the touch of his tongue, the prick of his beard, and the vibration of his throat as it circled your clit. Your chest heaved as your groans grew louder and your hands tightened around his hair. "That's it, baby... cum for me," he exclaimed almost whiningly. "C'mon, let me feel it." What broke you was his pleading, your voice breaking, and your body trembling. Without any desire of your own, your hips attempted to flee as your groans blended with his. You stopped writhing and shaking, but he continued to move. The man's boyish groans cut through the flood of your pleasure, and his mouth continued to devour everything your body offered him of your pleasure.

As he ate your pussy, you gasped and panted, defenseless against his unrelenting mouth. Your moans turned to whimpers, and your hands pushed weakly at his head. Reluctantly, he turned his mouth to your thigh and pulled back.

"Feel good, baby?"His voice tipped into a higher pitch as he asked.

You nodded dumbly with a soft "Uh-huh.You felt him smile against your thigh before he moved away, followed by the sound of the door opening and closing. With a furrowed brow, you turned your head to see what he was doing. Your gaze was drawn to the driver's side door as he stepped inside with a groan. He turned and gave you a strangely tender look.

"You comin' home with me?" He asked.

You hesitated for a moment, the weight of his question settling in your chest. The warmth of his gaze made your heart race, and you found yourself nodding, excitement bubbling up inside you at the thought of the evening ahead. His mouth twisted into a smile as he exhaled deeply and started the car with unsteady hands.

He’s behind the counter, one hand working a rag over his palm, slow and steady. The other braces against the worn wood. The overhead light cuts along the slope of his shoulders, the grease-dark lines at the bend of his elbow.

He looks up.

It’s not what you expect. No smile, no frown—just eyes that pin you in place. Steady, unreadable, dark enough to make your lungs seize up. He’s older, that’s obvious—hair threaded with silver, stubble rough along his jaw. But that’s not what makes you falter. It’s the weight of his presence, the kind of gravity that fills the whole room.

“Car give up on you?” His voice is low, rough, like it carries grit in it.

You nod too fast, clutching your keys so tight the edges dig into your palm. “Y-yeah. I don’t… I don’t really know what happened. She just stopped, and I…”

The words trail off because you can feel how hot your face is getting, heat crawling from your chest straight up to your hairline. You hate how obvious it must be.

Joel doesn’t move right away. He just watches, like he’s cataloging the way you fumble. Then he tosses the rag onto the counter and straightens, wiping one last streak of grease across the thigh of his coveralls.

“That’s alright,” he says finally, deep and steady. “Leave her with me. I’ll see what she needs.”

The way he says it—what she needs—sends your stomach flipping. It’s stupid, you know it is. He’s talking about the car. Obviously. But it doesn’t sound like it, not with that slow drag of his voice, not with the way his eyes don’t leave yours even once.

You swallow, shifting your bag higher on your shoulder, trying to find something normal to say. “Okay. Thank you. Um—thank you.”

He doesn’t smile, not exactly. Just a tiny twitch at the corner of his mouth, so faint you almost think you imagined it.

You sign the paperwork with shaky hands. Joel doesn’t comment on it. He explains what he’ll look at first—battery, fuel pump, maybe the alternator—but the words don’t really land because your head is buzzing too loud. You nod along anyway, cheeks burning the whole time.

By the time you step back outside, the heat feels suffocating. You don’t even notice the sun anymore. All you can feel is the echo of his voice, low and rough, sliding under your skin. All you can see is the way his shoulders filled out that faded cotton, the way his eyes didn’t let you go for a second.

You sit on the curb outside for a moment, trying to collect yourself. You should be embarrassed—mortified, really—but the only thing you can think about is him. The gravel in his tone. The slow, deliberate way he moved. The fact that he said what she needs and you’re still trembling from it.

And when you finally stand, brushing the dust from your skirt, you know you’re already dreading the next phone call from the shop, not because the car is failing again, but because you don’t trust yourself to be normal the next time you see Joel Miller.

You practice what you’ll say the whole walk over.

Nothing dramatic. Nothing that could be mistaken for flirting. You will be normal, you promise yourself. You will be composed, you will not stare at his hands, you will not get stuck on the sound of his voice. You will smile like a person who isn’t constantly replaying the moment he said what she needs like it was meant for more than a car.

The afternoon is a little cooler than last time, a thin wind cutting through the late-September heat and lifting the hair off your neck. The garage doors of Miller’s are rolled halfway up. You catch a flash of a car lifted on the jack, the long, pale line of a driveshaft, and the echo of a socket wrench snapping loose. Metal, oil, heat. The place smells like work.

The bell over the front door clangs when you push it open. You half expect to be alone for a second, time to smooth your clothes, to breathe, but Joel is already there, bent over a stack of invoices behind the counter, forearms braced on wood scuffed to a dull shine. The overhead light glances off his hair where the silver threads. A fan in the corner ticks back and forth, pushing warm air.

He doesn’t look up right away, and somehow that’s worse. It makes you a little too aware of your body—where your bag strap sits, the damp line under your dress where sweat cooled, the way your pulse skitters in your wrist.

Then he glances up. Just a flick of his eyes at first, like he’s registering movement. Then a longer look that settles.

“Afternoon,” he says. That voice again, rough and unhurried. “Got your girl runnin’.”

Your shoulders drop an inch. “Oh. Good.” You try on a smile you hope reads as casual. “Thank you.”

He straightens, slow. Wipes his hands on a rag in a way that feels habitual, once, twice, the cloth catching on the scrape of his knuckles. He’s in a t-shirt now, not the coveralls from before, and the thin cotton clings along his chest where the heat got to it. There’s a smudge of black at the base of his throat, a crescent where he must have dragged a dirty hand without noticing.

“She needed a new belt,” he says. “Couple other things I’m keepin’ an eye on.” He nods toward the clipboard. “We’ll see how she behaves.”

Behaves. You swallow, nodding like you understand. You don’t, not really; the words swim a little when he speaks. He flips a page and the paper crackles; the fan clicks and turns; somewhere in the back the compressor hiccups on. It feels like your senses are turned up too high.

Joel sets the clipboard aside and leans a hip into the counter. It creaks gently beneath his weight. He surveys you, the way people do when they’re taking stock, calm, unbothered, not in any hurry to fill silence just because you are.

You make yourself breathe. “How much do I—um. I should—pay now?”

“Yeah.” The hint of a smile crosses his mouth, barely there. “Don’t worry. I didn’t give you the ‘pretty girl tax.’”

You blink. Heat skitters across your face so fast you feel a little lightheaded. “That’s—uh. Good,” you say, and immediately wish the tile would swallow you. Pretty girl. It shouldn’t land like that. You shouldn’t be reacting like that.

He writes the total. Slides the paper around so it faces you. Your eyes don’t focus right away. You pull your card out, fumble it, catch it with a clack against the counter. Smooth. You tell yourself to get a grip.

Joel’s gaze tracks the movement, the smallest twitch at the edge of his mouth like he’s amused in private.

“Been a while since this model saw a dealer floor,” he says, as if to rescue you from yourself. “Most folks don’t keep ’em this long.”

“Most folks give up easy,” you say, and then panic because it sounds like a challenge.

“Mm.” He hums. “Or they get tired o’ fixin’ the same trouble.”

You hand the card over. Your fingers brush his—just a brush, not even a full touch—and something zings up your arm like you grabbed a live wire. He doesn’t react. He just takes it and swipes it through the old terminal that complains for a second before accepting defeat.

“Honestly,” you add, too quick, trying to clean your own mess, “I don’t… I don’t mind the extra work.” You sign your name. Your hand shakes a little, traitorous. You steady it. “I like—” The words tangle, and you have to push them out. “I like the old ones. Even if they’re harder to handle.”

You don’t look up when you say it. You can’t. You keep your eyes on the looping tail of your last letter until the pen nearly slips from your damp grip.

Silence.

Not empty. Not friendly. Not hostile. Just full.

You feel it before you see it, the way the air changes. The fan ticks, the compressor kicks off, and in the hush you can hear your own breath.

When you finally lift your eyes, Joel is still and intent, like whatever you just handed him is heavier than your card.

He doesn’t smile this time. Doesn’t tease. He studies you, your mouth, your damp hairline, the pink that climbed into your cheeks like the sun rose there. It isn’t invasive, but it isn’t kind either. It’s assessment. It’s understanding.

Something tugs in your stomach, low and hot. You try to swallow. It doesn’t go down right.

He taps the signed receipt once with a blunt finger, almost like he needed something to move. Then he folds it, neat, slides your copy over. His knuckles are nicked; a pale scar breaks the line of one, white against tan.

“Harder to handle,” he repeats at last, and the way the words come out—low, testing—makes your knees go soft. “Huh.”

You laugh, a tiny sound that betrays you, fragile and breathless. “I just meant—she’s old, but—she’s good.” You wince. “The car. I mean. She’s—”

“You don’t gotta explain it,” he says, and there’s a softness there that wasn’t before. Not indulgent, but something adjacent. “Some things are worth the trouble.”

His eyes catch yours when he says it. Hold. Don’t let go.

You make the mistake of holding back. The moment stretches, and you can feel yourself flushed just from being looked at. You’re too aware of the way your dress clings between your shoulder blades. Too aware of the pulse above your collarbone. Too aware of him: the dark at his throat, the notch of his bicep under thin cotton, the calm line of his mouth.

You can’t breathe right. You look away first—coward—and point vaguely toward the bay doors. “Is it—can I?”

Joel blinks, like whatever he was doing in his head dissolves on contact. He nods toward the back. “Keys are in it. I pulled her up front for you.”

You nod. You can’t seem to stop nodding. “Thank you.”

He doesn’t move. He’s still braced there when you step away from the counter, still watching in that quiet way of his. You feel it prickling along your spine, a hand between your shoulder blades that never actually touches you.

Your palm slips on the door handle. You fumble it and then get it right, cursing yourself on a loop. The fan clicks behind you. Someone in the back drops something small—nut, bolt, a tiny, bright clatter that pings around the garage. You step outside like you’re breaking the surface of a pool.

The car sits just inside the bay, angled nose-out. The hood is down. There’s a new belt somewhere in there, hidden like a secret spine. You tell yourself to focus on that—on function, on relief—but the only thing your mind holds is the weight of Joel’s stare.

You climb in. The seat is warm from the building, soft in places it shouldn’t be. You turn the key and she catches after a reluctant stumble. The engine hums with something like apology.

When you check your mirrors, you catch him in the rearview: a sliver of him in the bay door’s rectangle. He hasn’t gone back to the invoices. He hasn’t touched the rag again. He’s just there, hands on the counter, head tipped a fraction as he watches the car idle. As he watches you.

You grip the wheel. Your mouth is dry. You think, wildly, that you should wave. You don’t trust your wrist to follow instruction.

Instead, you put her in drive and roll forward slow, like if you move too fast you’ll spook the moment and shatter it. The sunlight hits, sharp, and the wind slides a strand of hair across your cheek. Your heart is a staccato against your ribs.

At the edge of the lot, you glance back because you can’t help yourself. Joel is still there, smaller with distance, but no less fixed. He lifts his chin just barely, acknowledgment or farewell or something heavier disguised as either. You don’t know. You don’t know anything except the heat sitting low in your belly and the way your skin feels too tight.

You turn onto the road. The engine settles into its new rhythm, the belt doing the invisible work you paid for. The open window drags warm air across your throat. You tell yourself to think about the bill, the numbers, the fact that at least this time you didn’t knock anything off a hood.

But your body holds the scene like a hand around a match.

Harder to handle, he’d said. Testing the fit of it in his mouth.

You drive past a grocery store, a laundromat with fading letters, a church marquee that says “SOMEDAY ISN’T A DAY OF THE WEEK.” Your cheeks are still hot, and you can’t decide if it’s from embarrassment or something you can’t name yet without setting yourself on fire.

By the time you pull into your apartment’s tired lot, you’ve convinced yourself you imagined it. The look. The silence. The way he said it back to you. You make a deal with your own mind: you will be normal next time. You’ll wear shorts you don’t mind getting dirty. You will ask about belts and tensioners and maintenance schedules like a person in control of herself.

You turn the key and the engine goes quiet. The sudden lack of noise makes the world feel too sharp. Your ears ring. The smell of oil that clung to your dress stays with you all the way up the stairs.

Inside, the apartment is cool, dim, unhelpfully empty. You lean your forehead against the door and inhale, slow and shaky, because there’s no one here to see it. You don’t cry. It’s not that kind of heat.

You peel your dress away from your skin and think about hands you didn’t touch, a mouth that didn’t smile, a voice that lodged somewhere deep enough to change your breathing.

You tell yourself to let it go.

But when you finally sleep, it’s to the soft phantom feel of callused fingers sliding a receipt across wood, the taste of mint and heat and the faint ghost of oil at the corner of his lip when he kisses you in a dream, and a steady, patient stare that follows you even in the dark.

It’s been a month. A whole month since you last saw him.

You told yourself you’d let it go. You tried. But Joel Miller has lived in your head every single day since. Every time you started the car, you thought about his hands on the hood. Every time you saw silver hair in the grocery store or grease stains on someone’s shirt, you remembered the weight of his eyes.

You dreamed once—dreamt of the fan ticking in his office, of callused fingers brushing yours when he slid the receipt over, of him saying harder to handle in that low voice that made your knees weak. You woke flushed and aching, embarrassed at yourself but unable to stop.

And then today, of course, your car dies again.

This time she doesn’t even make it halfway across town. A final sputter, a grinding cough, and then nothing. You sit in the silence of the stalled engine, heart sinking.

You think about calling a different tow. You almost do. But your fingers dial Miller’s before you can stop yourself.

When the truck pulls up, it’s him.

Joel climbs down from the cab, sun on his shoulders, and your whole body betrays you. Heat rushes your face, your pulse jumps, your throat goes dry. He doesn’t look surprised to see you. Doesn’t look amused, either. Just steady, unreadable, like always.

“Well,” he says, voice carrying in the warm air, “guess I shouldn’t be surprised.”

You manage a weak laugh. “Yeah. She—uh… didn’t make it.”

“Mm.” He opens the passenger side door for you. “Hop in. I’ll deal with her.”

The cab is hot, the vinyl seats sticky against your legs. You fold your hands tight in your lap, trying not to fidget, trying not to notice how close he’ll be sitting once he gets back in.

Joel secures your car to the flatbed with practiced ease, strong arms braced as he cranks the winch, muscles moving beneath his shirt. You catch yourself staring and whip your gaze back to the dashboard, cheeks burning.

Then the driver’s door creaks open and he’s beside you. The cab feels smaller instantly, his body filling the space, his scent—oil, sweat, soap—so thick you almost choke on it.

He glances at you once as he starts the engine. “Seatbelt.”

You fumble for it, hands clumsy. The buckle clacks against the slot, misses, clacks again. Your ears are hot.

Joel watches for a beat, then reaches over and does it himself. His hand brushes your hip as he pulls the belt across you, big fingers snapping it into place with ease. You go rigid, every nerve sparking.

“Thank you,” you whisper, mortified at how thin your voice sounds.

He hums low, shifts the truck into drive. “You’re trouble,” he mutters, almost to himself.

You bite your lip, heart pounding. “It’s—it’s not my fault it keeps breaking.”

Joel glances sideways, eyes sharp in profile. “Didn’t say it was the car I meant.”

The words sink in, heavy, and you can’t breathe for a second.

You twist your fingers in your lap, fumbling for something—anything—to say. “I—I didn’t… I’m not…”

He doesn’t press. Doesn’t look at you again. Just drives, forearms flexing on the wheel, jaw tight.

The silence in the cab is thick, full of everything you don’t know how to admit—that you’ve thought about him too much, that you’ve imagined things you shouldn’t, that you’ve never wanted someone the way you want him.

Your cheeks are hot the whole ride back, and you can feel his presence like a hand on your thigh that never actually lands.

—

Joel doesn’t say much when you get back to the shop. He lowers your car off the flatbed with steady, practiced motions, sleeves shoved up to his elbows, jaw tight. You hover near the door, arms folded, pretending to study the oil-stained concrete because you can’t look at him without remembering how close he sat beside you in the truck.

When he finally comes inside, the bell clanging as the door swings shut behind him, he doesn’t head straight for the counter. He stops a few feet in front of you. The rag is still in his hand, dragging slow across his palm.

“This thing’s done for,” he says flatly, nodding toward the window where your car sits. “I can patch her up again, but she’s hangin’ on by threads. You oughta think about lettin’ her go.”

Your throat tightens. You know he’s right—you’ve known it for a while—but you hate the idea of giving in, of being the kind of person who trades old for new. You swallow, staring down at your shoes.

“I don’t… want to,” you murmur. “I like her. Even if she’s… difficult.”

The words come out small, almost swallowed, but Joel hears them. You know he does because he goes very still.

The rag stills in his hand. His jaw flexes once, twice, like he’s grinding something down. Then he looks at you—really looks, heavy and sharp and burning straight through you.

“Say that again,” he rasps.

Your pulse stumbles. “I—I like the old ones.” Your voice wavers. “Even if they’re harder to handle.”

The silence that follows is crushing. You wish you could rewind, take it back, say something normal. But the words are already hanging there, thick in the air, and Joel’s chest is rising slow and deep like he’s keeping himself in check by force.

Then the rag hits the counter with a dull slap.

In two strides, he’s in front of you. His hand comes up, rough fingers curling under your jaw, tilting your face up until you have no choice but to meet his eyes. They’re darker than you’ve ever seen, steady and unreadable no longer. Now they’re burning.

“You got no fuckin’ idea what you’re doin’, do you?” he says, almost quiet, dangerous in the way quiet can be. “Comin’ in here month after month, blushin’, stammerin’, lookin’ at me with those eyes—”

“I wasn’t—” you start, but your voice cracks in the middle, betraying you.

His thumb drags slow across your jaw, rough skin catching on your lip. He’s so close you can taste his breath—oil, heat, something darker underneath.

Your chest heaves. You should shake your head, deny it, run—but instead your mouth betrays you. The words tumble out, quiet, clumsy, but true: “I think about you,” you whisper. Your cheeks burn hot enough to scorch. “All the time. I… I don’t know what I’m doing, but… I want—”

The silence that follows is brutal. You squeeze your eyes shut, humiliated, ready for him to laugh or shove you away.

But he doesn’t.

Joel exhales hard, like the dam finally breaks. His grip tightens at your waist, dragging you against him. “Fuck,” he rasps. “That’s all I needed.”

And then his mouth is on yours.

It isn’t gentle. It’s hot, consuming, a kiss that devours the breath straight out of you. His lips claim yours, teeth grazing, tongue sliding deep before you can gasp. You whimper into him, fists clenching uselessly until he catches your wrists and presses them flat against the hood.

“Here,” he mutters, voice ragged against your mouth. “Keep ’em there.”

You nod frantically, chest shuddering, thighs trembling against the cold metal behind you.

His palms skim down your sides, over your hips, rough and firm, until his fingers grip the hem of your skirt. You twitch at the contact, and he chuckles dark against your throat. “Skittish little thing,” he murmurs, nipping hard enough to make you gasp. “Relax. Let me show you.”

Your breath hitches, but you try—you really try—to let yourself be held in the heat of him.

When you lift one hand, tentative, toward his chest, Joel catches it. Guides your palm flat over the hard plane of muscle under his shirt, pins it there with his own. “Feel that?” he growls, teeth scraping your jaw. “That’s yours right now. Take it.”

Your fingers curl, clumsy but desperate, tugging at fabric. Joel groans low, approving. “Attagirl,” he praises, rough and wrecked. “Just like that.”

His knee wedges between your thighs, denim pressing firm against your center, grinding you down until you moan into his mouth. Your back arches helplessly, the hood rattling beneath you.

Joel swallows the sound, pushes his tongue deeper, one hand cupping the back of your neck to hold you still. He drags your other hand lower, guides it over the ridge straining against his jeans. You jolt, freezing, eyes wide.

“Easy,” he says, voice dark silk. He presses your palm firmer against him, hissing through his teeth. “That’s me wantin’ you. Don’t gotta be shy about it.”

Heat floods you, shame tangled with aching want. “Joel—”

“Yeah, baby. Say my name like that.” His thumb strokes along your knuckles, coaxing, teaching. “Upstairs. Now.”

He hauls you off the hood before your knees can buckle, steadying you with a hand on your hip. His other hand never lets go of yours as he drags you toward the back staircase, up into the small apartment above the shop.

The door clicks shut behind you, and Joel’s on you again—mouth hungry, hands everywhere—walking you backward until the backs of your knees hit the edge of his bed.

“You think about me?” He murmurs against your lips, rough and low. “Gonna make sure you don’t think about nothin’ else after tonight.”

He kisses you like he’s been starving. Hot, consuming, nothing hesitant about it. His mouth tastes like mint and heat, and there’s the faint ghost of oil at the corner of his lip when his tongue drags against yours.

“You got no idea,” he mutters against your mouth, voice shredded with restraint. “No idea what you do to me, comin’ in my shop with those eyes, that little voice—makin’ me think about this when I shouldn’t.”

You whimper, fingers fisting in the fabric of his shirt. He kisses you harder, deeper, until you’re dizzy, until you’re clinging.

Then he pulls back, just enough to look at you. His eyes are black in the dim light, his chest heaving. “You tell me now,” he says, low, commanding. “You want this? You want me to teach you?”

Your cheeks flame, but you nod. “Yes. Please.”

That’s all it takes.

Joel groans, shoves your thighs open with rough hands, and steps between them. He drags your palms up over his chest, slow, guiding, until they’re resting on the thick muscle of his shoulders. “Hold on right there. Don’t let go.”

His mouth trails down your throat, tongue dragging over your pulse, teeth grazing just enough to sting. You gasp, arching against him, and his hands tighten on your waist. “Sensitive little thing,” he growls, kissing lower. “That’s good. Means you’ll learn quick.”

He kneels in front of you, spreading your legs wider. His palms skim up your thighs, pushing your skirt higher until the cool air hits your skin. You bite your lip, trembling.

“Look at me,” Joel orders. His eyes catch yours, pinning you. “First lesson. Don’t hide from it. You want somethin’? You look me in the eye when I give it to you.”

Your stomach flips, but you nod. You keep your gaze on him even as his hands curl over your hips, even as his mouth presses hot, open kisses along the inside of your thigh.

The first swipe of his tongue against you makes your whole body jolt. You moan, sharp and broken, one hand flying down before you can stop it. Joel catches your wrist midair.

“Told you—hold on.” His grip is firm, pressing your hand back to his shoulder. “Let me show you.”

He licks into you again, slower this time, savoring. You writhe against his mouth, heat pooling low and fierce, tears stinging the corners of your eyes from the intensity. No one’s ever touched you like this, like you’re worth devouring.

When your hips buck, Joel groans against you, rough and approving. “That’s it. Don’t fight it. Let it happen.”

You clutch his shoulders like a lifeline, thighs trembling around his head. Your voice is a wreck when you manage his name—“Joel—oh my God—Joel—”

He pulls back just long enough to smirk up at you, beard wet, lips slick. “Sweetheart, we’re just gettin’ started.”

He stands, looming over you, hands already tugging at his belt. The clink of metal makes your stomach clench. He takes your hand—small, shaking—and wraps it around the thick ridge of him straining against his jeans. Guides your palm up, down, slow.

“That’s me wantin’ you,” he murmurs, voice gravelly, eyes burning into yours. “Don’t be shy. Feel it. Learn it.”

Your cheeks blaze, but you squeeze, clumsy and unsure. Joel groans, head tipping back. His hand covers yours, showing you the pace, the pressure. “Yeah. Just like that. Attagirl.”

You’ve never heard anything filthier than the sound of his praise.

He shoves your skirt higher, fingers sliding beneath your panties, rough pads teasing your slick folds. You gasp, legs spreading wider without thought.

“Goddamn,” he mutters, almost reverent. “So fuckin’ wet for me. You been this wet before?”

You shake your head frantically, face flaming. “N-no—”

Joel’s thumb drags slow circles over your clit until your thighs are trembling against his hips. Every nerve is raw, every sound out of you high and unsteady. He keeps his eyes on you, heavy and dark, even as your lashes flutter. “Stay with me,” he mutters, low and rough. His free hand cups your cheek—the one with the pale scar you noticed at the counter—and you feel absurdly safe even as he ruins you. “Don’t run from it. Look at me.”

You try. God, you try—but when he pushes two thick fingers inside you, your head tips back with a broken cry. He fills you too easily, curling just right until sparks shoot up your spine.

“That’s it,” Joel praises, curling again, dragging a moan from deep in your chest. “Tight little thing. Didn’t even know what you were missin’, did you?”

You whimper, shaking your head. “N-no—”

“Shh.” His mouth is at your ear now, hot and commanding. “You’re learnin’ now.”

He works you open slow, rough but careful, until you’re slick and panting around his fingers. Then he pulls them free, leaving you clenching on nothing, and undoes his belt with one sharp pull. The sound makes your stomach flip.

“Gonna stretch you,” he says, matter-of-fact, almost gentle even though his voice is shredded with need. “You’ll take me, but you’re gonna listen. Do exactly what I say, yeah?”

You nod frantically, cheeks blazing.

Joel guides the head of his cock through your folds, slow, deliberate, coating himself in your wetness. The first push makes you gasp, eyes wide. He pauses immediately, one big hand braced on your hip, the other stroking your cheek. “Breathe, baby,” he murmurs, coaxing. “Long breath in, let it out. Good girl.”

He pushes deeper. You moan, clutching at his shoulders, overwhelmed by the sheer stretch of him. Joel’s jaw clenches as he holds still, letting you adjust, his thumb rubbing soothing circles into your skin.

“Feels too big now, don’t it?” His voice is a low growl, intimate, almost tender. “But you can take it. Relax. Trust me.”

You sob out a broken “Joel,” and his breath shudders against your neck.

“Attagirl. That’s it. You’re takin’ me so well.”

Once you loosen beneath him, he rocks his hips slow, letting you feel every inch. You gasp, nails digging into his shirt, thighs trembling. He groans low, forehead pressing to yours. “Listen to that,” he pants, hips grinding deeper. “Listen to how wet you are for me. Never had anyone fill you like this, have you?”

Your answer is just a breathless cry, your body arching helplessly.

Joel chuckles, dark and wrecked. “Didn’t think so. Don’t worry—I’ll teach you.”

His hand slides down to guide your leg higher around his waist, opening you up more. He pushes deeper, harder, until you moan his name again.

You hold, teetering—one heartbeat, two—

“Listen to me,” he growls, voice low and ragged in your ear. “You’re close, aren’t you? Can feel you squeezin’ me. Don’t hold back, baby. Let me have it.”

You moan his name, nails biting through his shirt, your body trembling as the heat builds unbearable and tight. Joel keeps his pace steady, grinding into that spot again and again until you’re keening under him.

“That’s it,” he murmurs, guiding your hips to roll with his. “Right there. You feel it? Right where you’re gonna break for me.”

And then you do. Your whole body arches, legs locking around him as your orgasm crashes through you. It tears a cry out of your throat, high and raw, and your vision goes white around the edges. Joel groans, guttural, holding you down as you clench tight around him, milking him with every desperate pulse.

“Jesus Christ,” he grits out, teeth sinking into your shoulder. “That’s it, that’s my girl. Come for me, soak me—fuck—”

You’re gasping, whimpering, body jerking helplessly as it rolls through you in waves. Joel doesn’t let up—he fucks you through it, his thrusts slower now but deep, deliberate, drawing out every aftershock until you’re sobbing against his chest.

“Good girl,” he whispers, voice gone soft around the edges. “Did so good for me. Didn’t know you could come like that, did you?”

You can only shake your head weakly, still trembling, still fluttering tight around him.

The sight of you wrecked is Joel’s undoing. His thrusts go rougher, sharper, each one dragging a low grunt from his chest. He buries his face against your neck, breath hot, curses muffled against your damp skin.

“Goddamn— you’re squeezin’ me so tight—fuck—gonna fill you up, baby—”

Your nails claw at his back, dragging broken gasps out of your throat. “Please, Joel—”

That shatters the last of his restraint. He slams deep, hips stuttering as his orgasm rips through him. He groans your name like a prayer, spilling hot inside you, thrusts sloppy and desperate as he rides it out. His whole body shakes with it, muscles tense, holding you down as if he can’t bear to let you go.

When it finally ebbs, he stays buried in you, chest heaving, sweat dripping down his temples. He presses a long, rough kiss to your forehead—almost reverent—before easing back just enough to see your face.

“You okay, sweetheart?” His voice is gravel, but there’s gentleness threaded through. His thumb strokes your cheek, wiping a damp strand of hair away.

You nod, dazed, cheeks flaming. “Y-yeah.”

“Yeah, you are.” He kisses your temple, slower this time. “Took me so good. Better than I ever imagined.”

He pulls out carefully, shushing your little whimper at the loss, and grabs a clean rag to tend you. His touch is gentle now, almost tender, and when he settles you against his chest, he tucks the sheet around you like it’s second nature.

“Lesson one’s over,” he murmurs, lips brushing your hairline. “But I’m not done teachin’ you. Not by a long shot.”

The room is dim now, only the hum of the box fan in the corner and the faint creak of the old building settling around you. Your body is a haze of ache and warmth, still trembling in little aftershocks every time you shift.

Joel’s beside you, half-sitting against the headboard, one arm looped around your shoulders. His skin is still hot from earlier, damp where your cheek rests against his chest. You can hear his heartbeat under your ear—steady, slower now, but strong.

You’d almost fallen asleep like this, but the brush of his hand down your arm stirs you. He’s tracing lazy lines along your skin, thumb dragging soft circles into your wrist.

“Hey.” His voice is quieter now, low but not sharp, just gravel worn smooth. “You with me?”

You hum, blinking heavy-lidded. “Yeah. Just… tired.”

Joel chuckles, the sound rumbling under your cheek. “’Course you are. Wore you out, didn’t I?”

Heat blooms in your face, but you don’t pull away. You mumble into his chest, “That was… a lot.”

His hand stills, cupping your jaw gently, coaxing your face up so he can see you. His eyes are softer than you’ve ever seen, dark but not burning. “Too much?”

You shake your head quickly. “No. I—I liked it. I just… no one’s ever—” You break off, biting your lip, embarrassed to finish.

Joel leans down, kisses the corner of your mouth slow, grounding. “No one’s ever taken the time,” he finishes for you. “Yeah. I figured.” His thumb strokes your cheek, gentle as ever. “You let me know if I push too hard. This is supposed to feel good, not scare you.”

Your throat tightens. You nod. “It did feel good. Really good.”

His mouth twitches—half a smile, tired but genuine. “Good girl.”

You feel the praise all the way down your spine.

Joel shifts, reaching for the nightstand. A bottle of water sits there, half-empty. He twists the cap off and presses it into your hand. “Drink. You’ll thank me later.”

You sip obediently, throat still raw, and he watches until you hand it back. Then he leans down and presses his lips to your damp hair, a kiss so light it makes your chest ache.

“You hungry?” he asks after a beat. “Ain’t much up here, but I can throw somethin’ together. Eggs, maybe. Sandwich.”

From downstairs, the old compressor coughs to life and you both go still. Joel huffs a laugh into your hair. “Timer on that thing’s older than your car,” he murmurs. “We’ll fix it… later.”

The idea of Joel Miller making you food in the tiny apartment above his shop sends a strange heat curling through your chest. You shake your head, smiling faintly. “Not right now.”

He hums, satisfied, and tugs the sheet higher around your shoulders. His hand finds yours under the blanket, fingers slotting between yours—rough, callused, steady. He tucks your knee over his thigh even while you’re bundled in the sheet, like he can’t stand the idea of you not being anchored to him.

“You did good tonight,” he murmurs, almost like he’s talking to himself. “Better than I expected. You trust me?”

You nod into his chest. “Yeah.”

Joel exhales, deep and heavy, and kisses the top of your head again. “Then I’ll teach you everything you wanna know. Tomorrow I’ll show you how to make me come with your hand, slow.”

The promise hangs in the air, warm and sure. You fall asleep with his hand wrapped around yours, his heartbeat steady under your ear, and for the first time in weeks your dreams are quiet.