hey angels, i'm back! here is part 3!
i'm so sorry but i wont be doing a taglist because it gets so confusing!!! hope you understand
im so glad everyone is enjoying this series so far and i had so much fun writing it. part 1 and part 2 are here!
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Joel woke the next morning already muttering under his breath, half-formed curses strung between his teeth as he sat on the edge of the bed and yanked his boots on with more force than necessary, like the act of getting dressed itself was an inconvenience, like the cold floorboards and the memory of what he’d said weren’t already chewing at his thoughts.
“This is stupid,” he grumbled to the empty room, rubbing a hand over his face, jaw still clenched from a restless night. “Ain’t nothin’ to fix.”
But still—he tugged his jacket on.
Still—he grabbed the folded cloth bundle off the counter, the one with the damn bread he made that morning even though he told himself it was just habit, just something to do with his hands.
And still—he left the house, boots crunching against gravel, the sky above streaked with soft clouds, pale light pouring through the breaks like the morning itself hadn’t quite decided what kind of day it wanted to be.
He didn’t know exactly what he was going to say. He never did.
But he walked anyway.
Down the worn trail between cabins, past the little wooden fence where Benji’s toys were still scattered in the dirt from yesterday’s visit, past the quiet murmur of townsfolk just beginning to stir.
His shoulders were hunched slightly against the cold, but his hands were steady, and his steps had that slow, stubborn rhythm—the kind he got when he was doing something he didn’t want to admit he cared about.
He knew where you’d be.
You always helped unload the greenhouse supply crates on Wednesdays, that gentle routine of yours as predictable as sunrise.
He imagined you there now, bent slightly at the waist, sleeves pushed up as you wiped your hands on your apron, maybe tucking that strand of hair behind your ear the way you always did when you were focused—so damn kind it irritated him, so soft he wanted to look away from it but never could.
And as he reached the edge of the garden path, his boots just shy of the gravel turn where your shadow flickered against the greenhouse wall, Joel took a breath that felt too tight in his chest, cleared his throat like he could clear the guilt right along with it, and prepared himself to do the one thing he hated more than almost anything else.
Try.
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You didn’t see him at first—not until you turned, arms full of empty baskets, ready to head back toward the shed and put some space between you and the ache still lingering at the edge of your chest—and there he was.
Joel.
Standing awkwardly at the far end of the garden path, backlit by the pale morning sun, looking far too large for the little patch of earth beneath his boots, with a bundle clutched in his hands like he wasn’t sure whether he meant to offer it or throw it away.
His shoulders were stiff, like they hadn’t decided whether this was worth the embarrassment, and his mouth was set in that same unreadable line that had pushed you away the night before.
And your first instinct—stupid and human and wholly unprepared for this—was to turn.
To leave.
To slip out of reach before he could speak, before he could say something else that might finish what yesterday’s silence had started.
You mumbled something half-formed, barely audible—“I should—sorry, I didn’t realize—” and took one uncertain step backward, your gaze fixed somewhere near the dirt, anywhere but his eyes.
But his voice stopped you.
Low. Rough. The kind of quiet only a man like Joel could make sound like a command.
“You don’t gotta run.”
The words landed soft but heavy, like the earth had exhaled with him.
You froze, your fingers tightening around the handle of the basket, not out of fear—but out of that unbearable vulnerability, the kind that comes when someone you want to care has already proven they can hurt you.
He took one step forward, not enough to close the space, but enough to be noticed.
“I, uh…” he started, then paused, his eyes dropping to the bundle in his hands like maybe it could speak for him. “I made this. S’just bread.”
You looked up slowly, cautiously, as if any sudden movement might shatter the moment between you—and sure enough, in his hands was a folded cloth, still faintly steaming at the corners, the scent of rosemary and flour curling into the cold morning air like some kind of truce.
“I ain’t…” he tried again, then cleared his throat. “Ain’t good at talkin’. Or… at fixin’ shit I broke.”
There was a beat of silence, the kind that stretched long and uncertain but didn’t hurt the way it had the night before.
You stepped forward, just slightly, just enough to meet him in the middle, your voice smaller than usual but steady.
“Is this an apology?” you asked gently, a ghost of something like hope threading through your words.
Joel exhaled through his nose, eyes dropping to the ground, jaw tight.
“It’s bread,” he muttered.
You bit your lip, fighting a smile you hadn’t expected to feel.
“Okay,” you said, reaching out to take it from him, your fingers brushing his just slightly, like the contact didn’t mean anything and meant everything all at once. “I like bread.”
He nodded once, then again, like maybe twice would make it feel less like something important had just happened.
You stood there for a long moment, two people surrounded by garden beds and quiet things beginning to grow.
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You two were back at yours now, the walk from the garden long enough for the silence to soften into something companionable, almost shy, like neither of you quite knew how you’d gotten here but both were willing to let the moment stretch a little longer just to see where it went.
Joel had never been to your house—not that there’d ever been a reason for him to be—and yet the second he stepped through the door, he felt like he was intruding on something tender and private and irrevocably you.
There were wildflowers tucked into jars on every windowsill, their petals curling toward the sun like they belonged in your palms; a pink throw blanket draped over the arm of the couch; a little ceramic dish shaped like a heart filled with gold rings and mismatched earrings by the sink; and the faint scent of rosewater and vanilla that hung in the air like a whisper of someone who believed—deep down, in spite of everything—that love was still something worth inviting in.
It was small, sweet, soft around the edges in a way Joel had never let his life become.
And now he sat awkwardly at your tiny coffee table, a mug between his hands that read “love you, mean it” in swirling cursive, drinking coffee that was far too sweet, far too creamy, far too… you—and yet he didn’t complain, didn’t grimace, didn’t say a word.
He just sat there like a piece of furniture out of place, this broad, battle-worn man folded into your dainty, lavender-drenched kitchen like someone waiting for a punchline.
You watched him from across the table, cheeks warm with amusement, lashes fluttering as you stirred a second sugar cube into your own mug—your voice soft and curious when you finally spoke.
“So…” you said, cocking your head to the side just slightly, like you were trying to see if the light would hit him differently, “what made you change your mind?”
He didn’t answer right away—just sighed, long and low, like the breath had been sitting in his chest for years, waiting for the right moment to leave.
His thumb ran over the rim of the mug, slow and absent, eyes fixed on the table, not yours.
“I didn’t,” he muttered. “Not really.”
You blinked, heart skipping once, but said nothing.
Joel shifted slightly, his broad shoulders hunched in on themselves like he was trying to make himself smaller in a space too delicate to hold him.
“I just figured…” he continued, voice rough but quiet now, “if it meant you’d stop lookin’ at me like I kicked your damn puppy... I’d let you try.”
Your lips twitched, a laugh almost escaping—but it caught in your throat, tangled in something softer, something more fragile, because there was a flicker of something beneath his words. You could’ve pushed. Asked again. Called out the lie—because you knew Joel Miller didn’t change his mind for no reason, especially not about something as small and inconvenient as feelings. But instead, you let him sit in it. Let him keep his pride. Let him lie.
“Well,” you said, wrapping your hands around your mug and letting your thumb trace the rim the way he had, “I promise not to pair you with anyone who hates dogs.”
Joel huffed a low breath through his nose.
“Okay,” you said brightly, already shifting into your element, that familiar spark lighting up your features as you leaned forward and reached into the woven basket beside your chair.
Joel watched you warily as you unfolded your reading glasses—thin, gold-rimmed, delicate little things that perched on your nose like they belonged in a much gentler world.
And then—like magic, like some conjurer of hearts and chaos—you pulled a small, worn notebook from seemingly nowhere, its edges dog-eared, spine cracked, and corners filled with little stickers and loops of hearts, as if you couldn’t quite help decorating love wherever you touched it.
Joel blinked at the sight, his frown deepening.
“The hell is that?” he asked, suspicion laced thick in his voice, like you’d just pulled a grenade pin instead of a spiral-bound pastel journal.
You flipped it open with a satisfying little flutter of paper, your fingers brushing gently across the pages like they were sacred, until you landed on one in particular—a page that had clearly seen better days, with a name at the top that had been written in bold cursive, then scratched out, rewritten, circled, underlined, and scratched out again in a mess of exasperated swirls.
“It’s my matchmaking journal,” you said sweetly, tapping the page with your pen as if that explained everything.
Joel squinted. “Your what?”
“My matchmaking journal,” you repeated, pushing your glasses up your nose in that distracted, charming way of someone who was already too deep in thought. “It’s where I write down all my pairings, compatibility theories, failed first dates—oh, and moon sign clashes. That’s a big one.”
Joel just stared. At the journal. At you.
At his name, scratched out no less than three times.
And then back at you again.
“You’ve got moon signs in there?”
“Mhm.”
“And me.”
“Yes.”
“Scratched out.”
You blinked innocently. “You weren’t very cooperative.”
Joel leaned back in his chair, arms crossed, and let out a low, grumbled exhale—the kind that said this is ridiculous.
“You’re serious about this?”
“As a heart attack,” you said brightly, flipping the page and clicking your pen like a surgeon preparing for something far more dangerous than romance. “Now, let’s start.”
Joel muttered something under his breath that sounded suspiciously like a prayer.
But he stayed.
And you smiled.
And maybe—just maybe—this was going to work.
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You started off simple—careful not to spook him, not to dive too deep too fast. The page, faintly crinkled from how many times you'd opened it, bore his name in bold ink: Joel Miller, underlined twice, as if writing it down could make sense of him.
You chewed the end of your pen for a moment, eyelashes fluttering in thought before you began speaking aloud, mostly to yourself but loud enough that the grumpy man across from you could hear every word.
“Joel Miller,” you read softly, tilting your head. “Fifty-six years old… former contractor… current grumbler…”
Joel shot you a look. “What?”
You smiled sweetly, tapping your pen against your chin. “Nothing. Just jotting down your strengths.”
He raised a brow. “That’s a strength?”
You nodded, scribbling something else down. “You’re consistent. Consistency is a green flag.”
He scoffed. “That what passes for romance these days?”
“Oh, I never said you were romantic,” you hummed, flipping the page to one with a soft pink sticky note that read Miller, Joel – High risk / High reward? in your looping script. “But that’s what I’m here for. We build from the rubble.”
Joel looked like he might argue. Or leave. Or groan loud enough to shake the walls. But he didn't, the calloused pad of his thumb brushing along the handle of his mug, saying nothing.
“Okay,” you said brightly, flipping a fresh page in your notebook, pen poised like you were about to solve a case. “Let’s start with something easy. What are some of your hobbies?”
“I ain’t got hobbies,” he muttered, not even bothering to look up from the swirl of black coffee in his cup.
You frowned, nose scrunching slightly as you tapped the pen against the notebook. “That’s not true. Everyone has hobbies.”
“Not me,” he said again, firmer this time, like the topic was already closed.
You exhaled through your nose, more amused than frustrated, and scribbled something down anyway.
Joel squinted across the table. “What’re you writin’?”
“Just… that your hobbies include cooking.”
“That ain’t a hobby,” he grunted, frown deepening.
“Yes it is,” you insisted sweetly, lips quirking as you glanced up at him. “And you’re good at it.”
He shifted slightly in his chair, the faintest twitch of discomfort in his jaw. Joel Miller was not a man used to compliments—at least, not the kind that came with soft smiles and genuine warmth. He grumbled something incoherent under his breath, but you caught the way his ears turned a delicate shade of pink, like embarrassment blooming just beneath the skin.
You smiled to yourself and closed the book gently. You met his eyes then—steady and warm—and tilted your head.
“Okay. How about we try this instead,” you said, voice softer now. “What do you look for in a partner?”
Joel’s sigh was long and heavy, dragged from somewhere deep in his chest like it hurt to even entertain the thought. He rubbed a hand down his face, fingers catching on the roughness of his stubble.
“I ain’t lookin’ for a partner,” he said finally, voice low, like he meant to end the conversation right there.
You exhaled softly and gave him a small, patient smile and said, “Joel. You said you’d do this. So if you’re going to—if you’re really going to—we might as well try.”
Joel just sat there in the soft golden quiet of your kitchen, shoulders hunched slightly forward, eyes fixed on the coffee in his mug like maybe it held a better answer than he could ever offer. The silence stretched for a moment too long, not tense exactly, but brittle.
“If it’s easier,” you offered gently, tilting your head, your voice that same calm lilt you used with nervous couples on their first matchmaking visit, “what kind of women did you used to date? You know… before all of this.”
He finally looked up, brows tugging together in a way that made the lines on his forehead deepen, like they’d been carved there by years of grief and sleepless nights. He squinted at you, skeptical. “You mean like… twenty years ago?”
You nodded, lashes fluttering once as you rested your chin in your hand, the pen still tucked between your fingers like you were ready to write down anything he might dare to say.
Joel exhaled, low and rough. “Jesus,” he muttered, rubbing at the back of his neck. “Ain’t thought about that in a long time.”
You stayed quiet, letting him take his time.
He gave a small shrug, eyes drifting toward the window. “Guess I used to go for women who didn’t take shit from me. Strong. Didn’t scare easy. Had their own lives, their own jobs… smart, too. I liked that.”
You smiled softly, already scribbling something in your notebook - something along the lines of - Looking for someone strong. Opinionated. Doesn’t back down. Smart. - Sally from the infirmary maybe???
He glanced at you, almost defensively. “That don’t mean I’m lookin’ for anyone now.”
“I know,” you said, that little smile still playing on your lips. “But it helps. Just paintin’ the picture.”
Joel grunted again—his signature form of communication, really—but it wasn’t the sharp kind anymore. More like a low, irritated rumble that said I’m only tolerating this because you made the coffee. He scratched at the side of his jaw, where the stubble had turned nearly silver, and narrowed his eyes at you as if you’d just asked him to solve advanced calculus.
“Okay,” you said, undeterred, pen poised above the notebook with a hopeful gleam in your eyes, “do you have any deal breakers? Like kids? Pets? A specific age range? Blondes? Brunettes? People who clap when the plane lands?”
That earned you a look. Flat, squinting, vaguely appalled.
“I ain’t orderin’ off a damn menu,” Joel muttered, leaning back in the tiny kitchen chair that looked about two seconds from surrendering under his weight. “This ain’t the goddamn Cheesecake Factory.”
You bit back a giggle, twirling the pen between your fingers. “So… no preference?”
He gave you a long, unimpressed stare. “My preference is peace and quiet.”
You gave him a look then—not judgmental, not pushy, just something warm and amused beneath your lashes, the kind of expression that made people feel safe enough to say things they didn’t mean to.
You tucked your pen behind your ear like you’d done this a hundred times before, and folded your hands in your lap, watching him with that unshakable patience he found both infuriating and disarming.
Joel exhaled through his nose, slow and rough, eyes dropping to his coffee as if it might offer him a way out.
The silence stretched between you for a beat, maybe two, and just when you thought he might clamp down entirely, he spoke—gruff, honest, voice low like he didn’t much care to hear it out loud.
“Someone kind,” he muttered. “Someone who doesn’t—doesn’t need me to be anything more than I am. Ain’t lookin’ to be fixed. Just… someone real. Good with quiet. Good with… mess.”
Your gaze softened, a small shift in your posture like you were trying to absorb the weight of what he’d said without frightening it back into hiding.
You didn’t say anything, didn’t tease, didn’t scribble it down like you had the other answers. You just looked at him, like maybe you understood the kind of ache he carried.
Joel cleared his throat then, uncomfortable with the silence, with your eyes on him like that. “But I still don’t want no one clappin’ when the plane lands. That’s just—hell no.”
You laughed, and it was light and musical and so very you, and for the first time since walking through your door, Joel didn’t feel like bolting.
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