call me bee !

Harry Castillo is a man of power. He works for the private equity business that his mother started up when she was younger, and he owns the most businesses out of anyone there. Besides his mother of course. 

The Castillos have never been afraid of money. Hell, they bathe in it every night. Because of this, Harry isn’t afraid to spend a pretty penny on a woman. Except he hasn’t found someone that actually deserved it.

Sure, he’s had his fair share of women — none that he’s ever been photographed with. A list extending from women he’s worked with to sex workers. But no one has interested him long enough for him to think about any type of future with them. He’s not necessarily proud of his ways, but it’s a big stress relief for him.

Control is a necessity in all parts of Harry’s life — including in the bedroom. These women willingly submit themselves to please him in whatever way he desires. Of course, Harry still respects them and makes sure they’re properly taken care of. After all, he’s not a dick. He just thinks with his. 

Harry is currently on a phone call in his office. Something about a leak that was reported in a recent building he bought. To be honest, he tunes out the man on the other end about halfway into the conversation.

“Yeah, I’ll look into it,” he says, exasperated as he waits to end the phone call sooner rather than later.

“Okay. Thank you, Mr. Castillo. Have a good—“

The man’s voice dies out as Harry puts down the phone, effectively ending the conversation before the man could finish his thought. He slumps back in his chair, running a hand down his face. 

Crown Castillo has been the busiest and biggest it’s ever been. The annual New Years gala is in a few weeks, and his mother wants him to have a date for it. Harry could get any woman he wants for it, really. But he has been getting tired of that life. He is well into his fifties and coming to terms with the fact that he might end up alone.

Just then, his assistant, Rick, knocks on his door. “Come in,” Harry calls out, sitting up straight in his chair.

The door slowly opens before Rick steps in, “Mr. Castillo, there’s a woman here to see you. Something about the photography at the gala.”

Confusion stretches across Harry’s face before he tells Rick to let her in. He wasn’t aware of any meetings with a photographer, but he’d see what they needed.

What Harry doesn’t expect is for you to walk in: younger, long hair that went down past your shoulders, soft skin, black blazer, black skirt that stopped at your mid thighs, and the expanse of your legs being covered by sheer stockings. 

Fuck, you’re a sight.

Standing up, Harry buttons the middle of his suit jacket. “How can I help you, ma’am?” he asks with a small nod.

You wait for his assistant to close the door before you walk up to Harry’s desk. Extending out your hand, you introduce yourself. Your hand is practically swimming in his as he gives you a firm handshake.

“Pleasure to meet you,” he says before gesturing for you to sit in one of the chairs across from his desk.

“My business was called about taking pictures for your upcoming New Years gala. They sent me out to confirm with you. Make sure everything is exactly the way you want; the pictures you want taken of the venue, the people – the food even.”

Harry watches your lips move as you talk, subconsciously licking his own while he takes in your words. He hadn’t been aware that there would even be photographers at the gala this year, so this must’ve been his mother’s doing.

He clears his throat, “I’m sorry, but I don’t think I was made aware about any of this. You might’ve been looking for my parents, not me.”

You raise an eyebrow, “Your parents?”

“It’s a family business,” he shrugs like it’s nothing. As if Crown Castillo isn’t the wealthiest private equity firm in the U.S.

“Ah, I see,” you nod slowly, “So who do I speak to then?”

“Well,” he rounds his desk, moving to stand in front of you, “if you were looking for a ‘Mr. Castillo’, that would be my father: Emiliano.”

You nod once, taking in the information and correcting the form you brought in. As you build up the courage to ask, you place the end of your pen between your lips, drawing Harry’s gaze towards them once more.

His gaze darkens, hands tightening on the edge of his desk until his knuckles are nearly white.

“Do you mind showing me where your father’s office is then?” you finally ask, putting down your pen and meeting his eyes.

Harry would normally tell someone who asked for directions to ask his assistant, but something about you draws him towards you. His body craves a little more time with you, even if it’s just for five more minutes.

“Sure. This place is easy to get lost in,” he huffs out something close to a laugh.

He gestures for you to walk in front of him, getting a small whiff of your perfume. It’s something subtle, sexy and sophisticated, causing his slacks to feel a little tighter and uncomfortable. Harry doesn’t think he’s ever been so easily affected by a woman, let alone one he just met.

As he holds the door open for you, he allows his eyes to travel down the back of your body, getting a good view of your ass before he walks in front of you.

“Such a gentleman,” you tease him lightly as the two of you walk in unison.

Harry feels heat creep up his neck, wondering if you felt his heavy gaze on you or if you’re referring to his manners. “Yeah,” he says gruffly before he clears his throat, “I’m not as big of an asshole as they say I am in the press.”

Your brows knit in confusion at that, “The press?”

He freezes in his tracks, making you stop as well. The stare he’s giving you is almost like he’s trying to figure you out. His eyes are narrowed, mouth slightly agape as he reads you.

Your pulse picks up under his intense stare. Chest rising and falling a bit faster before he speaks. “You don’t… know who my family is?” he asks in disbelief.

“Am I supposed to?”

“I… guess not,” he says quietly, brushing it off before he continues walking.

You stand there, trying to process what just happened before you trail behind him. 

“Sorry if I offended you, Mr. Castillo, but I’m not really into the whole… business world of things. I’m sure you and your family have plenty of fame. I just don’t know anything about it.”

Immediately you realize how much you’re rambling when Harry doesn’t even bat another eye at you. His expression is stoic as he walks, keeping his eyes trained forward. You got a sense that you would ruin this deal if you kept talking, so you stayed quiet for the rest of the walk.

After another minute of walking past the most expensive and busiest people you’ve ever seen, the two of you stop in front of an office door that reads: Emiliano Castillo.

“Thanks for walking me here,” you murmur once he turns towards you.

There’s the faintest hint of a fire burning behind Harry’s eyes. So faint that you aren’t even sure if you’re really seeing it.

“Guess I’ll see you soon,” he states, his voice a little rougher than it was before. 

You’re not too sure why, but your skin prickles at his tone. Goosebumps spread across your arms as you look up at him.

“See you soon, Mr. Castillo.”

With that, he walks away, leaving you alone to talk to his father.

Harry Castillo was a man of power, and he was slowly losing it with you. After leaving you, he makes his way to the men’s restroom, locking the door behind himself before he steps into a stall. The heavy ache between his thighs becomes too much, and his erection is noticeable. He needs to do something about it quickly.

The second the sound of him unbuckling his belt echoes within the four walls of the restroom, he knows he is going to regret this. He pulls out his throbbing cock with a small hiss before spitting on his hand and fisting himself.

He works his wrist at a steady pace, tipping his head back in ecstasy as his thoughts drift to you. He imagines hiking up your short skirt and bending you over his desk, or fucking you against the floor-to-ceiling windows in his office.

God, he just knows you’d make the prettiest noises as he fucked you into oblivion. He’d make sure to drag his cock within the deepest depths of you, making you and your pussy sing. 

Just the mere thought of it has him thrusting into his hand faster, fucking his fist until he creams all over it. He shudders through his orgasm, vision going a little blurry around the edges, causing him to place a hand on the stall door to keep his balance. 

Harry doesn’t think he’s ever cum like that just from the thought of someone he barely had five minutes of interaction with. No, this is something entirely different, and he isn’t completely sure about what it was exactly. 

After all of that, there’s one thing Harry knows for sure: You’re his, whether you know it or not.

Setting up the gala with the coordinator has been… eventful. You’re not even completely sure if he was actually listening to your advice or if he was just staring at your tits. Perhaps the dip of your dress was a little too far down your cleavage, but it isn’t your fault that men act like pigs around you.

The venue is beautifully decorated and you’re sure you are going to get some gorgeous shots. Diamonds dangle from the ceiling in forms of chandeliers, reflecting off of the tall walls covered in expensive art. You had an inkling that the Castillos were rich, you just didn’t know how rich.

Right at 7PM, guests start to pile in. Women wearing diamonds and gold around their necks, wrists, and fingers. You’re guaranteed that if you sold this building and the people in it alone, you’d make a lot of money. But you aren’t here to think hypothetically, you’re here to do your job, and you’re going to make sure the photographs are up to both your boss’ and Emiliano’s standards.

Guests mingle, drinking punch, eating the appetizers that were set out, some checking out the art, but the Castillos are still nowhere to be found. It’s nearing 8:30 and Gavin — another photographer — is starting to get antsy. 

“We’re supposed to get a shot of them coming in,” Gavin says through his teeth, letting out an exasperated breath.

“They’ll be here,” you murmur, your eyes focused within the camera lens.

You’re watching the guests through your camera, always ready for the perfect shots. A happy couple smiling, the camera flashes. Guests looking up at the art, another flash. 

When one head snaps towards the door, so does your camera, and you don’t hesitate to take the shot of the family walking in. The lens whirs as you zoom in on the parents alone, and then the brothers.

It’s almost automatic when Harry feels a camera on him. His gaze finds you in the crowd after the picture is taken, and you lower the camera just slightly to catch his eyes. His eyes travel down your body before he tips his head slightly towards you. Immediately, you feel your skin heat up.

He is clad in a tailored black suit, broad shoulders stretching out his suit jacket so much that you could hear the fabric begging for mercy from where you stand. A white handkerchief folded neatly in the pocket of his suit jacket, black slacks down his legs. 

You could already tell he was a big and broad man. Probably manhandling every woman he’s ever been with. 

“Did you get the shot?” Gavin asks, pulling your attention away from the man across the room.

“I got it,” you nod slowly, taking a few more just for good measure.

Harry’s gaze still hasn’t moved from you, and for a brief moment, you wonder if this is how mice feel underneath a microscope. Their little bodies squirming as they’re being examined and experimented on against their will.

“You better fucking have,” Gavin states before he walks away from you.

Ignoring his comment, you take more pictures of Anastasia and Emiliano walking up to the small makeshift stage by the speakers. A microphone stand sits idly on it, waiting to be used for announcements. 

You may not be looking at Harry, but you can still feel his gaze on you. Briefly, you wonder what he’s thinking about, but then his father starts speaking.

“May I have your attention ladies and gentlemen. It is with great honor that I thank each and every one of you in this room tonight. My wife’s business would not be as successful as it is without the help of you all. We are extremely grateful for your commitment and dedication to the place we call home: Crown Castillo.

Friends, family, employees – all of you are important and valuable. All of our hands keep this place up and running, and that is what a found family is. I hope we all continue to have each other’s backs during the years to come. And please… enjoy yourselves tonight, and don’t forget that all the funds collected tonight are going towards charity.”

Emiliano and Anastasia raise their glasses of champagne before Ana continues, “To the Crown Castillo family.”

Everyone raises their glasses, repeating her words and going back to mingling. A handful of cameras flash, you and your coworkers getting hundreds of shots for the family and company. The more lively the photo, the better. You’ve learned over the years that these kinds of people appreciate the ‘vibe’ of the pictures more. If they look united, they’ll love the photos. 

You lower your camera, checking all of the photos you’ve gotten so far before a man walks up to you. “Excuse me,” he says, placing a hand on your bicep to get your attention. 

You look at his hand before you look up at him, “Can I help you, sir?”

He extends his hand out, introducing himself, “Lucas Taylor, Taylored Photography.”

Extending your hand out, you stare at him. He’s a recruiter, no doubt. With a company name that doesn’t even sound familiar to you, and you know all of the photography companies in New York. Emiliano didn’t tell you about another photographer being here, so you’re a little confused.

“I must say,” he puts his hands in his pockets, straightening his posture, “the photos you’ve taken thus far are beautiful.”

“How would you know?” you query, “You haven’t seen them… Lucas.”

He chuckles softly at your retort, nodding, “You’re right.” The heated look he’s giving you isn’t very subtle, and it makes you a bit uncomfortable. “I just wanted to tell you how breathtaking you look in that dress, miss…” Lucas trails off, trying to get you to tell him your name.

You press your lips into a fine line, getting ready to open your mouth, but Harry steps in next to you, placing a hand on your lower back. “You’re a little close, aren’t you?”

“Oh, I,” Lucas stammers, chuckling sheepishly, “I was just complimenting her on her-”

“I’d advise you to leave,” Harry states, his voice cold and calculated as he stares Lucas down.

Harry has a good few inches on Lucas, so he shrinks into his skin, murmuring something under his breath as he walks away. Immediately, you step away from Harry, the warmth of his hand leaving your back and sending a cold shiver up your spine.

“I didn’t need saving.”

“Really?” he draws out with a raised eyebrow, putting his hands in his pockets, “‘Cause it seemed like you were dying to be saved.”

His tease makes you narrow your eyes slightly, “I appreciate the act, but I can handle myself, Mr. Castillo—”

“Harry,” he corrects you, “I think we’re well past the formalities now, don’t you think?”

“What, because you ‘saved’ me?” you retort.

“That’s exactly why,” the corner of his lips tug up into a small smirk, making you roll your eyes.

“Look, I’m trying to do my job for your father. So if you don’t mind, I’d like to get back to it now.”

Harry chuckles fondly, watching you raise your camera back up to your eyes. You have a good work ethic, which he admires. But he also wonders if you ever took a break and truly winded down. There’s a huge chance that you don’t do anything remotely close to what he does to wind down, but he feels the need to push your boundaries.

Throughout the night, his gaze keeps landing on you. Watching you mingle with guests, take pictures, talk to his parents, and sip your own glass of champagne. There’s just something so intriguing about you and how you carry yourself. It’s not surprising that he’s thinking with his dick first, but he feels some sort of pull towards you. Like something within the both of you is calling out to each other.

It’s been weeks. 

Harry hasn’t been able to get you off his mind. He doesn’t think he’s ever fucked his fist as often as he has lately. He’s done it at least four times today, and he’s painfully hard again, but he can’t wrap his hand around his cock without hissing. 

You’re taking over his mind, and you haven’t even really done anything. 

He’s looked up the photography company you work for to see if your number is anywhere on it, but the website only has the owner’s information on it. 

Asking his parents would be the easy thing to do, but he doesn’t want to raise their suspicions. They already hassle him enough about finding someone to marry, and he doesn’t need more of it.

As if the Gods were blessing him, he looks up from his desktop just in time to see you walking by. A black portfolio folder is in your arms as you walk swiftly towards his father’s office. You’re probably here to drop off the pictures, but Harry knows that his parents are out on a lunch date.

Without really thinking it through, he leaves his office, walking past the many cubicles while keeping his eyes trained on you. You’re on the opposite side and have yet to notice him, but he catches up to you just before you make it to his father’s office door. 

Just as you’re about to knock, Harry slides right in front of you, blocking the door with his broad frame. Your palm meets his chest instead of the door, causing warmth to bloom throughout his entire body.

“Hey you,” Harry says, putting his hands in his pockets like he wasn’t entirely in your way.

“Hi,” you reply tentatively, dropping your hand down to your side. “Is your dad here?”

“No, he’s out on lunch,” he averts your gaze for a moment, making eye contact with his assistant before he looks back down at you.

“Oh, I was told to drop off the pictures here,” you murmur, tucking your hair behind your ear as you take a step back. “I’ll just come back later—”

“I can look at them,” Harry says a little too quickly, clearing his throat and backing off the door, “I mean, this is my firm just as much as it is my parents’. Let me look at them.”

“Okay,” you draw out, handing him the portfolio, “Your dad can email me if you guys aren’t happy with the photos.”

“I’m sure we will be,” Harry states matter-of-factly, giving you a charming smile as he takes the folder from you. He holds it like it’s something sacred, “We can get this done now, if you want. Why waste more time on this?”

You ponder his request, biting the inside of your cheek. The instructions your boss gave you were to drop the photos off, get all information if changes needed to be made, get lunch, and come back to edit photos for another company. But with Emiliano gone, Harry is your best option right now.

Reluctantly, you agree, following him to his office. The look he and his assistant share isn’t lost on you as he closes the door, drawing the blinds as well, plunging the room in partial darkness as the sun spills in from the floor-to-ceiling windows.

The cool leather quietly squeaks as you sit down across from his desk, watching him sit in his own chair and open the folder. He carefully studies each photo, not saying anything yet, but his dark eyes meet yours every now and then over the photographs. 

You shift under his heated gaze, crossing your leg over the other and sitting up straighter. 

Harry smirks faintly at your reaction, knowing he’s got you right where he wants you. “These look amazing,” he compliments, putting down the photographs to make eye contact with you.

You murmur a small thank you, intertwining your hands in your lap. “I’ll send them over to your father this afternoon so you guys can… do whatever you please with them.”

“And then we’re done?” he asks.

“And then we’re done,” you confirm, slowly nodding.

“So,” Harry starts, standing up to round his desk, “you won’t be working for my company anymore, right?” he asks, sitting on the edge of his desk – directly in front of you.

You can hear the frantic pulse of your heartbeat thrumming in your ears. Though, you keep it strictly professional.

Harry’s eyes follow your movements as you stand, pressing his palms into his desk and looking at you with his big brown eyes. 

“That’s correct,” you confirm, straightening your posture and adjusting your suit jacket. “We won’t ever have to see each other again, Mr. Castillo.”

“Harry,” he corrects you again, “And who said anything about not seeing each other anymore?”

“I did.”

Harry huffs, shaking his head slowly, “You can be very disobedient. Someone outta teach you a lesson.”

Your eyes narrow by a fraction, taken aback by the sudden statement that came tumbling out of his mouth. “Is that what you tell all the women you sleep with?”

“I—”

“Women aren’t on this earth for men’s pleasure. We are people, and we have feelings,” you scoff.

Suddenly he stands, towering over you with his broad frame. But you don’t back down, standing your ground and looking up at him with a defiant look.

“I never told you anything about my sex life,” he states, his voice low.

“Aw, did I hit a nerve?” you pout, “I know you didn’t. I like to know the people that I work for, and it wasn’t that hard to find out about your… extracurricular activities, Mr. Castillo. Maybe you should make sure the women that you fuck are more tightlipped than they let on—”

Harry’s hands grip your waist, pulling you flush against the warmth of his body. You can feel his breath fanning over your face, his lips slightly agape as he stares down at you.

“Say one more thing,” he warns, eyes flicking to your lips momentarily. “I’m used to getting what I want, when I want it.”

“That must get very boring,” you tease with a tilt of your head. “You want me? Then earn it,” that’s all you leave it at before you step back from him, heading towards his office door. “Tell your father I said thank you for the opportunity,” a small smirk tugs at the corner of your lips, and then you’re gone.

Harry exhales harshly through his nose, running a hand through his curls as he’s left there: wanting you.

You gave him a challenge and he sure as hell isn’t going to back down.

Steam from your coffee mug curls around your laptop in lazy tendrils, patrons of the coffee shop chattering amongst themselves. The raised ceilings give the place a more open feel, the hissing of the espresso machines echoing throughout the building. 

Your friend, Samantha, sits across from you, telling you about her latest hookup. It’s some guy she met at a party a few months ago. They’ve been talking back and forth for a while and only recently decided to just bite the bullet and fuck.

She waves her hands around as she speaks, telling you in grave detail about the fun night she had.

“I think I blacked out at some point,” she mentions, prompting you to raise your brows in surprise.

“Jesus, Sammy,” you breathe out, astonished by the statement.

As the conversation goes on, she tries to press you into telling her about the last person you worked for.

“Have you heard from Harry?” she casually asks, earning narrowed eyes from you.

“Why would I have heard from him?”

“Because,” she draws out, lifting her coffee mug to her lips, “he definitely wanted to fuck you and you totally shot him down!”

You bite the inside of your cheek, “He’s just like every other rich asshole, Sam. He thinks he can walk all over people and expect them to polish his Italian shoes with their tongues. I don’t need anything like that.”

“So?” she shrugs, placing her elbows on the wooden table, “I bet he fucks like an animal.”

“Samantha,” you deadpan.

“What?” she feigns innocence, “He is a man that screams dominance in the bedroom. If you won’t get under him, I will.”

Against your will, a fire of possessiveness begins to burn in your gut, prompting you to narrow your eyes at your friend. She continues to talk, oblivious to the uneasiness you’re beginning to feel.

“It’s a crazy feeling being with someone that dominant and kinky,” she pauses, thinking. “Oo, maybe he has a sex dungeon—”

“Sam,” you shake your head once, “Enough.”

“I’m just saying,” her tone switches to something lighter, “maybe you’re missing out on what’s right in front of you.”

“Or maybe I dodged a bullet,” you tilt your head to the side slightly. “He’s like… in his 50s, Sam. You do know that, right?”

She shrugs, “Just because the wrapper is wrinkled, doesn’t mean the candy isn’t sweet.”

You raise your brows, amusement spreading across your face as you let out an incredulous chuckle. “You did not just say that. Do I need to take your phone away from you?”

“Probably,” she grimaces, “But seriously, he wants you. I don’t think you should let that go to waste.”

You press your lips into a fine line, hearing the murmurs of the cafe die down. Everyone’s gazes collectively fall to a single person who walks in, reeking of luxury and money. Like a moth to a flame, Samantha’s eyes lift as well.

You bite into your toast, the crunch a lot more audible than it should be in a busy cafe in New York. 

“Oh my God,” your friend murmurs, causing you to look up at her.

“What?” you ask, putting your hand over your mouth as you chew.

“Expensive looking hottie alert,” she states, nearly making you choke on your food.

You wipe the corner of your mouth, turning to look over your shoulder at who’s caught everyone’s attention. The world slows around you, Harry’s dark eyes locking onto yours as his signature smirk pulls at his lips.

“Wait, isn’t that—”

“Yes, it is,” you cut Sammy off, pulling your bottom lip between your teeth as Harry begins to stalk towards you.

“Ladies,” Harry greets, nodding once towards your friend before his gaze locks onto yours. He crouches down to your level, so close that you can feel his breath fanning across your face. “Hi,” he murmurs to you, a shit-eating grin plastered across his face.

“Hi,” you repeat his words, narrowing your eyes at him. “How the hell did you find me?”

Harry nods towards Samantha again, “Your friend posts a lot on social media.”

Of course.

“Look—“

“I just wanted to personally invite you to the Crown Castillo Black & White Gala,” he speaks lowly for your ears only. “But…” he trails off, reaching for a manilla envelope from the inside of his suit jacket, “I’d like you to look over something for me.”

“Is it regarding the photos I took?” you ask steadily, not looking away from his deep espresso eyes. 

His Adam's apple bobs as he swallows, drawing your eyes towards it. “Not necessarily, but it is business.”

You tilt your head to the side, “What—”

“Just think about it and have an answer by the night of the gala.” He hands you the envelope, standing up and straightening his suit jacket. “I look forward to doing business with you.”

The second you get to your apartment, the sound of the envelope ripping fills the empty space. You pull out a thick packet of white paper. The title page reads: “THE COMMENCEMENT DATE BETWEEN THE DOMINANT AND THE SUBMISSIVE”

“Oh, you’ve got to be fucking kidding me,” you blurt out immediately.

Your thoughts start to swarm as you glance through the pages, words like sex toys, gags, and whipping sticking out to you.

He wants you to be his sex slave?

Did he listen to a single word you told him in his office?

Your phone buzzes in your pocket and you pull it out without thinking. A new email pops up on your lock screen, Harry Castillo being the obvious name as the sender.

The packet hits your kitchen counter with a sharp thud as you unlock your phone, quickly opening the email he sent.

“Good afternoon, I hope this email finds you well.”

You narrow your eyes at the first line before you continue reading.

“I hope you consider reading over the packet I left with you. Whatever you aren’t willing to do, I will accept immediately and set up a meeting to change them. Please read over everything. All I need is your written consent.”

You scoff, placing your phone face down on the counter, hands gripping the edge of it until your knuckles are white. Darkness envelops you when you close your eyes, your breathing picking up as you attempt (and fail) to process whatever the fuck you just read.

There’s no way this is real life, right? People don’t actually do this outside of movies.

Right?

The thick packet taunts you when you open your eyes, sticking out like a sore thumb in your peripheral vision. 

As the weeks go by, the contract sits untouched in your nightstand drawer. Harry emails you, but most of the time you don’t respond, earning desperate messages from him late at night. 

You don’t know what to think about the situation. Honestly, you thought everything you found out about him were all lies, but this seems pretty fucking real to you.

The night before the gala, you build up the courage to show up at his office. You briskly walk past the security, the packet held tightly against your chest as you reach for the elevator, repeatedly pressing the button for his floor until the doors close.

You exhale in relief once the security guards faces are no longer in view, leaning back against the back wall. Briefly, you look down at the contract again, the word submissive staring back at you.

That isn’t who you are. Isn’t who you were going to be.

You refused to bend yourself to a man’s will just to please him. It goes against everything you stand for.

The elevator dinging pulls you out of your thoughts, the doors sliding open to reveal his floor. It’s dark and quiet, nothing like the other times you’ve been here. Your heels echo in the space as you step out. 

Too loud. 

Too final.

You turn back around to leave but the doors close too quickly, sealing your decision.

A familiar voice calls out your name, you looking over your shoulder to see Harry’s assistant, Rick, walking towards you.

“Sorry,” you call for the elevator again before turning around to face him, “I shouldn’t have come here. I was just leaving—”

“Mr. Castillo will see you now.”

That catches your attention, the doors sliding open behind you and revealing the two security guards. Rick holds up his hand, signaling them away. “We’re fine here. She has an appointment.”

The men share a look, deciding it’s best not to say anything.

“Please, right this way, miss,” Rick beckons you to follow him.

You glance back at the two brawly men, figuring that it’s best not to get in the elevator with them since you technically just snuck into the building. Against your better judgement and your body screaming at you not to, you follow Rick to Harry’s office.

There’s nobody on the floor. Not even a single janitor in sight. It’s like a ghost town, or one of those horror movies that start off with a vulnerable woman left alone in an office building. Nine times out of ten, she ends up dead in her car.

Rick knocks on Harry’s closed office door twice before opening it. “Have fun.”

“Wait, you aren’t staying?” you ask quietly, watching him shake his head.

“I don’t work overtime.” With that, he gathers his things and heads back towards the elevator, leaving you alone with a stranger that asked you to be his submissive through a packet of paper.

You walk in slowly, noting that his eyes immediately dart down to your bare legs as he stands. He says your name, nodding in greeting. “I’ve been expecting you. Please, shut the door.”

Hesitantly, you close the door behind yourself, feeling like you’re sealing a deal without signing your signature.

“Why were you expecting me?” you ask, walking deeper into his office. The skyline of New York City gleams behind him, like diamonds against a dark sky.

He shrugs faintly, placing his hands in his pockets. “Women usually come around to these sorts of things.”

The statement nearly gives you whiplash, your fingers tightening around the contract before you toss it onto his desk with a sharp thwack.

“Is that what you think? That women want to be your little plaything?”

“It’s not about that,” Harry claims, rounding his desk to stand in front of you. “It’s more about… testing your limits. Seeing how far you’ll go, learning what pleases you—”

You hold out your hand, “I’m gonna stop you right there.” Harry goes quiet, allowing you the space to speak freely, “You tell me one thing, but the contract says another.”

“So you read it?” he asks.

“No, I only read the title page,” you explain. “Sex shouldn’t be a business deal. A relationship shouldn’t be a business deal.”

Harry weighs your words, rolling his tongue over his teeth. “I prefer the term fucking.”

“I didn’t ask.”

He chuckles faintly, crossing his arms over his chest and sitting on the edge of his desk. “If you want to change things in the contract—”

“No, you don’t get it,” you cut him off again, stepping closer, “I didn’t want it in the first place. Did our conversation in this very office just fly over your head?”

“No, it didn’t,” he claims, shaking his head slowly, “but I can tell that you want more from me.”

Harry stands slowly, closing the last bit of space between the two of you until you have to tilt your chin up to look at him directly. A faint smirk tugs at his lips, “What is it that you want? Money? Jewelry—”

“You can’t buy me, Harry,” you interrupt him. “I won’t sign your sex contract and I don’t want to see your face again.”

He nods once, “You came to my office at 9PM just to tell me that? Something you could’ve emailed me or told me over the phone.”

You roll your eyes.

“I mean, it’s a little much, don’t you think?” he asks.

“No, you’re right,” you take a slow step back, “Goodbye, Mr. Castillo.”

You turn around, exhaling through your nose as you begin to head for his office door. Before you can get too far, you feel his hand wrap around your wrist, spinning you around until you’re flush against his chest. The collision steals all the air from your lungs, hands instinctively coming up to steady yourself on his biceps. 

Harry’s breath mingles with yours, one of his hands coming up to cup the nape of your neck before he crashes his lips against yours in a searing kiss.

A sound of surprise leaves you, and without thinking, you push at him just enough to jostle him before your hand flies across his face. Your hand stings from the force of it, causing you to shake off the pain. Harry keeps his head turned to the side for a moment, his gaze dark when he looks back at you.

What you don’t expect is for him to spin the both of you around, sending everything on his desk flying before he bends you over it.

“Is this what you wanted, princess?” he rasps, breath hot against your ear as he hikes up your skirt.

“Harry—” a low moan cuts you off when he sucks at your pulse point, the rapid flutter of your heartbeat quivering in between his teeth.

He slips his foot between your legs, kicking them apart before he delivers a harsh smack to your ass. You jolt forward upon impact, a sharp gasp leaving your lips. He soothes the plush skin, rubbing his hand along the red spot that’s started to bloom from the force of his palm.

“You have no idea what you do to me,” he murmurs in your ear, the metallic rattle of his belt unbuckling filling the office. 

“This is a bad idea,” you weakly protest. Though, you make absolutely no effort to move.

“Really?” he taunts, dropping his slacks and boxers in one go. “You’re saying one thing… but your body is saying another,” he repeats what you said in his own twisted way, peeling your lacy panties to the side.

The cool air hits your slick heat, sending a shiver throughout your body. You know this shouldn’t happen. Fuck, you shouldn’t have even shown up here tonight. But then he swipes the tip of his cock through your folds, parting them, smearing your slick as well as his precum. 

His hand is steady on your hip, the other gripping the base of himself as he repeatedly stimulates your clit with his swollen tip until your knees nearly buckle. 

“Fuck,” he breathes, “you’re so pretty.”

“Just shut up and fuck me,” you quip.

Harry chuckles darkly, shoving himself in, the stretch stealing the air from your lungs as you both moan in unison. He doesn’t give you time to adjust to his girth before he’s fucking you raw. The obscene slap of wet skin against each other fills the space of the office, his breathy grunts behind you stirring you on.

Push him back, you repeat in your head over and over again. It feels so right, like the Earth’s axis has finally shifted into place as your slick velvet walls greedily suck him in deeper. But you know this shouldn’t be happening – you worked for his family, he left a fucking sex contract with you, and he’s the most cocky son of a bitch you’ve ever met.

Not to mention, absolutely infuriating.

But he feels too good, angling his hips to reach parts of you that have never been touched before. You’ll get your fill just this once, you tell yourself, succumbing to the feeling of him splitting you open.

“Look at you,” he purrs, “taking my cock so well, baby.” Another gasp comes tumbling from your lips when he smacks the supple skin of your ass, watching it ripple with every deep thrust.

The ruthless pace has you mewling, arching your back until your arms are straight forward across the surface of his desk. Harry wraps your hair around his hand, using it to pull your head back and fuck you harder.

“Yesyesyes,” you chant, your jaw going slack, the sting of your hair being pulled, an odd but welcome sensation.

Harry’s other hand slides up to your waist, indenting his fingertips into your skin. “Is this how you like it?” he punctuates between thrusts, “I knew you’d be fucking perfect.”

For now, you ignore the comment, too focused on your pending orgasm and the roaring of your blood rushing in your ears. “Ohh, fuck,” you slur, feeling every ridge of his cock stimulate your sensitive spots perfectly – like it was made to ruin you specifically.

He groans, gritting his teeth as your walls squeeze his shaft. Without much warning, he hooks his forearm under you, lifting your upper body towards his. His hot breath fans over your ear, deep grunts telling you he’s just as affected as you are.

“You feel so fucking good,” he growls, tugging at your blouse until your tits spill free. Roughly, he takes one in his warm palm, massaging the soft skin and rolling your peaked nipple between his thumb and forefinger.

You lean your head back on his shoulder, closing your eyes and pulling your bottom lip between your teeth when his hand leaves your waist to wrap around your throat. He squeezes gently, feeling the frantic pulse of your heartbeat under the pads of his fingers.

“Harry,” you whimper, heat pooling low in your abdomen as you near your peak.

“Shit,” he hisses, your walls pulsing and squeezing him just right. “You gonna come for me?” he rasps, slipping his hand between your legs to circle your swollen clit. 

Your vision goes blurry around the edges, incoherent moans toppling out of your lips as shockwaves spark through your body in fast-rising surges. Blood roars in your ears, your body threatening to double over, but Harry holds you tightly to his heaving chest.

He lets out a ragged groan, bending you back over the desk and pulling out just in time to release his thick, hot, white spurts of cum. He shudders through his orgasm, fucking his fist until he has nothing left to give.

The room stills, both of you breathing heavily from your equally intense climaxes. Your heart pounds in your ears, mind a little hazy and not fully coherent as you lift yourself up, palms pressing into the desk.

Harry pulls up his boxers and slacks, grabbing the box of tissues on his desk to clean up the mess he made.

“Did I hurt you?” he asks quietly when you don’t speak, watching you adjust your clothes and hair back into place.

“No,” you shake your head, turning around to face him, “it was good.”

He hums in acknowledgement, “So will I see you tomorrow night?”

You open your mouth to speak, but nothing comes out just yet. Honestly, you hadn’t thought about whether or not you would go to the gala. What would you even do there besides accompany him and fulfill his… needs?

“I haven’t made up my mind yet.”

Harry steps closer, closing the distance between the two of you and placing his hands on the desk behind you. This way, you have to tilt your chin up to meet his eyes.

“You should go,” he murmurs, leaning in to press his plush lips to yours, giving you a tender kiss that you didn’t think he was capable of. 

Despite yourself, warmth blooms in your chest, leaving you wanting more. 

Everything feels wrong: your heels are too uncomfortable, dress too tight – too long, jewelry too heavy.

You felt completely out of place. This isn’t your crowd. You’re always the one in the back, a professional black dress and pumps on your body, camera in hand while you blend in with the wall. 

You’ve never been in the sea of people you take pictures of.

The building is 24 stories, drowning in exquisite taste and class – something you definitely missed the lesson on in school. Chandeliers scream money, reflecting off the lights and the diamonds dangling from women's necks. 

Soft jazz music fills the lobby, creating an alluring atmosphere that eases your nerves for the moment. 

A worker offers to take your coat, hanging it up with the rest when you give it to him. You feel exposed, anxiety rising once more now that your dress is revealed. It was a black off-the-shoulder dress, the back of it stopping in the middle of your back. 

Goosebumps sprinkle across your skin, shrinking you into your own warmth as you take cautious steps towards the grand double doors. Your heels clack on the marble floors, echoing in your ears.

Inside, classical music drifts through the air, strangers chatting too loudly and overlapping one another. 

What the fuck were you doing here?

This isn’t your scene and you’re already going against your morals – stepping out of your comfort zone because a man asked you to.

On instinct, you stick close to the back wall, not wanting to draw attention to yourself, but also not wanting to intrude. 

Neither Harry or his family are anywhere to be seen, tempting you to leave before you’re noticed by anyone.

Servers pass by, not giving you a second glance as you practically hug the wall. One walks by holding glasses of champagne and you don’t hesitate to grab one, hoping the fizzy beverage will ease your racing heart.

It’s just a party, you tell yourself. Hell, not even a party, this could pass as someone’s fucking wedding reception.

Just before you burrow deeper into your inner turmoil, everyone goes silent – even the music. Someone on a microphone somewhere introduces the Castillo family and everyone claps. You look around for a moment, lost, before you tuck your clutch under your arm and clap along with them; careful of your glass of champagne.

“Happy birthday, Mrs. Castillo!”

“Happy birthday, Ana!”

People begin shouting out, the older woman laughing and wrapping an arm around her husband.

Harry invited you to his mother’s birthday party and acted like it was just another annual gala.

Jesus Christ.

After a while, you manage to make your way to the bar, successfully ignoring Harry to the best of your abilities. You don’t move from your spot until he disappears into the crowd and you’re 100% sure he can’t see you.

You order a vodka martini, downing it pretty quickly before you pop the olive in your mouth. The sting tingles your throat, causing you to clear it into your hand, ordering another one.

“There you are,” a familiar voice says behind you, placing his forearms on the counter. “You’re avoiding me.”

You stand up straighter, rolling a toothpick in between your fingers. “Am I?” you query, tilting your head to the side. “You don’t even know how long I’ve–”

“I noticed you the second I walked in,” Harry cuts you off, rendering you speechless for a second.

He chuckles when you don’t respond, another glass being replaced with your empty one. “Is that so hard to believe?”

“A little, yeah,” you murmur, nodding before you sip on your drink.

Harry watches your throat work when you swallow, his mind going to more impure places. “You wanna get out of here?”

You raise your brows, “Isn’t this your mom’s party?” you pause, leaning in and lowering your voice. “Y’know, I don’t appreciate how you blindsided me with that, by the way. I would’ve brought a present.”

He chuckles, straightening up and looking down at you. “Now where would the fun be in that?” he asks, pausing before adding, “Plus, you didn’t need to. My mom already adores you.”

Surprise flashes across your face before you remember that you worked with her and her husband – not just Harry. “Well, she was lovely to work for,” you murmur.

“So what do you say?” he asks, leaning in to whisper in your ear, “Let’s go somewhere more private.”

Your skin tingles, not only from his tone of voice, but also from his proximity. In order to keep your sanity, you press your palm against his chest, pushing him just a bit. “Just because we had sex doesn’t mean that we’re together now.”

“Really?” he draws out, straightening up and placing his hands in his pockets. “So you’re not gonna go home with me?”

“I didn’t say that.”

The city of New York twinkles below, reflecting in your irises. There hasn’t been a time where you’ve seen the city like this: so high up and a lot clearer. 

“You can see most of the city from here,” you murmur to Harry once he steps behind you, wrapping his arms around your waist and turning you around.

“Wouldn’t you rather look at me?” he teases, earning an eye roll from you.

“You do that a lot,” he points out.

“Do what?”

“Roll your eyes at me.”

A small smirk tugs at your lips, “And you’ve deserved it every single time.”

Harry’s hands tighten on your waist, pulling you flush against the hard planes of his body. “Have you thought about the contract anymore?”

Your expression falters, opening your mouth but nothing comes out. In your hasty escape from his office last night, you completely forgot about the contract. “No, because I don’t have it anymore. Plus, I already told you my answer.”

His eyes narrow by a fraction before he pulls you by your wrist, leading you up the stairs in his penthouse. 

“Harry,” you try to get him to stop, but he tightens his grip on your wrist.

“I just need you to see,” he states, stopping in front of a locked door and fishing the key out of his pocket.

The lock clicks, your heart races, practically in your throat as he opens the door. Lights slowly turn on, reflecting off of the deep red of the walls. Harry gestures for you to go first, and your breath catches in your throat when you step inside. 

“Oh, my God,” you whisper, your body going rigid, the shock evident on your face. 

A king-size bed sits in the middle of the room, gold hoops attached to the four bedposts. The walls look like a horrific murder scene, a wine red making everything seem more intense and unnerving.

“This is my playroom,” Harry announces.

Your eyes are wide, lips agape as you assess the sight in front of you. “Yeah, I can see that,” you breathe, “Jesus Christ, Harry–”

“Before you start,” he cuts you off, “just look around. Nothing in here can harm you, I promise.”

You glance at him sideways before he stands off to the side, giving you free reign to look around. Your eyes dart around the room, trying to figure out what you’re looking at. Hesitantly, you put one foot in front of the other, heels clacking against the hardwood floor.

The wall on your right is lined with various paddles and sensory toys. A rack of items you’ve never seen before sits in front of the bed, and without really thinking, you run your fingers through the rough material.

“That’s called a flogger,” Harry informs you, moving to hover beside you.

You snatch your hand back like you’ve been burned, suddenly remembering his reputation and the other women he’s most likely used this stuff on. Crossing your arms over your chest, you move on, examining the various cuffs and gag toys he has.

“Say something,” he murmurs, “Please.”

You take a deep breath, tilting your head back to look at the ceiling as you muster up the courage to even open your mouth again. Only, you realize that the expanse of the ceiling is covered in a metal grid system. Bondage is the first thing you think of.

You knew he was kinky, you just didn’t know how kinky… Until now, that is.

What the fuck have you gotten yourself into?

This has never been something you’ve been remotely interested in, and now it is right in your face. 

Finally, you look back at Harry. “You do this stuff to women?” you ask, even though you already know the answer.

“Yes,” he confirms, “but everyone walks away happy.”

“H-How?” you stammer, some of your willpower returning to your body. “You’re a sadist.”

“Dominant,” Harry corrects you, earning an eye roll from you. “That right there,” he points at you, “If you were mine, you wouldn’t be able to sit for a week.”

“Excuse me?” you chuckle breathlessly, crossing your arms tighter across your chest. “By definition, you are a sadist. You get off on people’s pain.”

“It’s not that,” he states, a smirk tugging at his lips. “I told you: it’s all about testing limits.”

“Why?” you shrug, “Why would you want to…” you gesture towards the dangling whips on the opposite wall, “use these kinds of things on people?”

“For pleasure,” he answers like it’s completely obvious.

You shake your head slowly, “You can’t just enjoy regular sex like everyone else?”

When he doesn’t answer, you continue. “I don’t know what you want from me, but I sure as hell know that this isn’t a relationship.”

“I never said anything about a relationship.”

That’s what gets you. Your brows knit, an unfamiliar ache settling in your heart. “Then what the fuck are you doing with me?”

Instead of answering, he grabs a silk ribbon from a drawer, walking back over to you. “Hold out your wrists,” he instructs.

You glare up at him, and he senses your defiance. “I’m not gonna use them to force you into anything, I promise.”

To make sure he knows you don’t want to do this, you continue glaring at him as you slowly hold out both wrists. His signature smirk pulls at his lips, his hands deftly tying the red silk around you. Once tied, he tugs harshly, pulling a gasp from your lips.

“It doesn’t hurt, does it?”

“No,” you whisper, meeting his eyes. “No, it doesn’t.”

“All the fear is in your head,” he voices firmly, letting the silk slip from your wrists.

A thought pops into your mind as you drop your hands to your sides. “If you want to… continue having sex with me, then why can’t we be together?”

“This is the only kind of relationship I associate myself with.”

Confusion stretches across your face, your brows furrowing as you try to see through his facade. He’s telling you one thing, but the way he’s acting is the complete opposite. He almost seems… obsessed with you; he hasn’t left you alone for months, he tracked you down via Samantha’s Instagram stories, and now he is trying to force a contract on you to keep you.

To you, it seems like he enjoys the thrill of the chase rather than anything else.

“How many women have you done this with?”

All you know is what you and your friend could find on the internet, and honestly, it wasn’t much. News outlets are very vague when it comes to Harry Castillo’s personal relationships, and it makes you curious.

He tosses the ribbon onto the bed, placing his hands in his pockets. “Let’s not go there right now.”

“Why not?” you push gently, closing the distance between the two of you, only for him to suddenly take a step back.

Oh, is all you can think as you stare up at him, trying to read between the lines of what he’s not telling you.

“How many?” you repeat your question earnestly, keeping your place.

Harry rolls his tongue over his teeth, “Twenty.”

“Twenty?” you breathe, all of the air leaving your lungs at once. “Christ, Fabio,” you joke, deflecting the situation.

Your mind swims within multiple questions.

Who’s to say that there won’t be twenty more after you?

How has his dick not fallen off?

Do you need to get tested?

The two of you fucked raw on his desk. You should definitely get tested.

Harry doesn’t laugh at your joke, his face remains serious. “It’s the way I am.”

“Why?” you ask quietly, almost scared of the answer.

His lips press into a fine line, avoiding your gaze for a moment. Abruptly, he grabs you by your upper arm, leading you out of the room and locking up behind the two of you. 

In the hallway, you can think clearly, not intimidated by the actual sex dungeon you were just in. You swallow thickly when he turns to face you, he seems steady but his eyes tell you otherwise. There’s the smallest hint of vulnerability in them, and it’s gone the moment you notice it.

“Be honest with me,” Harry says, “what are you thinking?”

You exhale sharply. What are you supposed to think after being shown that? It is the exact opposite of what you firmly stand on, but he seems set in his own ways.

“I don’t know,” you answer honestly, heading for the stairs. “That’s… a lot to take in,” you look over your shoulder, seeing that he’s following a few steps behind you.

“If you don’t want anything to do with me anymore,” he stops at the end of the hallway, looking down at you, “that’s completely fine.”

You know he’s not fine with it, but you appreciate the statement more than you’d ever let on. “I just,” you start, trying to find the right words as you process what he showed you, “I don’t think I can do that: bend to the will of someone else. That’s not me.”

He nods slowly, his eyes mimicking a puppy. It’s almost enough to make you change your mind.

Almost.

“I can’t be one of your girls – I won’t.”

part 2

a/n: i couldn't find anything like this so i wrote it myself 🌝 ive genuinely only been thinking about fifty shades since i watched it in december and Harry was the perfect character to write something related to those movies on. this isn't like anything else ive written so im stepping out of my comfort zone a bit here 😅 but i hope you enjoyed reading it. feedback is much appreciated! (part 2 soon i hope lmao)

᯽ tags: @missladym1981 , @kirsteng42 , @mcthsman , @petalsinblood , @rosharanfiction , @cherrycokeispunk , @cuteanimalmama , @harriedandharassed , @madpanda75 , @shadowqueen2024 , @picketniffler , @kokoluwie , @reedispunk , @umadirectioner , @katyispunk , @missadangel , @time-for-my-weekly-spanking , @missadangel , @stylesispunk , @milla-frenchy , @gothcsz , @la-vie-est-une-fleur29 , @sunshineflowersandkisses

dividers by @/angeliicide

You tell yourself that it’s Joel’s fault. He is the one that started this stalking game, after all, so he is the only one to blame when you shove both soup containers in your bag and casually strolls by the new-ish apartment complex at the edge of town— You’re not certain this is where he moved into but it seems like the obvious choice, most of the condos are still empty because nobody really wants to move to your town and the people already living in it don’t really want to move out of the houses they’ve been living in for decades. You tell yourself that you’re not staking, that you’re going just a little crazy because your period is late and you’ve never had to deal with that before and you’re hormonal and all that bullshit people say when they want to demean a woman’s actions.

Truth is, you miss his steady odd presence, and Tommy’s words about being one of ‘Joel’s people’ has been stuck in your mind ever since. His truck isn’t parked anywhere in the small parking lot of the condo complex and you tell yourself that it’s fine, it doesn’t necessarily mean anything. He could be at work, or maybe Tommy left with his truck, and a myriad of other reasons as to why Joel wouldn’t be home at seven pm on a Thursday. 

Tommy had said Joel was indisposed. Maybe he’s at the local clinic, getting treatment for whatever ailed him. So, on your way back home, you walk past the clinic just in case. His truck isn’t there either, and you try to tell yourself that this is a good thing. Maybe Joel skipped town. Maybe he got mauled by the wolf and Tommy and Sarah left and you didn’t hear anything about it because you haven’t watched the news since they announced they’d be hunting down your wolf. 

Maybe he is hiding, because you told the black wolf that he should.

When you finally get home it’s close to 9 pm and the streets are entirely empty, the lamp post near your driveway flickering, cicadas screaming from the woods even though it’s not warm enough for them to be making so much noise. The full moon is high in the sky, so bright it bathes your living room with its pale, silvery light. 

There is a dark mass in the middle of your living room. It looks like a small nest, animal pelts and thick blankets and pillows arranged in a circle formation; your couch has been pushed back along with your coffee table, the nest placed above your rug, just under the TV. The entire room smells of pine trees and something warmer, muskier and comforting that makes you think of the inside of Joel’s truck. You pause, front door still open, half expecting Joel to pop out from somewhere but there is no one other than you; you have no idea how he got in, every window closed and the back door properly locked and for a ludicrous moment you think that, maybe, he knows about the spare key you keep on your back porch. It’s probably too easy to find but you’ve kept it there for the past two years, after one too many times locking yourself out of the house, and you’ve never had any trouble with it until now. 

You don’t take away the key.

Instead you simply shut your curtains, turn on the TV and lay down in the nest: It’s warm and comfortable and smells like him. It lulls you into a state of half sleep, the uncomfortable cramps and lower back pains you’ve been getting for the past week or so melting away as if you were wearing a heating pad. You stay there in your work clothes for over an hour, too tired to get up and shower until your hungry stomach protests so loud you drag yourself into the kitchen. You know there’s leftover green beans casserole that your grandmother made and, while it doesn’t taste much of anything, you don’t really have the strength to cook anything else. 

An entire tray of lasagna awaits you inside your fridge. It’s covered in plastic wrap and in a deep dish you know is not yours but that is not the only thing that calls out to your eyes: The fridge is full. Orange juice and milk and little containers of sliced figs and peaches, small round packets of Baybel cheese and yogurt cups and soft drinks. The freezer is packed with glass containers of homemade meals, all of them labeled with best by dates and small descriptions of what is inside— Steaks, roasted vegetables, all sorts of rice and pasta and some shit you’ll have to Google to figure out what it is.

He just got a weird way of takin’ care of his people. The whole ordeal makes you want to cry. You don’t remember the last time anyone did anything for you, and you certainly don't think anyone has ever gone through such lengths— Your grandmother used to cook, sure, but feeding you was more a byproduct of her having to feed herself than actual concern for whether or not you were healthy. You eat the lasagna, which you presume it’s what he wants you to eat first considering it is the only meal not frozen, and then you take a hot shower and lay down on your nest, a rerun of Full House playing on TV that you’re too tired to pay any attention to.

Your period finally comes at some point throughout the night and you drag yourself out of the nest, terrified that you might’ve stained it. Everything is clean and in order, however, so you just put a pad in place before climbing back into the nest— From the living room window you think you catch a pair of glowing eyes in between the trees but it’s already gone by the time you crane your neck to get a proper look.

You think someone would arrest you for loitering with how much time you spend on your Sunday afternoon prowling the grocery store parking lot. Joel isn’t at church that morning so, after service, you walk to the only grocery store in town that sells the brand of frozen raspberries you found in your freezer— The fancy, chocolate-covered kind that you had never eaten before because of how expensive it is and that almost made you cry when you first tasted it. You tell yourself that you’re going in because you just want to check if there are any sales on the dog treats you got for the wolf but, in the end, there’s no need. Joel walks through the doors just as you’re gathering the courage to go inside, pushing his cart with one hand and holding his phone to his ear with the other. 

The only tell he gives to make you think he’s noticed you is the way his chest puffs a little, coming to his full height as he walks towards his truck, mumbling something that sounds angry into his phone. You jog to catch up to his long strides, squeezing yourself between Joel and the truck before he can start loading up with his bags. 

“I gotta go.” He says to the phone, one brow quirked at you as he pockets it. 

“What the fuck is going on?”

Joel maneuvers around you, placing the grocery bags in the bed of his truck with the sort of nonchalance that makes it seem like you’re talking about the weather but you can see how his lips tighten into a stern line. 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Cut the shit, Joel. Showing up to my doorstep with food and period advice is creepy enough, but breaking into my house? The weird little nest and the food in my fridge—” You blink, a thought striking you for the first time. “And the bear skin. That was you too, right?” 

You feel a little silly at how long it’s taken you to figure that out, because it makes a lot more sense than assuming the wolf had brought it to you— Which had been your first thought and, now that there is a more plausible explanation, you’re more than a little embarrassed.

He shrugs, not answering at first, unloading his groceries with care as you tap your foot and puff. Joel walks the cart to its proper location before he comes back and opens the passenger door. You’re floored when he motions for you to get in, your fingers tightening into fists to keep yourself from shoving at his chest— His broad, thick-looking chest. 

“Get in, ‘m drivin’ you home.”

“I’m not going anywhere with you.” You hiss through clenched teeth. “Now answer me.”

“It’s goin’ to rain, you’ll catch a cold walkin’ home.” Joel looks up to the sky, weariness on his face as he stares at the heavy dark clouds. “Get in.”

“Fuck you.”

“Get in the truck.” 

Your body moves on its own even as you think that you really, really shouldn’t be getting anywhere near his car. But it’s almost as if you can’t control yourself, as if the need to follow through with his orders has hijacked the logical part of your brain. Joel helps you inside, leaning a little too close as he clicks your seatbelt into place before he settles on the driver’s seat. 

There is something very wrong. It’s as if you’re not driving your own body, as if with those four words Joel has taken a hold of every muscle, tendon, sinew and bone inside of you. You’re on the verge of tears, your stomach tight and your entire body feels like it’s been dunked inside an ice bath but Joel simply turns the radio on and drives away. 

“What did you do to me?” This time, instead of angry, your voice sounds every bit as scared as you feel. 

“You’re stubborn.” Joel responds but he’s a little pale, his eyes a little too wide as he, too, is afraid. “I’m sorry, but I can’t have you gettin’ sick.” 

“Why? Why are you doing this?” You turn to face him, tears blurring your vision and Joel turns to stare at you for so long you think he might crash but his eyes fly back to the street just in time. “The gifts and the stalking me at work and— And the food? It’s fucking weird, man.”

Joel doesn’t answer for a long time, his fingers tightening and then relaxing over the steering wheel exactly nine times before he finally speaks up. 

“You told me you couldn’t afford the steak. You can’t take proper care of yourself, but I can.”

Your breath stutters, chin wobbling as you think back to the wolf, the same eyes and the scar and the fucking Pup-peroni that you bought on discount. You click off the seatbelt and, before Joel can protest, you open the truck’s door and throw yourself onto the busy street.

You wake up to dark wooden ceilings and voices arguing down the hall. You recognize Joel’s voice right away but it takes you a moment to place the other man’s voice as Tommy. Or at least you think it might be him, based on how thick his accent is— Thicker than Joel’s, and even his is a lot harsher than anything you’ve ever heard. 

You sit up from the bed you’re laying on and your head spins, stomach churning at the movement. Your arm burns just a little, and there is a thick white cloth wrapped around your forearm— You know it is hiding a nasty case of road burn, had seen the strip of skin that peeled from your forearm as you rolled onto the hot pavement just before your head hit the curb. You’re surprised that your head isn’t hurting considering how hard the blow to your temple was and when you touch the side of your face it’s just slightly tender, like an old bruise that is already half healed.

You know you’re in Joel’s bedroom without needing to be told— The furniture is old but well maintained, dark tones and little wooden trinkets spread on top of the dresser intermixed with a couple picture frames. There is a mirror and a leather chair in one corner of the room, a dark blue flannel thrown over it. But, most of all, the room smells like him. Like the inside of his truck and the nest he made in your living room, warm and woodsy and so comforting you’re tempted to lay back down onto the red comforter.

He walks into the room before you can do something you’ll regret, giving the door a single knock before he comes inside. 

“Am I kidnapped?” You ask, your voice holding more tiredness than anger. You’re not as scared as you ought to be, you belatedly realize— Mostly you’re just exhausted, and the scent of Joel’s bed is calling to you like a siren’s song. 

“No, of course not.” He frowns as if the idea is preposterous, and you hear something like ‘fuckin’ told ya!’ coming from Tommy somewhere down the hall. “You got hurt, I needed to take you somewhere you could rest. I’ll drive you home whenever you want.”

You want to say you want to leave right now, but the words don’t really come out and Joel gives you a small smile as if he knows exactly why. “Supper’s almost ready. Eat with us and then I’ll take you home.” 

“Okay.” The word is barely a whisper before you’re laying back down. Joel nods, once, but you can see the satisfaction on his face. You don’t think you can sleep, considering the weight and meaning of Joel’s words before you jumped out of the car but his smell envelops you like a hug, the comforter pulled all the way up to your nose and you’re unconscious before you can think about how the only living being that is supposed to know the truth about your financial situation is the killer wolf.

Supper is a quiet affair for the most part. Joel serves you and Sarah with a plate of smoked brisket, cornbread and roasted vegetables— Tommy skips the vegetables, shoving his brisket slices inside the cornbread, which Sarah tries to imitate and ends up with crumbled cornbread and shredded meat on the ground. You keep your eyes on your plate but your chest warms with Joel’s low laughter, the soft tilt of his voice as he speaks with the little girl. He calls her pup again and, while you had first thought it to be just a petname, the word brings dread to your stomach now. 

“Y’know, I reckon you would’a run screamin’ by now.” Tommy speaks over Sarah’s soft babble and you snap your head towards him. He has an easy grin on his lips but you see the worry in the scrunch of his brows. 

“I tried,” You reply in a voice that sounds like your own but doesn’t feel like it. You raise your arm a little bit, motioning to the bandage. “Didn’t work.”

Tommy barks out a laugh and from the corner of your eyes you can see Joel tense, his attention now on the both of you. 

“Funny girl.” Tommy points at you with his beer bottle. “I like it.” 

It’s not a joke and, by the pained look on Joel’s face, he knows you mean it. You go back to staring at your plate, shoulders drawn tight, and finish your meal in silence. 

True to his word, Joel drives you home as soon as your plate is cleared. He brings Sarah with him and you think it’s more for your benefit than anything else, her squeaky toy in the backseat filling up the heavy silence. Joel doesn’t live in the apartment complex as you expected, but in a two story home with a craftsman architecture that you had never seen before because of how deep into the woods it is, with a twenty-five minutes drive through gravel and dirt just to hit the main road and then another forty minutes before he parks in front of your house. 

“At what time do you drop off from work tomorrow?” He asks as you struggle to take off your seatbelt, your fingers shaking so badly you can barely unclick it. 

“Fuck you.” You say, only then realizing you probably shouldn’t curse in front of the child but Joel doesn’t seem bothered by it. He just hums, his fingers tapping repeatedly against the steering wheel. 

“I’m workin’ at the Johnson’s house until four, then I’ll stop by the pharmacy and pick you up. Not safe for ya to keep walkin’ around by yourself.”

You don’t want to answer him, already climbing out of the truck, but his words make you see red. 

“And why is that, Joel? Because I might run into the wolf that’s been murdering people?”

His upper lip curls into a snarl for a brief moment before his face slacks back into nothingness. 

“Animals gotta eat, darlin’. ‘S how nature works.” 

“I hope the hunters shoot you dead.” You hiss, slamming the truck’s door with a lot more force than necessary before stomping all the way to your front door.

The injuries are all almost gone. It’s been, at most, twelve hours since you jumped out of Joel’s moving car but the bump on your temple is entirely gone, replaced with a bruise that is already starting to fade back into your normal skin tone and the road burn on your arm — the one you watched the flesh being ripped off of — is tender and slightly discolored but your skin is perfectly mended together as if the injury had happened weeks ago, not just hours. You stare at yourself in the mirror for so long the shower runs cold even before you get in but it feels like the sort of penance that you deserve.

You’re pretty sure you blew it. Life goes on as it usually does, but without Joel’s presence: The wolf’s body count keeps stacking, townsfolk keep trying to hunt it down with no success, but you don’t see him anymore. Not at church, not at the grocery store, not in the woods. 

You feel like you’re going crazy, your entire body craving him as if a piece of your very soul is gone. Your house doesn’t smell like him anymore, Jenny moves on to different gossip, the food in your fridge dwindles back to frozen mac and cheese and discounted candy. You drink and smoke more often, coming in late for work so often that you know you’re on the verge of getting fired and you really, really can’t afford that but you also can’t find it in yourself to care.

The timing with Céline’s call is abhorrently terrible. You’re high and just a little tipsy when your phone lights up late at night as you try to bury yourself in a pathetic attempt of imitating the nest Joel made for you— It’s not as comfortable or as calming, doesn’t have his scent and the pillows aren’t stacked as comfortably as he made them and it somehow only makes you feel worse. You almost don’t pick up, but it’s been so long that you’ve seen your best friend’s face and you’re so, so alone. 

Céline smiles bright and wide when you finally pick up the FaceTime call, her eyelids covered in glitter and, from the reflection of the mirror behind her, you can see her fiancé skipping from one side of the room to the other, halfway through putting on a sparkling drag outfit. You try to imitate her smile but it feels like a cheap copy of it, much like the nest you’re on. Céline’s smile wavers a little when she sees you and you can only guess what she’s looking at: Your hair a mess, deep-set bags underneath your bloodshot eyes, the cracked skin of your lips where you’ve been picking at for days now. To her benefit, though, the concern on her face never swerves into pity. 

“How are you?” 

You’re not sure how to answer. I’m great! You think of saying, The man I’m in love with is a flesh-eating monster that has been wiping out junkies and racist from our town! Oh, by the way, he also ate the pedophile that almost ruined my life and he’s been breaking into my house to make sure I don’t starve to death! Isn’t that sweet?

You know Céline is understanding, but even she would send you to a mental hospital for that. Your lips quiver, and you shrug, trying to steer the conversation towards the fishnets that you can see her fiancé trying to squeeze into from the mirror but Céline has always been smart — too smart, which is why she skipped town and you didn’t. It’s why she’s going to drag shows with her fiancé and living in a beautiful high rise apartment in Jackson and it’s why she’s going to become a very successful doctor while you’re rotting away in the small town you were born in, with a dead end job, no prospect of ever getting a better life and a stalker that turns into a giant people-eating wolf and even he gave up on you. 

It feels like a whole new level of pathetic.

Still, somewhere between talks of drag shows and Céline’s exhaustion from her residency at a trauma center, you tell her about Joel. You don’t tell her that he all but admitted to being a werewolf, but you tell her about the break-ins and the homemade meals — making sure to hide the fact that he’d done it because you couldn’t afford groceries — and, in the end, it slips out from your mouth that you think he’s the one killing people. It feels good to admit it, even if it’s a censured version of the truth, the admission lifting a weight from your shoulders.

“I thought it was an animal attack.” Céline frowns at that and you bite down on your already chewed up bottom lip. 

“That’s what they’re saying, but…” You shrug, your brain rummaging for a reason to hang up. “I don’t know, Cél. Things are weird right now. Maybe I’m just freaking out.”

“Send me an e-mail with all of this.” She says, pragmatic as ever. “Detail every break in and the creepy things he’s doing. If anything happens, we’re going to need proof it was him.”

“If I end up on the evening news mauled by a wolf, you mean?”

“You’re not going to die.” She says but you can see the concerned look she exchanges off camera with her fiancé. “Maybe you should come spend a few days in Jackson with me. It’ll do you good to get some fresh air and meet some new people.”

You snort, because you could never afford a trip like that; you don’t tell her that, though, choosing the next best excuse. “I’d get fired.”

“Use your PTO.” Céline insists. “I can ask my dad to let you borrow one of the cars.”

You promise you’ll think about it, but you already know the answer is no— Not just because it seems crazy to take a vacation when you can barely afford food, but because the idea of being away from Joel makes your stomach tighten.

Three more people die in the following week: A hunter that had been in the woods searching for the animal, a nurse that worked the nightshift at the local clinic and a teenager that had been spraypainting the buildings by the train tracks. 

The teenager changes things— His body is not as mangled as the others and you hear it through the grapevine that it’s because one of the hunters managed to interrupt the animal halfway through feeding. The hunter talks about a big grey wolf, smaller than a bear but not by much, and you’re seething that people now believe what you’ve been telling them for months. He doesn’t kill the wolf, says the animal was too fast and far more intelligent than other wolves he’s encountered before and that anger you’re feeling turns into absolute dread.

The reward for the wolf’s head doubles, and you find yourself sitting on your back porch almost every night, collar and leash in hands, just in case. 

But you don’t see him, and you don’t hear his howls.

Your next PMS hits you like a freight truck. You barely notice almost a month has gone by until you’re crying in pain, lightheaded and shaking as you get out of bed to go to work. You’re just about to leave your house, at exactly eight-fifteen, when you notice Joel’s truck parked in your driveway. You don’t even hesitate to step outside, your heart beating wildly in your chest and the weight of the disappointment in your face when you see Tommy in the driver’s seat is something you can barely hide. He smirks, just a little, as if he can see right through you. 

“ ‘M driving you to work.” He says, head poking out of the window. “Joel’s orders.” 

“He has some balls, thinking he can boss me around after an entire month of radio silence.” You say, your gut heating up with anger but you climb into the truck anyway, slamming the door so hard it makes the windows shake. Tommy on his part seems unfazed by your little outburst. He drives carefully, slow but not enough to make you worry about being late; your fingers tap against your thighs and, for a moment, you think about throwing yourself out of the car yet again. 

“How did he do it?” You ask before you can lose your courage. “The road burn on my arm was pretty much healed by the time I got home that day. Not even a scar.” 

Only after you ask the question do you realize that, maybe, Tommy didn’t know about his brother’s condition— But if you were right about it, and apparently you were right about a lot of crazy shit lately, Tommy had the condition himself. A black wolf, smaller than his brother, that pushed and prodded you into safety one dark night. 

“Saliva.” He answers as if it’s nothing, turning on the blinker before turning the car into the pharmacy’s parking lot. “It’s healin’ for our… Partners.” 

The handful of words only makes your head spin and raises a thousand different questions. “He… He just licked my arm? What do you mean partner? Where is he?”

“The wolf did.” Tommy answers, his eyes bouncing from your face to the windshield. It’s the first time you hear someone speaking about it so openly and it gives you whiplash, not really expecting Tommy to be so blunt about it. “It’s not— The abilities are different when he’s human and when he’s not. And he didn’t come pick you up ‘cause he’s indisposed.”

He doesn’t answer the partner thing but the use of that same damned word that made you so worried the first time around has you into a different direction. 

“What the fuck does that even mean? The full moon comes around and suddenly he’s too cuckoo to see me?”

Tommy chuckles. “It’s a certain cycle that has him goin’ cuckoo, ‘lright, but it ain’t the moon one.”

The looks he gives you makes your face burn so much it borders on painful. “Are you fucking—”

“You’re going to be late.” He interrupts you, pointing to the store with his chin. “I’ll pick you up after your shift. Can’t answer much more, though. Joel will explain it all once he can be ‘round you again.”

Your manager has to lecture you twice during the day which is not something that happens often. Despite how miserable you are with this job and your life in general you try to be a good employee because you need it; you’re too distracted, though, Tommy’s words swirling around your head and making you more confused and more nervous than before. 

You’re a little giddy, too, the word partner making its way to the forefront of your mind even as you try to distract yourself, trying your best not to focus too much on that. You find yourself drawing bits and pieces of the wolf on the back of receipts all day long, nothing but rough sketches, nothing fully formed or shaped enough to let other people recognize but you know.

You leave work half an hour early, giving your manager an excuse of a doctor’s appointment that doesn’t exist but you manage to avoid Tommy altogether, instead taking a bus with a bit of pocket change that you swiped from the pharmacy’s register during Jenny’s lunch break. The bus takes you to the next town over in a trip that is just a little under forty minutes and you find yourself in the local church with just a few minutes to spare before the 6pm mass. 

In all truth, you’re not sure why you gravitate towards the church, sitting on one of the very end pews. You don’t enjoy going to church; maybe you did at some point as a kid, when you could spend your Sunday mornings with your friends running amuck because the nun that handled Sunday school had never been able to reign any of the children, but that’s far in the past. 

Nowadays, you only attend because your grandmother would never let you live it down if you didn’t but there is something peaceful about it this time around, the golden sun shining through the windows as people slowly start to fill the pews at the front— There’s not a lot of folks this time in the day, mostly old ladies like your grandmother that seem to live more inside the chapel than outside of it. 

The sermon is about the story of King David and Bathsheba, and the priest goes on and on about the dangers of lust and the deadly consequences that came from it, how King David had to lie and hide and eventually order the death of Bathsheba’s husband to hide her pregnancy— You think it’s funny to hear such a sex negative story in a room that is basically filled with old ladies that probably haven’t slept with anyone since the Reagan administration but it’s the consequences part that hits you the most. How one bad decision spiraled into the death of an innocent man, how your life can change because of one small action. 

Your life has been a string of bad decisions, one after another, that has led you to this very moment. 

You leave the church before the end of the sermon, feeling somehow even worse than you did before.

Joel is at your front door by the time you get home — close to eight pm —, pacing from one side of your porch to the other, hands behind his back.

“You’re okay.” He says, relief coating his tone as he crosses the yard in just a couple large steps, engulfing you in a bear hug before your brain can catch up to it. Your arms hang limp beside you for just a second before they come up to wrap around him— The action is instinctual, something your body does before your brain can decide whether or not it’s a good idea. Joel’s chest is warm, his soft tummy pushing against you as he holds you close, your nose smushing into his sternum. He sniffs at you, nosing the side of your head and behind your ear and down your neck, inhaling deep and fast; the action tickles and you giggle, squirming as Joel tightens his grip on you. 

Joel’s chest rumbles and, at first, you think it might be a silent laugh but you’re quick to understand that it’s not— It’s deeper, coming from the depths of his sternum and it’s more of a purr than anything else. The sound melts something inside of you, your eyes fluttering close and, for the first time in forever, you feel like there is nothing wrong with the world. 

You blink, trying to shake yourself from the fogginess of our brain, still unable to pull away from him. “Tommy said you’re not supposed to be here.”

“ ‘M not.” Joel responds, his blunt fingertips digging into the fat of your sides as he crowds over you, still nosing your neck. “But fuck— I was so worried.”

“I—” 

His teeth scrape against the soft skin of your collarbone and all thought flies through the window, the word you were about to say melting into a whine. Joel growls in response, maneuvering you so fast you can barely understand what he’s doing but one moment you’re standing on the grass as he folds himself over you and the next one your feet are being lifted from the ground.

“Inside.” He explains when you yelp. “Need’ta get you inside.” 

Joel’s kiss is, at the same time, exactly what you expect and nothing like what you expect at all. He pins you to the wall of your entryway, the door shut behind him, and he devours your mouth like a man starved. His hands knead and tug at every bit of skin he can reach, fingers flexing against you as if he can’t believe you’re real and all you can do is take it, your own hands digging into the soft curls at the nape of his neck. 

Your brain only seems to catch up with your actions when your leg is already hiked up to Joel’s waist, your other foot barely touching the ground— You can feel Joel’s hardness pressing against your core, his teeth nipping against your jawline. He ruts slowly against you, the seam of his jeans catching on your clit every single time.

“Joel—”

“Fuck, you’re so wet.” He mumbles, his voice low and rough, wrecked in a way you haven’t heard before. “I can smell it— So damn sweet.”

“Joel—” You try again, this time splaying your hands on his chest, trying to push him away even though all you want is to fall to your knees. “We shouldn’t.” 

“I’m sorry—” A whine rips through his throat but Joel pulls his hips away immediately, his hands falling to your waist, his forehead on your shoulder. “I— Fuck, this— This is why— I—” 

His chest rumbles underneath your fingertips before he pulls away entirely. His pupils are blown wide, hair a mess from where you tugged, his neck and face flushed; you don’t look down, keeping your eyes away from the erection straining his jeans even as he adjusts himself, trembling fingers running through his hair. Joel licks his lips, once, before he turns around and bolts through the front door into the night.

Neither your fingers or your toys are enough to get you off, and when you’re still wet and aching after three orgasms you drag yourself to the shower and try again with the shower head, something you hadn’t done since you were a teenager still discovering your body; you pass out eventually, exhausted and unsatisfied, your hands still toying with your nipples as you burrow yourself under the covers. 

Joel texts you the next morning. You’ve never given him your phone number but considering how many times he’s been inside your house without your knowledge you can’t say you’re surprised that he found it out somehow. 

Good morning. Tommy is asking if you’ll allow him to drive you to and from work today. – Joel. 

You giggle at the formality of the text, every punctuation and upper case in its proper place, and it makes him seem older than he really is. 

nope

You don’t ask him where he got your number from, or tell him to lose it or stay away or call him a creep like you think you should. It’s cute, almost, that he’s concerned about you like that. 

Do you know how to drive? – Joel.

The question comes in while you’re in the shower, and you shove a piece of toast in your mouth as you reply with one hand and pull up your pants with the other. 

yup just dont a car but i can walk u dont need to sign off every text btw

You probably should’ve expected it but it still surprises you when you walk out of your house to find Joel’s truck parked in your driveway, the keys in the driver’s seat— You turn your head this and that way, but Tommy is nowhere to be found. 

kind of rude of u to make ur brother walk home

Joel takes a long time to reply, which you’re anxious for but you keep telling yourself that it’s because he has a toddler to take care of and not because you’ve offended him somehow. Your phone chimes just as you’re parking in front of the pharmacy, Jenny’s head poking from behind one of the isles at the rumbling of the truck. 

He’ll live. 

And then, a few moments later:

– Joel.

You’re uncertain if that’s a joke or not, but it still makes you giggle.

Joel keeps texting you while he’s “indisposed”, but he doesn’t answer any of your questions regarding the wolf and its repercussions, simply promising that he’ll explain more in person. He sends you candid pictures of Sarah and Tommy, snippets of the dinner he made or the hairdo Sarah gave him or the sky when it’s particularly pretty— You find yourself doing the same, small snapshots of your day to day, including the seven inch scratch you give his truck when you clip the mailbox one morning; you promise to pay for it but Joel seems to shrug it off, saying he ‘knows a guy’ that can fix it dirt cheap.

They kill a wolf on a cold morning as autumn turns into winter and you find out about it through Jenny just as you’re about to leave at the end of a particularly grueling shift. Your stomach drops when she says it so casually, scrolling on her phone, and she looks at you like you’re insane when you ask what the wolf looks like before she shrugs a ‘dunno’ and then moves on to talk about how one of the Kardashians removed her breast implants. 

You’re so out of it you forget Joel’s truck in the parking lot, walking home through the train tracks, calling his phone repeatedly with no answer. You’re unable to find any photos or descriptions of the wolf that was killed even though you scroll through the feed and Instagram stories of pretty much every person that posted about it, pacing your living room and then pacing your back porch as you try to reach Joel through the phone again, the inside of your house feeling too stifling.

You’re genuinely considering walking to Joel’s cabin when you first catch a glimpse of glowing eyes in the woods. It’s there and then it’s gone, as if he was taking a long blink but you’re already running towards it, your bare feet skidding on the cold grass. 

The wolf is slumped near a tree, hunched in on himself and even in the dark you can see it is shaking. It’s Joel, you can recognize the brown and gray pattern anywhere, and you fall to your knees next to him. You pat his flank and he growls but makes no move to actually bite which you take as enough of a permission to finish your cursory check; it’s too dark and you have no idea what you’re doing but you can feel the blood sipping out of his side.

“We gotta get you inside.” You say, unsure of how much Joel understands in this form. You think that if he understands enough to make sure your fridge is full he’ll understand enough to drag himself into your home but he doesn’t move, his snout too warm and too dry— You know it tells whether or not if the animal has a fever but you’re not sure if being warm is good or not. He doesn’t budge no matter how much you beg so you run back into your house, sprinting in and out to make sure he won’t leave while you’re gone, Cerberus’ old leash in hand. 

“Don’t bite me.” You say as you thread it through his neck, holding it in a firm grasp as you use it to tug him inside your home— The wolf digs his heels into the ground and refuses to budge at first but you’re just as stubborn as he is, pulling on the leash until he finally relents, slowly crossing through your backyard and into your living room. 

“I should’ve been a vet.” You say as you unleash him — keeping the thick leather collar around his neck just in case you need to manhandle him again —, laughing to yourself even though it’s not funny, the sound interrupted by panicked breaths. “If I knew I’d end up with a dying werewolf in the middle of my house, I would’ve been a fucking vet.”

He seems more comfortable inside and you bring him a water bowl and the very last Pup-peroni you still have, using a warm wet cloth to wipe the blood from his snout and from his flank carefully, pausing whenever he growls for too long, more out of respect than anything— You’re still not afraid of the wolf, even as you clean up his long claws one by one, his paw big and heavy on your lap, the blood from the wound on his side starting to dry up as you pet him, the wolf’s head coming to lay across your thighs. 

“I really hope you have some special healing super power.” You mumble, checking the wound for the fourth time, unsure of how to proceed other than waiting it out. You don’t have Tommy’s cellphone and that seems like a horrible oversight— You’ve also forgotten Joel’s truck at work, so it’s not even like you can drive him home. “Can’t you just use that special spit of yours to fix this?”

The wolf purrs, the grumbling sound very similar to the one Joel had done the last time you saw him but, this time, you think it sounds like a laugh.

next chapter. (coming soon.)

Maria’s concerned by this whole thing. You can tell by the way she keeps glancing at you through the corner of her eye as she helps you tape up the boxes of your things to put in storage. You’ve decided to pack light, given that you really only need clothes since his house is already up and running

“Maria,” you say when you can no longer take her not so covert glances. “Just say it.”

You watch her open her mouth before she hesitates. She tucks a long braid that’s escaped loose from her ponytail behind her ear before she speaks.

“I just don’t get why you’re staying with him,” she says. “Don’t you think it’ll complicate things?”

“There’s nothing to complicate,” you say too quickly and that’s your first mistake. You know Maria can see right through your lie. And she does, with how she gives you a deadpan stare.

“You can fool everyone but not me,” she says. “The two of you are married. And I know you want to jump his bones.” Her nose wrinkles as she says that last part. 

“I do not,” you say, lying. Maria scoffs. “And it’s not like it’s a real marriage.”

“Babe, I’ve known you for over a decade. I know how you look when you want someone. And you’ve been looking at Joel like that since the goddamn airport.”

You can feel your cheeks heat up. You look away, taping down another box. 

“Okay, so I think he’s handsome. Is that a crime?” you ask. 

“You like him,” she says. “I know you do. You’ve been charmed by his reticence since day one which is why your drunk brain went ahead and married him, whether you remember or not. And now you’re going to live with him. All while getting a divorce.”

When she puts it like that, it does sound like a bad idea. And you have been second guessing your decision since the morning after that anniversary party. Was it really the right thing to do? You barely knew Joel Miller and you had agreed to live with him for the foreseeable future just because he had twirled you around with his calloused hands and spoken to you in his low, honey thick drawl. You lean against a box, turning back to face Maria. She’s looking at you with soft eyes, concern etched on her face. 

“You can stay with me and Tommy, you know,” she says, voice gentle. “I just don’t want you thinking that there isn’t a place for you with us.”

“I don’t want to be a burden on you and Tommy,” you say. “And I know you’d never think that because you’re the best but I don’t know how long I’m going to be like this. And I know it might be stupid to move in with the guy I drunk married but he has the room for it. Tommy’s a good guy but I think he’d grow tired of me living on your couch which is totally fair, by the way.”

Maria hesitates before she concedes. She knows you’re stubborn nature and once you’ve made up your mind, there’s no changing it. 

“Just be careful,” she finally says. “I don’t want you getting hurt.”

You want to tell her that your crush on Joel is nothing. It’s just been a while since you’ve seen a hot man with biceps and a broad chest and salt and pepper hair and come on, you’re only human. And beyond that, there’s something buzzing between you and Joel, some thread of tension that stays taut. You know he feels it too, with how he looks at you sometimes. But you’re smart enough to not act on it and you won’t. This is purely about you getting back on your feet and staying with Joel will give you a chance to have your own space and not squander your savings while you job search. It’s practical. That’s all that it is. 

“Okay,” you agree, placating. “I’ll make sure not to jump my husband’s bones. I promise.”

You hope it makes her smile, easing the tension in the air and are relieved when you see her shake her head, an amused smile gracing her mouth.

“I’ll be careful,” you add, a bit more serious because you know how Maria worries for you. 

She nods, seemingly satisfied for now. The two of you finish up with your boxes before you grab your phone to order pizza. The movers will be coming by tomorrow to collect your things and put them in storage and then you’ll head to Joel’s house to…move in, you guess. It feels odd to think about it. Joel had called you earlier in the week to iron out the details about your move-in, asking you if you needed help with your things which you had politely refused. He was already doing a lot and although you weren’t entirely sure why, there was only so much grace you could accept from him without feeling a bit like a charity case. 

“You know,” Maria says after you confirm the order with the guy on the phone. “Tommy was saying Joel’s been different too. I think the word he used was chipper.”

“Were you not convincing me less than five minutes ago that this was a bad idea?” you ask, raising a brow at her. Maria shrugs, pouring the two of you twin glasses of wine. 

“I never said it was a bad idea,” she says. “I said it was complicated. There’s a difference. And I only brought it up because you’re my best friend and I’m protective of you.”

“Uh huh,” you say. “Sounds like a whole lot of lawyer talk.”

“I’m just saying,” Maria says, voice sing-song. “It’s an interesting turn of events, all of this.”

“I’m glad my life is amusing to you,” you say, taking the proffered glass of wine from her.

“Very much so,” Maria agrees, clinking your glasses together. You roll your eyes but you’re relieved that Maria isn’t too worried about the whole thing. If she really did think this was a bad idea, she would tell you. She’s not one to mince words when they need to be said and you’ve always been grateful for her honesty. The two of you make your way to your couch, which is now wrapped in a plastic sheet. It’s still comfortable enough to sit on though which you’re grateful for. Your back hurts from all the bending and lifting you’ve been doing. Once you’re settled on opposite ends of the couch, you clear your throat.

“For the record,” you say. “You’re my best friend too. And I appreciate that you’re looking out for me. I really will be on my best behaviour.”

And you will be. You’re not going to mess this up. 

Living with Joel is a tad awkward at first. Of course it is. It seems like every time you and Joel see each other again, the rapport you’ve built resets. He’s no longer grouchy but he’s still quiet and for the most part, you both keep to yourself. Joel usually leaves the house early, just as dawn breaks over the sky like a cracked yolk. Your alarm typically goes off at that time too, and you spend the entire day applying to jobs and avoiding your existential dread. You usually take a break around three pm to go on a walk around the suburban neighbourhood Joel lives in, nodding at retired couples who happen to be taking a stroll at the same time. When you come back from your walk, you start on dinner. It’s the only meal you and Joel really share. At least up until tonight. It’s been almost two weeks of living with him when he doesn’t show up for dinner on time. You know it’s none of your business but it leaves you antsy. Joel is a timely person, always following his routine to a tee. Even though it hasn’t been very long, you’ve grown comfortable with it too, expecting the heavy sound of his work boots on the stairs in the morning when he’s heading out and hearing the front door open every day around seven in the evening when he gets back home from work. 

It’s almost ten in the night and there’s still no sign of him. You had made him a plate when you realized he wasn’t making it back home on time. It’s sitting in the microwave now as you pace in the kitchen. You glance at your phone, looking at the time again. It’s only been three minutes since you last looked. You think of the worst case scenario. Maybe there was an accident on site and Joel got hurt. Or maybe it was Tommy. But if that was the case, surely Maria would have called you by now. You will your nerves away, deciding to just text him. It’s perfectly normal to check in and you guys are basically roommates so really, it’s the correct thing to do. You swipe your phone to unlock it, pulling up your text thread with Joel. The last message is from the night he called you about the anniversary party, almost three weeks ago now. 

[You, 10:07 pm]: hey Joel! just wanted to check in to make sure everything’s okay since you’re usually back home by now. 

You read it over a few times, wondering if it might be weird to refer to his house as ‘home’ since it really isn’t your home at all. But your house sounds too formal and odd given that you’re here too and the house makes it sound like you guys live in a dorm or something. So home it is. You hit send before you can overthink it too much and then head to the couch, turning on the television to distract yourself. You channel surf for a bit before settling on a rerun of The Hunger Games. You give it fifteen minutes before you check your phone, only to find no response yet. You sigh, settling into the couch a bit more. You rest your head on one of the soft throw pillows. When you had first seen Joel’s place, you had wondered if the decor came from his daughters. He hadn’t seemed like the type of man to buy throw pillows or have a persian rug in his house. Now, you’re grateful for the softness of the rug beneath your feet and the support the pillow provides for your neck. You pull up your text thread with Maria.

[You, 10:23 pm]: hey babe, did Tommy say anything about running late today?

You hit send, already knowing she’s going to give you a hard time for this. And she does, when you read her reply a few seconds later.

[Maria, 10:23 pm]: Yeah, he said they had to stay on site longer because of some mix up with the parts. 

[Maria, 10:23 pm]: Why? 👀

You groan, slumping against the couch again, this time bringing your legs up so that you’re lying down on it. You angle yourself so you can see Katniss in your peripheral vision, now desperately volunteering for her sister. Even now, years later, the scene gives you chills. Your momentary distraction is interrupted by the buzzing of your phone.

[Maria, 10:25 pm]: Joel’s probably with him. He’ll probably be home late too. In case you were worried…

You groan, beginning to type back. 

[You, 10:25 pm]: i was just curious

Maria responds almost immediately. 

[Maria, 10:25 pm]: Mhm, sure babe. 

You contemplate telling Maria and ultimately decide, why not? It’s not like she doesn’t know about your little crush already.

[You, 10:26 pm]: i texted him to ask if everything was okay. but he didn’t respond which is totally fine ofc

[Maria, 10:26 pm]: He probably hasn’t seen it. They have a strict no phone policy when they’re on site. Tommy texted me during a bathroom break.

It makes you smile, how well she knows you to assuage your worries about overstepping by texting Joel. 

[You, 10:27 pm]: thank you, you’re the best 

[Maria, 10:27 pm]: Oh, I know 

You set your phone aside, snuggling into the couch. At least it’s nothing bad and you don’t have to worry anymore. You tune back into the movie, watching as Peeta and Katniss shake hands after the reaping. You remember reading the book for the first time as a tween, each page leaving you wanting more. It’s been so long since you’ve felt that way about anything. You need to start reading again, you think as you feel your eyes grow heavier. Maybe you’ll go to the library tomorrow and pick up a few books. Your library card is collecting dust in your wallet. You wiggle, settling yourself deeper into the plush of the couch. Katniss is twirling now, her red dress lighting up in orangey blue flames. It’s the last thing you remember before you fall asleep. 

You feel a gentle nudge on your face and you lean into it, chasing the warmth of whatever’s there. You furrow your brows. Are you dreaming? You hear someone say your name, a low voice calling out to you. You feel something light on your cheekbone, moving in a back-and-forth motion. Someone says your name again and your eyes flutter open. You squint, adjusting to the orange glow of the room. Above you, stands Joel, his dark eyes watching you carefully. It’s his thumb that rests on your cheekbone, now still. You suddenly remember where you are and you sit up quickly, suddenly wide awake.

“Shit, I didn’t mean to fall asleep,” you say, looking around for your phone. 

“Hey, it’s alright,” Joel says, voice soft in the quiet of the night. “I just didn’t want you to get a crick in your neck so I thought it might be better to wake you up so you could sleep in your bed.” 

You take him in properly now. He looks tired. There are dark circles under his eyes and his hair falls flat against his forehead. His pants are smudged with what looks like paint and he smells like the rain you can hear falling against the windows. 

“What time is it?” you ask. You still haven’t been able to find your phone. 

“Late,” Joel says. “It’s almost midnight.” 

“And you just got home?” you ask, and he nods. 

“I didn’t see your message until I was in my truck, headin’ home. I’m sorry, didn’t mean to worry you,” Joel says and you shake your head. 

“No, that’s okay,” you say, too quickly. “Just wanted to make sure you were okay.”

“I should’ve let you know,” Joel says. He sounds as tired as he looks but he gives you a soft smile. His crows feet seem even more prominent now, in the dim light of the living room and you feel something tender in your chest. 

“I made you a plate,” you say. You stand up and Joel takes a step back, giving you space. “I can warm it up if you want to shower and change and stuff.”

“You don’t gotta stay up for me,” Joel says. 

“I don’t mind,” you say. “Really. You can go freshen up.”

You watch as Joel contemplates, his eyes never leaving yours. Finally, he nods. You make your way to the kitchen as you hear his heavy footsteps up the stairs. The pipes turn on a few seconds later and you lean against the counter. A few minutes later you hear the water shut off and it’s only then that you begin to warm up his plate. Joel comes down soon after, now dressed in a soft-looking grey shirt and flannel sleep pants. His hair is pushed back from his face and wet, dripping so that there are dark patches on his sleep shirt. The ends are already beginning to curl against the nape of his neck. You gesture for him to take a seat at the dinner table just as the microwave rings. You bring the plate over to him, setting it down in front of him.

“Thank you,” Joel says, looking up at you. His eyes look warmer in this light. You nod, unsure of what to do next. You should probably excuse yourself and let him enjoy some peace and quiet. Just as you’re about to say that, Joel speaks again. 

“You could take a seat,” he says. “Only if you want. If you’d like to go to bed, I understand.”

You take a seat adjacent to Joel, watching as he spears his fork into a quartered roasted potato. He chews slowly and you watch the movement of his strong jaw before you realize you’re staring and look down at the wooden dining table. 

“I never said thank you for makin’ dinner,” Joel says when he’s done chewing. “I appreciate that you’ve been doin’ it every night. I shoulda said earlier.”

You shrug, giving him a small smile.

“I like cooking,” you say. “It gives me something to do. Plus, it’s the least I can do since you’ve been nice enough to let me stay here.”

You watch something flit across Joel’s face, his mouth pulling into a small frown. 

“You don’t gotta pay your dues or anythin’ like that,” he says, setting his fork down. He looks at you with so much sincerity, his dark eyes serious with concern. “Really. You don’t have to make dinner just because you feel like you owe me somethin’. I’m the one that offered you a place to stay.” 

“Oh no,” you say quickly. “I didn’t mean to make it seem like I felt like I owed you something or anything. You’ve been a great host. I just meant that it’s the least I could do.”

Joel shakes his head, seeming displeased. You wonder how most of your interactions seem to go awry. Why the two of you can’t seem to speak to each other without misstepping is beyond you. 

“You don’t have to do anythin’,” Joel says. “You could sit on the couch the whole day and you’d still have a place here. S’all I meant.”

His candor momentarily surprises you and you look at him, eyes wide. The notion of what he said is so…sweet. It’s probably one of the nicest things anyone has ever said to you, really. Especially someone you don’t really know all that well. You feel something well in your chest but you push it down, instead giving Joel a tight smile. 

“Thank you,” you say. Your voice sounds off and he must notice, given that he reaches for his fork again, shoulders set stiff. You want to say more. You want to tell him that you don’t understand why he’s being so nice to you, why he’s offering all this when the only relationship the two of you share is that of one, legally binding, drunken mistake. But you don’t. Instead, you ask him how his day went and watch his shoulders relax. He finishes chewing before he answers. 

“Shit,” he says. “A guy on our team ordered the wrong parts and the client was pretty upset about the main bathroom not having plumbin’ so Tommy and I stayed back to get it fixed. Took us six hardware stores to find what we needed. And then there was a pile up on the freeway on my way back. Felt like I’d never get home if I’m bein’ honest with you.”

He gives you a tired smile when he’s done speaking and there’s a slight flush across his cheekbones, as if he’s embarrassed of saying too much. 

“Well I’m glad you made it back,” you say, tone light but genuine. “Had me worried there for a second.” And you mean it. You’ve always been good at imagining the worst case scenario. 

“I should’ve texted,” Joel says. 

“Well you did say you don’t like texting all that much so I can’t hold you to that,” you say, tone still teasing. You like this – the ease at which the two of you can talk when things seem to click. It reminds you of that night at the anniversary party and you haven’t really had a proper, non-logistics related conversation since then. You watch as he swallows his last bite of dinner, his plate clean. You feel pleased with yourself, that he enjoyed what you made. 

“Think I can make an exception for you,” Joel says and it’s not delivered in a flirtatious way. He says it like it’s factual, like it’s perfectly sensible that he would go out of his way to text you. It still leaves you feeling warm all over. You ignore it, nodding in response. 

“I appreciate that,” you tell him. The two of you get up and you watch as he washes and dries his plate and fork. The muscles of his back flex through his t-shirt as he moves and your eyes trace over them. When he’s done, he turns around to face you. If he notices you staring he says nothing. 

“We should get some sleep,” he says and you nod. You lead the way up the stairs. Your room is on the other end of the corridor so the two of you hesitate in the landing, standing in the no-man's land between your rooms. You feel the same feeling you felt when Joel had dropped you home that night after the party. You don’t want him to leave. There’s something comfortable being around him. Something about his presence that grounds you. Joel rubs a broad palm against his jaw as he looks at you. You can hear the scratchy noise of his beard against his calloused skin. You notice how heavy his eyes look. You knew he was tired but Joel seems like he might fall asleep right here. 

“I hope you get a good night's rest,” you say. His mouth twitches in a soft smile and he nods. 

“Thanks for keepin’ me company,” he says. This time it’s you who smiles. 

“Anytime,” you say and Joel doesn’t know how much you mean it. You like his company so much it scares you. You take a step back, towards your room. “Goodnight Joel.”

You don’t say his name very often, at least not to him. It rings in the quiet of the night. His eyes trace over you before he gives you a nod. You pivot on your other foot, half turning around when you hear him speak again. 

“Goodnight sweetheart,” he says and when you glance back, he’s already disappeared into his bedroom, the door slightly ajar. You walk towards your room, pulling at the sheets. As you do, you wonder if you had imagined the term of endearment falling from his lips but you think of that night at the party and how he had called you the very same word. You tuck yourself into bed, thinking of Joel’s low drawl and the way sweetheart had sounded, coming from his mouth. Your eyes grow heavy with sleep and you think of Joel’s thumb across your cheekbone, gently waking you up. You think of how it might feel now against your skin and that’s the last thought you have before you fall into deep sleep. 

You receive your first response a few days later. It’s an email with a calendar link of the hiring manager’s availability for an in-person interview. It’s something. You’ve applied to countless jobs by now and this is the first time you’ve had a response that isn’t an automated rejection or simply nothing at all. It leaves you giddy and you pick the earliest available slot which happens to be two days from now. When you’re done replying, you immediately start prepping. You start writing down answers to the typical questions like your biggest strength and your greatest weakness and how they somehow make you perfect for this role. You pore over webpages that detail how best to answer questions about salary expectations and ambiguous work environments, taking notes of what to say and how to say it. When you’re confident with that, you review your resume, making note of the bullet points you think are most relevant to the job posting. You jot down notes about projects you’re proud of and how you tracked their success, making sure to have metrics for each item to quantify your achievement. You rehearse your sixty second elevator pitch until it comes to you like second nature. And when you’re done with that, you review all your notes again. The company is a mid-size tech firm that believes in being humble but always ready to be gritty, whatever the fuck that means. But you’ll take it. You’ll channel whatever that is because you have to. You need this. 

You lose track of time, reading over their website and making note of their recent successes and releases when the front door opens. You look up to find Joel, a streak of dust across the cut of his cheekbone. It’s only then that you realize that you’ve spent the last seven hours prepping for your interview. You forgot about dinner. Shit. 

“Evenin’,” Joel says, looking at all the paper you’ve strewn over the dining table. He looks amused. 

“Hey,” you say. “Sorry about the mess. I lost track of time and completely spaced on making dinner because I got a job interview and it’s in two days and I spent the whole day reading about this company and what makes me a great fit and I just didn’t realize how much time had passed. I can clear this up in a sec.” 

It’s only after you’re done speaking that you realize how much you’ve rambled. Joel’s quiet the whole time, his steady gaze on you.

“Hey,” Joel says, coming to stand in front of you. “Take a breath for me.” 

You follow his instruction, purposely relaxing your shoulders. You nod at him after you exhale. 

“Can you tell that I’m nervous?” you ask and it gets a smile out of him. 

“Just a bit,” Joel says and you let out a laugh, high and uneasy. 

“I just don’t want to fuck it up,” you say. “And I really am sorry about dinner.”

Joel shakes his head, waving a hand. 

“Forget about dinner,” he says. “Like I said, that’s not your job. I appreciate that you do it but I have no expectation for it. I can make somethin’ for us tonight. You go take a break. Have a shower or somethin’.”

It’s then that you realize you’re still in the same pajamas from last night. You can feel your cheeks heat but you nod. 

“Thank you,” you say and Joel waves you off. It’s then that you remember the streak of grey dust across his face. 

“Joel,” you say. “You have something on your face.” You gesture to his cheekbone and he raises a hand, rubbing it over the space. He misses the streak entirely. 

“Gone?” he asks and you shake your head. He swipes his hand again, and misses, again. You reach for him instead, rubbing your thumb across his cheekbone. You watch the patch of skin go red as you rub away the dust. Joel is stone still, watching you with honey dark eyes and when you’re done, you realize that perhaps you’ve overstepped. You take a step back. 

“Sorry,” you say. “I –”

“Thanks, sweetheart,” Joel grumbles, voice low, and your heart thunders against your ribcage. That’s the third time now that he’s called you that. “Now go relax for a bit and I’ll make us dinner.” 

You nod, suddenly feeling flustered. You make your way up the stairs and towards your bathroom, shutting the door behind you. You lean against it, catching your breath. You strip off your pajamas, tossing them in the hamper before stepping into the shower. The hot water soothes the tension in your muscles from being hunched over your laptop the whole day. You rub the lavender scented soap into your skin, watching it foam. You wet your hair, shampooing your scalp twice before putting your hair mask in. It’s only then, when you’re waiting the designated five minutes for it to work its magic, that you think of Joel. You know you think he’s attractive and you know you enjoy talking to him. Something about him calms you and you’ve come to accept that for whatever it is. But you need to stop this line of thought before it becomes something you can’t handle. Maria was right, as she usually is. You cannot afford to have a serious crush on the man you accidentally drunkenly married who’s being kind enough to let you stay with him while you job search and try to sort out the mess that is your life. You cannot. There’s no good outcome in this and you and Joel will be officially divorced in a month anyways. What you do need to do is focus on this interview and get this job so you can afford your own place and forget about the strong, sweet man downstairs who for some reason, knows just how to calm your nerves. 

You rinse the hair mask out, combing your fingers through your hair and untangling the ends. You stand under the shower for a few more minutes with your eyes closed, taking in deep breaths. You rehearse your pitch once more before you shut the valve off. You dry yourself and slip into a pair of cotton pants and a sweatshirt before rubbing some moisturizer into your skin. You look fresh now, eyes bright and smelling like vanilla. You nod at your reflection before heading back downstairs. When you enter the kitchen, the smell of something rich and warm hits you immediately and your stomach grumbles. Rather loudly. So loudly in fact, that Joel turns around to face you, an amused tilt to his mouth.

“I take it you're hungry,” he says and you give him a sheepish smile. 

“What gave it away?” you ask, willing yourself not to be embarrassed. Joel chuckles. You move to stand next to him, watching as something bubbles on the stove.

“I can really only cook a handful of things so I made us some chilli,” he says. “It’s not as good as the stuff you make but it’s Ellie’s favourite.” 

You hum, peering inside the pot. The sauce is red and the smell of the spices leaves your mouth watering. 

“It looks delicious,” you say. When you look up at Joel, the tips of his ears are pink. You watch as he turns the stove off, before he reaches past you for the bowls. But he moves so that his arm is behind your head, and suddenly you’re engulfed by him. His bicep is right next to your head as he opens the cabinet and you can smell him. The fresh scent of cedar and pine mixed with something musky. You look away from the muscle of his arm, focussing on the steaming pot of food, before you do something absurd like bite his bicep or beg him to touch you. The heat of him is gone in the next moment as he moves to set the bowls on the dining table. You slip on the oven mitts before grabbing the pot, moving it to the table too. Joel nods at you in thanks and the two of you sit down. He serves you first before helping himself. 

When you spoon a bite into your mouth, you can’t help but make a noise. 

“Mmm,” you say, mouthful and uncaring. “This is so good. You’ve been holding out on me.” 

It’s silent for a moment and when you look up at Joel, his eyes are already on you. His dark eyes seem even darker now. He swallows and you trace the movement of his Adams apple. He clears his throat before he speaks.

“Thank you,” he says. “I’d still argue you’re the better cook though.”

You shake your head, already chewing on another mouthful. The flavours blend together into something so rich without it being overbearing. You need to get the recipe from him because you’re going to be having this at least once a week. 

“You’re just saying that so you don’t have to cook,” you joke once you’re done chewing and it makes Joel crack a smile, shaking his head.

“You got me,” he says, and you laugh. The two of you eat in silence for a bit before he clears his throat, speaking again. 

“So what’s the interview for?” he asks. He patiently waits as you chew and swallow your mouthful of chilli before you speak. 

“It’s pretty similar to what I was doing at my old job but on a smaller scale because this place seems to be transitioning from being a start up. I think it’ll be a bit more hectic but hey, I’ll take it,” you say. Joel nods. 

“Do you like what you do?” he asks, but it’s not the judgmental way people usually ask it. He sounds genuinely curious. You shrug. 

“It pays the bills,” you say. “It’s practical, I guess. And I like the problem solving aspect of it.”

“That’s good,” Joel says, nodding at you. You watch him take another bite of dinner, tracing the movement of his throat as he swallows. You look back down at your bowl, taking another bite as well.

“Do you like your job?” you ask after a moment. You want to know more about him, really. Like his favourite colour and his favourite flavour of ice cream and what he sounds like right when he wakes up. But you settle for this. Joel shrugs, his broad shoulders moving. 

“I like makin’ things,” he says. “Like to keep my hands busy and the job lets me do it. We’ve got a good crew too so I can’t complain.”

“That must be nice,” you say. “It’s important to like your coworkers.”

It’s silly to say but it’s all you can think of as you focus on Joel’s hands, now that he’s mentioned them. His fingers are long and thick, and you know how his thumb feels against your face but you want to feel more. Fuck. You should have gotten off in the shower. At least you wouldn’t be so on edge now. 

“It can be a pain in the ass workin’ with your little brother though,” Joel says and you let out a laugh. 

“You say that but you’re the one willingly doing it,” you say and Joel shrugs. 

“He’s family,” Joel says but there’s something warm in his voice. He sounds fond as he speaks of his brother. 

“Did you always want to be a contractor?” you ask and Joel hesitates before he answers. 

“No,” he finally says. “If you can believe it, I wanted to be a singer.” 

Your eyes widen at that. “You gotta sing for me now,” you say and Joel shakes his head, a firm no. 

"Wouldn't wanna make you endure that,” he says but you think he’s being humble. His speaking voice itself is low and warm, like honey, and the drawl of it is lovely. You can’t imagine his singing voice being any different. But you don’t push it.

“So how’d you get into construction?” you ask instead. 

“Sarah’s mom got pregnant right outta high school,” he says. “I had to find a way to support my family and construction didn’t need a college degree so I ended up workin’ my way into contractin’ and here we are.”

It’s the first time he’s mentioned Sarah’s mother and your curiosity must show on your face because he continues speaking. 

“She left soon after Sarah was born. S’not her fault, I don’t think she much wanted a child and I did. Thought it would fix our relationship,” he says, a wry smile on his mouth. 

“That must’ve been difficult,” you say, catching Joel’s eye.

“It was,” he agrees. “And then it wasn’t. Wouldn’t change it for anythin’.”

You want to ask him about how Ellie came to be and so you do. You watch as he lights up. This story has no loss in it.  

“I adopted her when she was fourteen,” Joel says and the answer surprises you. Not because you don’t think him capable of it but because it’s rare for adoptions to occur so late in a child’s life. “One of the best decisions I ever made.”

You feel something warm crack open in your chest as he speaks. You were so terribly wrong about Joel Miller. He wasn’t a grouch or a jerk. If anything, you think he might be one of the kindest people you’ve ever come across. 

“That’s very sweet, Joel,” you say, voice sincere. You watch him look away, rubbing his thumb into the centre of his palm. You decide to talk about something else, not wanting him to feel embarrassed for opening up. You tell him more about the company you’re interviewing for, about how their slogan is stay humble and stay gritty and he questions why a tech company would even need to be gritty but he listens attentively as you ramble on about your day and how you prepared for your interview. 

“I think you’ll do great,” Joel says when you’re finally done monologuing. “You’re smart and charmin’. They’d be silly not to see that.”

He says it with such certainty that you believe it, even just for a second.

“Thank you,” you say. “That’s really nice of you to say.”

Joel nods at you. The two of you stand up then, clearing the dishes to the sink. You begin to wash them and Joel stands next to you, drying them and placing them in the metal dish rack next to the sink. The quietness that settles over the two of you is gentle and homely, as if this is something you do all the time. When your fingers brush his as you hand him the last bowl, you ignore the zing of warmth that goes through you. It feels domestic in a way you’ve never experienced before and that terrifies you.

You’re sitting in your car, feeling giddy. Your interview had gone great, if you do say so yourself. The hiring manager had seemed to really appreciate your past experience and you hadn’t stumbled over your words. Every question that had been asked to you was one that you had rehearsed and your answers came out smooth and confident. You had firmly shaken everyone’s hands as you left and Lisa, the lady that had interviewed had even said that she was looking forward to working with you as she had walked you to the elevator. You had called Maria right after, too excited to keep it to yourself. You didn’t want to jinx it but you had a good feeling. Perhaps your luck was finally turning around.

The drive back to Joel’s is smooth and you’re lucky to beat rush hour. When you open the door, you’re surprised to find Joel in the living room, sitting on the couch. He looks up as you walk in, eyes brightening. 

“Joel,” you say. “You’re home early.”

“Yeah,” he says, before clearing his throat. “Was curious about how your interview went and it was a slow day at work so I thought I’d just come home early.”

You take in his words. He had left work early for you. Well, maybe not exactly since he did say it was a slow day but still. You feel warm all over.

“You could’ve just texted,” you say but your voice is teasing. You watch Joel’s mouth twitch in a smile. 

“You know how I feel about textin’,” Joel says and you laugh, feeling the happiest you’ve felt in a long time. Joel smiles, his eyes crinkling. “I take it your interview went well then?”

You nod, unable to hide your smile. 

“It was so good, Joel,” you say earnestly. “It’s like they knew all the questions I had prepared for and literally asked me every single one. And Lisa, the lady interviewing me, told me that she’s looking forward to working with me.”

“That’s great,” Joel says, and he sounds happy too. 

“I just hope it works out,” you say.

“It will,” Joel says with so much authority that you believe it. “And I think we should celebrate.”

Your brows furrow. “Celebrate?” you ask and he nods, firm. 

“You did amazin’ in your interview today,” Joel says. “We should celebrate that.”

You shake your head, feeling nervous. “Joel…we don’t even know if I got the job.” 

“I have a good feelin’,” he says. “Let me take you to dinner. Just as a break from the cookin’ and as a pre-celebration for the good news I know you’re gonna get.”

The way he says it makes it sound like a date but you won’t let your mind wander that way. Joel is kind. You know this. He’s doing this because he’s kind and maybe the two of you are friends now, after five weeks of marriage and almost a month of being housemates. 

“Okay,” you agree, ignoring the butterflies in your chest. “That would be nice.”

Joel looks pleased. The two of you agree to get ready and meet back in the living room within the hour. You spend the next fifteen minutes pondering what to wear. Joel hadn’t said where dinner would be so you settle on something good enough for a somewhat fancy restaurant but also casual enough for a burger place. The skirt falls against you in a soft swish of material, soft against your legs. You slip into a white blouse that matches the polka dots of your skirt before slipping into a pair of sandals. You’re already wearing make up because of your interview so you just reapply your lipgloss before fixing your hair. You slip the lipgloss and your wallet into your purse, giving yourself a onceover in the mirror. 

This isn’t a date, you remind yourself before you head downstairs. 

All you can think about is how devastatingly handsome Joel looks as the waiter brings you your drinks. You had ordered a Hugo Spritz and Joel had gotten an IPA. He had changed into a long sleeve shirt that’s forest green and fits him perfectly. His hair is combed and his beard is trimmed and he smells like cologne. This isn’t a date, you chant in your head as you take a sip of your drink. He’s just being friendly. The restaurant is lovely. It has outdoor seating and the cool evening breeze makes everything mellow. The sun is setting now, painting the sky a pale pinkish orange and you can hear the last few chirps of the summer birds before they settle for the night. 

“So,” you say, setting your glass down. “How was your day?”

“Pretty standard,” Joel says. “Did some finishin’ touches on this one house in Barton Hills and Tommy had to leave early because he and Maria are goin’ on a trip this weekend. So I let the guys go early too.”

“That’s nice of you,” you say and he shrugs, still bad at taking any sort of compliment. “I would tell you how my day went but I feel like we already covered that.”

It makes Joel chuckle and you’re pleased to hear the low sound of his laugh. You want to make him laugh again. 

“What can we talk about now?” he asks and you pretend to ponder. Really, you already know. You were thinking about it on the drive over, watching Joel in your peripheral vision. 

“I was thinking actually,” you start. “For being housemates and for being like, legally married, we don’t really know all that much about each other.”

“Huh,” Joel says, and if this was five weeks ago, you’d think he didn’t want anything to do with this but now that you know him a bit better, you can tell that he’s intrigued.

“So I was thinking we should just ask each other questions,” you say. “Just like the basic stuff.”

You watch as Joel considers it for a handful of seconds before he nods. Before you can ask him your first question, the waiter comes by with your food and you both nod and thank him. When it’s just the two of you again, you begin.

“What’s your favourite colour?” you ask and Joel’s mouth lifts in a half smile.

“That’s your hard hittin’ question?” he says but his voice is soft, gentle and only slightly teasing. You like the lilt to it. You nod, resolute. 

“Hm,” he says, pretending to ponder. “Green.”

You glance down at his shirt and he follows your eyes. 

“Should’ve guessed that,” you say and he shrugs. “Okay, your turn.”

“What’s your favourite book?” he asks and the question surprises you. You take a second, wracking your brain. You haven’t read in so long, life having become too hectic. You realize you’re taking too long to answer. 

“Uhhhh,” you say. “I can’t think of anything.” 

“Now come on,” Joel says. “I’m sure there’s something. Take your time.”

There’s something in his voice, something gentle and cajoling but not in a condescending way. It makes you feel like you really do have time to answer and so you do take a moment to consider all the books you’ve read. Finally, you come to an answer. 

“The Guernsey Literary and Potato Peel Pie Society,” you say and Joel’s brows furrow. 

“Are you pullin’ my leg?” he asks and you laugh, shaking your head. 

“I promise you it’s a real book,” you say. And then you go on to explain to him what the story’s about and how it’s told solely through letters and why you like it so much. He listens carefully, asking questions and nodding at your explanations. The evening continues on, and you learn that Joel’s favourite movie is something called Curtis and Viper 2 about two commandos who fight people and one of them is maybe a ninja? The plot is a little lost on you but you like listening to Joel’s voice as he tells you about how he watched the last one with his daughters when he went to visit them during Christmas break. By the time the waiter brings the check, Joel knows that your favourite colour is blue and that you’re double jointed and you know that he can play the guitar and actually does sing upon request but only for his girls. Joel pays before you can even bring out your wallet. You try to protest but he shakes his head.

“I said we were celebratin’,” he says. “And what type of man would I be if I let you pay for your own celebration?”

“One that believes in equality?” you say, joking. Joel scoffs and you laugh, watching him sign the merchant copy. Afterwards, the two of you make your way to his truck, making small talk about the weather and the cool spring breeze. The drive back home is quick, the soft sounds of Fleetwood Mac filling the car. Much to your disappointment, you find yourself back in the foyer of Joel’s house far too soon. You watch as Joel sets his keys down on the table by the door.

“Joel,” you say and he turns around to face you. “I just wanted to say thank you. For tonight. It was really nice.”

“Of course,” he says. “Anytime.”

He has a knack for saying things like they’re factual. Like it’s a given that he’ll take you out to a celebratory dinner anytime something good happens. You feel a surge of affection for him and you reason that that’s what makes you move towards him, wrapping your arms around his shoulders. You rest your chin on his shoulder, having to rise on your toes a bit to do so and you hug him. It’s nice, feeling him against you and it’s even better when you feel his arms come up around you. You’re surrounded by him. You stay like that for a few more seconds before you pull back. You’re closer now –  almost toe to toe and you have to crane your head a bit to meet his eyes. 

Joel brings a hand up, cupping the left side of your face. His gaze traces over you, his dark eyes mapping your features and your stomach swoops. There’s something tangible in the air between the two of you, just like the night of the anniversary party but this time it’s stronger.

“What do you want, sweetheart?” he asks, voice low. “Hm?” 

He moves his thumb to rest against your bottom lip, just pressing there. Your lips part and he watches, with his dark eyes. He rubs his thumb across your pouted mouth and you let out a small sound that has him stepping towards you, even closer. You’re toe to toe now, your sandals meeting his boots. He brings his other hand to your face, so that he’s holding your jaw in his large, warm palms. Your eyes flutter close as he leans down, pressing his plush mouth against the corner of your own. You let out a sharp breath, your heart beating frantically against your chest. His lips move to your cheekbone, pressing a kiss so soft, that you wonder if he kissed you at all. If it weren’t for the scratch of his moustache against your skin, you’d think you had imagined it. Your eyes flutter open, and he moves his mouth again, pressing a kiss to your other cheekbone before moving down to the other corner of your mouth. His breath is hot against the side of your face and insanely, you think that the two of you must be breathing in the same air at this very moment.  It’s also perhaps the most intimate thing you’ve ever experienced. 

“Joel,” you say, sounding desperate, even to your own ears. You want him to kiss you. You want to feel him everywhere. But, it has the opposite effect. Once he hears his name from your mouth, it’s like the hazy curtain of want has lifted off of him and he steps back, his hand dropping away from your face. For a second, you want to reach back for it, take his thumb into your mouth. You feel cold suddenly, the heat of him no longer there. 

His eyes are wide when they meet yours and he clears his throat. The hand that cupped your face is now curled into a fist. 

“Should go to bed,” he says as if nothing has happened at all. “I have a long day tomorrow.”

“Oh,” you say, unable to think of anything else. Joel nods, almost to himself before he takes a step back. He looks down at his hand, the one that had held you and then back at you. 

“Goodnight,” he says and then he’s taking the stairs two at a time. You stand there for a few more minutes, trying to make sense of everything. But you can’t. You don’t understand what just happened and it leaves a sour taste in your mouth. You head up to your room, legs still shaky and the phantom touch of Joel’s hand still on your skin.

It does not surprise you when Joel avoids you after that. He comes home later, texting you that work is running over and that there’s no need to wait up for him. So you don’t. You eat your dinner alone, leaving him a plate in the microwave and by the time you hear his heavy footsteps downstairs, you’re already tucked in bed. It goes on like that for three days. On the fourth, you get an email at four p.m with your official offer letter. Even with all the confusion between you and Joel, you feel a rush of excitement. You finally have a job. It’s been almost six weeks of searching and failing and now you’ll have a stable income. It might be foolish, but the first person you want to tell is Joel. Even with the weirdness between the two of you. So you wait up, even when you get a text from him telling you that he’s running late and won’t be home before ten p.m. You watch Catching Fire, curled on the couch and it’s just as Katniss shoots a spear up into the arena, that the front door opens. 

You feel nerves settle in your stomach as Joel walks into the living room. If he’s surprised to see you, he makes no show of it. 

“Evenin’,” he says, looking worse for wear. His eyes are slightly red and his hair is limp against his forehead. 

“Hey,” you say, sitting up from the couch. “How was your day?”

Joel shrugs. “S’alright.”

You feel like you’re at the airport again, trying to make small talk with a man who seems like he’d rather be anywhere but here. Still, you want to tell him, hoping that the good news might change things between the two of you. You still don’t know what went wrong.

“I got the official offer letter,” you say, giving him a hopeful smile. “Signed it and all. They even gave me a bonus.” 

You watch as Joel’s mouth pulls into a smile, the first real one you’ve seen since dinner three nights ago. His cheek dimples and his eyes crinkle and something like relief settles in your chest. Maybe you were right. Maybe this will make things better. 

“That’s great,” Joel says. “Told you you would.”

You nod, smiling. 

“Yeah,” you agree. “Thank you. For believing in me.”

Joel nods. But then his smile falters and you know there’s something unsaid. Something you don’t understand but clearly Joel does. You have to know what happened. What changed all of the sudden for you to be like strangers again.

“Joel –” you start to say just as he speaks.

“So does that mean –” he says and you both pause. 

“You first,” you say, feeling nervous. Joel clears his throat. You watch him bring his thumb to his other palm, rubbing the centre of it.

“I was just wonderin’ if this means that you’re movin’ out soon,” Joel finally says and the words shouldn’t shock you. It makes sense, logically. You were only staying here so long as you needed the free accommodation and now that you have a well paying job, you can leave. You should leave, really. Yet, it still feels like someone dumped a bucket of ice water on you. You take a moment before you respond. 

“Yeah,” you say, too quickly. “Right. It does mean that. I was thinking of going back to my old place, actually. My landlord texted a few days ago and said it’s mine if I want it, so.”

You don’t finish your sentence, letting it hang there. It’s not a lie, at least. Your landlord had texted and you had told him that you’d let him know in a few days. You suppose that now you have your answer. 

“That’s good,” Joel nods. “I’m glad it worked out for you.”

Everything feels so terribly formal. You wonder if you blacked out and did something insane the night you went out to dinner. It’s the only explanation you have for Joel being so indifferent all of the sudden. He had kissed you. He had held your face in his palm and pressed his mouth to your skin like you were something precious. And now it’s as if it had never happened. You swallow past the tight feeling in your throat. Your nose tingles like it does when you’re about to cry and you blink twice, clearing your vision. 

“Yeah,” you agree. “I’ll, um, keep you posted on when I’m leaving.”

Joel nods, face stoic. He holds himself so rigid, the tense line of his shoulders looking painfully tight.

“Let me know if you need help with movin’ anythin’,” he says and the offer settles like a heavy weight in your stomach. 

“Thank you,” you say. “Anyways, I’ll let you get to it. I’m going to bed.”

You take the stairs two at a time and it’s only when you’re in the safety of the bathroom with the tap running at the maximum flow, do you allow yourself to cry. 

Joel doesn’t want anyone else to know about Vegas. It’s bad enough that Tommy gives him a hard time whenever it’s just the two of them. The only people he had actually told were his kids and it had gone surprisingly better than Joel had expected. He had video called the two of them together as soon as he was back home, and meandered around the actual topic until the nerves got the better of him and he brought it up, his words clunky and uncertain.

Ellie had thought he was joking at first before looking at Sarah’s face and seeing her wide-eyed, concerned gaze.

“You’re serious?” she had asked and Joel had nodded, feeling incredibly stupid. He was way too old to be doing things like this. He had specifically instructed his daughters to never make silly, drunken mistakes and now here he was, married after twelve hours in Vegas.

“I wish I could tell you what happened but I don’t remember,” Joel had said, ears burning. Ellie had laughed, delighted. She had interrogated him some more before telling him that a mid-life crisis was totally normal at his age. Joel had balked at the words but he was secretly relieved that she didn’t think of him as a fuck up. Sarah on the other hand, had been awfully quiet. He could tell that she was at work given the sound of the coffee machines and bustling customers in the background and he hated that he was worrying her when she was busy. He had gone on to tell them that they were heading to the courthouse later in the day to file for the divorce but that it might take a while for it to be finalized. Eventually, Ellie had to leave to go to soccer practice and once she had, Sarah had spoken in a soft voice.

“Are you sure you’re okay, dad?” she had asked. Her mouth was pursed, almost identical to his. It was still jarring, twenty one years after becoming a father, seeing his mannerisms in his girls. 

“M’aright,” he had said. “Really. I just made a silly mistake.”

“You got hitched,” Sarah says. “How drunk were you?”

Joel knew that he had looked sheepish.

“Pretty drunk babygirl,” he had answered and she had shaken her head. “M’sorry. Didn’t mean to worry you. Or embarrass you. I know I’m too old to be actin’ like this.”

“It isn’t that,” Sarah had said, voice gentle. “I just want you to be okay and happy. I know it’s been lonely since Ellie left too.”

“I swear I’m fine,” he had answered, voice resolute. The one thing he wasn’t going to do was have his kids worry about him, not when their lives were just getting started. And if that meant telling them that he felt completely normal about getting so drunk that he ended up married to the first woman he’s been attracted to in years a few hours after meeting her then so be it. She’s so much younger too. He thinks of how sweet she had been in Vegas, making conversation with him even when he was too in his head to talk like a normal man. She likely hates being in this situation with a grouch like him. 

“If you’re sure,” Sarah says but she doesn’t sound convinced. 

“I’m sure,” Joel had reassured and finally, she had nodded, seemingly satisfied. When the call had ended, Joel had felt relieved, slumping in his work chair. At least they hadn’t been upset with him. 

Now, Tommy is looking at him with a look that reminds him of when Tommy had broken their mother’s favourite vase when he was nine and begged Joel to take the fall because he really wanted to go to summer camp that year. Joel had because he was a good big brother and it had ended in him being grounded for a whole month that summer which was one of the worst things that could have happened to him  as a sixteen year old. 

“What is it?” Joel asks, already feeling agitated.

Tommy rubs the back of his neck. 

“I mighta fucked up,” he finally says.

The state of Texas has a sixty day “cooling-off” period which means that even though you and Joel had filed for divorce two weeks ago, there’s still fourty-six days left of the two of you being married. This doesn’t really affect your life though. You both have barely spoken since that weekend in Vegas, the remainder of which you, him, Maria and Tommy had spent trying to figure out what the hell had actually happened. Unsurprisingly, it had yielded no results. Neither you nor Joel were able to remember how you had wound up married in a chapel or how you had even made it back to the hotel. The icing on the cake was that Tommy and Maria hadn’t even left Double Down Saloon to begin with. Joel had been wrong about their being only one bathroom which wasn’t surprising given that he was drunk enough to marry you approximately twenty minutes later. The divorce had been fairly easy to file. Although Maria wasn’t a divorce lawyer, she had a lot of lawyer friends who were and so you and Joel had been in and out of the courthouse in a matter of an hour, divorce papers signed and all. 

Currently, you’re sipping on an overpriced iced latte and looking at rentals in your current area, trying to find something that’s less expensive than your current apartment. You’ve found a basement but the man who’s renting it describes himself as a “fun-loving, forty something year old who wants to make some good memories” so that’s most definitely a no. Other than that, there’s literally nothing you can find that won’t break your bank. You’re lucky you’re on a month-to-month with your current place but you’ve already given your notice to your landlord because there’s no way you can afford a $2000 apartment while unemployed. And it’s not looking like anything’s gonna change soon given that you’ve heard back from no one. You let out a sigh. 

“Nothing?” Maria asks, across from you. She’s working on a contract for one of her clients, keeping you company for the day while you switch between job applications and scouring the internet for some place to live. You shake your head, slumping in your seat. 

“If I had told you a month ago that I’d be jobless, almost homeless and a divorcee, would you have believed me?” you ask and Maria huffs, shaking her head.

“You are not going to be homeless,” she says. “You can always stay with me and Tommy. And you will find a job.”

“Notice how you said nothing about me being a divorcee,” you say, but there’s a smile on your face. It’s sort of funny, really. Divorced before you could really be married. 

Maria says your name in warning, but she’s smiling as well. 

“I can’t stay with you and Tommy,” you say. “There’s not enough space and I can’t stay on your couch indefinitely.”

“You can stay on our couch as long as you need,” Maria says with certainty. “If I’m being honest, Tommy can stay on our couch and you and I can share because his snoring is getting worse.”

“Ah, so this is all a ruse to benefit you, really,” you say and she laughs. 

“Exactly,” she says. Then, her face becomes serious. “I am being serious, you know. You always have a place with us.”

“I know,” you say. “And I appreciate that.”

The sharp ringing of her phone interrupts your conversation. You watch her glance at it before her eyes soften and you know it must be Tommy calling. She picks it up and you look back at your laptop, giving her some privacy. 

“Hey babe,” she says. You can hear Tommy’s muffled voice on the other end as you read a listing about an apartment with a “small pest problem” and shudder. 

“Tommy,” Maria says and she sounds annoyed now. You glance up to meet her eyes. “Fine but you have to ask her.”

Then, she’s handing the phone to you. You must look confused because she gives you an apologetic look.

“He said he needed to run something by you,” she says, sounding stern. You take the phone from her, bringing it up to your ear.

“Hey Tommy,” you say. “How are you?” 

It had taken you a bit to get over your embarrassment when interacting with Tommy post-Vegas wedding. You hadn’t wanted him to think less of you and it was sort of insane that you had accidentally married his older brother approximately twelve hours into meeting him. But Tommy had been sweet and understanding, if not really amused by the entire situation. If he had given anyone a hard about it, it had probably been Joel. 

“Hey there,” Tommy says. “M’alright, just a long work day. How about yourself?”

“I’m good,” you say, even though it’s quite untrue. He doesn’t need to be bored by your crumbling life. Maria probably fills him in on it anyways. 

“I’m glad,” he says and there’s a pregnant pause.

“Soooo,” you say, filling in the silence. “You just wanted to check in on your sister-in-law or is there something else?” 

Maria shakes her head, smiling and you can hear Tommy let out a laugh on the other end. He sounds nervous though. 

“I fucked up a bit,” Tommy says. “Remember that big client project, we were tellin’ you about in Vegas? Well, today I might have let it slip that Joel was married.” 

You think he’s going to continue but the line stays silent.

“Oh,” you say, still confused. “I don’t really understand why that’s an issue.” 

You hear him clear his throat. 

“Well, the client is this rich married couple and they were so excited to hear about Joel that I couldn’t tell ‘em the circumstances of the marriage. So I said that he was a private man and it had been a small ceremony, and you know, all of that.”

“Okay,” you say, suddenly feeling nervous. You don’t really like where this is going.

“Long story short they invited us all out to their anniversary party,” Tommy says, so quickly that there’s barely any separation between his words. “And we said we’d go. And Joel wants to wring my neck but it would mean a lot if you’d play along. Just for that one night.” 

You must take too long to respond because Tommy says your name.

“Sorry,” you say quickly. “Yeah, um. Sure I can do that.”

You catch Maria’s eye, her mouth still pursed. 

“Thank you kindly,” Tommy says. “I told Joel I’d talk to you about it but he’ll send you the details and y’all can figure out your story.”

“So you’re telling me that we can’t tell them that we got drunk and then married in the span of like, four hours?” you ask, and you hear Tommy laugh. You bid him farewell and hand the phone back to Maria. You tune out her telling him off for having too big of a mouth sometimes. You think of having to interact with Joel again. You haven’t really seen him since that day at the courthouse and even then he had been curt, the way he was when you had first met.

“I’m sorry about this,” Maria says when she sets her phone down. “Tommy talks way too much sometimes. He shouldn’t have said anything.”

You shrug. The nerves have settled now and it’ll probably be fine right? You’re doing Joel a favour so surely he won’t be as sullen as he usually is and maybe now the two of you will be able to laugh about the whole thing instead of pretending it's not actively still happening.

“S’alright,” you say. “I mean we are technically married. And I don’t mind helping them out if it means they don’t give their client a bad impression.”

“You know, you don’t have to do this,” Maria says and you know she means it. “They can make something up.”

“I know,” you say. “Really, it’s okay. Me and Joel can absolutely pretend to be happy newlyweds for an evening.”

Maria raises a sceptical eyebrow at you and you look down at your laptop so that she can’t see through your lie. 

You can do this. 

You get a text from Joel later that night. 

You’ve just made pasta using sauce from a jar but you know how to make it taste better so you’re really quite pleased with your dinner. You’re rewatching an episode of Grey’s Anatomy when your phone buzzes, fork halfway to your mouth. You look down, your heart stuttering when you see Joel’s name. You drop your fork into your bowl of pasta, reaching for your phone and swiping up to unlock it. 

[Joel, 7:47 pm]: Hi. This is Joel. 

It makes you snort. The two of you had exchanged numbers on that last day in Vegas in case you needed to coordinate lawyer appointments and divorce stuff but you had ended up never using his number. Still, it’s silly that he’s introducing himself again. 

[You, 7:48 pm]: hey Joel! i figured it was you since we exchanged numbers lol

You see him start typing almost immediately. You watch the text bubble appear and then disappear six times and then your phone starts buzzing. He’s calling you. You sit up straighter, suddenly feeling nervous. You press the green answer button before you can overthink.

“Hello?” you say. 

“Hey,” Joel’s deep voice says on the other end of the line. “Sorry for callin’. I’m not much of a texter and thought it might be easier to talk like this.”

“Of course,” you say, even though your heart is still hammering against your chest. You’ve never been good with unexpected phone calls. 

“I take it Tommy told you about our client,” Joel says and you nod before you remember that he can’t see you.

“Yeah,” you say. “He did. The anniversary party, right?”

“Yeah,” Joel says, sounding tired. “Tommy and his big fuckin’ mouth. I’m sorry ‘bout this. I wasn’t there when it happened.”

“That’s alright,” you say. “I’m sure we can manage pretending to be a happy married couple right?” 

You mean it as a joke but there’s no chuckle on the other end. 

“The party’s next Friday,” Joel says instead. “It’s at their place an hour out of town. I can drive us.”

“Okay,” you agree, suddenly feeling tired. The least  he can do is be somewhat friendly, when you’re the one doing him a favour. “Is there a dress code or anything?” 

“Yeah,” Joel says. “They said it was cocktail attire.”

You snort. Of course it is. You think of what Tommy had said, about smoothing out your and Joel’s story. 

“Joel,” you start. “You do realize we have to be convincing right? That means we need a story about how we got married. If what Tommy’s saying is true, these clients are nosy and going to ask.”

You hear Joel sigh, on the other line. You wonder if he’s also in his pajamas, sitting on his couch. It’s silly, but you’re curious about him. From what you remember, he had been friendly on that first night in Vegas. Sure, it had taken him probably ten drinks but he had taught you to play pool and defended you from that creep at the bar. But it’s like a switch has flipped and now he’s back to his surly self. 

“We can iron out the details on the drive over,” Joel says. 

“Sounds good,” you agree. “Will Tommy and Maria be driving over with us?” 

“Probably,” Joel says, sounding annoyed. You think it’s likely directed at Tommy and how he’s gotten you two in this situation but you can’t be sure. Not with Joel. At least it means you won’t have to deal with him all on your own. And Maria’s good at coming up with stuff on the spot, a skill she’s only gotten better at since becoming a lawyer. 

You hum. There’s a pause and you can hear his breathing. You realize how stiff you’ve been holding yourself through the entirety of the call, shoulders rigid.

“Okay, well goodnight, Joel,” you say. You can hear him shuffle on the other end, like he’s getting up. You can feel your heart beat faster, and you settle more firmly against your coach, trying to relax your tense muscles. 

“G’night,” Joel says, voice low. You press the red button to end the call, wondering why your interactions with Joel always leave you feeling flustered. 

Friday comes sooner than you expect. You had spent the morning at an apartment viewing with a mysterious yellow stain on the wall and a damp scent that seemed to permeate from the floors and had done your best to nod and smile as the person showing you the place had talked about possibly investing in an extra lock for the front door. Now, you’re looking down at the dress you had picked out for tonight, deep red with black flowers on it and a lace neckline. The straps are thin and delicate, also decorated with black lace. You wonder if it might be too much as you slip it on but you think of how Tommy had described the clients. If they really are so wealthy then they’ll probably be wearing things much fancier than this. You look in the mirror, smoothing down the dress. It fits you quite nicely, cinched at the waist but flaring near the bottom. You adjust the straps so they aren’t twisted and fix your hair. Just as you’re finishing up the last bits of your makeup, your phone begins to ring. 

“Hey you,” you say to Maria on the other end of the line. “What’s up?”

“I’m so sorry,” Maria says and your brows furrow. “Tommy’s not feeling well. He’s been throwing up all morning and I was hoping it would get better but I don’t think we can make it today. I’m so sorry, babe.”

Leave it to Maria to apologize to you for her boyfriend being too sick to move. 

“Maria,” you say. “You don’t have to apologize for this. Is Tommy okay?”

You hear her sigh. 

“We went out to dinner last night and I think whatever he had didn’t sit well. He’s okay, just super tired. He texted Joel just now to tell him too,” she says. The mention of Joel has your stomach in knots. Right. This means it’s going to be just you and Joel for the night. Perfect.

“Well tell him to take care, okay? Really, don’t worry about it. I’ll be fine,” you say, voice convincing. 

“I’m sorry –” Maria starts again but you cut her off.

“Do not finish that sentence,” you say. “Seriously. You have nothing to apologize for. Really.”

“Alright,” Maria acquiesces. “You can text me anytime, okay? If Joel’s being a dick again tell me and I’ll tell him off. I think he’s a tad intimidated by me.”

You laugh. Some of your nerves settle.

“I think it’ll be great,” you say. “It’s like a play, really. We’re playing husband and wife. Maybe I’ll find that I love acting and do a career pivot.”

You hear the tinkle of Maria’s laugh on the other line before there’s a muffled noise. You think you might hear Tommy calling for her.

“You should go take care of Tommy,” you say. “I’ll keep you posted on how Mr. and Mrs. Miller goes tonight.”

“Okay,” Maria agrees. “Text me okay?”

“Cross my heart,” you say. Once the call ends, you glance at the clock. There’s still forty minutes until Joel’s supposed to come and get you. You’ve always gotten ready too early but it’s that or being late.

You head to your fridge, pulling out a bottle of wine you opened earlier this week. You pour yourself a glass, sitting at your counter. You start thinking of what your and Joel’s backstory could be. Maybe the two of you met at a bar and hit it off immediately? Or maybe you ran into each other at a grocery store, literally. Your shopping carts bumped into each other and when your eyes met, that was it. You had dated for a year and then gotten married around your closest friends. In Vegas. With no pictures. You snort, taking a large sip. Glancing at the clock you see that it’s only been five minutes since you last checked the time. It seems like time is crawling at a snail's pace. 

You reach for your laptop, opening up LinkedIn. You go through your suggested jobs, bookmarking two that seem promising. You still haven’t heard back from anywhere and while you’re trying not to take it personally, it breaks your heart a little every time you get an automated rejection email or simply hear nothing at all. You’ve never taken rejection well. It’s like you woke up one day and everything you knew about your life was gone. Your job, and now your apartment. And on top of that, you’re almost a divorcee. Not that you care particularly about the label given your marriage isn’t real, but everything feels off kilter. Like you’ve entered some alternate reality where almost everything is the same except for your life. You sigh, clicking on the job postings. You go through the motions, updating your resume to include all the buzzwords from the posting and drafting a cover letter that’s almost as fake as your marriage. By the time you’re done filling out all the details, it’s been thirty minutes. You only realize this when your phone buzzes. 

[Joel, 4:45 pm]: I’m parked out front by the dog park. I know I’m a little early, take your time. 

Your mouth twitches in a smile as you read the text over. It’s chivalrous of him and you appreciate that he’s early instead of late. You head to your bathroom, giving yourself a once over in the mirror. You swipe on another layer of lip gloss and fix your hair. You head back out, slipping into your shoes. You’ve never much liked heels but the pair you slip into are comfy and you can even dance in them. Not that you imagine you’re going to dance tonight but it never hurts to be prepared. You smooth your dress down once more and grab your purse before heading out the door. You take the stairs since the elevator of your building takes forever and you’ve gotten used to climbing the four flights of stairs by now. 

The air outside is warm but thankfully, not humid. You see Joel’s red pickup truck right where he said it would be. You walk over, resisting the urge to smooth your dress again. There’s no reason for you to be nervous. You’re doing him a favour. You’re surprised when you see him get out of his side of the truck, coming around to your side. You take him in. He’s wearing a fitted dress shirt that's navy blue and tailored pants. His hair is combed back and he’s wearing dress shoes. He looks hot, but that isn’t surprising. The novelty hasn’t worn off but you’re more used to it now. 

“Hey Joel,” you say. His eyes trace over you, taking you in. 

“Howdy,” he says in his drawl. “You look nice.”

It’s shockingly not grouchy of him and it makes you stop for a second. Maybe Maria did end up calling him and telling him to behave.

“Thank you,” you say after a moment of hesitation. “You do too. I like the shirt.”

You watch his cheeks tinge pink and he nods in thanks. He pulls the door of his car open for you and you get in, holding the skirt of your dress so you don’t flash anyone even though it falls to your shins. You watch him walk around and then he’s in the driver’s seat. He clears his throat, looking at you.

“I take it Maria told you about Tommy,” he starts and you nod. 

“Yeah, sucks to be him,” you say and you watch Joel’s mouth twitch in an almost smile.

“Deserves it for gettin’ us into this mess,” he says but his tone isn’t sullen. He almost sounds as if he’s joking. 

“I think today might be fun,” you say. “Really. How many people can say they got accidentally married in Vegas and then had to pretend to be a real couple?”

It’s almost like a hybrid of your two favourite romcoms but you leave that part out, not wanting to break the fragile olive branch Joel seems to be extending to you.

“Guess so,” he says as he turns on the ignition. You watch as he reverses out of his parking spot and he does that thing where he settles his right hand at the back of your seat as he looks behind him. You look away, glancing ahead. 

“I was thinking of our backstory,” you start as he pulls onto the road. “I have two options. Option A is that we met at a bar and hit it off and Option B is that we ran into each other at a grocery store and you asked me out in the produce section.”

You glance at him, watching his brows furrow. He glances at you, catching your eye. His mouth is pursed and you don’t know him very well but you know him enough to know he isn’t impressed. You deflate in your seat, glancing away. 

“I was actually thinkin’,” he starts. “It might be easier to remember if it’s similar to how we actually met.”

“At the airport?” you ask, looking back at him. He shakes his head, his eyes now on the road. 

“On a plane. Maybe you were nervous and I was sat next to you and helped you calm down. We hit it off and then I asked you out when we landed. We dated for six months, knew that we were it for each other and then had a shotgun wedding in Vegas with our closest friends.”

It’s sweet. The backstory but also the idea of Joel thinking about it enough to have it fully fleshed out. 

“I like that,” you say and you see the right side of his mouth pull up into a smile. A dimple indents his right cheek and it makes you smile in turn, even as you glance back at the highway ahead of you. 

“I think we might also need to know a little more about each other,” Joel says. “Just in case anythin’ comes up. We’ve been workin’ with them for the last couple of weeks now and personal stuff sometimes comes up. Nothin’ crazy but they know I’ve got two girls.”

You hum, nodding.

“Maria mentioned,” you say. “They’re off at college right?”

You watch as he nods. 

“My oldest, Sarah, she wants to be a doctor. In her senior year at Penn State and smart as a whip. My younger one, Ellie’s just as smart. But she’s a freshman so she’s still figurin’ out what she wants to do. She loves to draw though so she was thinkin’ of graphic design. She goes to NYU.”

He visibly brightens as he talks about them and it makes you smile.

“They sound amazing,” you say. He nods in agreement. 

“What about you?” he asks.

“Pretty boring stuff. I moved here for college and ended up staying. No kids or anything. Just me,” you say. You’re not the biggest fan of talking about yourself but you’re not exaggerating. There’s nothing really intriguing about your life.

Joel nods, seemingly satisfied with your barely there answer. The two of you settle into a comfortable silence for the next thirty minutes but there’s a question that’s been rattling around your head since he had texted you a week ago and you’ve gotta ask.

“Do you remember anything else from that night?” you ask, breaking the silence. He glances at you and you can see him become more rigid at the mention of your wedding. It takes him a second but he finally answers.

“I don’t,” he says. “I kept wrackin’ my brain tryin’ to figure out how we ended up doin’ what we did but I always draw a blank.”

“Me too!” you say, voice pitching higher. It’s nice to finally talk about it. Joel had been reticent that weekend, likely from his own shock and embarrassment. You had felt the same. “It’s like my brain was wiped clean of those two hours.”

Joel hums, nodding. 

“The power of alcohol, I suppose,” he says and you laugh. He clears his throat before he speaks next. “I hadn’t actually had a night out like that in a few years. Tommy drags me out to bars in Austin but I hadn’t gone that hard in probably a decade.” 

“I think the last time I got that drunk was in college,” you say. “So I’m right there with you.” 

He huffs out a laugh and you’re pleased that it’s a result of what you said. 

“Maybe we steer clear of the drinks tonight,” Joel says and it takes you a second to realize he’s joking. Joel Miller is cracking a joke about your drunken, accidental marriage. If someone had told you this would happen ten hours ago you wouldn’t have believed them. You laugh, leaning your head back against the head rest. 

“Deal,” you say. “Although I’ve already had a glass of wine.”

You glance at him and you watch as he raises one dark brow.

“It’s 4:30 in the afternoon,” he says and you shrug.

“It’s a Friday,” you counter and you watch him contemplate your answer. 

“Guess that’s fair,” he concedes and you can’t believe this. You’re bantering with Joel Miller. It’s what gives you the confidence to say your next sentence.

“Plus, I was sort of nervous about this,” you say. “We don’t have a track record for being pals.”

You watch as he shifts in his seat, his fingers flexing against the steering wheel. He clears his throat.

“I’m sorry,” he says and you look at him properly now, your brows furrowing. “I know I haven’t been the friendliest. And I suppose part of that is just who I am after all these years. But I should’ve been more of a gentleman, especially after -” He pauses here, and you grin.

“After we got married?” you say and you watch his ears go pink. It’s endearing that it embarrasses him so much.

“Yeah,” he says, reluctantly. 

“That’s alright,” you say. “I mean if I’m being honest, you are a gentleman. You helped me on the plane and with that creep at the bar. You’re just a bit –” and this time it’s you who hesitates. You watch him look at you now. There’s a slowdown ahead and it’s only then that you realize the car has been at a standstill for the last few minutes.

“A bit what?” he asks, mouth pulling into a small frown.

“Crotchety?” you say but it sounds more like a question. His dark eyes narrow but he doesn’t look genuinely annoyed. 

“Now I know I’m old but I don’t think I’m old enough to be called crotchety,” Joel says but his eyes are soft as he watches you. You laugh, feeling nervous and hoping he doesn’t take any offense. Not when you’re on the verge of being at least friendlier than before. 

“Let’s circle back to when I said you were gentlemanly,” you say and to your delight, he grins. It’s a full smile and you can see his teeth and the crinkles by his eyes. You find yourself mirroring his smile, unable to stop yourself. 

A horn blares out of nowhere and you jump in your seat only to realize that the slow down seems to have cleared up. Joel starts too before he grumbles under his breath, glaring at in his rearview mirror as he hits the gas. The drive goes by quickly after that, the traffic from the city clearing up. Joel turns on the radio, old tunes of Joan Baez and Linda Ronstadt filling the mostly silent car. The silence isn’t tense though and you find yourself relaxing against the warm leather of your seat, humming along to the bits you know. Soon enough, Joel is pulling into what is probably the biggest house you’ve ever seen. Your jaw drops as you take in the Mediterranean style house with huge windows and a porch with marble pillars.

“Holy shit,” you say.

“Yeah,” Joel agrees. “They’re pretty rich.”

You let out an amazed laugh. 

“Can they adopt me? I’ve spent the last week looking at listings and my best option is a basement unit with water stains on all the walls. It smells like it too.”

“You’re movin’?” Joel asks and you stop gawking at the house to look at him. Leave it to you to overshare, you guess.

“Oh, um yeah,” you say. “My lease is ending soon and I can’t afford to renew it. Maria offered me her and Tommy’s couch but I don’t wanna third wheel.”

You shrug, suddenly uncomfortable under Joel’s scrutiny. He looks…concerned maybe? Or maybe he’s just confused about how much of a mess your life currently is. Honestly, fair enough. So are you.

“Anyways,” you say, eager to change the subject. “Should we head in?” 

Joel nods, but his brows are still furrowed. You open the door, undoing your seatbelt simultaneously. You slide out and smooth down your dress, making sure the straps haven’t twisted. You look at the side mirror, pulling out your lipgloss and swiping it on. When you look up, Joel’s in front of you, watching the whole thing. You put your lip gloss back in your purse, ignoring the nerves in your stomach. 

“Ready?” he asks, sounding like he’s genuinely checking in. You nod. The two of you can do this. If anything, it’ll be a fun story for Maria. Hopefully.

“We should, uh –” Joel starts, rubbing the back of his neck. Your brows furrow. He seems almost shy. 

“What is it?” you ask, stepping towards him.

“I think we might have to hold hands,” Joel says. “Since we’re newly married and all. Tommy really sold them on our relationship. Said we were crazy about each other and all that.”

Your mouth twitches in a smile. Of course Tommy did. If it’s one thing he can do it’s tell a story. The first time you had met him, when he and Maria had officially labelled their relationship, you had sat  listening to how he described seeing Maria for the first time. It had been the most entertaining and heartwarming hour and a half of your life.

“That’s fine,” you say, reaching out to take his hand in yours. For as big and burly as Joel was, he seemed to be shy about stuff like this. At least when he was sober. He seemed just fine touching you at the pool table in Vegas. For a second, you think of his large hands against your hips but you’re quick to sweep those thoughts away. 

You can feel the callouses of his hands, worn from work and slightly rough near the pads of his fingers. You interlock your fingers together and glance up at him. He’s looking down at where your hands are woven together, his eyes dark. He clears his throat, coming back to himself. 

“Let’s go,” he says, but he doesn’t tug on your arm. He waits for you to start walking and then joins. Your hand feels clammy against his warm, large palm and you straighten your posture, steeling yourself. A butler opens the door to the house and you do your best not to gawk at the sheer wealth in front of you. It’s all very tasteful but also so very opulent. There’s a chandelier that glimmers in the centre of the foyer, the lights glistening off the polished floor.

“Straight through sir, ma’am. The soiree is in the garden,” the butler says, gesturing with a gloved hand. You nod, eyes wide.

As you and Joel walk towards the direction he pointed in, you glance at him.

“You need to tell me to control my face because I think I’m going to be slack jawed at everything,” you say, only half joking. Joel’s mouth tugs in a small smile. 

“Alright,” he agrees. He leads the way as you walk into the back garden and it’s then that you notice a wrapped gift in his left hand. You let him guide you, taking the time to look around. The decorations are beautiful, lanterns illuminating the space in a soft, orange glow. There are artful flower arrangements on every table and a dance floor at the centre. There’s also a fountain of chocolate and what looks like an open bar. Everyone around you is dressed to the nines. Women have glittering diamonds on their necks and the air smells of expensive perfume. Soon enough you’re standing in front of an impeccably dressed couple. The woman’s hair is dark and elegant, pulled into a beautiful updo and her dress is all even lines and a gauzy white material. The man is wearing a dress shirt, the collar starched and stuff just as the cuffs are and well tailored pants. 

“Joel,” he says warmly. He reaches a hand out and Joel’s fingers untangle from your own to take it. “We’re so glad you could make it. Shame to hear Tommy wasn’t feeling well.”

Joel nods, giving the man a smile. “He’s sad to be missin’ this, that’s for sure.”

“And this must be the mystery woman we’ve heard so much about,” the man says. He reaches for your hand and you take it, doing your best to give it a firm shake.

“I’m Jack,” he says. “And this is Anna, my wife.”

Anna reaches out as well, and you shake her hand too. You can’t remember the last time you shook someone’s hand, let alone at a party. You tell them your name and they nod, smiles wide. 

“It’s so nice to meet you both,” you say, smiling. “And happy anniversary!”

“It’s lovely to meet you too,” Anna says. “And congratulations on the wedding! Joel hadn’t even mentioned he was going to get married!”

You laugh, shrugging. You catch Joel’s eye and you can see the line of his back tense. 

“Well we’d been thinking about it a lot but it sort of happened in the moment,” you say. “We want to do a proper ceremony in the next year or so, isn’t that right babe?” 

Joel nods, mouth pulling into a smile. His shoulders are still stiff though. 

“Yeah,” he agrees. “And when we do, we hope to see y’all there.” 

He sounds sincere, at least and you feel relieved.

“You have got to tell us how you met,” Anna says, excitedly. 

“You do,” Jack says in agreement with his wife. “Joel’s so private but we’ve been desperate to hear the details ever since Tommy told us.”

Your jaw is beginning to ache from all the smiling but you nod, matching their enthusiasm. 

“Well it was fate really,” you start, making your voice dreamy. This part you can do. You’ve always loved telling a story. You suppose you and Tommy have that in common. “I’m a nervous wreck of a flier. I was heading to Vegas for a bachelorette party and just ran out of my Xanax. There I was, shaking in my seat when this handsome man came down and sat by me. He was a bit surly at first, you know how he can be.” 

You pause here and Anna and Jack nod with matching smiles. You glance at Joel, watching his eyes narrow slightly at you but his mouth twitches in amusement. 

“But then, just as the flight was taking off, I got really nervous. My legs felt shaky and I was stiff as a board in my seat. Next thing I know, Joel’s taken my hand in his, and is doing acupuncture to help me calm down. I didn’t even notice the rest of the take off. And we chatted the whole flight. Wasn’t even scared of landing, which statistically, is when there’s the highest chance of an accident.”

You look up at Joel, giving him a warm smile. You reach for his hand, intertwining your fingers again. You know exactly what you’re going to say next to seal the deal. 

“And he’s been holding my hand ever since.”

Anna awws, wrapping her hand around her husband's arm.

“Oh, you two are just the sweetest,” she says and you laugh, delighted. “Joel, I had no idea you were such a softie.”

You glance at Joel and he shrugs. 

“I suppose she brings it out in me,” he says and you look away to hide your laugh. Anna coos again and Jack is grinning, teeth bright in the dim glow of the lanterns. 

“Well we hope you both have a lovely night,” he says. “There’s food and drinks and dancing soon. We have to go do the rounds but we will be finding the two of you again.”

“Thank you for having us,” Joel says, again. “The place looks great.”

The two of you watch as Jack and Anna walk towards guests that have just arrived, greeting them with enthusiasm.

“They seem nice,” you say and Joel nods. “Kinda whimsical but very nice.”

“They are,” he agrees. “You’re good at that, by the way.”

You raise a brow. “At what?”

“Makin’ stuff up,” he says and you let out a snort. 

“Why thank you,” you say and the corner of his mouth lifts up in an almost smile. 

“Let’s take a seat,” Joel suggests. “They look like they’re about to start servin’ food and I’m starved.”

You nod in agreement and he tugs your hand so it’s more firmly in his grip. You take in his broad shoulders and strong back as he leads the way, bringing you to an empty table. He lets go of your hand to pull your chair for you and when you take a seat, he pushes it back in. A second later, he’s seated next to you. A waiter comes by almost immediately and you ask for a glass of white wine while Joel opts for a whisky. 

“Just the one,” Joel says to you when the waiter brings your drinks to you. “For me,” he adds. “I’m drivin’ us back so.”

“Oh,” you say. “Lucky me. I’m going to drink a ton. Maybe get a second wedding out of this.”

Joel lets out a chuckle, shaking his head. 

“Careful sweetheart,” he says and almost immediately you can tell that he catches his slip up. He clears his throat and you look away, not wanting him to feel embarrassed. 

“So,” you say, not wanting this to become awkward. “Are all your clients this rich?”

You watch him swallow a sip of his drink as he shrugs, contemplating.

“I suppose so. But we don’t usually deal with the higher ups that much except for board meetins’ and that sort. Jack and Anna are the friendly kind. It’s pretty rare. S’my first time bein’ invited to a client’s anniversary party.”

You nod. “That makes sense.”

Joel shifts so he’s facing you more fully. 

“How have you been doin’?” he asks and you can tell he means with the whole jobless thing you have going on. You shrug, your grip on your wine glass tightening subconsciously. 

“I’m alright,” you say. “Still figuring out what to do next, I guess.” 

You hate talking about it. It always leaves a lump in your throat and you feel silly that it makes you want to cry but you’d spent your whole life doing exactly what was expected of you. You went to college and majored in something reasonable that your parents approved of only because they told you it would get you a good job. And now, you don’t even have that.

“It’s a tough market,” Joel says, voice low. He doesn’t sound sympathetic but there’s something in his voice that’s less gruff than usual. Softer, even. You let out a humourless chuckle.

“That it is,” you agree. You take a sip of your wine, the coldness of it a welcome distraction. 

“Well if there’s any –” Joel starts but then the music comes on interrupting him. There’s a live band that you’ve just noticed. Well, a live orchestra, really. They play something vaguely familiar, something fast but romantic. The two of you look to see couples heading to the dance floor, arms intertwined and laughing. 

“Joel!” a man yells and you look to the source of the sound to find Jack with Anna, twirling her around. “Dance with your wife.”

You can feel yourself flush as you glance at Joel. He looks at you, an eyebrow raised in a silent question. 

“We don’t gotta,” he says and you take a second before you stand up. Joel does too, holding out a hand for you. This time, you lead the way to the dance floor, only turning around when you’ve found a nice spot that isn’t too in the centre but also not right by the edge. The song bleeds out into something slower and before you can think of what to do next, you feel warm hands at your waist, tugging you closer. 

“This okay?” Joel asks, dark eyes tracing your face. You nod, suddenly at a loss for words. You realize your hands are hanging at your side and quickly bring them up to his broad shoulders, resting them there. Joel smells like fresh pine and something darker, woodsy and smoky all at once. 

“We don’t gotta do this for long,” Joel says and you move a little closer, enjoying the sturdiness of him. It’s been a long time since you’ve danced with a man. 

“I don’t mind,” you say. “I like dancing. Don’t get to do it enough.”

He nods and you think his hands on your waist might tighten but you also might be imagining it. 

“You’re a good dancer,” you say and Joel laughs. You can feel the warmth of his breath against your cheek. 

“I’m alright,” he says.

“You haven’t stepped on me once,” you say and he shakes his head.

“That’s probably because you’re a good dancer,” he says and you smile. It’s nice being like this with Joel. In your peripheral vision, you notice waiters setting cloche covered plates on the tables and it’s then that you remember what Joel had said. The song is beginning to fade out into something new too.

“You said you were hungry,” you say. “I think the waiters are bringing out food if you want to head back.”

You catch Joel’s eye, his gaze warm as it meets yours. 

“I don’t mind dancin’ a bit more if you don’t,” he says. It surprises you but you feel something warm flutter in your belly. “But if you want to head back to our table, we can.”

“No,” you say, a bit too quickly. “I’d like to dance some more too.”

You’re silent for a bit, swaying with the music. At one point, Joel twirls you around and you let out a delighted sound when he pulls you back in. 

“You’ve got moves,” you say and you feel more than hear his chuckle. 

“I was young once,” Joel says and you shake your head.

“You’re not that old,” you say, thinking of the grey near his temples and the patches of it in his beard. 

“I’ve got at least two decades on you,” he says. There’s something in his voice that you can’t place. You think of the wrinkles by his eyes when he smiles and the fine lines on his forehead and you don’t think it’s such a bad thing, him being older.

“That’s two extra decades of dancing,” you say. “No wonder you’re so good.”

Joel’s hands shift as he pulls you closer so that you’re almost chest to chest. Your hands settle so that you interlock your fingers around the back of his neck, where his dark hair curls. You rest your head on his shoulder, and the two of you sway gently to the soft tune of the violins.

The drive back to Austin is quicker this time round. There’s barely any traffic on the road at 1 a.m. You and Joel had ended up staying much longer than you had thought, with a seven course dinner interspersed with dancing. It was probably one of the loveliest nights you’ve had in a long while. Joel had stopped after his first whiskey just like he had said but you had indulged in another half pour of wine. It had left you flushed and happy and only now, as Joel pulls into your apartment complex, does the anxiety begin to set in. Being back here reminded you of how the entire evening hadn’t been real, not really. This was your reality. This apartment complex that you had to vacate in three weeks and a life you had to figure out before you ran out of money to pay your bills. You sit up straighter as Joel pulls in to park. You watch as he puts the car in park before he turns towards you.

“I just wanted to thank you,” he says, his accent a little stronger now in the quiet of the night. “I appreciate you doin’ that for me and Tommy.”

Right. This had been for Tommy too. Of course it had. It makes perfect sense yet it still has you feeling slightly disappointed. You know it’s absurd, but there’s something about Joel and it’s not just the rugged handsomeness. When you’re with him, you feel calm, even if at times that calmness is replaced with agitation when he’s being particularly sullen. But tonight was something else. He had smiled and laughed and even twirled you around the dancefloor once. 

“Of course!” you say, your voice pitched higher than usual. “Happy to help. And today was fun. I didn’t know rich people partied like that.”

Joel huffs out a laugh, nodding. 

“Let me walk you to your door,” he says, unbuckling his seatbelt.

“Oh, you don’t have to do that,” you say. “Really. It’s a few steps away, I’ll be fine.”

“I want to,” Joel says. “I’d rather make sure you make it inside safe.”

God, did he have to be such a gentleman? You might miss him being grumpy. At least it didn’t leave you so confused. 

“Okay,” you agree. You open the door and step down, but your foot catches on a wet patch of grass and you falter. Your ankle bends and you think you might fall but of course Joel is there to grasp your arm, holding you upright and against him. You don’t know how he made it around the truck so quickly. Probably with his long legs.

“Easy,” he says, voice low. “You alright?”

“Yeah,” you say, slightly breathless. Your ankle throbs a bit but you haven’t twisted it so hopefully it’ll be fine with some ice. Joel holds you steady as you straighten up, adjusting your  left foot so it’s secured in your shoe. “Thank you.”

Joel says nothing but he only lets go once you nod at him. You both walk to your building door in silence, and you find that you don’t want him to leave. You know it’s silly and you chalk it up to hormones. Your period is due soon anyways. When you reach the door, you pull out your key fob. 

“Thanks again,” you say. “For driving. And dancing with me.”

“I should be thankin’ you,” Joel says and you smile at the drawl of his accent, thicker now.

“You already did,” you say and he nods.

“Guess so,” he agrees. He rubs a large thumb into his palm and he looks down at his shoes. You wonder why he’s hesitating. Maybe he’s just a bit awkward with goodbyes. That’s alright, you can do it for him.

“Well goodnigh –” you start

“Listen, I was thinkin’ –” Joel says at that exact same moment.

You both stop speaking. 

“You first,” you say because well, it sounds like he was going to say something more than just goodnight which is all you were going to say. 

“I don’t mean to overstep,” Joel says and he sounds nervous, maybe. “But you mentioned not bein’ able to find a place and I know the rental markets are pretty rough right now. Now that Ellie and Sarah are out of the house, I have a lot more space.”

You take in his words, unable to process at first. When you do, your mouth opens and then closes, at a loss of words. 

“You want me to rent a room at your house?” you ask, sounding only slightly incredulous even though you feel incredibly so.

“No,” Joel says quickly, sounding disturbed at the prospect. “God, no. I’m not tryin’ get money out of you. I just meant, if you needed a place to stay for a while while you sorted things out. I have the room. I know you said Maria offered you their couch but I can’t imagine that’s the most comfortable option.” 

You feel even more incredulous now.

“You want me to move in with you?” you ask. Maybe the one glass of whisky had gotten him drunk?

“Just until you’re back on your feet,” he says. He runs a large hand through his hair, looking away. You’re still dumbfounded which is why you stand there, silently gawking.

“Listen, if I overstepped, I apologize. I shouldn’t have said anythin’,” Joel says. “I’ll leave you be. Goodnight.”

He starts turning around but your hand flies up, gripping his arm. Your brain finally catches up to everything he just said. 

“Wait, Joel!” you say and he looks down at where your hand grips his arm. You can feel the muscles of his bicep and you move your hand away. 

“Sorry,” you say. “Didn’t mean to grab you like that. And I appreciate you offering. You don’t have to though. I didn’t mean to make you feel sorry for me when I told you about that stuff earlier today.”

Joel shakes his head, turning around to face you. 

“I’m not doin’ this out of pity. I just think it would make sense given that I have two spare rooms and you need to find a place in a couple weeks,” he says. “You can think on it, okay? No pressure. I just wanted to put it out there so that you have somethin’ other than Tommy and Maria’s couch.” 

You watch him turn around as he heads back to his car. You stand there, thinking over his offer. Would it be insane to move in with the man you accidentally married while drunk out of your mind in Vegas? Yes. But is it your best option right now? Also yes. As much as you appreciate Maria and Tommy for offering, you know their apartment is small and you know yourself enough to know that it would take you approximately twenty-four hours to start feeling like a burden. It’s all of this that has you calling out to Joel’s retreating figure. He turns around just as you catch up to him, slightly breathless from having to jog to catch up to his long strides. You ignore the twinge in your ankle.

“We’re really sorry about this,” the HR lady, Linda,  says over video call. Her red lipstick is smudged slightly but other than that there’s not a hair out of place. She looks poised, giving you a sympathetic smile as you listen to her drone on about a four week severance package that will most definitely not cover both your bills and your rent. You haven’t processed what she’s saying, not really. Something about how the company had to restructure because of changes the CEO had wanted to implement and how that meant they were downsizing your team to everyone but you and three others. You had been at the firm for nearly seven years now, right from when you graduated college. Did you like your job? Not really. But it paid the bills and was a stable source of income. At least until now. 

“Do you have any questions?” Linda asks you. You clear your throat before you speak.

“No,” you say. “Thank you for, uh, explaining that to me.” 

She nods, looking pleased. She tells you that she’ll send you an email with everything you talked about and that once you’re done with this call, you can go ahead and drop your laptop off with your manager who had conveniently avoided joining this meeting. You nod, dumbly. The goodbyes with your team are awkward. You hadn’t been particularly close to any of them but Mary, a gentle woman in her fifties starts tearing up as you hug her farewell and the idea of comforting someone else over you losing your job has you saying your goodbyes even faster, telling everyone how much you appreciate them and how much you’ll miss seeing them everyday. Your manager, Brian, thumps you on the back, hard enough that it startles you but you know he means well in the way a forty-something year old man in corporate America does. It’s only when you leave your office building that you allow yourself to truly feel. Your vision clouds as you stop on the corner of the street. You can feel that stinging feeling in your nose and you know you’ll start crying. Thankfully, you’re interrupted by your phone buzzing in your pocket.

“Hey,” you greet Maria. You had texted her as soon as you got the meeting invite, knowing what it was. That hadn’t made it any easier. 

“Hey babe,” she says, sympathetic. “How did it go?”

You let out a sarcastic laugh. 

“It was awkward and shitty,” you say. “I have severance for a month but after that it’s gonna be tough.”

“You know I’m here to help however you need,” Maria says immediately. It makes you smile, her kindness. You met Maria in college and have been best friends since that terrible frat party with the sticky floors and disgusting boys that you both escaped from. You had ended up at Dairy Queen for the rest of the night, sharing a plate of fries and a vanilla milkshake and had been inseparable ever since. You both had planned living in Austin together after you had graduated and had even been roommates up until she had met Tommy. Eight months later they had moved in together. It had worked out fine since you had just gotten a raise and were able to afford a one-bedroom apartment but now? You didn’t even want to think about it yet. As if hearing your internal monologue, Maria cuts in.

“I was thinking you need a break,” Maria says. “A little weekend trip.”

“Maria,” you start, unsure. “I don’t think I have the funds to go on a vacation. Even if I really, really want to. I’m sorry.” 

“Oh, but this is the best part!” she says, immediately. “Remember how Tommy and I were going to Vegas with Nina and her boyfriend for a couples getaway? They had to cancel last minute because he dislocated his shoulder bouldering. But the flight and the room’s already paid for and they’re fine with someone taking over since it’d just go to waste.”

“And you want me to third wheel you and Tommy?”

Maria laughs and it makes you smile.

“Well, not quite,” she says. “Tommy asked Joel to tag along too. He’s been sort of a recluse since his youngest, Ellie, went off to college and Tommy’s worried about him.”

You’ve heard of Tommy’s brother before. Joel Miller. He works with Tommy and they run a contracting business together. He’s older and a bit grouchy if what Tommy says is true and you’re not sure you’d want to share a room with him. Not when you’re feeling particularly sensitive. Before you can refuse, Maria continues.

“Tommy’ll share with him,” she says, quickly. Again, as if she’s read your mind. You suppose twelve years of friendship will do that. “And we can room together. It’ll be like old times.”

“And you’re sure you guys are okay with that? Wasn’t this supposed to be a romantic getaway?” you ask, uncertain. You don’t want to impose, especially when it’s so clearly out of pity. Maria snorts.

“I live with Tommy,” she says. “I can most definitely survive two nights not sharing a room with him. And trust me, he’s the one who pitched this idea. Something about Joel needing to get out of the house.”

You contemplate it for a handful of seconds before you decide, fuck it. You just got laid off from a company you’ve given most of your adult life to and you deserve a fun weekend in Vegas. So what if you spend half your severance on overpriced cocktails? 

“Okay,” you agree. “Okay. I’ll come.”

Over the phone, Maria squeals.

“Perfect!” she says. “I’m going to email you the flight details. It’s tomorrow afternoon at 3 p.m.”

“Sounds great,” you say, trying to sound enthusiastic. “Thank you, Maria.”

“You deserve a break,” she says. “I know this sucks and as soon as we’re back, I’m going to help you find a job but for the next two days we’re going to have fun. And we’re going to have silly cocktails and gamble, within reason, and lounge by the pool. Okay?” 

“Okay,” you agree. Something loosens in your chest, the heavy anxiety that had been cloaking you seemingly disappears. Maria’s right. This isn’t the end of the world and change can be good, right? You didn’t even like your job all that much anyways. You’ll figure it out. 

At least, you hope you will.

The airport is crowded and chaotic when you get there. Your uber driver had sped for most of the journey, fast enough that you had to clutch your seat and pray that you’d make it in one piece. Still, it seems almost pleasant compared to the TSA line that seems never ending. It’s as if everyone is travelling this weekend and it leaves you antsy. You hate being late and the idea of missing your flight while you’re at the airport might just break the fragile resolve you’ve built up in the last twelve hours. When you had gotten home the night before you had allowed yourself to cry in the shower, have two glasses of wine and then you reined it in, realizing you still had to pack. If you didn’t feel good, you might as well try to look good which is how you decided on the shimmery dresses and rather plunging going-out tops that you hadn’t actually worn in what felt like ages. Now, you wonder if you’ve packed too much with how heavy your carry-on is. 

After what is at least an hour, you finally make it through security and head to your gate. Maria had texted that her and Tommy had just made it through security as well, and were waiting at the gate with Joel. As you arrive at B7, you spot Maria quickly. She waves at you, a big grin on her face. When you’re close enough, she engulfs you in a hug.

“Hey,” she says, squeezing you. You rest your chin on her shoulder, squeezing back. “Doing okay?”

You nod against her. “I’m alright,” you say. “I’ll be alright.”

She pulls back, her brown eyes gentle as she watches you. Pleased with what she sees, she nods. 

“Hey there,” Tommy says and for a second, you had forgotten that this wasn’t just a girls trip. You pull away from Maria, looking at Tommy. His hair is a bit longer now since the last time you saw him but he looks the same as always, a bright smile on his kind face. 

“Hi Tommy,” you say, pulling him into a quick side hug. He pats your arm and you wonder if he must know too. “How are you?”

“Survived TSA so I can’t complain,” he says, all easy charm. You laugh, nodding. It’s only then that you notice the man next to him, watching you with a furrowed brow. Tommy follows your line of sight.

“Oh right,” he says. “This is my big brother, Joel. Don’t think y’all have met yet but Joel, this is Maria’s best friend.” You smile at Joel, introducing yourself. He looks at you as if you aren’t there at all, only nodding in return. 

“It’s nice to meet you,” you add, unsure if his surliness is specific to you. Tommy had mentioned that Joel could be serious, veering on the side of grumpy. Still, you had never met anyone that said so few words upon introduction.

“You too,” Joel says even though he sounds as if he’s pulling teeth. His voice is deeper than Tommy’s and he’s definitely a few years older, with patches of grey in his beard. His hair is pushed away from his face, almost damp as if he’s just taken a shower, and it’s also threaded with silver. His brows stay furrowed and he doesn’t smile, not once. 

“Well then,” Maria says, breaking the uncomfortable tension between you and Joel. “We land at 6 p.m and I was thinking we could get ready and then grab some drinks at this bar.” She pulls out her phone, showing it to you and then Tommy and Joel. You nod, smiling at her. 

“It looks amazing, Maria,” you say and Tommy agrees. Joel just nods, his eyebrows still furrowed. You tamp down the irritation that builds up inside of you. How he’s related to cheerful Tommy Miller is a mystery to you. A muffled voice announces that it’s time for boarding so the four of you make your way towards the counter. Tommy and Maria are whispering to each other, smiles on their faces. You look away to give them privacy, smiling at how giddy they both seem with each other. Your eyes land on Joel, who’s standing adjacent to you and squinting down at your bag.

“Something the matter?” you ask Joel. You want to ignore him and his shitty attitude but there’s something about him that makes you want to prod. He looks up at you with his dark eyes.

“Your bag’s overweight,” he says. You can feel yourself flush, already annoyed at the certainty of his tone. You know he’s right. Still, the way he says it, like a disappointed parent, rubs you the wrong way.

“I know,” you say. He says nothing, looking away. You resist the urge to scoff. What was his problem? If he didn’t want to come on the trip so badly, he could have just stayed home. You push your annoyance away, turning back towards the boarding gate. Eventually, you make it to the front. Tommy and Maria have already passed through, lining up ahead of you. The man at the front looks down at your carry-on just as Joel had. 

“It’s too large,” the man says. “You’ll have to pay and check it in.”

You can feel the tips of your ears heat up. Joel is right behind you, listening. You hate that he was right. 

“Right,” you say. “How much would that be?”

“Ninety dollars, ma’am,” the man says and your eyes widen. 

“Ninety?!” you ask, voice pitched high. 

“New policy,” the man says looking bored. “We apply a late check-in fee if you have to check it in at the gate. Because of the inconvenience.” He pointedly looks behind you, likely at the line of people waiting to board. You can feel yourself growing flustered. Before you can speak however, you hear someone clear their throat. 

“She can take the space for my bag,” Joel says. The gate employee looks behind you, and you shift as well, looking back at Joel. He lifts up his duffel, and you try not to stare at the way his bicep flexes, straining against his grey t-shirt.

“It doesn’t work like that, sir,” the man says. You can tell he’s annoyed, and you’re about to tell him that it’s fine, that you’re good to pay the ninety dollars even if you currently are jobless and not doing great financially. “Her bag is too large. It won’t fit.”

“I can make it,” Joel says, jaw clenched. He sounds as annoyed as the gate employee now and it makes you nervous. The last thing you need is for an argument to break out because of your poor planning. 

“It’s okay,” you say to Joel, pulling out your credit card. You hand it to the gate agent and watch as he swipes it. Your phone buzzes with the notification of the transaction and you don’t want to look at the egregious amount you just spent to get your stupid bag on this flight. You watch as he ties the baggage label to it before setting it aside. He scans your boarding pass and you walk through quickly, joining Tommy and Maria in line. Maria raises an eyebrow and you know she’s about to offer something insane like paying you back for the bag so you put on a bright smile. 

“All good,” you say, quite unconvincingly. Neither her nor Tommy look like they believe you but Maria must see the pleading look in your eyes to leave it because she does. She nods, giving you a gentle smile. Joel joins the three of you right after and the line begins to move. When Maria and Tommy are distracted in conversation, you turn to Joel.

“Thank you,” you say. You watch as his gaze settles on you, his dark brows furrowed like he doesn’t understand what you just said. You clear your throat. “For uh, for trying to help back there. I appreciate it.”

“I told you your bag was too big,” is all Joel says in response, voice gruff. Right. And here you were, expecting him to not be a dick. That was your mistake, thinking he was actually a gentleman because of one act of semi-kindness. You scoff, not dignifying him with a reply. Maria seems to overhear the entire interaction because she slows down in front of you, gesturing for Joel to go ahead. He does, and you watch him and Tommy begin to talk in their low southern drawls. 

“He can be a bit…” Maria starts. 

“Of a dick?” you say and she laughs, hiding it behind a hand. 

“He wasn’t always this bad,” she says. You’re both keeping your voices low so that no one but you both can hear one another. “He’s just been going through a rough patch since Ellie left. His older daughter Sarah’s been out of the house for a few years now. Empty nest syndrome, I suppose.”

“Right,” you say. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

Maria sighs, wrapping her arm around yours so that they’re interlocked. You lean into her.

“I promise this will be fun,” she says and something warm cracks open in your chest. You’ve always been grateful for Maria’s friendship, but you have a newfound appreciation for her now. Distracting you into having fun, making sure you’re not wallowing in your apartment for the next few days which is how you usually have been when life hasn’t gone your way. You can be in your head a lot, hypercritical of yourself in a way that has never been productive. You know it. But it’s a hard trait to break away from and Maria knows that too. So she’s doing the next best thing. Breaking you away from your mind for a bit.

“Oh I know it will,” you say. “Because we’re about to get day-drunk for two days straight.”

“And night-drunk,” Maria adds. 

“And whatever’s in between,” you say and she laughs, tugging you closer. 

A few minutes later and you’re all finally at the door of the plane. Tommy and Maria go ahead of you and Joel. Joel steps aside, allowing you to pass in front of him. It’s surprisingly chivalrous for a man who’s been glaring at basically everything. You say a quick thanks to him before handing your boarding pass over to the flight attendant, who smiles at you brightly. She points you in the direction of your seat and it’s only when you overhear her repeating Joel’s seat number back to him that you realize that you’ll be sat next to each other. You suppose it makes sense since these tickets were originally for Maria’s friend and her husband but you’re still disappointed. Two hours next to Joel Miller and his shitty attitude will be a challenge in itself. You contemplate falling asleep, but planes make you too nervous. 

When you sit down, you realize the flight’s also too short to have an entertainment system. Or maybe too old, given the faded cushions and flimsy plastic that make up your chair. You’re grateful you packed your kindle, pulling it out before you shove your bag under the seat in front of you. You shuffle your feet, trying to find the most comfortable position given that your handbag is taking up so much space. You can’t even remember what you packed in it for it to be so large. You lean down to shift it, jamming it further under the tiny alcove below the seat in front of you when a shadow looms over you. You look up to find Joel watching you, mouth pursed. He might as well be glowering, really. His arms are crossed over his chest, the material of his t-shirt straining over them and if it was anyone but him, you’d appreciate the bulge of his biceps and the well fitted shirt.

You give up trying to make more leg room for yourself and shift closer to the window, not wanting to be in Joel’s space. And he takes up a lot of it, with his broad shoulders and strong thighs. You try not to be overt as you watch him attempt to get comfortable as he settles in his seat, but you can tell by the grimace on his face and the way his knees hit the seat in front of him that it’s to no avail. You almost feel bad for how he’s cramped. Surely it can’t be comfortable on his legs. You’re not as tall as him but even you’re struggling. 

“Here,” you say, your kindness getting the better of you. He looks up, watching as you shuffle your legs so they’re both pressed against the side of the plane you’re closest to so that he can spread his legs out wider. He doesn’t, just watching you with furrowed brows. You clench your jaw, already regretting your kindness. 

“So you can spread your legs a little more,” you explain even though it’s obvious. “Isn’t that what you guys do anyways?”

Joel raises a brow, mouth still shut. Maybe he was cursed by someone in a past life so that if he says more than ten words a day, he’ll spontaneously combust or something. 

“Manspreading,” you explain. It was meant to be a sort of joke but now it comes off awkward, mostly because of Joel’s bored expression. 

“Right,” he finally says. You watch as he shifts, moving his legs so they’re further away from each other and no longer pressed up against the hard plastic of the seat in front of him. 

“Thank you,” he adds, once he’s situated himself. He still looks like he’d rather be anywhere but on the plane but at least he found some manners. You nod, not wanting to continue the conversation, if you can even call it that. You shift closer to the window just as the plane jolts, and your breath catches. You can feel your entire body stiffen as the plane begins to move, slowly taxiing down the runway. You know what’s about to happen next, that it’ll speed up and then you’ll feel the shift of gravity as you take-off. You hate it. You shift again, looking away from the window. It does you no good, watching everything become tinier and further away. It just makes you hyper aware of how far up you are and how far down you’d go if you did have the misfortune of crashing. You look to your left and catch Joel’s gaze. It isn’t as sharp as earlier but his brows are still furrowed.

“You’re scared of flyin’,” he says and it isn’t a question more so a statement. You let out a sigh, slumping in your seat. It’s at that moment that the plane speeds up and you stiffen again, sitting up. 

“Yeah,” you say, voice only slightly shaky for which you’re thankful for. “Terrified of it. I hate it, really.”

“You know the likelihood of dyin’ in a plane crash is one in eleven million,” Joel says. If you weren’t terrified right now, you’d think it was sort of nice of him trying to make you feel better even though saying the words plane crash while you’re taking off isn’t the best way to do it.

 “I’ve heard it all –,” you stop talking as the plane jolts as it lifts off the ground. You shut your eyes, gripping the handles of your seat. You do the breathing method you once learned through a YouTube video, inhale for four, hold for seven and then let go for eight but you can feel your pulse thundering in your ears. Suddenly, your left hand is engulfed by something large and warm. You open your eyes, looking down to see your hand being held in Joel’s much larger, much warmer one. You look up at him to ask him what he thinks he’s doing but he beats you to it. 

He presses into a point between your thumb and index finger, as he starts to speak. 

“Accupuncture,” Joel says, voice gruff. “This point’s supposed to help with anxiety and all that.” 

The shock of it – of grouchy Joel Miller talking about anxiety and acupuncture startles a laugh out of you. He narrows his eyes and it makes you laugh a little harder. 

“I just didn’t take you for an acupuncture guy,” you say, but your voice isn’t unkind. You can see the tips of his ears go red although his face stays stoic. 

“Well when you’ve got two daughters, they teach ya a lot,” he says. “My older girl Sarah’s real interested in mindfulness.”

It’s sweet, really, and your mouth pulls into a smile before you can catch yourself. Joel presses into the pressure point once more, and you focus on the juxtaposition of your hands. His hand is large and tan, and you can feel a callous where he presses into your own, which is smaller and softer from the hand cream you always keep in your purse. It’s only when he presses into your hand a fifth time that you realize that the plane is already in the air and seeming to level out. Your breathing is also normal. As if Joel notices in that same moment, he drops your hand. For a split second you miss the warmth of it. 

You clear your throat.

“Thank you,” you say. “Didn’t even notice that we were done taking off.” 

Joel nods, and you watch as his hands curl into fists on his lap. You lean back into your seat and close your eyes. Before you know it, you’ve drifted asleep. 

The hotel rooms Tommy and Maria have booked make up for the shitty flight seats. Truly, you shouldn’t be complaining about the flight either because it was free but still. You had stayed asleep for the rest of it, only jolting when the plane had landed. When you had glanced at Joel, he was already watching you. You had given him a sheepish smile and his mouth had twitched before he looked away.

Now, you’re sitting on the king sized bed, waiting for Maria to come out of the bathroom and already wearing the best dress you own. It has a halter neck and it glitters, a sparkling silver, that falls against you almost perfectly. You’re concentrating on putting on a second coat of mascara when the door opens and Maria comes out. She looks like a million dollars, wearing a wine red dress that complements her brown skin. She wolf whistles when she sees you and you laugh, feeling lighter than you have in months. After you’ve swiped on some more glittery eye shadow and lip gloss, you slip into your shoes and grab your purse, making sure your wallet is in there. Maria follows you out the door, closing it behind her. She hands you the keycard and you slip it into your purse.

“Tommy said he and Joel were getting a drink at the bar,” she says. “Said we were taking too long to get ready.”

Her voice is fond as she says it and it makes you smile. You’ve never seen a couple quite like Maria and Tommy. They’ve been in sync since the moment they met, understanding each other in a way that you didn’t think existed until you saw them together. 

“Well I think he’s going to appreciate it when he sees you,” you say and she smiles, her eyes twinkling in the golden light of the hotel corridor. 

“So how was it sitting next to Joel?” Maria asks, eyes curious. “Did he talk much?”

You snort. “Oh yeah, loads. Just wouldn’t shut up, really.”

The sarcasm drips off your voice and Maria laughs, interlocking her arm with yours. 

“It takes him a bit to warm up,” she says and you hum. “But he really is a decent man.”

You think of how he had held your hand to calm you down, pressing down on the soft part of it and you believe it. 

“Yeah,” you agree. “I can see what you mean.” 

Maria raises a brow, not expecting you to acquiesce so easily. 

“He, uh, he helped me when I was feeling anxious during take off,” you explain. “Found some acupuncture point on my hand and it helped me calm down.”

“He held your hand?” she asks, and it sounds incredulous when she puts it like that even though he had, for those few moments. You shake your head. 

“Not really,” you say, too quickly. “Just like. He just helped, okay?”

“Huh,” Maria says after a moment. You can see the gears twisting in her mind and you nudge her. 

“Stop it,” you say. Her eyes twinkle, a smile pulling at her mouth.

“Stop what?” she asks, innocently. It makes you snort.

“Thinking whatever it is you’re thinking that’s putting that glint in your eyes,” you say. She grins now, her dimple appearing. You groan as the elevator doors slide open.

“Well goddamn,” a familiar voice says. Tommy steps up to Maria, his eyes roving over her and she smiles, pressing a kiss to his cheek. He looks smart in his printed shirt and dark jeans, the curls of his hair styled so they fall against his neck. They make a striking couple. 

“You look very nice too,” he adds, giving you a smile. You nod in thanks. It’s then you notice Joel behind him, stoic as ever. He’s wearing a fitted green shirt and a pair of dark jeans. It seems like he fixed his hair too, now slicked away from his forehead like he just got out of the shower. You notice four shot glasses in his left hand. He holds them like they’re nothing, fitting them all in one palm. You realize you’re staring when you catch his eye, one eyebrow slightly lifted as if he’s asking you a silent question.

“Those for us?” you ask, ignoring the fact that he caught you looking. 

“Yeah,” he says, voice low. 

“Thought we could get a headstart on those drinks,” Tommy explains. 

“And how many have you already had?” Maria asks and Tommy winks. 

He grabs two glasses from Joel, handing one to Maria and then to you. The four of you move to the side, before standing in a circle. It feels silly, like you’re back at a college houseparty, but it makes you smile. You clink your glasses and then you down the shot. It burns as you swallow and you squeeze your eyes shut. It’s been a while since you’ve done shots, nowadays opting for a glass of wine or a less sugary cocktail. It settles in your stomach hotly and you hold your breath for a second, trying to get used to the heat of the alcohol. 

“We have to catch up to them,” Maria says. She tugs your arm, steering you towards the hotel bar. Before you know it, there’s another shot glass in front of you. This time though, Maria asks for slices of lime to go with which you’re grateful for. It hits you almost immediately, your vision feeling fuzzy. With how hectic work had been, you haven’t had much time to go out and let loose. You put down the shot glass, reaching for your wallet but a hand is reaching past you, giving the bartender a credit card. You look up to find Joel next to you. He’s not touching you exactly but you can feel the heat radiating off of him. 

“I got it,” you say, feeling a little more sober than you did a few seconds ago. You don’t need him to pay for you and you’re not sure why he would given his general surliness. Joel says nothing, waiting as the bartender hands him back his card. You watch him write down a tip before he’s sliding the bill back to the other side of the shiny counter. The two shots have loosened your tongue. 

“God, do you ever talk?” you ask. “Or do you owe someone money every time you say a word or something.”

Joel looks at you now, his gaze sharp. You see a corner of his mouth lift for a millisecond before it settles back into his typical almost-frown. 

“Do you always complain this much when a man buys you a drink?” he asks and it stuns you for a second. Maybe it’s the implication of it. The idea of him wanting to buy you a drink, with his big hands and broad frame. It’s also probably the two shots of tequila you just had on an almost empty stomach. 

“Is that what you’re doing then? Buying me a drink?” you ask, and you don’t mean for it to sound like a line because it really isn’t. You’re more so curious about silent, grouchy Joel Miller who gives acupuncture massages and pays for shots of tequila but avoids making conversation with you. You think his eyes might darken and they flick down before meeting your gaze. 

“Hey!” Tommy says. “We have a reservation to get to so we gotta go. We’re gonna be late and you know how my girl feels about tardiness.”

Whatever conversation had been building between you and Joel evaporates into thin air. You watch him nod at his brother, following him out. You turn around and follow them, ignoring the heat in your cheeks.

Dinner is delicious. The restaurant is gorgeous but that doesn’t surprise you since Maria had picked it. The food is perfectly spiced, every morsel melting into something decadent against your tongue. The conversation is good too, at least between you, Maria and Tommy. You learn more about Tommy and Joel’s contracting company, how they had just signed on to do a big project in the south side of the city.

“That’s so cool,” you say, voice pitched with enthusiasm. The second cocktail you’re on probably contributes some of it but still. 

“It’s fine,” Tommy says, a bashful smile on his face. “It was really my brother here that did the negotiatin’, sweet talked us into a pretty good deal.”

You snort before you can stop yourself. Both Tommy and Maria look amused while Joel just looks like he bit into a lime. 

“Somethin’ funny?” he asks, eyebrows drawn together. 

“Just hard to imagine,” you say. Tommy guffaws and Maria hides her laugh behind a sip of her cocktail. 

“And what is it that you do for work?” Joel asks and almost immediately a pit forms in your stomach. You see Maria stiffen in her seat and the smile on Tommy’s face falters. So he must know then. It makes sense, you suppose. They do live together and now that you think of it, he hasn’t asked you about work which is one of your typical topics of conversation. 

“I uh, did data stuff at this big firm downtown,” you say. “Got laid off yesterday though.”

You watch as Joel’s eyes shift. He swallows, and you know you’ve made it uncomfortable. You try not to feel embarrassed at your confession. Lay offs happen all the time and you know it’s not a personal reflection on who you are. That doesn’t stop it from feeling that way.

“Oh,” Joel says. You’re not sure if you’re imagining his voice softer than it was earlier. “I’m sorry to hear that.”

You shrug, uncomfortable. “It happens.”

The air is tense and you want it to go back to how it was before so you smile a little brighter, sitting up straighter in your chair.

“How about another round of drinks?” you propose, and Tommy nods, flagging down the waiter. You catch Maria’s eye and you know she sees right through you. You give her a real smile, one she returns but her eyes are still concerned. When you glance at Joel, you find that he’s already looking at you. There’s no pity in his gaze, not that you were expecting it but you’re still glad. Instead, it’s softer somehow, less sharp. When the waiter brings over your drinks, you’re grateful for something to do. Maria raises her glass, and the three of you follow, clinking them together. You take a big gulp of your spritz, the fizziness making your nose twitch. 

“So where to next?” Tommy asks, turning to Maria. 

“There’s this speakeasy that makes specialty cocktails and has some of the best whisky in the city,” she says. “I made us a reservation there for 10 p.m.”

“Of course you did,” Tommy says, voice fond. You smile as you watch them. There’s so much devotion in their eyes. 

Joel glances at his watch brows furrowing.

“We should probably wrap up,” he says. “It’s thirty past and we don’t wanna be late.”

You watch as Maria beams at him. She really is a stickler for timeliness. The four of you finish off your drinks, and you can feel the warmth of your cocktail heating your skin. You thought that dinner might help the tipsy feeling you have but you still feel the buzz of alcohol. You like it though. It makes you feel happier and you could use some of that after the week you’ve had. The waiter comes by with the check and just like at the bar, Joel swoops it up before anyone else can.

“We can divvy things up at the end of this weekend,” Maria says but Joel shakes his head. 

“It’s on me,” he says and you’re reminded of the bar. “Y’all planned this and I’m not even payin’ for my flight or hotel room so it’s the least I can do.”

“Well, I didn’t really do anything,” you add in. Joel looks at you just as he finishes signing the slip of paper. He doesn’t dignify you with an answer and you’re not surprised by it but it still irks you a bit. It’s not that he’s talkative with everyone else but he seems more reserved with you and you can’t figure out why. Careful to speak and when he does it leaves you hot and cold all at once. You push up from your chair and stand up, and your heel catches on uneven ground. You stumble a bit before a hand is on your elbow, stabilizing you. 

“Thanks,” you say, glancing at Joel. His hand is so warm against your skin. It stays there for a beat before he moves it away. He nods at you. 

“You don’t have to do anythin’, by the way,” Joel says. “Dinner’s my treat.”

You feel something low simmer in your belly but before you can think of a response, he’s walking away. You catch Maria’s eye and she raises her brows. She’s a lawyer and you know nothing gets past her. Still, you shake your head and give her a smile. There’s nothing to say, really. You can’t figure Joel Miller out and you’re not going to try. 

You’re not sure how you made it from the fancy cocktail bar to Double Down Saloon but you’re too buzzed to ask. Everything around you feels warm and upbeat, the dim lighting of the bar creating a hazy glow. You’ve lost count of the number of drinks you’ve had if you’re being honest, but judging by Maria’s giggles and Tommy whispering in her ear, you think they might be the same. Even Joel seems relaxed, slouching a bit against the seat of the booth. His gaze is lidded as he drinks the last dredges of his whisky and you look away before you follow the line of his throat as he swallows. You’re drunk enough now to admit that as confusing as your interactions have been, Joel Miller is probably one of the hottest men you’ve ever seen and it’s not even the alcohol clouding your judgement. He’s so strong, with his broad shoulders and long, sturdy legs. His hair is messier now, some of the greyish brown curls falling against his forehead and his plush mouth is red from the ice in his drink.

“We’re going to get some air,” Tommy announces, cheeks flushed. It snaps you out of your thoughts and you’re grateful for the distraction. You look at Maria who seems just as flustered and you smirk, raising an eyebrow. She looks giddy as you scoot out of the booth, allowing them both to get up.

Joel grunts, nodding at his brother. Still a man of few words, you suppose.

“Have fun,” you say, voice teasing. 

“Are you okay here?” Maria asks, brows furrowed with concern.

“Of course I am,” you say, not wanting to ruin their plans. This was meant to be a romantic trip for them after all and you’re already rooming with Maria which means they won’t get much time for just themselves. “Now go. And use protection.”

You whisper the last part but it’s still loud enough for Tommy to hear and he looks sheepish. Maria elbows you, but her grin is bright. You watch as he leads her away, their hands tangled together. You glance at Joel to find him already looking at you.

“Having fun?” you ask. You can do this. You could make small talk with a wall really, with how talkative you can be. So you can make small talk with Joel too. Surely the drinks would have loosened his tongue a bit. 

“Sure,” Joel agrees. And that’s all he says. You scoff, standing up.

“I’m going to get another drink,” you say and he opens his mouth to speak but you’re already turning away, heading to the bar. You flag down the bartender and get another G&T, asking for a double this time. Everything is still hazy around you, the chatter of the other customers blending into ambient sound. Once you pay for the drink, you realize that you don’t want to go back to your booth and sit in silence with Joel. You’re too drunk to be quiet and you’re jittery from the buzz of it. You look around, spotting an empty pool table near the corner. Perfect. You’ll play pool with yourself. It’ll be grand. 

You down your G&T in two large gulps, ignoring the burn of it before making your way to the pool table. You have to hold onto the backs of the chairs as you meander past the tables, your footing slightly shaky. You reach for a pool stick, but it takes you a second to figure out which side needs to be pointed towards the table. It’s also at this moment that you realize that you’ve never actually played pool before. You focus, trying to angle the stick between your fingers but it’s so long. How are you even supposed to lay it on the table so you can strike the formation of the cues? Your confusion is cut short by a throat clearing. You look up and find yourself face to face with a man who looks about your age wearing a printed button up. His dark hair is slicked back and he has a cigarette tucked behind his ear. He smells of smoke and you do your best not to flinch. 

“Hey there,” he says. 

It takes you a second to realize he’s talking to you, still focused on the zebra pattern of his shirt. 

“Hi,” you say, standing up straight. The cue stick hangs limply in your hands. 

“You seem confused,” he says. “I can teach you to play.”

He steps forward, into your space and you don’t like it. You take a small step back, hoping it’s not obvious. You’ve dealt with enough insistent men in your life to know that moving too quickly doesn’t always end well. Something about fragile male egos. 

“I’m good, thank you though,” you say, voice pleasant. You give him a short smile, hoping that he takes the hint. Your legs feel shaky beneath you and you think maybe you shouldn’t have downed that last G&T so quickly. 

“Come on now. I can’t leave a pretty girl like you all by herself when she clearly needs a hand,” he says, and has the audacity to smile. It’s just as slimy as the rest of him. 

Even in your drunken state, you don’t appreciate the insinuation that you’re struggling. So maybe you don’t know how to play pool. That doesn’t mean you need some cocksure thirty something year old, probably-finance guy given the loafers he’s wearing, to teach you. 

“I’m good,” you say again. You don’t smile this time. His smile doesn’t falter and he takes another step forward. You stand your ground, not wanting to give him the satisfaction. 

“Let me at least buy you a drink, baby. I’m Levi,” he says and you want to grimace at the nickname. God, you forgot how much you hated being at bars because of men that can’t take a hint. 

“Think she said she’s good,” a voice interrupts and you look behind the guy – Levi you suppose – to find Joel. Levi turns around as well, eyes narrowed. 

“Don’t think it’s any of your business, man,” he says. 

“I’m not sayin’ it is. I’m just sayin’ that if a woman tells you to leave her alone, you should probably leave her alone,” Joel says. His jaw is clenched and he walks towards you, coming to stand to your right. 

“You know this old creep?” Levi asks and he says old like an insult. Like it’s the worst thing to be. You glance at Joel and watch his shoulder stiffen. Sure, you had been annoyed with his reticence earlier but you’re not going to let Levi, the actual creep, get away with being rude. Especially when you’re at least eight drinks in.

“Yeah, I do,” you say, sweetly. You wrap your arm around Joel’s, squeezing the muscle of his bicep and you catch his brows furrowing just as you lean up to press your mouth to his cheek. His stubble is rough under your glossy mouth. 

“Thanks for coming to the rescue, baby,” you say, voice soft so that it seems like it’s just for him even though you know Levi can hear every word. You catch Joel’s eye and watch as his mouth twitches before breaking out into a small smile. You haven’t seen him smile before. He has a dimple. 

“Anytime, darlin’,” Joel says, voice gruff. His dark eyes trace over your face. You can feel your ears get hotter under his gaze and you take that as your cue to look back at Levi who looks positively gobsmacked. 

“I’m sorry, man. Didn’t know she was taken,” Levi says before scurrying away. You scoff. If he was going to apologize to anyone for being a bother, it should have been you. You realize you’re still holding onto Joel’s arm and let go, taking a step to the side. 

“You’ve got no idea how to play pool, do ya?” Joel says and you’re surprised he’s making conversation, even if it is at the cost of critiquing your poor pool skills.

“I’m trying to learn,” you say, giving him a sharp look. To your shock, he smiles again and you watch the crows' feet by his eyes become more prominent. 

“I can teach ya, if you’d like,” he says. It’s different from the offer Levi made you. There’s no condescension here. He sounds genuine. You contemplate it for a handful of seconds, cocking your head to the side and giving him a once over. He holds himself more loosely now, his shoulders relaxed and his hands unclenched for a change. His tan skin is flushed pink in the dim glow of the bar and his eyes are glassy.  His hair is even messier now. He’s at least tipsy. No longer stone faced and quiet

“Are you drunk?” you ask and you can tell the question throws him off guard. 

“I’ve had a few,” Joel answers, the drawl of his accent stronger than it was before.

“So you’re drunk,” you say but you’re smiling a bit now too. You can really feel that last G&T now. 

“I’m too old to be drunk,” Joel says. It makes you laugh and his mouth twitches at the sound. 

You hold out the pool stick for him and he takes it, stepping up to the pool table. You watch the muscles in his back move under his shirt as he flattens himself so that the stick is angled towards the cues. 

“It’s easier to settle it against your thumb if you’ve never played before,” Joel explains, gesturing to his left hand. You watch, looking at his thick fingers wrapped around the stick. Your throat feels dry, all of the sudden. He continues speaking.

“Then, you have to pull it back, just like this,” he says and you watch as he pulls with his right arm. “And when you’re sure of yourself, you strike.”

You watch the cues fan out perfectly, two of the striped ones going into the pockets of the table. Joel stands up straight, handing the pool stick to you. 

“Come on now, your turn,” he says, voice gentler. You take the stick from him, lining it up the way you remember him showing you. It feels awkward in your grip, and you’re pretty sure your left hand is cramping from how stiffly you’re holding it against the pool table. You lean forward, focusing on the solid yellow cue. You move your arm back to strike only to have it completely miss the cue entirely. You end up nicking the side of the pool table and the stick falters in your grasp. Your face warms and you stand up, glancing at Joel and hoping he hasn’t noticed your blunder. Of course, he’s watching the entire thing. But there’s no derision on his face. Instead, he shakes his head.

“You’re holdin’ yourself too stiff,” he says. “Your hand’s gonna cramp if you don’t relax it.”

“I literally did exactly what you told me,” you say, only sounding slightly petulant. What can you say, alcohol brings out all the emotions in you. Joel steps up so he’s right behind you. The heat of him is like a wall and some silly, drunk part of you wants to lean back into it.

“May I?” he asks, the picture of southern manners. You’re not sure what exactly he’s asking permission for but you don’t really care. You nod, maybe a little too quickly. Then, his large hands are on you, angling your hips so they’re just against the pool table. They’re so large and warm, and the slinkiness of your dress does nothing to help. You can feel every point of contact between the two of you. You also feel the loss of them as he moves his hands away from your hips. He takes your left hand and settles it against the table, repositioning your fingers so that the stick rests against the divot between your thumb and index finger. 

“Relax,” he murmurs near your ear, so close to you that you can feel his breath against your neck. You do, letting your shoulders fall. “Attagirl.”

Something warm sparks in your belly. You let him reposition the stick once more. 

“Now, I want you to focus just on that yellow one over there okay? Forget about all the others. And let your right arm move smoothly, you don’t gotta force it. Can you do that for me?”

“Okay,” you agree. Your voice is breathier than before but you really can’t be held accountable for it when Joel Miller is talking you through playing pool. You move your right arm back, gently just like he instructed, your eyes focused on the yellow cue. You strike, and watch as the tip of the pool stick makes contact with the cue. It rolls and rolls, and then plops into the pocket of the pool table and you laugh, a joyful sound. You whip around, and Joel is right there, so close you can see the flecks of gold in his eyes. 

“I did it,” you say, still smiling. You can feel your pulse fluttering in your chest.

“You did,” Joel agrees. He’s smiling too and it just makes you grin wider. 

“We should celebrate,” you say. You leave the pool stick at the table and reach for his arm, dragging him back towards the bar. Your footing is still shaky but you don’t really care. 

“Four shots of your best tequila,” you say to the bartender who pours them almost immediately. You give him your card. 

“Shoulda let me pay,” Joel says when you turn around. You watch him tuck his wallet back into the pocket of his jeans. 

“Think of this as a thank you,” you say, handing him a shot. You clink your glasses together before bringing the shot glass up to your mouth. Neither of you break eye contact as you down the drink and the warmth in your belly has sparked into something hotter. 

“Still not going to admit that you’re drunk?” you ask once the burn of the tequila has subsided. You know he is, with how loose his shoulders are and the soft smile that seems to stay put on his pink mouth. 

“What are the extra two shots for?” Joel asks, avoiding your question. His gaze is heavy. You can already feel the effect of the tequila, everything becoming hazier. It takes you a second to answer.

“For Maria and Tommy,” you say and then frown. “But they’re not here.”

Your brows furrow as you look around. 

“How long could they be?” you ask. Joel looks around too. He’s so tall that he can probably see over most of the people here. You watch him as he surveys the crowd. When he looks back at you, you don’t even try to hide the fact that you were staring. 

“I don’t think they’re here,” he says.

“What about the bathrooms?” you ask and he shakes his head.

“I was in there before I found you and that kid. There’s only one and it was empty. We oughta go find ‘em.”

You nod. You reach behind you for the two shots of tequila, and Joel raises a dark brow.

“Well we can’t let them go to waste,” you say and he huffs a laugh, taking from you. You both swallow down the shots quickly, and you don’t even feel the burn of it anymore. You follow Joel out the bar, his large frame clearing a path for you. The night is cold, unexpectedly so given how warm it had been when you had landed. Even the alcohol coursing through you isn’t helping the chill. You stumble on the sidewalk as a group of giggly women walk by, one of them wearing a fake veil and holding a rather phallic shaped lollipop. Joel catches you but his footing is a little shaky too. He must be drunker than he leads on. 

“It’s cold,” you complain. Suddenly, there’s a flask in front of you. You look up at Joel and all he does is shrug.

“It’s whisky,” he says and you groan. Of course it is. Still, you take it, lifting it to your mouth. You can stomach two sips before it’s too much and you hand it back to Joel who takes a long gulp from it. There’s a tiny part of your brain that’s thinking of how he placed his mouth right where yours had been. You shake your head, dispelling those thoughts. The whisky does help though, warming you up so you feel a flush of heat. 

“C’mon,” you say, tugging at Joel’s hand. You look around, trying to think of where Maria and Tommy might have snuck off to. You look around, but the lights are so distracting. Everything is so bright and so glamorous. You blink a few times, trying to focus. You spot something in the distance, bright white and red with twinkling lights. There. It’s calling to you.

“That way,” you say, pointing. Joel squints. You tug on his arm again, and begin to walk. He follows you, surprisingly docile. 

“Where are you takin’ us?” Joel asks but he doesn’t sound annoyed. If anything, it’s mostly curious. 

“I think they’re there,” you say, pointing vaguely to the white structure. You don’t know what it is but it’s calling to you. Your gut instinct has always been right. 

“Really?” Joel asks, sounding amused. You didn’t even realize you were speaking out loud. 

“Yeah,” you say. “I’m always right. Always.”

“Except when it comes to playin’ pool, I suppose,” he teases, voice warm. 

“No one’s perfect,” you say. 

Suddenly, you feel ridiculous, arm in arm with Joel Miller who you had spent most of the day being annoyed with but also vaguely attracted to and looking for your best friend in Las Vegas. You’re jobless too and drunk as a skunk. It makes you giggle, once, twice and then you’re full on laughing. You clutch your stomach, leaning forward. You can feel tears gathering at the corner of your eyes. When you open them, Joel’s watching you, an amused twitch to his lips. He takes another swig of the whisky before offering it to you. You don’t take it from him, instead leaning forward so that your mouth is on the edge of the flask, right where his was. Your eyes drift up to meet his own and his jaw clenches. He tilts the flask towards you and you feel the liquid flow down your throat. He watches you the entire time, his dark gaze never leaving your eyes. It’s only when you’re done swallowing that he moves the flask away.

“I’m pretty drunk,” Joel admits once he’s put his now empty flask away. It breaks the tension from the moment before. You grin, feeling like you won something. His eyes are glassy as he watches you, cheeks flushed a soft pink. 

“Finally,” you say. “God, and here I thought you’d never admit it.”

Joel shrugs. His arm is still hooked around yours and your whole right side of your body is warm. 

“Since we’re admittin’ to not bein’ perfect,” Joel says and you laugh. You tug him with you as you head towards the white building. You both stagger in turns, each of you helping to keep the other upright. As you approach the building, you still can’t make out what it is. Your vision is kind of blurry and when you look at Joel, he’s squinting at the sign. You guess he doesn’t know either. 

“I think they’re in there,” you say. “Gut feeling.”

“You already said that,” Joel asks, looking down at you but his voice isn’t sharp the way it usually is. He sounds amused. You nod, resolute. 

“Because I’m certain,” you say, trying to sound serious. Your words feel heavy as does your tongue. You wonder if Joel feels the same way too. “How many drinks did you have?” you ask, suddenly curious. 

“Probably a lot,” Joel says, his accent honey thick and with a slight slur. “Stopped countin’ after my fifth whisky if I’m bein’ honest with you. And that was at dinner.”

“Okay wow, you’re definitely drunker than me,” you say, and are you talking slower? Maybe but it seems like Joel is as well so it’s probably okay. “Let me do the talking when we go in there okay? We have to find Maria.”

“And Tommy,” Joel adds. Right. Tommy. Joel’s brother. You nearly forgot.

You nod, eyes wide. 

“And Tommy,” you agree. 

You push the doors of the building open, pulling Joel inside with you. 

Something is buzzing near your head. It won’t stop and you think it might be a form of torture. Your head throbs as you squint your eyes open. Your mouth tastes like something died inside of it. You lift your head to find your phone buzzing against the side table. You reach towards it.

“Hello?” you say but it sounds more like a croak. You’re parched.

“There’s a bottle of water right by your phone,” Maria answers at the other end of the line. You glance up to find that she’s right. Of course she is. 

“How’d you know that?” you ask, wincing as you feel another throb in your head. 

“Because I left it there,” she says, voice amused. “Is Joel up?”

Your brows furrow and you groan when it makes your head hurt again. 

“Fuck,” you say. “I don’t know. How would I know?”

“Babe,” Maria says, voice purposely calm. “I’m going to need you to look to your left.”

Slowly, you do, making sure not to move too much. You come face to face with Joel, who’s fast asleep. His whole face is relaxed and his mouth is slightly ajar. There’s a pillow crease on his cheek and his hair is sticking up in ten different directions, the curls matted near the base of his head.

“Oh my god,” you say. “Maria. What happened?” 

You must have spoken too loudly because Joel makes a noise, before his brows furrow. You look away, unable to meet his eyes. 

“I was hoping you’d be able to tell me. Tommy and I couldn’t find either of you last night and eventually we went back to check the hotel to find the two of you passed out in our room.” Maria says and you had momentarily forgotten that you were on the phone with her. You chance a glance back at Joel and his eyes are open now, his brows even more furrowed. He looks as confused as you feel. 

“Maria, I’ll call you back okay?” you say. Another wave of nausea passes through you and you take a deep breath. 

“Fuck,” Joel says, pressing the heels of his palm into his eyes. “My head’s splittin’.”

His voice is even gruffer than it usually is. 

“Do you remember anything?” you ask, sitting up. You look down and sigh in relief to find that you’re still wearing your dress and when you glance at Joel you can see that he’s still in his outfit from the night before too, save for shoes. That’s a good sign. At least you most likely didn’t sleep with your best friend’s boyfriend’s older brother the first time you met him. There’s bad decisions and then there’s bad decisions.

“Last thing I remember is teachin’ you pool and then maybe drinkin’ some more,” Joel says. He sits up as well, looking around. For what, you don’t know. 

“Seen my phone?” he asks and you shake your head, flinching when it brings on a wave of pain. You reach for the bottle of water, sipping it slowly to not upset your stomach any further. You watch Joel stand up slowly, his knees creaking with the movement. He groans, low and pained. 

“God, I’m never drinkin’ again,” he says and you hum in agreement. He’s chattier than you expect him to be, hungover and grouchy. 

You slowly stand up too, holding onto the bed frame for support. You look around the hotel room and it’s almost exactly as you and Maria have left it except for your heels and Joel’s shoes which are strewn across the floor. You both must have flung them off when you got in. You look around for Joel’s phone, but can’t seem to find it. It’s then that you hear shuffling and you look back around to find Joel, with a crumpled sheet of paper in his hands. He’s squinting at it, brows furrowed. Then, his face drops and he looks like he might be sick.

“Fuckin’ hell,” he says, the word so sharp that you flinch. He sounds beyond upset. 

“What?” you say, a pit of anxiety forming in your stomach. You make your way to the other side of the bed, where he stands stock still. When you look over his shoulder, the pit in your stomach suddenly feels like it weighs a hundred pounds and blood rushes to your ears. 

There, in big, black cursive are the words Certificate of Marriage printed at the top of the page. You don’t even think, reaching for the paper and snatching it from him. You can feel your heart racing, rattling wildly against your ribcage. At the bottom of the paper are your and Joel’s full names, and underneath that, your signatures in red ink. You look up at him and you’re certain your shock mirrors his own. He looks like he’s seen a ghost. 

The night has a thousand eyes, And the day but one; Yet the light of the bright world dies With the dying sun. The mind has a thousand eyes, And the heart but one; Yet the light of a whole life dies When love is done. -Francis William Bourdillion

𝒯𝒽𝑒𝓃

𝓙oel wondered if he was always meant to be lonely.

Of all the things he could remember, there had always been a thread of loneliness running through him, no matter who he shared a bed with, a meal with, a child with. Even when his daughter was born—and she had been the most precious, most wondrous thing ever given to him—there had always been a churning certainty in his stomach that one day he would end up like this again. Alone.

Those among him told him he was paranoid, that he should pray and God would answer him, that He would keep her from harm. But Joel…he knew. He just knew. But he tried anyway. He prayed and prayed until his knees would ache on the stone floors of the chapel. He went to church more days than he missed back then. And yet, God had received him with nothing but pain and suffering. For his child died on his birthday, a cruel sort of curse to lay upon a man. What sin he had committed to deserve it, he could never quite say, as there had been many. He had been born a bastard, worked as a bastard, and fathered a child out of wedlock besides. What sympathy could any God bear for a man like him?

And so, he joined The Guild.

His brother had joined long before him, even though he was far younger and much more loved than Joel had ever been. Tommy had a mother and father that were wed before the Lord, had been raised by his mother's own breast and not by some wet nurse in a barn as Joel had. And yet, the brothers loved one another as if nothing of the sort ever mattered.

Tommy had always known what he wanted. It was as if he had come into the world already in pursuit of duty, reaching for his destiny of becoming a knight. From the moment he could walk and speak the boy had been possessed by talk of steel armor and winning battles. He believed, with a certainty Joel had never possessed about anything in his life, that the truest honor a man could claim in their world was to serve The Crown, to stand as a soldier of the king and fight in his name. And so the moment Tommy turned seven he began the long road toward it: first as a page, then years later as a squire, until at last, when he was one and twenty, he was made a knight of the kingdom.

Joel, on the other hand, came to it another way entirely.

Their king had always hungered for things that were not glamour or gold, but blood and power. War was his vice, and it made him cruel and demanding, a man who chased battle even when peace would have served the kingdom just as well. Campaign after campaign men were pulled from farms and workshops alike to fight his wars, to take lands that once belonged to others and plant his banner there instead, spreading the name of their kingdom across rivers and mountains and oceans.

Joel had joined when he was at his worst, his lowest, not long after Sarah had died.

Because he had became hungry too. Not for dreams of honor, nor because of anything noble— but because there was a cold, ugly pit growing inside him that was bitter and starved for a place to feed it.

At first he was nothing but another man with a sword in a line of many others. He slept on wet earth beside his comrades, ate hard bread that cracked through his molar once, shared rations of cheese with them, marched when he was told to march and killed when he was told to kill. He felt himself becoming cold and uncaring, but he did not linger on these thoughts. Some days when he caught his reflection in a stream or upon his comrades armor, warped in the curve of it, he would only see a man in silver plated steel. He never had to look himself in the eye under his visor or make sense of it before his eyes would close from exhaustion.

It was not long before he was noticed for it. Not for skill—though he had that, too—but for his willingness. He did not hesitate when orders were given, did not balk when others slowed. He stood where he was placed and saw things through to their end. That was enough.

One day, before another march upon a northern land, the king’s legion summoned him, and Joel found himself stationed not only among the king’s protection but beside the king himself. He remembered the command tent was thick with the smell of cooked meat and spilled wine, maps pinned beneath daggers along the table. Nothing like the dried meat and old bread his comrades were given in rations. But he carried out his duties there nonetheless, sharing meats and sweet fruits and mead at the king’s table, listening to the fat man speak of his battles, his victories, and the lands he had claimed. Joel would watch the grease shining along the man's beard as he tore into roasted fowl, never once imagining the day would come when he would see the king dead before his very eyes.

Because not long after, on the morning after the Battle of Black Lake, when light was just beginning to break over the ridge behind him, catching along the edge of his armor where it had been scraped and dulled, turning the metal faintly gold where it struck. And when the fog still laid low to the fields and half his comrades had fallen, Joel Miller found the man with a sword through his stomach. That was all he was, after all. A man. Laid in the mud with the same red blood as his soldiers. It pooled into the earth beneath him, giving his life source back to whence it came.

The king stirred when he saw Joel approach. His breath was shallow, his jewel-crested armor dark with blood, yet his hand still found its strength enough to reach forward, gripping at the top of Joel’s breastplate.

The battle had been won, yet Joel felt neither victory nor grief as his eyes settled upon the pale king before him. What surprised him the most, were the man's last words to him. For they were not of a battle well won in honor, nor to conquer more lands and spill the blood of new enemies.

They were simply this:

Protect my daughter, Ser Joel of the Dawn — she is the only light left for men like us.

𝒩𝑜𝓌

𝓙oel had been standing outside the council chamber doors for the better part of the morning, hands folded over each other, the metal of his gauntlet gloves creaking when he'd clench and unclench his fingers upon the pommel of his sword, the leather beneath them pulling tight across his knuckles. Every inch of him was covered in steel—from the tip of his helm to the ends of his boots, the plates fixed close through his chest and shoulders, the weight of it held in place by the straps drawn tight beneath. He preferred it this way, this life. No one could see the weariness of his gaze nor study the change in his expression, not through the narrow slit of the helm, not with his face kept where no one could reach it.

He'd been watching the light crawl slowly across the stone floor while the voices inside rose and settled in an endless, grinding clamor. The noise felt like it was gathering beneath his helm as though his skull were swelling, every word and scrape and thud ringing not within the walls of the castle but against the steel of his helmet, driving a dull pulse between his eyes. Men talked over one another, a chair dragged across the floor, the blunt thud of someone’s bejeweled knuckles striking the council table was all felt between his eyes, echoing inside the metal until it throbbed through his head like a bruise.

It had been hurting since dawn, starting as a dull ache somewhere in his temple and had growing steadily worse the longer he stood there listening to the council of old men argue through the door. He did not know what they were arguing about, nor did he care. Those things belonged to The Crown and its advisors, and Joel had long ago learned that men like him were better served staying clear of such matters.

Still, the noise had a way of burrowing into a man’s skull.

He pressed his tongue against the back of his molar where the old break still ached when the weather turned, trying to distract himself from the pounding behind his temples. They said the creation of different pains sometimes helped with fresher ones, so he probed the throbbing tooth with his tongue, the wet muscle soothing the ache only for a moment.

Then there was a crash, and Joel nearly bit off his own tongue in surprise, though he made sure not to show it. Noises began growing sharply after that, men talking louder over one another now. Soon, the posturing and snapping had turned to shouting.

And then, through the din of it all, came a shrieking, angry raised voice. Younger, feminine, and cutting through the rumble of the council men.

"ENOUGH— GET OUT!"

Several voices answered at once.

“Your Highness—”

“Princess, we must—”

“Now wait a minute—”

“GET OUT OF MY HOUSE, YOU SCHEMING LEECHES!” you shrieked, throat cracking on the final word.

Joel shifted his weight, expecting the impressive wooden doors to burst open and them to come running out, that voice scary enough to send most people running. But the noise only grew worse, voices overlapping again as the councilmen scrambled to answer you.

Your Grace this. Princess that. Calm yourself. Let us be reasonable.

Joel pressed his tongue briefly against his molar again.

His head was splitting.

And then—

“GUARD!”

Joel pushed the doors open and stepped inside.

The storm in the room hit him all at once. Voices, movement, the soft scraping of leather shoes across the stone floor as men stood. The council chamber was wide and high-ceilinged, its tall windows looking down across the city that clung to the mountainside below. Joel had sometimes wondered if those windows were meant to show the people gathered here how high above the rest of the world they stood, or perhaps to remind them that the decisions made within these walls were meant for real people and not merely the handful of old men seated around that table.

Joel walked forward steadily, his presence alone enough to quiet the room a measure as the councilmen turned toward him. They were all pale and aging things up close, their fine robes hanging loose over narrow shoulders, some with long white beards, others with thin hair clinging to spotted scalps. Several of them looked angry to see him.

"Get these men out of my sight—" you seethed.

Through the narrow split of his visor, Joel looked upon your figure. You stood hunched over the council table at its far end, shoulders tight with fury, your hands braced hard on either side of the polished mahogany. The sleeves of your pale green gown fell long past your wrists and into perfectly sewn gloves, the delicate fabric drawn smooth over your fingers as they gripped the edge of the table. He thought your nails might carve straight into the finished wood if not for the modest gloves keeping that violent touch hidden.

The men knew better than to question a direct command given to the palace guard. Grumbling among themselves about insult and mistreatment, they shuffled toward the doors in a cluster, their robes brushing the stone as they passed. One by one they filed out into the hall, Joel following close behind them.

“Knight.”

Your voice cut across the chamber just as he reached the threshold.

He stopped.

“Stay a moment. I wish to speak with you.”

Joel paused, glancing back over his steel shoulder before stepping away from the door and returning to the center of the room. Uncertainty sat heavy in his mind, though he kept his posture rigid and proper.

“You may answer me freely,” you said, watching him carefully from the end of the table as you stood straight, “but only if what you say is the truth. Do you understand?”

Joel hesitated.

Knights were not meant to speak freely in royal chambers. They spoke when commanded and little else. But a direct question from The Crown left no room for refusal.

“Yes, Your Majesty,” he said, his voice muffled slightly beneath the metal of his helm.

You studied him for a moment before continuing.

“You see, ser knight, I am beginning to realize,” you said slowly, “that many of the men around me never wished to see me sit this throne. I believe they had hoped I might be sent north and married off to some distant Duke instead of taking my rightful place upon the throne someday.”

Joel said nothing. He remembered the day the princess had been born well enough. The whole city had celebrated it. Bells rang from the towers, wine poured generously through the streets, and bonfires burned long into the night while men shouted blessings for the king’s new daughter.

He had been there in the crowd like anyone else then, younger and half drunk already, with young Sarah perched on his shoulders so she could see above the press of bodies. She had been all smiles and excitement as her hands held onto him, fingers threaded under his chin. They'd watched the court funded celebrations and parades that day as if they'd been meant for her alone.

The memory passed through him, but he pushed it aside as quickly as it came.

"And so," you continued, "I must weed out those who lie and wish my downfall, and I ask you, tasked with whatever purpose you have over me, do you serve me, knight? Or do you serve my father?"

“Your father is dead, Your Majesty.”

He thought maybe he should have bitten his tongue. It had been out of turn, and perhaps too terse to say aloud to a princess, but God be damned his head hurt so badly he could barely keep a hold on his rising annoyance. All he wanted was to flee back into the hallway, or better yet to his bed, though he knew it would be hours yet before he found that feather-filled mattress, and hours more before sleep would ever take him. The thought alone only stoked his ire.

But you were smiling up at him from across the room. A sarcastic sort of grin, maybe, but a smile nonetheless. He thought you looked quite nice with it plastered across your face.

"Ah,” you said softly. “Finally. Someone who speaks truth instead of riddles.”

You stepped forward, away from the table and approached him.

Joel remained perfectly still. Even though you could not see his eyes behind the visor, he lowered his gaze out of respect.

“Yes,” you sighed, stopping before him. “My father is dead.”

Your voice softened slightly as you looked at him from under your lashes.

“And I will tell you something most daughters would not admit aloud, ser. I do not mourn him.”

You glanced briefly toward the council doors, and he looked up at you, surprised by your confession.

“He loved war more than people. Power more than peace. And now I must sit the throne he bled half the world to build.”

You looked back at Joel. If you could see him, you would know he was looking directly into your eyes. The thought made his skin rise in gooseflesh.

“So I will ask you again.”

You stood far closer than propriety allowed.

“Do you serve a dead man… or do you serve me?”

He swallowed dryly, another step and the pretty soft green of your gown would brush the steel of his armor.

He cleared his throat, and did not move an inch. "I serve you, Your Majesty."

Your eyes studied him as if you could see straight through the shining armor, as if you could see how the blood pounding in his head was beginning to surge at your closeness. He had not stood this close to a woman in ages.

"Very well." you said finally. "You are dismissed."

𝓑y the time he finally lowered himself onto his mattress hours later, the silence of the chamber should have been a mercy.

Instead, his headache remained.

His armor lay in pieces beside the narrow bed, neatly arranged upon the dresser by the single window in his chambers. He stared up at the beams overhead, trying to will his mind to shut off. He had always been like this, exhausted and begging for sleep, only to scrape together no more than a few miserable hours once his eyes fell closed. The bed rustled beneath him as he pulled the wool blanket higher over his shoulder, turning for what felt like the thousandth time. The chambers given to the castle knights were modest but comfortable enough, a small room with thick stone walls and a single window that looked down onto the gravel path leading to the back garden. Better than many places he had slept over the years, truth be told.

And still, sleep would not come easily.

He rolled again, pressing his face briefly into the pillow, his skull still throbbing faintly, though it was better now without the helm clanking around his head.

Joel exhaled through his nose and turned onto his back once more.

He wished you had not gotten so close to him today. He thought maybe that was what was wrong with him, that you were imprudent, rude in your closeness, much too bold for your own good. He wondered if you had always been like that with those who served you, crowding them, pressing into their space as if rank and armor meant nothing at all.

Finally, he let out a long, low breath and pushed himself upright.

He pressed his fists into his eyes as he leaned his elbows on his knees, grinding hard enough to burst sparks of color behind his lids. Galaxies. That's what Sarah had once called them when she was little. That she could see Heaven if she rubbed her eyes hard enough.

Joel dragged his hands down his face slowly, rubbing the exhaustion deeper into this thrumming head before letting his arms fall again.

And then he looked up, out into the moonlit garden, and saw the most peculiar thing.

You were there. In your night dress. Pale silk reflecting the full moon above, bathing you in a beautiful spotlight. Your hair flowed behind you, and with one look over your shoulder, Joel knew you were up to no good. Where was your night watch? Had you climbed out your window like a child, sneaking out on your own protection?

Joel rose himself from the bed and grabbed for his armor.

𝓘t was only a few minutes or so later that he was down the narrow steps and out into the back garden, your silhouette already slipping toward the edge of the woods before he could call for you. He worried he'd wake the whole castle if he did.

So, instead, he merely followed.

He could have sworn you were barefoot. Your steps across the grass were so soft they were almost lost in the whisper of the night air, the sort of careful grace that might have been impressive if it had not been undone by everything else you were doing. Every few strides there came the faint sound of a branch catching against your sleeve, or the quick intake of breath when something in the dark surprised you. Once your hand reached out toward a low limb only for the brittle thing to snap in your grip. Joel followed the sounds easily enough, even when the pale color of your dress hid from his view.

He found himself faintly amazed that you had not yet heard him, though the armor was never as quiet as a man hoped it would be. There was always some small complaint of metal when he moved, the faint shift of plates settling against one another as he stepped over the uneven ground. Yet you pressed on ahead of him without so much as glancing back, as though the woods belonged entirely to you and the castle behind you had already been forgotten.

When he reached a fallen log in the path he caught the trunk of a tree to steady himself, swinging one leg over it before realizing the bark was rough against his palm.

He had forgotten his gloves.

His hand stayed there for a moment against the damp wood before he moved on again, watching the pale drift of your gown further ahead as it slipped deeper into the trees.

And just when you'd reached the darkest part of the wood, where no moon could shine through the top canopy, he called out: "Your Majesty—".

Your gasp rented the air as you swiveled on the spot.

“Oh!” you startled, your hand flying to your chest. “It is… one of you.”

“My Lady,” he answered.

“Ah. My knight of truth.” You sighed, recognizing his voice. A small, embarrassed laugh escaped you. “And what would you have of me at this hour?”

Joel turned his head this way and that, faintly bemused by the question.

“Where are you going?” he asked instead of answering, and though knew well enough it was not his place to question a princess, nor any soul above his station, the words left him all the same. Perhaps the woods would keep the trespass between them.

You glanced up at him beneath your lashes, catching his misstep at once.

“I told you, good knight,” you said lightly, raising your chin, “I grow weary of those who lie to me within the walls of my own castle. Tell me the truth—did you overhear of what they wished of me today?”

Joel studied you for a moment. You were the strangest woman he had ever encountered. Noble ladies did not question knights, much less tease them as though they were companions in some private jest, yet you seemed to expect him to answer you all the same.

“I—Your Majesty—”

“You must not call me that, ser knight,” you interrupted. “I am no queen yet.”

“Yes, Your—” He cleared his throat, suddenly unsure how to finish.

You gave him your name.

“Your Grace,” he settled on instead. While your name rose easily enough to his mind, it did not feel like something meant to pass his lips. “I don't think—”

“You may call me that when we stand before others,” you said simply. “When it is only the two of us, you will use my name.”

Joel hesitated a moment, then inclined his head, and brought his hand up to hold the neck of his breastplate in amused wait.

The two of you stood there a moment while the crickets resumed their thin singing in the dark. Joel found himself grateful for the armor then, grateful for the way it hid the direction of his gaze as it wandered briefly down the line of your figure.

“I am going to town,” you said at last, as though it were the most ordinary thing in the world.

Joel spluttered, dropping his hand from its casual placement, "You jest!"

"I most certainly do not."

"Your Grace, you must at least wait until morning."

“Is that an order, ser?”

He paused.

“At least wait until first light,” he said carefully. “It will be safer then. And…” He stopped himself, knowing he ought not press further in case he deeply offended you.

“And?” you prompted.

“And perhaps… not in palace silks,” he finished. “If you mean to go unnoticed.”

You looked down upon your form, "What is wrong with my clothes?"

"Nothing, they're very fine, Your Grace," he hurried to say, and he could hear his voice echoing in the din of his helmet as he tried to correct himself. "Only—if you wish to not be spotted as I had so easily, silk draws the eye. If you wore something more common, we might pass through the town without notice. So you may see it in its true form.”

"So it is a we, now?" you teased.

"I would insist you must not go alone." he said very seriously.

You considered that for a moment.

“Very well.”

Joel gave a quiet grunt, his shoulders falling in relief.

“You shall take me at first light,” you declared. “We will walk to town together.”

“As you wish, Your Grace.”

You sighed, and the silence stretched too long between you, and finally you gestured faintly toward the castle rising dark above the trees.

“You may escort me back.”

Joel turned and opened his palm, motioning toward the narrow path that wound back up through to the garden.

You passed him as you stepped forward, so close he had to hold his breath.He could not bear to know the scent of you—whatever oils or soaps you might have used, whatever warmth lingered on skin after a bath taken late in the evening. He did not know why the thought troubled him so much, only that it did, and that it would be wiser not to learn it.

Joel followed a pace behind you the rest of the way, saying little more as the path carried the two of you back toward the looming shape of the castle. He was not sure what else to say to you, nor if he should say anything at all. You had asked him questions before as though he were meant to answer them, as though he were something other than a man set to guard your door, and the memory of it sat uneasy in him now. He thought, briefly, of asking what had set you off so, what had driven you from the castle and into the woods alone in the middle of the night, but the thought soured on his tongue before it could escape his lips. It was not his place. It would never be his place. In the end, he kept his silence, holding to it as a rule long learned and rarely broken.

When you reached the base of the stairs, you paused there, gathering the skirts of your night dress in one hand while the other lifted slightly for balance, though there was nothing for you to take hold of to steady you.

Without thinking, Joel reached out and took your hand.

It was such a simple thing, accompanying a woman such as yourself up a set of stairs, and yet… there was something immediately jarring to him. Your hand was so soft, so delicate and supple in his calloused and scarred palm. Your skin was unmarked by blade or labor, as though it had never known anything harsher than silk gowns and water warmed for you. His hold swallowed your fingers as he guided you up the stairs, standing beside the stone pathway up to your chambers.

And he watched as you looked down at your hand in his, surprise written across your face, for neither of you wore gloves.

“Sleep well, princess,” he said quietly , and you looked back up toward the steel of his helm, and he could have sworn, just for a moment, that you had found his gaze somewhere behind the narrow slit of the visor.

He let go and made his leave, scarcely aware of the passing sconces lighting his way, nor the turns he took to find his bed. His skin prickled as though brushed by nettles, and he flexed his hand to rid himself of the feeling, but failed.

𝓙oel had a terrible suspicion he might be in over his head.

His head, which, by God’s mercy, had finally ceased its throbbing.

By the time he stood in the courtyard, the sun had only just begun to crest over the distant hills, its light still pale and cold where it touched the stone. The castle was quieter at that hour, the usual movement of servants not yet in full swing. Only the stable boys were at work, a few housekeepers beginning their morning cooking that would go uneaten by the lady of the house. But the air still held that brief, suspended stillness before the day truly began.

He had thought, perhaps, that you would not come. That you might have changed your mind come morning. It would have made sense, and he would have understood if it had only been some passing craving of the night, your senses returned to you after a few hours’ rest.

But then, without warning, his attention was drawn to the edge of the courtyard.

You were making your way down the side steps into the garden, your gown no longer pale and clinging as it had been the night before, but changed now for something simpler. Still, it was finer than anything worn beyond those walls. It sat upon you too well, drawn in at your waist and looser at the hips, carefully made in a way that would draw the eye regardless of your intent. Though, he wondered if it was really the dress at all that was the problem.

And your hands were covered by gloves now, hiding whatever softness hid beneath. A more casual glove, leather and made for riding, he supposed, something a princess like you would be doing on a casual day out of her room.

You must've sensed him there, for when you looked up it was more out of instinct or habit than regard, but when your gaze fell onto him, he was surprised to see a smile spread across your face. You came toward him with measured steps, quieter now, tempered where you had been bold the night before, and yet there remained something in your expression—a glint?—as though the two of you shared some small, unspoken joke.

"My Lady," he greeted, and he was smiling, though glad you couldn't tell as his helmet covered everything from view.

“And how do you think I look today, ser?” you asked, dipping into a small curtsy.

He nodded once, clearing his throat. “You look… well.”

You gave a soft scoff, something amused in it. “You are not a man of many words, are you?”

He tilted his helmed head down at you, uncertain what answer you expected of him. You would have no shortage of men eager to praise you, he thought, men of better birth and smoother tongues, and whatever he might say would hardly measure beside them.

“How far is it into town?” you asked, turning as you began to walk.

"Not far, Your Grace," he said, gesturing to the path before them. "Only a half an hour's walk."

Your shoes, now leather laced and practical to protect your soles, found the gravel easily as you fell into step beside him.

He was aware of the space between you in a way he had not been before, aware of how easily you seemed to ignore it, how little regard you held for the careful boundaries others kept. He maintained it all the same as the two of you made your way toward the gates.

The guards straightened when you approached, though not quickly enough to hide the surprise that flickered across their faces. Joel gave the word before either of them could speak, and the gates were drawn open without question, the heavy wood groaning as it gave way.

Beyond it, the path sloped downward toward the town.

The morning had begun in earnest there. He could see the smoke curling from chimneys, the smell of bread and ash carried faintly on the air, and the slow stir of people already at their work spread through the narrow streets. It was not crowded yet, not the way it would be by midday, but there were enough bodies moving through it that a stranger might pass without much notice.

You stepped ahead of him without hesitation, and he let you lead the way. After all, he was very curious about what made you want to come to such a place. He was glad you had not expected him to speak to you as you meandered through the town thirty minutes later. Even dressed as you were, there was no mistaking you. It was not the gown, as he'd thought earlier, but the way you held yourself, how you clasped your hands gently at your navel and held your head high, as if balancing a pile of books atop it. You were not hunched over like the women selling her fish monger husband's catch as she picked the bones out of the filets, nor letting your hands drift over soft cloth as the younger women did. Many people glanced your way, a double take from one man, a woman letting her jaw fall open. Did they recognize you? Did they know who was in their midst? Joel thought he probably was no help, a knight in your wake, a hand on his sword as you walked in front of him. Though you did not seem to mind.

If anything, you seemed to lean into the surroundings, the town you would soon rule, slowing here and there to look at things that would be commonplace for others. You leaned down to inspect a cart of apples, still dusted with the fresh earth of morning harvest. You said good morning to a woman hanging linens from a line strung between two narrow buildings, watching them all as though each were something worth seeing. He wondered for a moment what his world looked like through your eyes. Or rather, the world he knew before the war.

He knew you'd been to town before, but never this part. Because he'd seen you at the tourneys seated beside your father, composed into something polite, but distant. You had been beautiful then, yes, any man with eyes could've seen you as such, but there had been nothing in your appearances that asked for more than a glance at your beauty. He thought you must be dull, fed on a spoon made of silver all your life.

He knew now that he'd been wrong. He knew it from that moment in the council room.

You came upon a small baker’s stall which was modest, though he had arranged it with care, rows of small pastries set out diligently, their tops glossed with cream or honey, fruit peeking through split seams of dough. The morning rays of sunlight glistening on the sticky glaze, making them shine indulgently next to the more fairly priced breads he sold.

“Good morning, sir,” you said, your voice bright as you gestured toward a cluster of the cream-topped pastries. “Might I ask what these are?”

The baker, a round man with flour still dusted along his sleeves, straightened a touch at the attention. “Sweet cakes, miss. Fruit within, icing on top. A rare treat, if I may say.”

Joel stood just behind your shoulder, saying nothing, though his gaze lingered over the display with a narrowing he could not quite help. Too much sugar for his tastes.

You nodded, already reaching for your coin.

“I will take one, please," you said as sweet as the sugary bakes.

Without meaning to, Joel clicked his teeth softly at the sight of it all, the sound slipping out under his breath before he could stop himself, and you turned toward him at once, catching it despite the busy noise of the street.

“Oh?” you said, and there was a note there now, curious, a little amused. “Have you a better thought, good knight? Or do you find fault with my choosing?”

He held still a moment, then shifted his weight, aware all at once of how close you stood, of how easily you had marked him. “You would break your fast on sugar alone, My Lady?”

You smiled at that, not offended in the least, if anything a touch more entertained. “And what would you have me take instead?”

He sighed, shaking his head.

“Go on,” you pressed lightly, tilting your head. “You have already judged me for it. You may as well finish the thought.”

He exhaled through his nose, faintly annoyed with himself for being pulled into it at all. “Gingerbread —if I wanted something sweet,” he said at last.

You turned back at once, as though that settled it entirely. “Then we shall have one of those as well.”

“No,” he started, sharper than he meant, “that is not—”

“Tis but thanks,” you said, easy as anything, waving him off as you pressed coin into the baker’s waiting hand. “For your guidance.”

He quieted the protest that sat on his lips as the baker passed the goods across the table, wrapping them in a scrap of paper binding.

You accepted both, then turned, holding the gingerbread out toward him without hesitation.

He did not take it.

You waited a beat, then another, your brows drawing just slightly. “What is it?”

“I cannot eat with this on,” he said, lifting a hand vaguely toward the helm.

“Then remove it.”

He nearly choked on the air he drew in. “My Lady—”

"Do not call me that," you said, flickering your eyes around, "you are terrible at following orders, like a stubborn old dog, you are."

He felt something like heat climb the back of his neck at that, irritation or something near it. “It's not so simple—”

“You are to call me by my name,” you went on, as though he had not spoken at all, as though the matter were already decided. "Say it now, so I know your memory is intact."

He whispered it. There was something that felt heavy on the tongue even as quiet as he said it. It sounded as if it echoed in the steel of his helmet. And yet you brightened at once, as though it was worthy of praise.

“Better,” you said, pleased. “Now take the gingerbread I have so kindly purchased for you, and eat.”

He looked at you a long moment through the narrow slit of his helm, measuring, perhaps, or simply trying to understand what manner of woman spoke so freely to a man she scarcely knew, or rather, what sort of princess wandered a market and bartered sweets like a common girl.

Bossy little thing, he thought, not without a trace of reluctant amusement.

Still, he took the cookie from you, and noticed how you did not look away as his opposite hand came to the front of his helmet.

“Come, then,” you said, lifting your own pastry. “We ought to share in it, should we not?”

Before he could answer, you tapped your sweet cream tart lightly against the edge of his gingerbread, the soft icing smearing against the darker surface, and took a bite with quiet satisfaction.

He hesitated only a moment longer before shifting the helm just enough to free his mouth, the movement careful and practiced over many hours within in the metal shell, revealing no more than necessary. He brought the gingerbread up and bit into it, the hearty spice hitting first, and then the sweetness of the cream from your tart that stuck to the side following after in a way he was surprised to enjoy.

He became aware, then, of your gaze fixed upon him, your eyes glued to the line of his jaw where it had been briefly revealed, catching what little they could before he settled the helm back into place as he chewed. He wondered what you thought about it as your eyes found his bearded face instead of the smooth, shaved skin that most men bore. It was not something he should be weighing—what you thought of him at all, that is— and he set his mind straight again as the moment passed.

You watched him for a heartbeat longer, something seemingly pleased in your expression, before you turned away as though nothing at all had passed between you, already stepping back into the current of the market.

Joel stayed close behind you for the next hour or so as you slowly ate away at the pastry in your hand, as if you meant to stretch it for as long as it would last, each bite taken with the same quiet attention, your steps wandering without aim through the streets while he remained fixed at your back, his gaze moving far less freely than yours ever did.

As you watched the people in their daily lives—a woman leaning from an upper window to shake out a rug so that dust lifted and drifted down in a fine, chalky cloud, a dog nosing at a heap of refuse in the gutter with ribs showing through its hide— Joel kept his eyes moving from face to face, from doorway to doorway, to the narrow breaks between buildings where a man might slip through unseen, his gloved fingers shifting rested steady at the pommel of his sword. Every now and then, he would reach his hand out to stop a passerby from brushing up against you too strongly, to course correct you before you stepped into a pile of horse manure in the road. Always gentle, brushing touches of his gloved hand against your soft silks at your arm.

And then you stopped so quickly he almost collided with you at the edge of the street where the cobbles beneath your feet gave way to a worn strip of packed dirt, your shoulders turning toward something low along the ground with a kind of quiet certainty that drew his attention just as quickly.

Joel followed the line of your sight and found a boy curled in against the base of a wall where the rough stone was marred with time and neglect. The child's were clothes little more than rags stitched together in patches, the hem of his shirt dress hanging past his knees and darkened with old dirt, his bare feet blackened from the road. He had his hands cupped loosely in his lap, not even holding a proper bowl, his eyes lowered as though he had learned already what it meant to be passed by without notice.

Joel had seen a hundred like him—children turned out into the streets while their families worked elsewhere in the city, sent to gather what coin they could from strangers. Most of their parents worked long hours in the fields, the riverbeds.

You stepped toward the boy then.

“My La—” Joel started, the warning there on his tongue, but you were already gathering your skirt in your hands so you might lower yourself, the fabric brushing the dirt as you knelt before the boy.

“Hello,” you said gently, and the boy’s head lifted, wide blue eyes flickering up at the first voice that had chosen to stop for him.

He said nothing, though his hands closed tighter in his lap, drawing closer to his chest as though unsure what to do with them now that he had been seen.

“Are you hungry?” you asked, your head tilting just slightly as you held out the partially-eaten pastry toward him.

The boy eyed it warily, but eventually, he nodded just the once.

"Where are your parents?" you asked.

His eyes flicked then, quickly moving between you and Joel, then widening at the sight of his steel-clad figure standing just behind you, and still he did not answer. When his gaze returned to you, it did not settle on your face, but on the pastry in your hand.

The boy reached out at last, small fingers darting forward to take what you offered, and then, quicker than Joel could blink, the boy was on his feet and running.

He nearly made a comment of typical beggar children, to not expect much of them, but you were back on your feet within a second and following the child.

"Wait—!" you called.

Joel felt a cold rush of panic strike through him at once as he lurched after you, his gaze catching the swing of your hair and the pull of your dress as you vanished around the stone corner. He made after you immediately, but you were quick footed and the boy even more so. He lost sight of you almost as soon as you whipped around the building.

The sound of his boots hitting the dirt path, the heavy breath within his helm, the sudden panic making his skin break out in a cold sweat— it all forced memories to flood him as fierce as the fear. Strong, cruel memories. It was as if he turned the corner and stepped into another world, into his own worst nightmares that came to him at night. Back to when the city had turned on itself with fear of sickness, people pouring into streets with carts and bundles of whatever they could carry to just get out and away.

His little girl's hand in his, running through the city as the residents feared for their lives and their loved ones, the sickness forcing people to decide to flee or stay, angry people and sicker ones, forming forceful packs around doctor's homes and bakeries and kitchens. Starvation, thirst, fear— it made people insane. He'd let go, or maybe she had. All he knew was her tiny, sweating fingers slid from his and she was lost in the crowd, and he was throwing himself between people, following the top of her little blonde head, until he couldn't see it anymore. She'd gotten caught in the crowd, pulled this way and that, and people shoved past without looking or stopping.

And he hadn't reached her in time when she went down. He didn't see her for what felt like hours but was only a few minutes… until he came upon her—blood blonde now, red, trampled—oh, god, the memories, the memories. Of screams and fear and—

It all pressed in on him as he ran after you, filling his chest until it hurt, dragging in shaky breath, his body moving harder through the alley as he took the next corner without slowing, his shoulder catching stone as he forced himself through. His eyes searched ahead for you and finding nothing but another stretch of passage where you had already disappeared.

But those weren’t the screams he was hearing now, though the fear of losing you in a crowd still stifled the breath in his lungs as he took yet another corner, his body braced for the same sight he had come upon once before.

Because the next corner he turned, his eyes didn’t descend onto a bloody blonde head in the dirt at his feet, but upon you in the center of a courtyard.

And the sound of the voices was not screaming or terrified or hungry, but of joy—laughter.

Children, all huddled around you, blushing and touching your pretty dress as you laughed with them.

As Joel caught his breath at the corner of the courtyard, you looked up at him with a beaming smile, though there was something else there, something he had not quite noticed before, a faint pull beneath it that did not match the brightness of the moment. He couldn't say exactly what it was, only that he saw a sadness behind your eyes, even as you turned back to the children, as though the fleeting glee of it all did not come without cost.

His mind struggled to settle, still caught between what had been and what was in front of him now, the memories clinging where they didn't belong, until the present forced itself back in with the sound of a door opening along the courtyard wall. A woman stepped out to greet you, older, thinning, with a worn apron tied around her narrow frame. The children gathered to her at once and clinging to her skirts with familiarity. She smiled as she took you in, her voice warm.

He caught pieces of the conversation as he approached.

“The coin does come every month, M’Lady, and we are grateful,” the woman assured, though her eyes stayed lowered, her hands wringing together at her waist.

So you’d told her who you were. Or maybe it was not something easily hidden, as he'd known from the start of the morning. Not when your silks were fine, your hair brushed, your skin untouched by labor.

Joel couldn't hear what you said, only that you murmured something gentle to her, your hand resting atop her knuckles. Coaxing, reassuring.

“It's just…" she hesitated, her eyes glancing between her hands and your face before she went on with a sigh, "Sometimes it is stretched thin before it even reaches the children. On rent for the house, for the water, ere we may even fetch loaves from the baker,” she said, her voice dipping with it, “There are many days we can scarcely get enough to feed them all. Often we are turning children away, for we cannot house nor feed them with what we are given.”

There was still a gratefulness in it as she went on, careful in her telling, as though she feared you might take even that from them. But you listened as though each word settled within you, your attention fixed on her in such a way Joel had not seen you give a single one of the men in the council chamber.

By the time he reached your side, his breathing had settled completely, only to catch again when your hand wrapped itself around his steel arm, and for a moment he wished he did not wear the armor at all.

He would tell you later how selfish it was to run off like that on him, how irresponsible. Though… he would not tell you how much it had frightened him, nor why, but he hoped you might come to understand that a woman such as you should not be so rash.

But for now, he would walk you back to your tower, your hand still wrapped around his arm, and know he would not stop you from doing it again.

𝓘t was the anniversary of Sarah's death the following day.

Joel had known he would not be able to forget it, not ever. And not when Tommy had come by his narrow barracks that morning to give him a slice of pie from the kitchens. Joel did not ask how he had gotten it, nor did he offer any thanks. He could not bear to blow out the little candle set atop it either. Tommy knew too, knew better after all, so he only set the dish down on Joel’s side table and let the man be.

"Happy birthday, brother," he said gently before shutting the door behind him.

𝓗is post that day was uneventful, and Joel was grateful for it. You had been kept in meetings with your closest secretary, a man with a beard that fell well past his chest, and the council chamber doors had remained shut for hours on end, your voice only ever reaching him in low murmurs through the wood. By the time his shift was over and the next guard came to take his place, he had not seen you once.

Joel could not bear to stand sober one moment longer.

He made for the town a few hours later.

No armor now, as it drew too much notice in the streets, though he felt the lack of it more keenly than he had in some time, his shoulders set without its weight, his hands left empty where steel might have steadied them. Most of The Guild knew his story, or enough of it, and he had no mind to spend the night among them either.

By dusk the stone lanes had quieted their usual clammer of life. Lantern light pooled on iron hooks, yeast and hearth smoke thickening the air while families huddled in their homes. Joel kept his head down as he moved through it all, not just for fear of being recognized or known, but for lack of wanting to be seen at all.

By the time he reached the tavern, night had settled in full and the place was crowded, the door swinging open and shut in turns as folk pushed through it, the inside warm with closeness of bodies, voices raised over one another, the scrape of stools and benches against the floor, the smell of ale and roasted meat and sweat worked deep into the room itself. A boy moved between the tables with a platter of trenchers stacked with coarse bread and slices of salt pork. Another man tore into a heel of cheese with his hands while coin clinked against the bar.

Joel pressed his tongue into his back molar again, making his jaw throb.

He didn't linger at the door, but made his way through the crowd and for the counter. As he sat on a free stool at the end, he set his coin down and took the ale as it was given in return without word, the tankard still damp where it had been rinsed, foam spilling over the rim as he lifted it to his lips. He drank it down in long swigs, hardly stopping for breath.

All he had done all day was be left to his thoughts, and they had not left him in kind. He planned to drink until they were gone from him.

He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, dragging the foam from his lip, and as his hand fell away, his gaze lifted without thought, catching on a shape to his right that had not been there a moment before, or had been and he had not seen it. A hooded figure sat at the bar beside him.

This was not so unheard of, most of all after sundown, when families turned in and the street changed hands to those with coin to spend and reason to hide.

Joel lifted a hand to the barmaid for another ale, holding it there a moment, two, waiting for her to look his way, but she did not, slipping past him again and again with her tray tilted against her hip. She was laughing raucously at something one of the men shouted while she set down the emptied pints. Finally, with her cheeks pink and smile wide, she made her way back at last, her pace slowing as she reached him.

“Hungry for somethin’, dear?” she asked.

“Ale,” he said, pushing more coin across the wood.

“You sure? Ought to put somethin’ on your stomach.”

“Make it two ales, then,” he grumbled.

He did not miss the way the cloaked figure beside him nearly leapt out of their seat, nor the pair of eyes that peered out from beneath the hood’s hem.

He clenched his jaw hard as he turned to stare into that gaze.

The barmaid only looked between him and the figure, her hand still wrapped round the handles of the pints before took them to be refilled. She soon was back, setting them down with a dull knock against the counter. They sloshed as they hit the wood, and Joel watched her from the corner of his eye as she asked the figure a question.

"Anythin' for ya?"

They shook their head quickly before the barmaid turned away.

Only when he reached for the first ale did his eyes flit away, his hand closing around the tankard. He drank deep, set the empty pint back down, and took hold of his third pint at once, his head beginning to feel lighter now, his shoulders easing by an inch beneath his tunic.

Finally.

He tipped the ale back and swallowed hard, and when he set it down again with the heart of his palm, the seat beside him had emptied.

His feet almost slipping underneath him and his head full of that fuzzy cotton lightness, he rose from his stool and headed for the door.

As he breached the threshold and saw the tip of the cloak whipping around the corner, he moved quickly and caught it in his fist, hauling the figure back into his chest. He could smell lavender, and something else—clean and fresh like spring's first breath after a harsh winter.

"Who do I have to fucking throttle for the fact you're all alone here, My Lady?"

You twisted in his arms and pushed him back, throwing yourself away. The hood atop your head fell as your spine hit the stone wall, only the light of a sliver of moon reflecting in your eyes—your pretty eyes. He was crowding you in an instant. Your gaze flashed up at him with more temper than fear, and you twisted under him with sharp little huffs of breath until he drove into you harder, his pelvis knocking your left hipbone against the wall, your thigh caught between his legs and held there.

“Unhand me, you brute,” you hissed, voice low and conspiratorial.

But Joel could already see, if only his mind's eye, whichever bastard had let you slip by—with a face all black and blue beneath his fists, because this had happened once before and that had already been once too many. Whoever had let you slip out of the keep again wanted their teeth scattered in the dirt by his hand.

“Who have you been sneaking past, Your Majesty?”

“I told you to stop calling me that.”

“And I told you not to go into town alone.”

Your chin tipped up another inch. “You knew me at once, did you?”

He looked down at you, his hand still bunched in your cloak, the other braced beside your head against the wall. “You nearly jumped out of your skin when I spoke.”

“You startled me.”

“Did I?”

“Yes.”

“That must be why you were staring holes through the side of my face.”

Your mouth pressed tight, though he could see the answer in it before you gave it. A note of amusement made your lips curl, and it made his head even fuzzier.

“You are not so difficult to know, Ser." you said, false confidence making your voice clear, "You are my knight of Truth. I know your voice by now. I know your bearded face as well.”

His grip shifted at that, for he knew for a fact you had not seen more than a prickle of his beard the day prior. His knuckles brushed your shoulder beneath the cloak. “Now who tells lies?”

You gave him a look then, one that ought to have been cutting and yet lingered too long to do the work of it. “Would you have me say I mistook you for some other ill-tempered ox in the dark?”

Joel let out a breath through his nose. “Ill-tempered.”

“You have me cornered in an alley.”

“If I had not stopped you, I could not be sure you'd—.” he stopped himself. His tongue was made loose by ale. "You cannot be out in the dark alone, Your Grace."

“I am not alone, I am in an alley with you.”

His mouth twitched before he could stop it. There was scarcely any room between you now. The stone held you at the back and he held you at the front, and all at once the anger had begun to fray at the edges, turning into something less fit for shouting. It sat low in his belly, and had his blood boiling for entirely other reasons. He could feel your breath touch his mouth when you spoke again when he remained silent.

“You forget yourself.”

The words should have struck him. In his right mind, he'd pull away now. He'd never get this close to begin with. Instead the words landed between the two of you with that same false temper, because your eyes had changed as you said it, and your body gave a small shift against his that did nothing at all to get free. Rather, your back slid down the wall a few inches so you could sit yourself perfectly on his knee.

Joel leaned in close enough that the tip of his nose nearly brushed yours. “That would be easier if you looked half so offended as you sound.”

That silenced you for a beat as your fingers, which had been caught between your bodies, found the front of his tunic and closed.

“I am telling you,” you whispered, though your chin lifted, "that your manner is vile.”

“Aye,” he said, looking at your mouth now.

He heard the catch of your breath and hated that he knew he'd harvest that sweet sound in his mind for safe keeping. Hated more that the ale in his blood had made him bold enough to keep you there and stupid enough to enjoy it. Distantly, he felt your warm hand where it stayed twisted in his tunic pull him infinitesimally closer. His thumb had slipped beneath the edge of your cloak and found the warmer cloth beneath, the finer weave fit for a woman like you, and that alone felt like too much. It reminded him: a knight did not lay hands on his princess in some narrow alley behind a tavern. A knight did not crowd her with his mouth half parted and his head gone warm with drink. If anyone had seen, he would have been dragged to the square by dawn and hanged for it.

Then a tavern door slammed somewhere beyond the mouth of the alley, followed by the spill of drunken voices and rough laughter, and his thoughts snapped like a castle bolt locked back into place.

He uncurled his hand from your cloak, let your weight slip from his knee as he straightened his leg, and stood back from you, shoulders drawing square again beneath his garb.

"I must see you back to your chambers now, My Lady."

He ignored the way your body slumped at the loss of him, the way the heat in your eyes guttered when the night air moved between you.

“All I came for was one night of freedom,” you said softly, your gaze dropping. It was near worse, that softer voice of yours. Worse than the wit, worse than the quick little barbs you liked to set between the two of you.

“So did I,” he said, “and yet.”

Your eyes lifted back to him then, taking in his face with a look so openly it made him shiver. As though you knew there would not be another time for this. To see him plain, uncovered—no helm, no steel, no dark visor to hide behind. Only the man himself, rough and graying and a little drunk. He set his face back into something blank and gave you nothing he did not mean to.

"And yet," you echoed.

Your gaze continued to wander over him as you said it, from his eyes to the old scar that cut across the bridge of his nose, down to his beard gone silver in places now, then up again to the thick disarray of his hair where his hands had been pushed through one too many times that night. He wanted you to stop looking. Wanted it because he did not know what sat on his face when you looked at him so. Wanted it because some part of him feared he did not want it to end.

“Why do we not make the most of this night, then?” you asked, and when his eyes found yours again, that spark of amusement had returned.

"I think not." he said plainly.

“Why?" You stepped nearer as you said it, the edge of your leather shoe toeing the front of his boot. "Would you have me wither away in my room like the rest of them? Am I not allowed one night’s freedom in my own kingdom? Am I not allowed to steal a kiss from a handsome man in some dark alley?”

Joel ground down on his jaw until his teeth creaked. Yes, it was a compliment. Yes, it made his blood flame again, his cheeks redden, his groin tighten with even the fleeting thought of your lips on his. But—

“A princess does not kiss knights,” he said plainly, his voice flat, hiding his thoughts. His eyes squeezed shut a moment before he looked back at you from under his brow. “A princess kisses lords. Marries princes—such will be the way of things for you.”

Your expression darkened in an instant.

“And here I thought, all this while,” you said, drawing yourself up straight, stock still now, your voice cold, “that you were a knight of truth. Yet I see you lie like the rest of them.”

Joel's eyes narrowed, not understanding.

“I asked you the other night whether you heard what those men asked of me in council. You did not answer. I took that silence for ignorance.” Your mouth sharpened with every word. “Yet here you stand, proving you knew well enough. They mean to sell me off. They say I cannot rule because I am a woman. That I must have a man at my side to take The Crown.”

Your words were venom now, the poison filling your mouth, spitting like a snake.

“I trusted you to—”

“You should not trust anyone, My Lady,” he cut in seriously. “Not in that keep. Not among men. Especially not where your future is concerned.”

Your eyes flashed.

“And it is not my fault,” he went on, “that I will not take you up on this mad offer of yours. It is not on me to steal your first kiss in a reeking alley with ale on my breath. I am only a knight, and you, you are—”

“I am a woman,” you snapped. “A woman asking a man to kiss her, to make this night bearable, for God’s sake!”

“The only thing happening tonight is that you are going back to your chambers,” he replied through gritted teeth. “Which is a kinder end than what might have befallen you had you sat beside any other man in that tavern.”

You glared at him.

He glared back.

And yet.

Still the heat in him did not ease. It ran under his skin, restless, mean, his blood beating hard with it. Want sat in him like a fever. As did anger. And something worse, something dangerously like grief.

“I am to take The Crown,” you said, voice plain and authoritative suddenly. Your shoulders squared beneath the cloak. The alley seemed to narrow around you, stone and shadow and the thin wash of moonlight caught along the trim at your throat.

“I shall rule this kingdom,” you went on, “and I am giving you an order. For you to disobey would be a stain upon your honor, your code, the very first law your Guild ever taught you. Do you understand, ser?”

Joel felt then like some damned hound brought to heel. Standing there before you with his hands empty, waiting for your word. He hated that you were right, that obedience had been hammered into him so long ago it lived in his bones now, deeper than drink, deeper than want.

"Tell me your name."

"Joel."

"Tell me your title, your entire name."

"Joel Miller." he swallowed against the knot in his throat, straightening to his full height, "Ser Joel of the Dawn, My Lady."

"Joel Miller." you said.

The air around the two of you held very still suddenly. The sound of his name in your mouth, not his title, the name bestowed upon him with the king's dying breath, but the name his mother gave him. The name of his father. His mind felt thick with the unknown, the ale making it fuzzier, but a sudden clarity to him as he watched your tongue swipe out to wet your bottom lip.

He suddenly had the wild thought that whatever words left your lips would set the course for everything after. That there was still, even now, a ledge beneath his feet. One he was not ready to step off from.

Then you looked at him and said, quiet as a prayer and twice as perilous—

“I order you to kiss me, Joel Miller.”

He heard your breath stop when he wet his own lips without thought. What in God’s name was he meant to do with that? Refuse a direct order from the very person he had sworn his obedience to, his life to, when he had bent the knee and sworn his life to The Crown itself? And here you were, standing before him, with all the force of it.

So, he did as he was bid—though his mind screamed for him to cease all movement—and leaned forward.

He did not touch you. One hand braced against the wall beside your head, sore already from the stone biting into the meat of his palm, the other held in a tight fist at his side. He bent his face down to yours, but did not close his eyes. If this was to be done, and done only once, then he would keep all of it. Every flicker in your gaze. Every small movement. Every catch in your breath.

The touch of his lips to yours was light enough to scarce be called a kiss at all, more ghost than man, feather-light. And the second his mouth met yours, he was drawing back again.

"If there is nothing else, Your Grace." he murmured, his voice low and rough as if the screaming in his head had been real, "We must be getting back."

You sighed then, and for a moment you looked terribly young in your disappointment, almost childish with your eyes lowered so plainly and your heart worn there for him to see. It made him curse himself all the more bitterly, because there was nothing childish in what he felt at the sight of it.

"No," you said, "there is nothing else."

𝓙oel’s head was hurting again.

He truly needed to lay off the ale, even on nights like the last, when all he wanted was to blur the world away. He was not sure whether his misery came from drink or lack of sleep, of which he had barely gotten any once he had seen you back to your chambers. He had held your hand up the same way as the night before, the only words exchanged between the two of you was a promise to not kill the night watch for his carelessness. He had dismissed the man all the same and taken his place for a few hours, standing there until he heard your snoring through the door and saw the first wash of morning creep across the hallway window.

And now he stood outside the council chamber doors once again, stifling yawns inside his helm.

You were late today, though the chamber was hardly quiet for it, voices rising over one another beyond the doors while the sound of trenchers, cups, and serving platters carried through the wood. Whatever had been laid out for breaking fast, it was enough for a crowd, and the room had the full swell of it, men talking over one another in easy spirits while chairs scraped and laughter broke out now and again between the louder voices.

Joel wondered if you'd been sleeping off the same humiliation he had spent the night trying to fight off. He felt stupid, ashamed—most of all, cowardly. Yet even with all of that souring his gut, he knew he had done right by the end, even if he was far too brazen to begin with. He was a lowly knight, and no man such as him had any business kissing a woman of your station in some back alley, no matter that you had stolen out of your tower and asked it of him.

As his thoughts meandered, he finally heard echoing footsteps down the corridor.

You were leading a small knot of council men, a foul look set upon your face. The gown you wore was a deep blue, rich even in the dim corridor, with a trim of pearls resting low around your neck. It suited you, and Joel could not force his gaze away. It made the anger in your face look sharper somehow, your eyes near red with it, your mouth set hard as you swept toward the doors.

You didn't even look at him.

He thought, perhaps wildly, that he still preferred your anger to your disappointment. But when you reached the council chamber doors and laid your hand to the iron ring, you paused. Then, at last, you looked up at him.

The smile you gave him was sweet enough to curdle milk.

“Come, I wish for you to join me inside today.”

And then you turned at once and fixed the two pallid men behind you with that same look.

“You are dismissed.”

“But—”

“My Lady—”

“Dis. Missed,” you seethed, and opened the doors, and Joel didn’t even allow a look back at the men before he followed inside.

Inside, the room felt as though it had burst wide open before his very eyes. What he had taken for the din of dishes and the breaking of fast turned out to be visitors, and many of them, near all gentleman callers by the look of it. Lords and princes alike with shining gold plates at their cuffs, deep rich cloth laid over doublets and surcoats, velvet sleeves, jeweled belts, chains of office resting against clean and unmarked skin. Every head in the room turned at your entrance. Smiles lifted their faces at once, a few men bowing, one or two bold enough to wink. Joel’s hand tightened round the pommel of his sword as he took his place along the side of the chamber, where he had, unfortunately, the clearest view of every man there setting himself to fawn over you.

He was in for an hour of hell.

A light touch at your shoulder. A hand at your back. A lingering kiss to your knuckles. Joel felt his blood heat by the minute, his helm growing hot and claustrophobic around him. Steel turning cage instead of shelter. He stood inside it trapped now, clad in iron to hide from the room, meant to watch and say nothing.

And he knew that you knew.

You kept flitting your eyes over your shoulder if a man laughed at your joke. You'd smile when one kissed your knuckles only to wipe it against your gown as they stood, another flick of your eyes to him in the corner. Every look told him plainly that this was no accident. You had forced him in here to stand witness to it all. To watch you smile at other men. To watch other men touch you. Perhaps to see what sort of creature it made of him. To perhaps teach him a lesson to never refuse you. His lips would sometimes tingle with the memory of the night before. But he did not give in.

He let the hour drag over him and bore the brunt of his vexation without moving as the sun climbed higher through the windows until it settled on his left shoulder and baked the steel there hot enough to sizzle. He kept his mind on that pain of the heat inside his helm instead. A new pain for an old one. Better that than dwell over the other one inside him, the one with no wound to show for it and no name besides.

It was not until the very end of the hour, when the lords and dukes and whoever else had begun bowing their heads in farewell and offering up their final words, that Joel had finally had enough.

“This has been a wondrous way to break my fast," a man was saying at your side. "I fear every breakfast hereafter shall pale beside it."

Tall and lean, he was handsome if Joel didn't want to snap his neck, and younger than him by enough to make him feel mean. The man was polished from head to heel, his doublet a deep burgundy stitched through with gold thread, a short mantle pinned at one shoulder with a jeweled brooch, rings glinting when he lifted his hand to touch the small of your back.

“Oh, but you lie, good sir,” you said back politely. “I know for a fact the gardens at Darbeshire are far fairer company than I. If I were made to break my fast whilst looking over those roses, I do not think I should wish to be anywhere else. But I do thank you for visiting.”

"Ah, but you are far lovelier to look upon than those flowers."

You gave him a tightly lipped grin, but there was no color in your cheeks and your smile hardly reached your eyes. Joel could not help the quick and ugly swell of satisfaction that filled him.

“Tell me,” the man said, stepping into you as you turned to see him toward the doors, “when I may look upon you again.”

“Oh,” you said, and Joel could have sworn your eyes flicked to him one final time, “I fear my days are not my own just now. I will need to speak to my council for any other visits—"

“Then I shall petition for one hour only,” the man said. “One walk. One turn through the gallery. One look, if you are cruel enough to deny me more.”

You gave a breath of a laugh for courtesy’s sake and kept moving towards the grand doors, though the smile on your face had begun to wear thin.

“You are too generous in your praise, My Lord.”

“I am sparing in it, truth be told. Were I honest, I should shame myself with the excess.”

That had you glancing aside at last, less charmed now and more like cornered, and still the fool pressed on, following close with all his bright confidence and gleaming teeth.

“At least grant me some token to carry away,” he said, stopping you from reaching the exit. “A ribbon from your sleeve. A pearl from your ear. Some small mercy for a man already half beset with the thought of leaving you here alone.”

“My Lord, I think you greatly overstate the matter.”

“I do not.” He smiled, and there was something in it Joel disliked at once, too pleased with itself, too certain. “You have made a ruin of me in a single morning.”

Whether it was your politeness or there was little left in you to suffer the prattling fool, Joel could not yet tell. But your patience had plainly frayed, and not in the way it had with him the night before. Your body had already turned away from the prince, or lord, or whatever shining title he wore— Joel cared for none of it. What he cared for was the way the man reached out with two spindly fingers to drift the back of them against the snug fabric of blue silk at your waist, just under your bust, admiringly so.

Joel was at your side before the next words could even leave your mouth.

"Sir—I think—"

Joel's hand closed round the man’s wrist and removed it from you in one hard motion. The prince stumbled back a half step, more from outrage than force, his face changing at once.

“You dare lay hands on me, knave?!”

“Your hour is done here,” Joel said, his voice rough with disuse, made rougher still by the helm that echoed.

The man looked him up and down. Where he might've been handsome from far away, he was more pallid and mousey up close. Joel wondered if he could feel his fiery gaze through the visor, as he made no move to come any closer to you.

"Do—" he scoffed again, mouth agape like some sort of guppy—"do you know who stands before you? I am the Duke of York, I am—"

"A man who has outstayed his welcome. I will see you out."

The duke stared up at Joel, "You forget your place, knight."

Joel did not move. You were strangely silent beside him.

"You are here to watch a door," the duke went on anyway, "not snatch at your betters like some kennel dog!”

Joel’s jaw tightened, “Then your betters ought to know when a lady has bid them enough.”

The duke’s eyes flashed. “I was speaking to Her Grace.”

“And now you are not,” your voice came suddenly.

That gave the duke pause. He turned to you, perhaps expecting a soft apology and simpering, but you had none for him.

“My Lord,” you said, your voice cool now, all sweetness spent, stepping forward, “I have thanked you for coming, I have bid you farewell. But I begin to think your ears are for ornament only. Must I say it a third time before you hear me?”

The prince barked a laugh, though there was no mirth in it. Where his face was befallen with surprise before, it soured now entirely. He looked between you and Joel for a moment with a curdled smile.

"Indeed?”“ His gaze felt oily as he looked upon you with something ugly. “You are not some merchant’s daughter to play the coy maid with me. You are a princess, and I had thought to indulge you and your blandness, seeing as you have so little to offer a man besides a crown and beauty.”

“Excuse me?” you said, sharp as a lash.

He turned toward you fully now, still flushed with his own offense. “What? Will you set your hound upon me because I admired you too well?”

“I will do as I please in my own court,” you said, your voice low now, which was always worse. “And you forget yourself far more than my knight ever has.”

Joel's stomach did a funny little swoop at that.

The prince’s mouth went thin. For a moment he said nothing, only stared at you with that same affronted disbelief men so often seemed to wear when told no by a woman. Then whatever sense had kept his tongue bridled failed him.

“Had your father still breath in him, this silliness would be done by nightfall,” he said pompously, seething and turning blotchy red as he loomed closer. “He’d have had you handed over to me without fuss, wedded in the chapel and beneath me in bed by dark, sparing the realm of your tiresome —"

He did not finish the sentence, because Joel's metal fist made contact with his perfectly straight nose.

The duke fell to the floor at once, knocked out cold upon the council room stone. Joel heard your gasp of surprise, and looked to you at once.

Your eyes were wide upon the duke, and then up at him.

"Apologies, Your Grace," Joel said as he shook the force of the blow from his gloved hand, "His tongue ran faster than my patience would allow."

For a moment you only stared at him wide eyed.

The room had suddenly become so still Joel could hear the faint crack and hiss of one of the hearth fires at the far wall over only his pounding heart. He wasn't sure if you would rage at him, throw him from the room for knocking out your suitor. But as he watched, something changed in your face. He saw it first in your eyes, the way the shock in them gave way to a brighter, near disbelieving glimmer. Then your brows pulled together, not in anger but in the strain of holding something back. Your hands stayed clasped over your mouth, though no gasp escaped now.

He saw the crinkling of your eyes, a light sparking in them, and you began to laugh. It slipped pasted your clasped hands, your shoulders shaking with undeniable mirth.

And suddenly, Joel found that he was laughing too. It broke from him in a sort of hiccuping cough at first, something his body had nearly forgotten how to do. He bowed his head once, though his helm hid his expression anyway. But lifted it once again to watch the warmth in your face, alive and gleeful as you looked upon him.

You drew a breath, trying to master yourself, though a last giggle still betrayed you as you dropped your hand.

“What an absolute pompous ass,” you said.

Joel’s mouth twitched.

You looked down at the sprawled duke with open disdain now, all sweetness gone as the moment passed. Joel bent down to lift the man and take him to the infirmary.

“Leave him there.”

He paused. “My Lady?”

“I shall take my noon rest,” you said, smoothing one hand down the front of your gown, though your eyes were still bright with laughter. “Will you stand guard at my door, ser Joel?"

He stood slowly.

"If you wish it, M'Lady."

“Very good. Let us take our leave,” you said simply, "and we will leave him to wake to his humiliation where he lies. I'm sure he will take his leave with as little grandeur as he deserves.”

Joel nodded, and escorted you out.

𝓞utside your door for the rest of the day, Joel let the hours pass him by without much notice of the comings and goings. Yes, he watched dutifully as always when one of your ladies came by, a new book in hand for you, it seemed, keeping you well entertained through the day. As the sun began to lower, a few servant boys came up with hot water in buckets, one of them red in the face with the strain of carrying it careful up the steep stair. But the traffic thinned as evening wore on, the hallway settling into long stretches of quiet broken only by footsteps far below.

His mind wandered more than he cared to admit. Back to that morning, to the princes and their soft clean hands, the jewels that flashed in the golden sunlight that came through the room as they drank and ate the morning away. He had stood firm and watched while they fawned over you, kissed your knuckles, laid hands to your shoulder or the small of your back when they'd lean in to speak to you.

He would not dare try to name the feeling that rose in him at the thought. Particularly not when it came to that duke of where-the-fuck who laid hands and filthy words upon you. His knuckles were still sore, and he glanced down at them as if he could see through the steel plated gauntlet, flexing and fisting his fingers. It was dangerous to strike a man of such stature, he knew that, though he had only thought of it after. His blood and his body were meant to serve his princess. He did not care what other title stood in the way of your safety.

He realized, after a moment, that he had hardly thought of his daughter the past half day. He had meant to drink himself stupid the night before, to rid himself of the memories and the guilt and another turn of the sun for him but not for his own girl. He had wanted to be wake up to a splitting head and a rolling stomach because he deserved no less. Wanted to dwell in the pain of it all like he did every year since. But instead... he suddenly was glad he hadn't drank more, and found he liked the memories of the alley now. Of you there in the dark, with your false confidence ordering him about like a dog meant to heel. He did not like what the memories did to him, however. The way his blood seemed to leave his head and settle low in his gut and loins. It would not do. He told himself that over and over, like knocking his own skull with a mallet. He must rid himself of such visions, of the memory of your featherlight touch where he had barely kissed you.

He felt stupid. That was the word for it. Stupid and past his years. He was old enough to know better. To know what came of letting himself be pulled around by a woman’s eyes, no matter that woman wore a crown’s future on her head. Old enough to know the distance between a knight and a princess was not something crossed in taverns or alleys or hallways outside her bedchamber. Yet there he stood, same as he had stood all day, held in place as much by his own thoughts as by duty.

A servant came to set the torches burning, one by one, and the stone walls took on that evening color they always did, gold near the flames, brown in the corners, black where the ceiling beams cut across overhead. Somewhere below, voices had started again. Supper, likely. Men off duty and cups being set down. He heard a dog barking once in the yard. Joel listened without really hearing any of it.

When the steps came on the stair at last, steady and heavy with armor, he looked up.

Joel did not move when the other knight reached the top of the landing. He only watched them come broad in the torchlight, helm on, hand resting easy at the pommel of his sword as though this were any other turn of the watch.

“It is late,” the man said, voice muffled beneath the steel. “You may go.”

Joel stayed where he was.

“She has slipped her chambers twice now,” he said, voice becoming more rough hewn, more frustrated. “Twice in two nights. Did you know?”

The other knight slowed.

Joel stepped forward then, not enough to crowd him, yet enough to make plain the matter would not be waved off. “And unless you are witless, that means she did not do it without negligence. Was a door left unguarded, a passage left unwatched? Or a man on duty with his head up his own ass? Which was it?”

The knight stiffened at once. “You should mind your tongue, brother.”

“You should mind your post.”

But as Joel spat the words, realization crept upon him, or, rather, recognition.

"…Tommy?"

The knight lifted his visor, and Joel saw at once the blue-green of his brother’s eyes.

“Tommy,” he said again, this time with a long breath.

“Joel?”

Joel pushed up his own visor then, enough for his brother to see him plain enough. Not only a brother of the guard before him, but his own brother in blood.

"It's been too long, hasn't it?" Tommy said, and Joel could see the crinkling around his brother's eyes, a smile widening beneath the steel covering.

“Aye. Overlong indeed,” Joel said, and let his visor fall shut again with a clang. “Had I known this was the sort of watchman you’d make, I would have taught you better long ago.”

"You forget it is I who have been a knight longer than you, brother." Tommy only chuckled genially. “But I shall do better this night. There is no need to worry. I shall see to it my rounds are passed with each hour from here to the stair and back again—”

Joel shook his head, a creaking of steel with the motion, “No. Go down to the garden stair and begin your watch there. I shall remain here and guard this door.”

Tommy paused. “Have you not stood here all day?”

“Aye.”

“Then you have need of sleep, brother. I shall send another in my stead to—”

“No need.”

Tommy’s helm tilted with disbelief. Joel could picture the look beneath it easily enough. He had known that look since Tommy and him were only boys, seeing straight through his stubbornness.

“You need rest, Joel,” Tommy said with a sigh. “Most of all after yesterday—”

“Have a good night, Tommy,” Joel cut in. “I shall see you in the morn when we break fast.”

Tommy was quiet for a moment, then said, “Very well. I shall go below and send someone up with your supper. I doubt you have eaten a bite, knowing how you mark the day.”

Joel rolled his eyes, though Tommy could not see it.

“Fine,” he said.

Tommy nodded once. “Good night, brother.”

“Good night.”

𝓐fter his meat pie and potato stew, Joel had begun to feel the full weight of the day.

The castle had gone quiet in only the way it did deep into the night, the fires burning low in the torches, the doors long shut of the nurses and cooks and servants fast asleep in their chambers. There were no footsteps in the corridor now, only the crickets outside the window kept him company through the long hours.

His eyes threatened to droop now and then, the steady set of his guard beginning to slacken as his body swayed before he caught himself. His legs were sore. His back ached. At least the pain in his head had eased with food and water, leaving him only with the deep drag of tiredness settling into his bones.

You had been so quiet the rest of the evening, the entire day if he thought of it. He wondered if you had your nose between the pages of that book your lady-in-waiting had brought. Or maybe you were so tired from the previous night and finally were getting your rest. Perhaps you just did not want to see anyone. Joel would understand that best.

That was why, when he heard the sound the first time, he thought he had imagined it.

It was so faint—he couldn't have said for certain whether it had come from within your chambers or some dreamlike place between wakefulness and sleep. He lifted his head from where it had just begun to dip again, his entire body stilling as he listened.

But then, nothing. Only the crickets keeping him company beyond the window, and the soft crackle of torchfire along the wall.

Joel frowned, looking out into the dark stretch of stone corridor, but there was nothing there.

And just as he began to dismiss it as some trick of his tired mind, he heard it again.

No, that had most certainly come from your chambers. And it was soft but unmistakable, forcing the drowsiness from him at once.

And then, you were calling his name. As if pained, as if you needed something and you were so weak you couldn't bare to yell it or even call to him.

"Joel, please."

His head filled at once with terrible possibilities. Had you been hurt? Had someone come in the night and set upon you in your sleep? But how would they have got past your guard? Had Tommy been struck down and left crumpled at the garden door while some intruder made his way inside?

Joel felt the last of his tiredness leave him in a rush. He pushed through the door and took the winding staircase two steps at a time, his hand skidding once against the stone wall as he climbed, already expecting to find some dark figure at your window or slipping through the garden door below—

But he did not.

Instead he found the candles by your bed still burning low, their light pooled soft and gold across the room.

Your chamber was richer than anything below. It smelled of lavender, fresh clean linen and pressed oils. A great bed stood at the center of it, raised on a carved frame dark as old walnut, the curtains tied back in pale drapes that spilled from the canopy like silk. Fine linen hung in layers round the posts, gathered and draped with a care no soldier’s room had ever known. The coverlets were cream colored and worked over with little stitched flowers and trimmed edges, the pillows heaped high enough to swallow a body whole. A lamp burned on the table beside it, throwing light over a rug patterned dark at the foot of the bed, over the washstand in the corner, over fabric that had been thrown to the floor in a heap. It was as messy and as elegant only a woman’s room could be.

And you were laid in the middle of it upon the heaps of down pillows and duvet.

You weren't wounded like the nightmare his mind casted upon him. You were only sunken into the bed coverings, settled heavy with your face turned towards him as he entered. There was nothing of alarm in your expression—no fear, no pain he could see. Only a soft, faraway look of someone not wholly in the room with him.

“Oh,” you said gently, a small smile tugging like a string tied at the corner your mouth. “I must have fallen asleep. This is a dream, is it not?”

Your hands were hidden in your lap beneath layers of your gown, still in that deep blue from earlier. It lay dark against the pale linen, rumpled now from rest and restlessness, sleeves pushed up, pearl necklace and gloves gone and strewn over your bedside table. Your face looked loose with rest, lashes lowering, the hard edge of politeness he had watched you wear all morning nowhere to be found.

“My knight of truth,” you sighed, then caught your lip lightly between your teeth. “Come closer.”

Joel didn't know what to do. So he stayed frozen in the doorway.

You didn't look hurt, you looked…serene. Soft and pleased, even, with that hooded gaze fixed upon him.

He should not be here.

The thought rang through his head loud as church bells in the square. He should not be in your bedchamber. Not at this hour, not at any hour.

You let out a soft, simpering sigh when he did not move. Your eyes opened a little wider then, blinking awake, your teeth still worrying your lower lip.

“Mmm,” you hummed, and only then did Joel see the shift of your arm where it lay hidden beneath the folds of blue in your lap. “Then perhaps I am not dreaming,” you said, your voice thick with sleep. “You listen much better in my dreams.”

Joel almost had half a mind to laugh.

He climbed the last step and came fully into the room.

"Take off the helmet, ser," you said a little breathless, "and come closer."

Joel only listened to one of those orders, the less dangerous of the two, and stepped closer to you.

One step.

Then another.

He had come halfway to the bed when he saw you properly and turned his back at once with a sharp breath.

“Your Grace—”

You let out an petulant scoff of breath, and he heard the duvet move as if you'd kicked your legs like a child.

"You are such a terrible listener!" you whined.

"Please, My Lady, I should leave you to your—"

"Turn around, Joel Miller. And come stand at my bed." you said. Fully awake. An order not to be disobeyed.

He stood rigid, staring instead at the portrait hung beside the doorway. Yourself, painted fine and bright in an ornate frame, hair dressed perfect, those same pretty eyes fixed on him from canvas and bed alike. His blood was hot and thrumming in his veins, shooting up his neck in a deep flush. His fingers fisted, the steel of his gauntlet creaking with the strain.

Fuck.

“Turn around,” you said again, stronger now, your voice carrying all the weight of The Crown.

He turned.

And he saw you. You, with your dress turned up and hiked over your hips and stomach so that your legs were spread out, your hands not only just laying in your lap but between them, one spreading your folds open, the other with a delicate finger playing with your most sensitive flesh.

Joel looked only at your face.

"Good." you smiled. "Now the helmet."

Joel murmured your name, and you only moaned.

He swallowed hard.

“Please,” he said, and his voice came rough, “I cannot be here. What are you doing awake at this hour? You ought to be asleep.”

“I cannot,” you whined. “I could not stop thinking of you striking that idiot this morning. It made me so... you make me so...” You shut your eyes, drawing in a heavy breath, and the sound you made then had Joel fixing his gaze on the bedpost behind you, on the carved wood, on anything but the sight of your hand between your thighs.

“And what of you, knight?” you asked when your eyes reopened. “Do you think of me as I think of you? With your hand on your—”

“Jesus—” he cut in. “No. No, I do not—”

“Joel,” you groaned, throwing your head back so the column of your neck shone in the firelight, a bead of sweat making it glisten, “you are the only man here who does not lie to me. I would rather you did not begin now.”

He was silenced.

“Everyone lies to me,” you went on, breathless now, your fingers still moving as you looked back at him. “They tell me what they think I wish to hear. They flatter me with pretty words. They speak to The Crown and not to me. You are the only one who does not sound tired of me before I have even finished speaking. The only one who does not look at me and see what may be gained. You are the only one who sees me at all. And you make me half mad.”

Joel was breathing hard himself, his thoughts clawing in every direction, trying to fix on anything but the bed before him, the sound of your voice, the shape of your mouth when you said his name.

And he knew at once, a single truth.

He had never taken his place in The Guild for honor or nobility. He had not trained for twenty and one years from boyhood nor for the sake of The Crown, nor for any shining notion of duty. He had joined because there was a deep, empty chasm within him that demanded to be fed, and when his daughter died it had only widened, and widened, and widened, until it seemed it would take the whole of him if he did not give it something. Order. Coldness. Blood. A wall to put his back against. A blade in his hand.

But just now, in this moment, he understood that none of it had filled him the way you had in the last few days of being in your stead. You had stepped up to him so close that day in the chambers, close enough to make him forget himself. You had terrified him with how slippery you were, how easily you slid past every wall set between you and what you wanted. You had silenced him with your wit and your strength. And you had made him an absolute fool in his wanting just last night. He felt lighter than ever before.

That was what made him answer:

“Yes, Your Grace,” he said at last, barely above a whisper. “I do think of you.”

Candlelight flickered over the pale curtains of the bed, over the dark blue of your gown pulled high to the crease of your thighs and over the sheets wrinkled beneath your legs, over your face as you watched him with that dazed, wanting look that would have been easier to bear if there had been any shame in it.

You sighed again, and Joel wondered how you had so much breath in you, giving it up in long, dragging pulls while his own seemed held tight in his throat.

“I will tell you this, Joel Miller,” you said at last, when neither of you gave way. “And it is my final order. Do you understand?”

He nodded.

“An answer, please.”

“Aye, My Lady. I understand.”

“You are to choose your next step of your own accord. I will not force you, nor command anything further of you, Ser Joel of the Dawn.”

Your voice caught a little then, though your eyes never left his.

“But know this, and know it well: I want you, and I want you badly. I am not much accustomed to being denied what I desire, as I think you know by now. Yet I would not force you to me. So the choosing is yours.”

You drew in one last shaky breath, nervousness now clear as day in your eyes as you looked at him from the nest of your bed:

"But I would have you choose now. My hand prunes with how wet you make me. And if you will not have me, I would much rather suffer alone."

Joel’s feet moved of their own accord then, not from any order, nor fear of disobedience. He walked toward the foot of the bed and what he saw there nearly stopped his heart in his chest.

You looked up at him with a smile dimpling your cheek, your hooded eyes soft as they found him. Your breasts spilled high above the tight blue bodice, and below that, you had bared yourself to him with your skirts shoved up over your hips. Your hand laid gently over your core, and he saw how you glistened. It pearled in the hair around it, a beautiful basin of nectar waiting for his taking.

"Is this your decision, Ser Knight?"

His hands rose to his head, to that steel shell that had kept him safe from being seen, from being known too well, and slowly he lifted it off. He held it at his side and looked at you, and God, you were a sight fit to kill a man where he stood.

"Joel."

That made him look up. Your fingers between your sweet lips and his name on the other.

"Your answer," you whispered.

He held out his hand to you, and you replied in silence, lifting your own from between your legs and reaching for him. Before you could touch him, he tore off his gauntlets and cast them aside with a dull clank to the thick blanket upon the floor, then took your hand in his. Hot skin met hot skin. He felt the slickness of you on the pads of your fingers, and it sent a hard shiver through him. He brought your hand to his mouth and closed his lips around your first two fingers, and groaned deeply at the taste.

Soft, supple, tasting of musk and honey and delight. It was like that pastry cream upon his spiced gingerbread so many days ago. And he loved the taste much the same. He suckled them deep, tongue slipping between and licking up every line and dip of your delicate fingers.

“What would you have of me, princess,” he murmured against your fingertips, kissing them once before drawing back, “if I said yes?”

Your eyes were on his mouth as they pressed against your fingers, your breath labored and panting.

"I—" you hiccuped, licking your lips, "I would have you undress. Take off all this—y-your armor—and—and—"

Had he made you so nervous suddenly?

It made his blood surge.

“And?” he asked with low tones.

"I want to watch—" you suddenly went bashful as your eyes found his, then dropped again as your gaze trailed down and down and down until—

"I wish to watch your arousal grow for me."

So he gently let go of your hand, and began to undress in silence.

"So it is…a yes?" you said again.

He had never seen you so unsure before, so nervous in his presence.

"Yes, Your Grace." he finally said. "I will take you as you want, I will kiss you as you had asked. I will do anything you ask."

“Take off this irritating steel first,” you said at once, as if you'd held the words in waiting, long enough that they came out with impatience. “It pains me that you hide such beauty beneath it. You are the most handsome man I have ever seen, and I have only ever seen a third of you.”

Joel felt his lips twitch.

"I've never seen that before either." you said.

"What?" he asked, unlatching his breast and arm plates.

"Your smile."

Suddenly you were sitting up, hand lifted between the space between you, hovering over his cheek. When he did not stop you, you let the pads of your fingers drift lightly along his cheekbone. It felt foreign, strange, but not unwelcome. Warm. Soft, gentle. Your eyes watched him, bright and eager, and it set a small stir in his chest. His mind dulled as you traced the line of his nose, down over the curve of his top lip, the bottom one, then down to his wiry chin. He caught your wrist when your hand began to wander down his throat, cradled it in his palm, and pressed a kiss to the center.

"If I do this, if we do this…." he said very seriously. You had to know. "There is no coming back from it. Do you understand?"

You nodded.

"Make it clear in your head—you will no longer be a virgin for your husband one day, and you will always be mine."

You bit your lip, "I understand, Joel."

He leaned down, and finally, finally, kissed you.

Heat.

It was as if his body was made of it, blinding, kindled only by your touch.

You made a small sound at the force of it, his mouth finding yours with such certainty that it shocked a noise from him too— a deep, hungry groan. His tongue pressed at the seam of your lips, and you opened for him so easily, so sweetly, that he had to pull back almost immediately and press his forehead to yours just to keep hold of himself.

"Fuck," he muttered against your mouth before planting a sweeter, chaste kiss to it.

He watched as you licked your lips, breathing in every exhale of his.

You carded your hands through his hair, and God, it felt so fucking good. Touch, want, your fingers working through his hair, those little sounds leaving you for him and no one else. It had been so long that the hunger he felt it made him nauseous.

He pulled away then and began stripping off the rest of his armor with more haste than care, setting each piece down as quietly as he could for fear the night watch below might hear the fall of it. You had pushed yourself up onto your knees in the bed to watch him, your eyes bright with an eagerness that made his pulse kick harder the more of himself he uncovered.

By the time he was down to his tunic and linen trousers, you gave him a look that said plainly it was not enough.

"These too."

"Bossy little minx," he said, shaking his head, "Patience is a virtue, didn't your council ever tell you?"

"They tried." you smiled.

He chuckled, and pulled his shirt over his head, and your hands were immediately upon him with avidity. Nimble, light touches that made him flush in goosebumps. They traced down over the wiry hair that trailed beneath his linen pants, your fingers setting his skin in a line of fire as you hooked in the waistband and began pushing them down.

His member was only half hard, as he had tried so hard to cast his mind from you at all that he had to control himself.

You sank back against the pillows then, unable, it seemed, to stop looking at him. He stood at the end of the bed, broad against all the pale linen and carved wood and soft drapery, and for a moment he felt almost ashamed of the roughness of himself in a room so clean and fine.

“You are...” you said, then shook your head a little. “The most beautiful thing I have ever seen, Joel Miller.”

He didn't realize he still had it in him to blush like some teenage boy. His cock swelled and twitched when you squirmed before him. Your smile widened, as did your eyes as you watched it twitch for you.

"I am not the one who is worthy of such praise, Your Grace," he said, following you down into bed, "I have never in all my years—and years I have, more than anything—seen something as stunning as you."

Your finger caught between your teeth, nervousness again, it made his cock jump in excitement again, surging with need, and his lips pulled up in a smile. You grinned up at him as your other hand reached around his shoulders when he finally reached you.

"You are ridiculous," you giggled.

He looked at you with disbelief, "Ah, but it's not just that, is it?" he said roughly, kissing your lips softly, before planting another on your chin, and then down your jaw, and then on your clavicle. He kissed where your breasts nearly spilled above your neckline.

"It is not your beauty that has me in your bed right now, Your Grace," he said.

"Please say my name when you are kissing my flesh, Joel. That or something sweet, something you'd bestow upon a lover."

A lover.

Joel paused his kissing, stealing his breath.

"I'm—I'm sorry—" you began, your hand reaching for his hair, as if trying to soothe. You pushed the dark hair that tickled his forehead back, scratching your nails through his scalp, "I know we are not…that you don't want…"

"Make no mistake, baby, I do want." he said hoarsely. "It's all I've ever felt around you."

Your hand stayed in his hair as if you knew there was something else. A hesitation on his tongue.

"But?" you urged.

"But…the last time I loved anything…it…I… I can't…"

"It's alright, Joel, just for tonight, let's pretend." you said softly, your smile still pulling your lips like thread, though it was sadder now, he could see it. "I'm a big girl. I can handle what comes tomorrow."

He lifted his head and looked at you for a long moment.

Then he gave the smallest nod. “Aye,” he said softly. “I think you can.”

His lips went back to your soft skin at once, to the warm slope of your breasts, and his hands slid between you and the bedspread to draw you fully into him while he worked at the ties of your bodice.

You hummed pleasantly, still watching him, always watching him. Finally, when your bodice came undone, you were quick to pull the rest of it away, and soon you were bare to him. Joel suddenly realized the only person who had seen you in such a way your entire life was probably your mother as a babe.

You were stunning. Curves made for his hands and supple skin for the taking. You squirmed a little in the bed beneath him as he looked upon your figure, breasts heavy enough to make his mouth water when he finally bent to take one into his mouth.

You gasped when his lips closed around the nipple, and his hips pressed into you with need. His cock was aching now, and he realized you had not truly been able to watch him harden for you, but he was in another frame of mind now, so taken by his wanting that he moaned when your back arched into him, kissing between the valley of your breasts before taking the other into his mouth. He suckled it hard, then gentler, then let the edge of his teeth drag lightly over the pebbled flesh.

“Oh,” was all you could say as his hand palmed the other breast in time with his mouth. Your legs wrapped gently around him, and he could feel your wet center begging for his cock to enter you, but he would wait, be good and patient if only for you, to get you ready. For now, he let his member slide between the soft, hot folds, both of you moaning at the feeling.

His lips left you with a soft pop as he kissed down your ribs, to your navel, his tongue tracing around it until it dipped into the skin, just tasting every inch he could find. Your hand stayed in his hair until you could no longer reach, and then he was lifting your legs over his shoulders.

"What do you know about bedding, baby?"

You hummed, hips squirming.

“A little.”

“Oh?” he asked, looking up at you through his lashes. And God, if it was not the finest sight. Your breasts rising and falling with every breath, your soft belly moving with the undulation of your hips.

“Mmm,” you hummed again, dreamlike. “My lady-in-waiting told me of her first time once. My mother only said it may hurt.”

Joel nodded, kissing the top of your mound, a thicket of pretty hair meeting his lips, a pearl of your arousal sticking to his mustache, and he licked it off.

"Some find the…initial entrance a bit uncomfortable, I will not lie to you. But it passes, as long as I am gentle."

"Will you be gentle with me, Joel?" you asked. And when his eyes met yours, he was surprised to see a spark of challenge in them.

“If you wish—” he said, kissing the line where your thigh met your center. Your skin rose in gooseflesh beneath his mouth.

"And if I don't want you to be gentle?"

He didn't answer that.

“—But this,” he said between kisses, his mouth close enough now that the scent of you had his head light and cotton-made, “this should feel good. You will tell me if it does not. Do you understand?”

You nodded. “I do.”

"You are so beautiful, baby," he said softly, and kissed the pearl that was your clit at the top of your center. Sweet, honey musk filled his mouth at the touch, his tongue laving at the bud. He heard how your breath caught in your lungs, and you laid flat on your back, giving yourself over to the sensation.

"Tastes like those god damn pastries you like so much," he growled between long, fat licks, "so fucking sweet."

He heard a thick dispelling of breath from you that might've been a laugh had he not had you under his tongue, and your legs fell open even wider for him as he suckled your clit into his mouth.

"Oh—" you breathed, "that feel so—so—"

Joel groaned at the way your body answered him. He grew more intent, more certain with his tongue, listening to every sound you made, every catch in your breath, every shift of your hips beneath his mouth. And he replied in earnest with his wet muscle of his tongue, tasting and eating and taking. Your moans only climbed higher, and with them something possessive and ugly stirred in him again. He wondered, a little maddened, whether you had ever felt anything like this before. Whether your own hand had ever brought you here the way he was doing now. The thought made him near sick with jealousy, that you might ever lie in this bed again without him and try to find your way back to this feeling alone. That someone else, a husband perhaps…would…

And when his tongue prodded into your entrance that now flooded with slick and wetness made from sweet nectar, his nose nudging your clit, your back bowed in a flash, your hands in fists as you clenched the bedsheets, and he felt your cunt pulse against his mouth as you claimed your orgasm.

A loud, mewling noise left your open mouth as he let your hips shift up and down his mouth, tongue flat as you rode out the wave of ecstasy.

When you had settled and your hips began to soften and ease, he kissed your bud a few more times before you were twitching from sensitivity, and he began to climb over you.

"And how are you feeling, Your Grace?"

"What did I say about my name?"

Joel smiled down at you, a little dazed, before he moved to your side and pulled you back against his chest. You smelled so lovely, your hair a bouquet of scent, as if you'd been in the garden—lavender and lilacs, sprigs of rosemary all filled his nose as he buried it into your hair for a moment. Like spring and warmth and newness.

He pressed a kiss to your ear, and you let out a soft, pleased sigh as he whispered your name into the shell of your ear.

"I feel wonderful," you said dreamily, your arm hooking over your shoulder so your fingers could go back to his hair, playing with the nape of his neck as you looked over at him.

You kissed him softly, plump lips swollen, and his hands began to roam of their own accord and own mind, over your chest to fondle you, down to your belly and below to dip his fingers in your weeping core, pulling you against him.

"You feel…" you said, a little nervous again, yet pushing your bum back into him anyway, "big."

Joel nodded, kissing your lips again, "Yes, but you will take it."

He felt you shiver beneath him.

“And I know you will take it well,” he added, his mouth brushing yours with every word, “only if you are certain you want it.”

"Yes," your hands tightened in his hair, "I want you, more than anything I've ever…"

He didn't let you finish, the sentence, the words of want, of need. He was too afraid of what they would do to him. So he kissed you hard, tongues rolling and sliding against one another, and he adjusted his hips so that he could angle himself against you. The tip of his cock circled your clit, making you whimper beneath him, until he was breaching your tight entrance. It turned his brain to mush so fast he had to take a moment to return to himself, panting hot breath on your mouth.

"Joel—!" you squeaked, and he only kissed you harder, distracting. But he saw how your brow knitted together, how your jaw went slack as his lips found purchase.

"It's alright, baby," he cooed, "that's all, just a little, look at me now, look."

And you opened your eyes, black pupils overtaking that pretty color of your irises, arousal glossing over your features, but there was an uncertainty clouding them, pulling your brows close.

"Just you and me." he said softly, "Gonna go real slow, okay?"

You nodded. "Hold me."

He did as he was bid—wrapping his arms tightly around you, letting his hips push another inch or so inside—and your jaw unhinged, eyes bulging a little.

His arms wound around you so tight he thought he might steal the air from your lungs.

"Deep breath in, baby, real deep. Yeah, that's it," he whispered against your skin and he could hear the scrape of his own beard against the smooth skin of your cheek, could feel your ribcage expanding with air as you inhaled deeply.

"And out," he sighed, as if demonstrating.

And as your breath left you, he pushed in the remaining eight inches of himself, stretching your tight cunt until it wrapped around him in slick, pulsing heat. He watched every change in your face, heard every sound that hitched in your throat.

Your neck bent back into the pillow, your jaw wide enough to unhinge from your skull, and he kissed your skin sweetly, quickly, breathing hard.

He had to remind himself to stay still. Your velvet walls, the wet heat you made for him, only for him, always for him, it made him insane. His brain was overcome with it, with the need to fill you with himself.

He hadn't had…he hadn't been with anyone in so long. And for it to be you. You, stunning beauty and quick wit and heavy crown looming over your head. You, who wanted him just as much despite the circumstance.

He had to remind himself to be good, polite. Because that broken chasm in him was slowly starting to knit itself together inside of him, though it begged for more now. It hungered for something more from you, to take—no, not take, but to give. And he'd give you everything.

"Fuck, baby," he groaned, cock swelling and twitching inside of you. "I—"

"Move," you whispered, hand tightening in his hair again, "Please,"

"Are you certain?" he breathed heavily, chest pricking with sweat against your soft back, "We should take it slow—"

"Please, please move, Joel," you whined, eyes fluttering closed, tongue poking out to lick your dried lips as you began to babble. "I feel so full, so… oh, this is everything. I feel you in my stomach, so so full— I feel you everywhere."

Joel kissed the crest of your shoulder before pulling out only an inch or so, and watched as your eyes rolled to the back of your head.

"Oh my fucking god—"

He nearly laughed at your filthy mouth. He'd never heard you say more than a quick insult, let alone a curse.

"I want more—harder—more more moremoremoremore—"

The feeling was too great. Your cunt was holding onto him in a vice like grip, sucking his cock in greedily, and his mind was lost to it.

"I'm going to take you now," he growled into your neck, and before he could even finish the sentence, you were nodding.

He flipped you onto your stomach with rough hands, and mounted you, though he stayed lain across your back so his hips moved freely. He began pulling almost all the way out slowly, until you were whining and kicking your feet for more—

And then he began to move.

Hips swinging forward and back, fucking you in earnest, the bed creaked and slammed against the wall, your moans filling the chamber and his ears. His mind was gone now, completely gone to this feeling—your weeping cunt made for taking him, and taking him so god damn well. Joel thought everything made sense now. Why you'd challenged him, why you'd driven him insane when you'd snuck out, why he'd cornered you in the alley like a brute—it was all leading to this. Him, fucking you, and you, taking it so beautifully. He'd never had anything like it.

"You take it so well for a girl who's never seen cock before, Your Grace," he groaned into your ear, wrapping his arms around your torso so there would be no inch of skin not discovered by him.

Your mouth hung open, breath spilling out, your hands holding onto where his arms held you. He watched as a bit of spit caught at the pillow as you looked over your shoulder at him with a smile. "Only yours, Joel Miller. And yours is the only one I wish to take for—"

He kissed you hard, cutting you off, deepening the angle of his thrusts to swallow the rest of it, his tongue forcing past your lips, both of you breaking into the kiss with sounds of pleasure.

"This little cunt feels so perfect, baby." he panted against your mouth, words slipping between kisses. “It is mine now. No matter who you marry. No matter who you bear children for.”

There it was. The manic beast that laid dormant yet hungry all the same. Possessive and desperate. The black pit of him, the darkest side of him now coming out. Selfish and mean and needier than anything he'd ever known. He was sure it would terrify you, the way his lips snarled with the demand.

"Yours." you whispered in response against his mouth.

“No—” he tried, the word catching as he pulled back a fraction, fighting it.

"Yes," you hissed, and as he began to pull away you held him there again, arm swiping out between you and the bed to fist into his hair once more. His thrusts were becoming sloppier by the minute. He was losing control. Of this, of himself, of whatever this suddenly was becoming.

Your mouth hung open, but through your moans, through the breaking of your breath, you said, "I am yours, Joel Miller. And you are mine."

The light of morning had begun to slip in through your chamber window, catching along his shoulder, laying pale yellow and blue over the bed.

“And I wish for you to finish inside me,” you went on, softer now, but no less certain. “So I may bear what is yours. So we shall marry. I will have it no other way.” Your eyes stayed fixed on his. “I am to be Queen of this realm. And you are my man. You are everything. There is no part of you left to solitude. Nor I."

He tried to silence you again, pressing his mouth to yours, but you would not let him. You pulled away—lips only just brushing, holding him fast and made him hear you.

His cock was swelling insurmountably at your words.

He thought his words of possession would scare you. But it was your words...

They terrified him.

And they also made him feel fucking insane.

"Give me everything, Joel."

His face fell onto your shoulder as his hips drove faster into you, your keep tightening and fluttering against him, as if your words had been spoken from where the two of you were joined. He felt anchored to you in an entirely new way, losing complete control over what little he thought he had.

"Ohhhh!" you mewled, fist loosening in his hair as you began to tighten and constrict his cock now.

“Come with me,” he groaned against your shoulder, voice rough and near pleading now. “Come on—let me feel you—I'll give you everything—everything you wish for.”

Your head tipped back, your body arching beneath him, and he felt it the moment you went, the way you clenched around him that pulled a harsh, broken moan from his chest as it dragged him right after you. His back went taut, his mouth opening against your skin as everything in him gave at once, his arms tightening hard around you as he lost himself in the way your bodies met, his spend emptying into you while you both shook through the ecstasy together.

For a while, there was nothing.

Slick skin against slick skin, hot breath and heavy inhales, the two of you intertwined entirely anew.

You were the first to move, to turn your head enough to kiss his nose where it laid against the top of your shoulder.

He shifted then, beginning to lift himself from you, but your hands tightened, holding him.

"Stay." you murmured.

He obeyed, because in truth, there was nothing else he wanted more.

“’Tis morning,” he said after a moment, voice low, still rough. “I should not linger long. Your lady-in—”

“My lady-in-waiting knows how much I have wanted this,” you said, cutting him off gently. “And she will not come until I call for her.”

Joel let out a quiet breath and settled back over you, his weight returning without resistance this time.

“I like feeling you like this,” you sighed, your eyes slipping closed. “Over me. The weight of you is… comforting.”

Joel smiled a bit at that, and brought you closer.

The morning had begun to stir outside your window. First with the low calls of birdsong, distant at first until the sun grew stronger. Its rays filled your bed chamber, stretching across his back, through the curtains of your bed posts, laying gold across your skin and his alike.

Your breathing was so slow and even beneath him he thought you might have fallen asleep.

He stayed there, laid over you, his face turned into the gentle curve of your neck, his arms still wrapped around you. He did not move an inch in fear he might break whatever spell was upon the two of you. And for the first time in a very long time, the deep abyss that lived inside of him held no ache, no need, no nothing.

He was content.

“I meant what I said, Joel,” you said quietly after a while, your eyes still closed, breathing still even. It didn't scare him this time, it didn't make him want to pull away or kiss you silent.

"I know."

𝒜𝒻𝓉𝑒𝓇

𝓗e knew he was late, and not by a little bit either. His chest fluttered with the anticipation of it, something he couldn't quite put a name to as he made his way through the castle corridors. His steps felt light against the stone. He had no metal helm to hide behind nor the armor plates to keep his expression hidden as he faced every passing glance and morning greeting.

"Morning, ser."

"Good morrow, Ser Joel."

A bow of a head, a smile, a wave. It all was something he was getting used to, or…at least trying to.

Finally ascending the stairs to the second floor, he took them two at a time, breath heavier now, whether from strain or the nerves making his heart thunder in his chest, he wasn't sure. He came upon the great chamber doors, their iron handles staring up at him. Voices carried through the wood— lighter, bubbling, and excited.

He pushed them open without announcement.

"Ah, there he is."

Your voice found him at once. Gentle and amused, it carried easily above the low hum of conversation.

“Good morning,” he said, just as soft, moving around your chair, letting his hand trail along your shoulder, down the line of your arm before taking his place beside you. "Apologies for the delay."

He looked around the table with a light, polite smile of greeting (he had been practicing it for some time), the room feeling vastly different than it ever had before.

To his left sat Miriam from the orphanage, her thin hands folded neat atop a ledger, kind eyes sharp as she took in the conversation at the table. Beside her, Lucia the barmaid, hair tied back, sleeves rolled, already mid run-down of town gossip with someone across from her—Rose, the fishmonger’s wife, still smelling faintly of salt even here. Beside her was Harriet, who raised cattle at the bottom of the hill, broad shouldered and kind, her voice was low but carried when she spoke. Next to her, Elin, the baker's widow. Marjorie from the weaver's row, and Old Nan at the far end who knew every birth and burial in the valley better than any record ever kept.

All women.

Every single one of them. Not a Lord or Duke or Prince in sight. Nor were there balding, pallid men who waggled their all-knowing boney fingers at you either.

Joel leaned back slightly in his chair, glancing once more around the table, taking it in. This was his place now, beside you. No longer standing stiffly in the corner with his eyes on every exit—though, he could admit he still caught his eyes glancing around, making sure, an old habit he wasn't eager to break. Some days it felt otherworldly to sit at your council.

Without thinking, his hand found yours beneath the table, rough fingers curling loosely around your softer ones, grounding himself in the only part of it that felt entirely familiar. He turned the ring on your finger absently.

Beside him, you sat at the head of the table with your chin propped lightly against your free hand, listening, asking where needed, dismissing where you saw fit. Not a physical crown upon your head, not a single piece of ceremony about you—and still, there was no mistaking what you were.

What you had become.

Your eyes drifted to him when he squeezed your fingers, a coy little smile playing your lips. Painted in ruby, for the celebration of harvest.

"And the stores—" Harriet said, rolling her eyes, but not in annoyance, but of something else. Bemusement, perhaps.

"What of them?" you interjected, concern drawing a line between your brows.

“Full, Your Grace," she answered, smiling wider at you. “More than full. We shall carry well into winter, if rot does not take to it."

“See that it does not,” you said with a small nod, and pointed to Miriam gently to write your thoughts. “We can store the excess here in the castle. There is room enough, and the lower chambers will keep it dry.”

Joel’s thumb moved once over the back of your hand, though he could not say why he had done it at all.

“Your Grace,” Lucia called, leaning forward a touch, “do you not think we ought to mark such a season as this? The townsfolk…they are eager to celebrate you and your husband. What you have brought them, in place of your father before you.” She glanced around the table. “We have not known times like these in…a long while, would you not say, ladies?”

There was a murmur of agreement around the table.

Joel was still getting used to that too—husband—a title he could hardly believe you had chosen to give him. And yet there was something in him that knew, just as he had warned you that first night in your bed, that there was no going back from whatever this had become. He had spoken then of some future husband, some man meant for you, while all the while that part of him, the one that had been sewn whole again, had already begun to hunger to be that man himself.

It had felt near a miracle when you asked him. He had thought you were teasing him at first. But you had not been.

You had married him in the garden, before only your most trusted councilwomen, Tommy at his side. It had been a fine fall day, the leaves crisp beneath your feet, the sun low and golden against his back as he stood in the finest cloak he had ever worn. And afterward, when the feast had begun in the great hall—full of townsfolk and distant kin and all the noise that came with such things—you had both slipped away from it, laughing through the corridors, back to your chambers, to be as you had always meant to be—together.

“And what would you have of it?” you asked, eyes on his, shaking him from his memories.

The room followed your look.

Joel felt the weight of your stare, though it did not strike him the way it once would have. He could have passed it off, given them something simple and let the attention fall away from him as he often did, but he had never been much good at soft answers, not where you were concerned.

“Give them something they’ve not seen,” he said, his voice carrying plain across the table. “A feast, aye, but more than that. Let them feel it’s changed.”

“Changed how?” Miriam asked, ink-dipped quill lifted.

He did not look away from you when he answered. “Like they’re not merely surviving anymore, but living.”

You watched him through the quiet moment as they took in his words, your smile tightening into something knowing. He suddenly wished he could kiss you now.

"I think we ought to have something truly special to celebrate." you added, leaning towards him, temping him further.

He answered it with one of his own smiles. “Oh?”

You nodded, "I think we shall name your coronation day. A feast, a celebration of harvest in your name, Joel."

He felt the heat rise in his face, sudden, unwelcome. “That is not—” he began, shaking his head. “We do not need—no one wants—”

“Oh, the town would love it!” Lucia burst out.

“The children,” Miriam added, near breathless, “they would speak of nothing else. A man of The Guild, raised from nothing—” she shook her head, smiling, “it would mean everything to them.”

There was a tumult of excitement across the mahogany table at that, and Joel's face was aflame with it, your eyes dancing in the sunlight as they stayed on him.

“What do you think?” you murmured.

He made a sound low in his throat, perhaps sounding like something between a protest and a surrender, but did not argue.

"Joel." you tilted your head, wanting something more than just his practiced silence.

“Ser Joel of the Dawn…” You let your hand fall from your chin and took his so it laid properly over the table now, both of yours closing around his, soft against the rough of him. “To be crowned King of this kingdom, beside me.”

He was silent.

“Let us celebrate you,” you whispered, your hands giving his a small, insistent squeeze.

Joel let his gaze move once around the table, over the wide eyes and eager faces of the women you had handpicked for your council, the people you had chosen to help you shape this kingdom, and there he was among them, beside them. Beside you.

At last his gaze came back to you, to your eager eyes and soft skin, to your braided hair and ruby mouth, and he felt it plain as breath in his chest that there would never be another woman he would wish to stand beside. He would do whatever you asked of him. There was no true reason left to hesitate, save perhaps that he liked the way you looked at him when you were waiting, the way you still made him nervous, the way you asked him—again and again—to be braver than he had ever been. Braver than he had been in his armor, braver than he had been at your father’s side, braver than he had been on the day he first stepped into this very chamber and found his life turning toward you. You had asked him to be the man you needed, and there had never been a world in which he would deny you.

So, with all the courage he had left to give, he nodded, and said:

"Okay."

in case you missed it:

In turn the security team plus Joel look at you. "You know Claudia best. Where do you think she'd go?"

"Well you know Tommy best. Where would he go?"

You and Joel stare each other down, all sensuality of the night before forgotten in the wake of this matter of necessity. The steel in his eyes right now isn't that much different from the look he wore before you gave into the kiss you shared in his study.

"They're not answering their phones," he mutters. "God damn it. If Tess was here she'd know what to do."

You've come to learn that Tess is practically Joel's right hand person, the only one besides himself that he places any trust in. Another employee, Marlene, is there in her stead, and she knows absolutely nothing.

You're compelled to stay at Joel's side, hoping information will come to him easier than to you. He has resources available to him that you don't. Almost everyone who had any connection to Clauda or Tommy are cooperating. Nobody knows what happened or where they went.

Maria and her family are unreachable as well, having checked out before dawn that very morning.

"Where the hell is everyone?" Joel mutters. You follow him to his personal suite.

"They're adults. They can do what they want." Though truth be told you're a little worried that Claudia isn't picking up her phone. Between the two of you she's the more responsible one.

"Not while Tommy is the face of this company. Not while he is capable of creating a shitstorm of a scandal we won't be able to dig ourselves out of." He glares at you. "And you know what that would mean for you? No more money." He rubs his thumbs against his fingertips in a greedy motion.

You glare right back at him. "If it's not going to be Tommy, it'll be some other poor - sorry, I mean rich fool. What happens to him, or you, is of no concern to us."

Joel turns red, his bottom lip pulled into his mouth where his teeth sink in, forcing himself not to say anything too ungentlemanly. His hands ball up into fists at his side. "Say that again." he dares you. "Because you're talkin' pretty brave for not havin' gotten your precious money yet."

Hands on your hips, you narrow your eyes and cross the room to him. "We don't care.. we don't give a fuck what happens after we're gone. And believe me, we will get that money. I highly doubt you want either of us to talk to the press. I bet even TMZ would love to get their hands on a story like this. 'Thomas Miller, playboy and heir to The Velvet Crown hotel empire, victim of catfishing and duped out of his fortune.' You'd be the laughingstock of the city. I'd hate to see what that would do to your shareholders."

"Are you trying to extort me?" he asks lowly. "I should smack your ass sore for that," he growls.

A flash of heat shoots through you, a gush of wetness gathers in your panties. "You wouldn't dare."

"Wouldn't I?" He pulls you close, large hands grabbing your ass, pressing you close enough to feel his throbbing erection through his pants. "Funny, you didn't sound this cocksure last night when you were coming on my fingers."

"Fuck you," you snap back, struggling (not very hard) in his locked embrace.

It's a crude thing to say, but he expects it of you by now. You're careless and crude in ways that stimulate him like no other. And you're only here for the money.

Joel doesn't care. He shouldn't care. Hell, he hardly even knows you. And yet something about you is making him act like an overprotective dog that just caught a scent. He does care, for some idiotic reason. You've gotten under his skin, under his ribs, and made a place for yourself. Something in him is desperate to claim you as his, despite everything.

He grins, expertly concealing every thought and wish his brain contrives. "Oh, you wish, babygirl. Now get on your knees."

You give him an incredulous look. "What?!"

"Y'heard me. On your knees."

Scoffing, you sink to your knees on the soft carpet of his living room. Joel sits comfortably on the sofa, legs manspread wide. Despite the heat blossoming in your pussy, you still roll your eyes. "Are you gonna tell me to suck you off?"

"Get on my lap," he orders smoothly, ignoring your quip. "Hands and knees."

There's only a slight pause before you obey, body buzzing in anticipation. You settle yourself over his lap, hands and knees sinking into the soft sofa cushions. Time stands still, your heartbeat in your ears.

Then, a soft murmur from Joel: "Tell me no and I'll stop."

Your breath hitches and you make a point of saying nothing.

"I need words," he reminds you.

"Yes," you whisper. "Please," a little louder.

Joel grunts, roughly pulling up the hem of your skirt, revealing the silky underwear beneath. He smacks your panty-clad bottom with the flat of his palm.

You give out something between a yelp and a gasp, nearly losing your balance on your arms. Joel lifts you up gently. "You okay?" His voice is soft, deep.

You nod. "Yeah.."

Joel's face is red. He's glad you're keeping yourself upright or else you'd feel how hard he is right now. His palm rests on your ass cheek. He can feel the warmth of your skin as he soothes the sting, "Again?"

"Yes," you say a little too quickly. Joel's all too happy to comply. Another slap lands on your ass cheek, harder than before. A gush of wetness gleams on your inner thigh.

"Y'know why I'm doin' this, don't you?" he utters, tempering the smarting burn.

"No.." you grit your teeth. "Gonna tell me?"

That earns you another spanking.

"That's for sassin' me," he rumbles. "Know what this one's for?" Another swat. "This is your punishment for startin' this whole thing. You started messagin' my naive little brother, usin' another woman's face." Spank!

You bite your lip so hard you taste metal, only a whimper escaping.

"Lemme hear ya," he says low. Another spank.

A half-moan, half-whine leaves your lips.

"A woman like you doesn't apologize, right? Too damn caught up in gettin' what ya want. Seein' what idiots you can fascinate with these hips and this ass." Spank!

There's more of a twang in his accent, as if he's been holding back this whole time, wearing a mask of refinement over his roots.

But you don't have any more time to think about that because his fingers are hooking into your panties, pulling them down, pausing halfway. "This okay?"

"Yes!" you nod unhesitatingly.

Lifting one leg at a time your panties are removed. Joel stuffs them in his shirt pocket. His fingers trail up your inner thigh, leaving fire in their wake. Your pussy clenches around nothing, your nipples pebble to hard points. Your clit achingly begs for his attention.

You hate how he's getting off on this.

But you don't know why you're staying on his lap if you hate it so much.

A fluttery sigh comes from your lips as his fingers trace your dewy folds, your traitorous body arching back, silently asking for more of him. Joel exhales roughly, shifting in his seat, trying to give some relief to his throbbing cock.

"Thanks to you," he mutters, fingers carefully separating your pussy lips and opening you to his view, "my brother and your roommate are probably gettin' hitched by an Elvis impersonator at a dingy wedding chapel in Reno."

Despite the erotic circumstances you scoff. "He's not her type."

"What, rich? Famous? Handsome?" His fingers inch upwards, finding your hard clit, practically standing at attention. He circles it with one finger, teasing, whlie you get wet for him, choosing to stay on his lap.

"She can do better. He'd break her heart," you manage to say, eyes shut tight against the pleasure.

"Always settin' your sights for better, higher, huh>?" He lands a quick, small slap to your clit, jolting you forward, rubbing it soon after, easing the throb and yet making it worse. His fingers slip inside you, two at once, into your familiar heat. Pleasure warms your body, your pussy growing wetter as it acclimates to his thick fingers.

A needy little sigh escapes your lips, your hips pushing back on his hand.

"No moving," he says strictly, "or I'll stop and send you out the door."

"God damn you," you mutter.

His free hand snakes down to pinch your clit while his other leaves your cunt to deliver another spanking. "Be good or I'll leave you like this, drenched and greedy for my fingers."

"I want more than just your fingers.."

Joel huffs. "You really ain't got any shame.. as horny as a she-cat." A pause. "You really wanna cum that bad, huh? Answer me." Another spank.

"Yes!" you moan into the sofa cushion.

He could watch your ass jiggle all night, the mere sight of it making him harder than he's ever been in his life. His mouth waters at the scent of your arousal. There's something powerful about having this hold over you, and right now he needs to keep you sweet and pliant. He needs your need to override his, because he might just get lost in his own weakness for you.

"Not yet," he manages to say, removing his fingers, shiny with your slick, and bringing you to sit up. You take his fingers into your mouth dutifully, but he suspects you're not as malleable as you let on-

-and every other thought goes up in a puff of smoke as your lips close around his digits, sucking your nectar off him, the wholes of your irises nearly black with pleasure.

He tells himself nobody, not even you, could fake this kind of bliss.

What he doesn't know is that you're waiting him out.

He removes his fingers from your mouth, sucking your saliva off of them, his gaze kept straight on you. Your entire body quivers, a veritable jolt goes through you at the heat and intimacy of the moment. You've never known this before - lust dancing with vexation. Nothing about Joel is straightforward. Nothing about him is loud or subtle. Just when you feel you've taken steps fowards, he reveals the chessboard you're both playing on, and he is somehow always winning.

It's more of a turn on than you'd ever admit.

Tension hangs heavily in the air, and you hold your breath in anticipation of what comes next.

"On your knees. Again." he orders softly.

"Why?"

"So you can suck my cock."

There it is. That forthrightness you've come to expect. His words are not always weapons. Sometimes they're just tools for pulling you apart to see what you can handle.

Last night was a haze of newly-realized lust, a thoughtless side quest.. or so you imagined. You remember yourself willingly on your knees, all the power in your hands. If only that damn phone call hadn't come through..

Joel sees you falter and the spark leaves his eyes. He starts to rise from the sofa but you're quicker, pressing your palms to his hips, letting them linger over his crotch. Already the man is hard. He's probably been hard since you've been alone together.

And now there's a glimmer of gratefulness in his eyes.

Leaning down you keep your eyes lifted to his as you drag your tongue along the hidden hardness in his pants, your cunt clenching as he lets out a low hiss of approval. Your hand follows the trail, palming him, feeling him grow beneath your touch.

"Tease," he mumbles.

"You like it," is your retort, and he doesn't deny it. You tongue him through his slacks, teasing, until neither of you can take anymore. Pants undone, underwear down, Joel Miller is revealed to you.

His cock is gorgeous. Thick, uncut, heavy in your hand. You stroke him, pulling the foreskin away as your tongue darts out to tease his slit, wiping away a pearly bead of precome with your tongue.

Joel hisses, one hand cupping the back of your neck, cradling your head, and the other cups your cheek, thumb swiping over your soft skin. "Look so pretty like this," he mutters, his eyes softening from their typical hard stare. Your stomach flips, something new and unnameable surfacing between you two.

Your mouth descends on him, slowly, keeping your eyes on his - a confrontation, a dare. He swells already, twitching. It's taking every morsel of strength in him not to bust. What you can't reach with your mouth you pump with your hand, making sure he's feeling you everywhere.

"You like suckin' that cock, don't you?" His voice rumbles, sending a chill up your spine. "Mhmm.." you moan around him, the vibrations making him shiver, his head tilting back.

It's satisfying to have this little moment of power over him.

"I know that look," Joel growls. "You're not gonna get me to come that easily. Up," he orders. "I want you naked and in my bed. Now." Despite his command he pulls his pants back up, having carefully tucked his desire away.

You don't know how you're still standing after that. With a shuddering breath in you slowly remove your clothes. You haven't undressed in front of anyone in a long time. Still self-conscious about your body in such a vulnerable state, you undress slowly, almost shyly. Joel watches, tongue wetting his lips. Your generous tits make his mouth water. Your hips, thighs, and ass already have him rock hard. He palms himself over his pants, which feel tighter with each inch of your skin revealed.

"You look like a fuckin' goddess," he growls. "Get on the bed. Wanna watch you touch yourself."

Breath catching in your throat, you acquiesce, climbing onto Joel's massive bed, the sheets soft and cool against your flesh. You lay back on cloud-like pillows, lifting your knees, spreading your thighs apart.

"That's right," Joel murmurs from the sofa. "Fuck yourself on your fingers. Wanna see what you look like when you make yourself cum."

"Get over here and make me cum yourself, you coward," you challenge him, your fingers already forming a V around your clit.

With a snarl he rises, and he's at the bed in two long strides. "Need a man to do everything for ya? Even to get yourself off?"

"Any sane man would already be balls deep inside after an invitation like that," you counter.

Joel's practically seeing red. He moves on top of you, crashing his lips to yours. You hate the way you melt under him, like snow thawing at spring's eager touch. Even more, you hate the way your whole nervous system lights up as his body aligns with yours. Joel's rubbing his clothed cock across your naked pussy, the wet spot on his crotch growing bigger.

"You're going to ruin those Ralph Laurens," you warn him breathlessly.

"Worth it," he pants, gliding his fingers across your folds. "'Sides, didn't you have your tongue on them a moment ago?"

Moaning, you arch up into his touch, fingers working the buttons of his shirt. You need to feel his skin under your hands, his flesh beneath your own. Buttons pop off and fly across the bedspread. "Also worth it?" you ask.

"I hated that shirt anyway," he grumbles, whipping off the fabric from his body. You run your hands down the front of his chest, his heart drumming madly beneath your palm. Your fingers circle his nipple, giving it a slight pinch, just to see his reaction. He groans in response, pinning you down to the bed, taking great delight in rubbing his tented crotch against you. "Little minx," he gasps out.

"Get out of these pants. I want to feel you.."

Little does he realize himself that he's savoring the moment, not yet wanting to dive in for fear that he'll lose himself completely.

Then again, he tells himself you're just here for the money. Money is something he understands. Desire, not so much. He's never let it put him in a chokehold the way Tommy has.

"I've got condoms this time," he grunts, leaning over to grab from the pack in his bedside table drawer.

"Oh? Did you finally cave in and ask your assistant to get them?"

"Bought 'em myself."

You have a hard time imagining Mr. Big-Dick-Millionaire-Joel-Miller stepping into CVS to purchase prophylactics. A little giggle leaves your mouth when you imagine him using his rewards card.

"What's so funny?" he asks, taking the foil packet and tracing its edge softly down your chest, causing goosebumps to rise on your skin, your nipples tightening in response.

"Just thinking about you, doing everyday things. It's hard."

He grinds against you one more time with his pants still on. "'Hard' is definitely a good word in this situation."

He places the condom on your belly, sitting back on his haunches to slide his pants off. As you try to reach forward to assist he gently moves your hands away. "I've got this, baby girl," he murmurs, and the nickname makes your heart flutter.

You watch in amazement as he releases himself from his briefs, his cock springing free once more, a sight you hate to admit you could watch over and over again. He spreads your thighs further apart, admiring the view before him, smirking when your cunt tightens around nothing, as if giving him a sly wink. "She's so pretty," he mumbles.

Beneath him your skin heats up, your heart rate intensifies, pupils dilating as they meet his own.

"What's this? Finally speechless?" he teases, taking some slick from your drenched pussy and spreading on his dick, gripping it by the base as he slowly strokes himself. "I guess this is what it takes to finally get ya to shut up.."

"You prick," you retort, an angry glare in your eyes. To Joel that only makes you more beautiful. Wild. Untamed.

"Let Tommy have his rail-thin models," he murmurs. "I like my women more buxom." He leans in, sucking a pert nipple into his mouth, moaning at the way it buds under his ministration, and he lightly grazes it with his teeth, causing you to gasp sharply, your hips arching off the bed, wantonly seeking the friction you need from him.

"What are you waiting for?" you growl. "Don't you want to fuck me?"

He chuckles darkly, sitting back on his haunches again, "I thought you couldn't stand me. Now you want my cock inside you?"

"I just want to get laid. This isn't about you."

He leans in to whisper roughly in your ear, "Keep tellin' yourself that." And once more he plunges two fingers into your tight, slick heat.

You can't hide the gasp that follows, your walls already squeezing around his digits. Joel smirks at how needy you've become. You're soaked and it's all for him.

"Sure you're not thinkin' about money right now?" he teases. "That's the only thing in this world that gets you off."

"That's what you think," you mutter, wrapping your hand around his wrist (Jesus, even his wrist is huge!) and guide his movements. He gladly lets you take the lead, but only for a moment before he crooks his fingers, letting them glide along your secret spot. Your hips shoot up off the bed, making him go deeper.

He finds you extraordinary as you let go, wild and wanton. Because of him. He studies you, discovering what makes you squeal and what makes you sigh. His fingers glide in easily with how wet you are, the squelching sound filthy and beautiful. He finds out you come easily with two fingers deep inside, the pad of his thumb swiping your clit as he's sucking your nipple, teeth lightly grazing. Your fingers grasp his hair, lightly pulling, and he smiles before licking the tight bud. And then he starts on the other one.

As much fun as it is to keep you on the edge, he adores the way your face scrunches up in pleasure, pretty mouth slack with a deep moan, your walls contracting around his fingers.

He needs a taste.. just a taste of your honeyed glaze. He extracts his fingers from you, smiling when you moan at the loss of him. And oh how sweet the sound you make when his tongue traces your swollen pussy, dipping inside, dragging upward, circling your sweet clit.

"So good for me," he murmurs, fully diving in, pressing open-mouthed kisses along every inch of your mound, spreading your thighs, inhaling your scent, committing to memory every moment of this, because he doubts he'll have it again. It feels like you're made for him, like everything about you is shaped to fit against his mouth, his tongue. He makes a sound somewhere between a whine and a growl, his mouth working over you.

He nearly comes undone himself when you tremble against his tongue, your climax falling on you like sudden thunder. He has to brace himself, will himself not to finish before he's done with you. His hips buck against the bed, seeking relief for his painfully hard dick. He doesn't stop, though. He knows you need it and he needs it too, craves the pleasure that has somehow become a part of your pattern.

From strangers to enemies to whatever this is..

He doesn't hate it.

Working you through two more orgasms, using fingers and tongue, burying his face between your plush, generous thighs, for the first time he's thinking of something other than work. You finally push him away, your clit overstimulated, and ask for his cock.

And how can he refuse you?

He has the condom on in record time, sheathing himself with the rubber, smirking as you watch with hungry eyes. He knows he's big. Every woman he's been with has told him, praised him for his endowment even if they didn't like him very much.

He's getting too much in his head about this. This kind of opportunity doesn't exactly pop up that often now that he's made a name for himself as a cold-hearted bastard-

"Joel," your voice breaks through his ill-timed self-analysis. He finds your eyes on him, all teasing gone, replaced by a kind of warmth he's only gotten glimpses of while he's known you.

"Something wrong?" you ask, a slight crease between your brows. Now he's worried he's gone and offended you by his sudden pause.

"Not at all," he murmurs, leaning down to claim your lips in a deep kiss. You moan, wrapping your arms around him as his cock eagerly presses at your entrance. "You ready for me, babygirl?"

"Yes," you whisper, nudging his nose with yours. Your eyes widen when you feel just the tip of him breach you, already stretching you. He exhales roughly through his nose, giving you just another couple inches, thrusting shallowly, letting you open up for him little by little.

"You okay?" he asks, holding back. He's a man of great patience except when it comes to you. But he's doing his best. Even in the bedroom he strives for perfection.

Your heart is pounding, your body aching to take everything he's got, but you know he's going slow for a reason. "I want more.."

"So greedy," he murmurs in your ear, nuzzling your neck. "Lift your hips for me." When you do he swipes his thumb across your clit while he slides in further. "So goddamn tight.."

"Joel," you half-sigh, half-moan, clenching around what's already inside. Your nails dig into his shoulders as he presses in, slow and smooth, watching your beautiful face in all its expressiveness. You're asking for more, always more, and this is one thing he'll gladly give you without hesitation.

In one slow, deliberate thrust, he bottoms out, both of you stilling, breaths quickened, bodies tense.

"Fuck," you whisper, your cunt completely filled with him, your walls spreading for him. He's thick and long and heavy inside you, the kind of heat you never knew you were craving until now.

"Is that an order?" he teases, barely holding on himself. He gives one shallow pump, making sure you feel it, feel all of him. When you give a breathless little gasp he does it again, a slow roll of his hips as he keeps his eyes on you, gently caressing your cheek, a small and silent praise for taking every inch of him.

"Let me just.. feel you like this," you sigh, shifting comfortably beneath him. A low growl starts in his throat, eyes dark, contradicting the somersaults his heart is doing.

"You like how I feel?" He sounds hopeful, vulnerable.

You nod, eyes fluttering shut at the next small shift of his hips. "Go slow?" you ask, just as tender. Joel nods, kissing you once more while he pulls out and pushes back in, sweet and slow, making the ache between you build and build. You open up to him like a hothouse flower, soft and warm and tight. He buries his face in your hair, enraptured by your scent, breath hot against your ear as your walls envelop him just right, like no one else before.

Your hands rest on his shoulders, nails digging in when he hits that sweet spot deep inside, your back arching off the bed. Your sweet little moans drive him crazy, push all rational thought out of his mind. And when your soft touch moves down, traveling across the sides of his torso, softly lingering at the roundness of his belly (he's still self-conscious about that part of him) he sighs at your touch, goosebumps rising on his skin.

"So fucking good," you purr, hands now on his hips, feeling the way they piston into you, his movements fluid, almost graceful. "Give me more.."

He doesn't hesitate. He cups your ass and lifts you so that he's angling deeper, smoothly thrusting, eyes closed as he tries to think about anything except coming already. The way you're gasping, grabbing his hips as he slams away, the wet smacking sound between your bodies the only thing he ever wants to hear, apart from the triumphant wail that signals your climax.

His own grunts and growls are hard to keep at bay, and he has little idea how much you're taking delight in bringing out this feral side of him. This is the one time he doesn't mind losing control around you, the one time he'll do anything he wouldn't do for anyone else..

You don't shy away from telling him what you want and how you want it - his hand there, his mouth here and all the while you're pliant beneath him, lithe and immaculate. Joel's grateful when you tell him you're getting on top. He holds onto your delectable hips, squeezing lightly as you mount him, ride him, use him for your pleasure.

"Take it," he rasps, thrusting up into your heat. "Take what you want.."

Sweat and stickiness and panting breaths. It all happens so fast, and yet time passes like molasses, slow and sweet, almost too much to bear. Above him you sing your pleasure, a litany of yes and Joel and fuck as you take from him, his greedy hands grabbing everywhere they can, making sure this is real, that you are real. He watches in amazement as a swipe of his thumb, a tease of his tongue, a well-timed good girl sends you into freefall, giving yourself over completely as you whine and shout and shiver and quake. At the peak of it all Joel fucks up into you, his grip like iron on your waist as he comes apart as well, drowning in the near-blindingness of his orgasm.

You're boneless in those last moments, unable to recall slumping over him, and the gentle way he sets you down on the bed, removing and ridding himself of the condom. A pleasant warmth runs over your body as he takes a warm washcloth and cleans you up. wiping up every trace of what you'd done together except for the lingering scent of sex.

In your short time together you've rarely seen Joel gentle. It does funny things to your heart that you badly want to deny.

"Are we gonna talk about this?" he mutters, laying next to you, not too close, giving you space. It's all you can do to keep from reaching out and having him embrace you.

"You're a good fuck, Joel Miller," is all you say, masking your yearning with a cheeky smile.

"I thought nothing I do impresses you."

"I'm only going to say this once." You kiss your way down his chest. "Maybe.. just maybe.. I was wrong."

It's late when you pad out of Joel's room, quiet as a mouse, tiptoeing with your Gucci platform sandals in your hand. You go into your room and relief floods your system when you see Claudia's returned, and is fast asleep on her bed.

You climb in beside her, hugging her from behind. She mumbles in her sleep, reaching behind her to pull you closer. "Where've you been, you idiot?" you whisper.

She moans lightly. "Just.. with Tommy.."

"You didn't go and do something stupid like get married, did you?"

A rough laugh despite her sleepiness. "No, of course not." She sits up a little, taking in your disheveled hair. "And where have you been?"

"Joel and I were looking for you all day," you counter, refusing to let her see how frazzled you are just by thinking about him. "He's.. ugh.. huge dick. Enormous." You realize how that sounds and you backtrack. "I mean, he is a huge dick. He's awful."

Claudia gives another laugh, rolling over to face you. "You fucked him, didn't you? Girl, get out of this bed and go shower. I don't want your cum stains ruining my beautiful sheets." She shoos you out, taking up the warm space you leave behind as you stumble towards the bathroom, remembering that you left your panties in his room, and pushing away the thought that you're actually hesistant to wash Joel's scent off your body..

<- prev

next ->

dividers by @thecutestgrotto 👑