i’m always taking prompts / suggestions!

━━━ joel miller.

even the nights are better — longfic.

SUMMARY: in which joel falls for the nearly arrived woman in jackson . . . and her newborn daughter, sarah. TAGS: eventual feelings n smut, hurt n comfort, fluff

read it here.

━━━ tommy miller.

untitled — one shot, coming soon.

━━━ mark meachum.

SUMMARY: just mark being a dick. TAGS: mean!mark. casual relationship.

The thought sat in your chest like a stone, pressing down each time you tried to breathe normally. You weren't scared of him — not really. Mark had never once given you a reason to be afraid oh him. He was the kind of man who rubbed your shoulders when you got off a long shift and kissed your forehead when he thought you were asleep. The kind who’d drive across town just to bring you your favorite takeout because “you sounded off on the phone.”

But still… this wasn’t part of the plan. Your plan. His plan. Any plan.

You never discussed kids yet.

He didn’t know what was coming.

Behind you, in the hallway, you heard the familiar sound of the front door creaking open. Boots hit the floorboards. Keys hit the bowl. The heavy thunk of a six-pack landing on the counter. You swallowed.

“Hey, sweetheart,” Mark called, voice already tinged with warmth. “You home?”

You wiped your palms on your jeans, half-hoping the trembling would go with it. You opened the bathroom door slowly, walked out like the hallway was a tightrope.

Mark was standing in the kitchen in that stupidly soft flannel he always wore when he wasn’t working — sleeves rolled to the elbows, hands busy cracking open a beer. He glanced up at you, green eyes lighting up with that same easy affection that made your stomach twist for entirely different reasons now.

“Hey,” he said again, smiling. “Got those chips you like. Thought we’d do burgers tonight.”

You managed a small smile, eyes flicking briefly to the six-pack on the counter. You hadn’t had a drink in a week. He’d noticed that. You could feel it.

“I, uh… need to talk to you.”

Mark's hand stilled. His gaze sharpened — not suspicious, just attentive. Alert, like he could feel something shifting in the air between you.

“Okay,” he said carefully, setting the bottle down. “What’s up?”

You opened your mouth. Nothing came out.

Mark crossed the kitchen slowly, reaching for your hand. He didn’t push. Didn’t press. Just held it, thumb brushing your knuckles. “Hey. Whatever it is, you can tell me.”

Your throat was dry. Your voice, when it came, cracked just enough to make your own heart hurt.

“I’m… pregnant.”

It wasn’t a shout or a whisper. It was just the truth, laid bare in the middle of your kitchen, between the takeout menus and the half-unpacked groceries and the man who looked at you like his whole world was standing right there.

Mark blinked.

Once.

Twice.

Then he dropped his gaze to your stomach — barely a hint of change yet — and back up to your face. His expression didn’t change, not at first. Just stilled. Quiet.

You couldn’t tell if he was about to bolt or pull you into his arms.

But he was still holding your hand.

The silence stretched long, almost gentle.

Mark didn’t flinch. Didn’t speak. Just stood there with your hand still in his, thumb still brushing across your knuckles, like his body was on autopilot. Like some part of him was trying to comfort you even as his mind caught up to what you’d said.

You stared at him, waiting. Bracing. Every heartbeat felt like a ticking clock now, like a cruel reminder of just how little time you had left with him.

“I’m pregnant,” you said again, quieter this time. Like maybe he hadn’t heard it right the first time. Like maybe you hadn’t meant to say it out loud.

His lips parted, barely. Then his brows drew together just slightly, like the ache behind his eyes had spiked again — another one of those headaches he tried to hide from you.

He didn’t let go.

“How long have you known?” he asked, voice low, a little hoarse.

“Since Tuesday.” You hesitated. “I took two tests. I didn’t… I didn’t want it to be real unless I was sure.”

Mark exhaled through his nose. Not a laugh, not a scoff — just a breath, dragged from deep in his chest. He looked away for a second, eyes flicking toward the window, then back to you.

“I didn’t think I’d live long enough to be anything close to a dad,” he said softly. “Didn’t think that was even… on the table anymore.”

You felt your throat tighten. “Mark—”

He shook his head, not sharply, but enough to quiet the instinct rising in you. The instinct to comfort him. To tell him it would be okay when you both knew it wouldn’t.

Mark Meachum had maybe a year left, if the doctors weren’t lying — which they might have been, just to soften the blow. No real chance. Just a countdown ticking in his skull while he kept waking up and choosing to smile at you like he hadn’t just seen his own scan.

And now, this.

This terrifying, impossible flicker of life growing inside you.

“I should be angry,” he said quietly. “Should be scared as hell. But…”

He looked at you then, really looked — eyes glassy but steady, like he was memorizing your face again.

“I think part of me’s just… grateful.”

You swallowed hard, trying to speak around the lump in your throat. “Mark, this isn’t fair. It’s not fair to them. To you. I didn’t plan this, and I don’t know how to do this without you. Alone.”

His grip tightened on your hand.

“You won’t have to,” he said. “Never. And when the time comes… we’ll figure out a way. You and your family. They’ll help you. Hell, they’ll try to name the kid Aristotle or something, but they’ll be there.”

That made you let out a choked sound — something between a sob and a laugh. Mark smiled. Not wide. Just enough to warm the edges of the moment.

He stepped forward and gently pulled you into him, tucking your head beneath his chin. You closed your eyes and let the weight of it all crash into you — the love, the grief, the fear, the impossible hope of a child who might never meet their father but would know him. Through stories. Through the shape of your eyes when you looked at them.

Through the way Mark held you now, like you were the most important thing in the world.

Because to him, you were.

Your vision is blurry, but you can still see the space around you. Two people hold you up while others around you have stopped to watch the scene. You can smell fresh bread baking from somewhere, more horses, and…

Children.

Tommy told you when he first spoke about Jackson that the place had children of all ages, and that it would be a safe place for your little girl.

Part of you believed it, but a much bigger part still thought it was too good to be true.

But it’s true. You see it now, hearing laughter and overlapping conversations that make this place really feel like a world apart.

A woman approaches with a kind smile, asking permission and reaching out her hands to take your daughter.

“No!” you cry, outraged. Who does she think she is, trying to take your baby from your arms?!

“Sweetheart, she’s one of our nurses. They’re going to take care of her,” Tommy assures you.

You haven’t known him long. Actually, the opposite. He found you the night before, about to give birth. He helped with the delivery. Stayed by your side. Even though you hated the idea of having a complete stranger near you, touching you in one of the hardest moments of your life, he stayed. He spoke words of encouragement when you felt like you were one breath from death. He wrapped your daughter in a blanket and balanced her in one arm while tending to you, like he’d held a newborn a million times before.

That’s why you trust him. You probably trust him even when you don’t want to—because you owe him.

He gives a reassuring smile when you relent, handing your baby—your most precious treasure—to the woman in white.

“What’s her name?” the nurse asks, adjusting the blanket around the tiny girl.

You need to moisten your dry lips and summon a strength that no longer seems to exist inside you to make the words come out.

But they don’t leave your mouth.

Then, everything goes dark.

And you faint.

⋆⭒˚.⋆

You wake up in the hospital. It’s warm, mostly thanks to the blankets covering your body.

Ah, damn. Your body. It hurts.

You’re not surprised to be in such rough shape. You hadn’t eaten in days and had just a little water when Tommy found you in an abandoned house, trying to escape the intense cold while your body gave every sign that your baby was coming at any moment.

He gave you food, yes. But it wasn’t enough to undo the damage of days starving.

You look to the side, seeing your little girl… in a crib. Sleeping.

“She’s quieter than most newborns.”

The male voice startles you, and you turn your head to see a man standing in the doorway. Dressed in winter clothes, arms crossed as if he still needed warmth. There’s snow on his shoes.

“I didn’t mean to scare you. Tommy sent me to check on you—he’s my brother.” He takes a step closer into the room. His eyes are fixed on your daughter, as if the sight of her is something beautiful to him too. “Are you both okay?”

“As much as we can be.”

“You don’t have to keep worrying about survival all the time here in Jackson. I imagine Tommy already told you that.”

He did.

And you still aren’t sure if you believe it.

Well, at this point, you don’t have much choice but to believe it.

“Thank you,” you say, unsure what else to say.

Joel comes closer, placing a package on the little table beside your bed.

“Tommy sent sandwiches. Don’t let the nurses see them or they’ll swap it for more soup.” He smiles. Or at least, it’s an attempt at a smile. Joel definitely doesn’t look like the smiling type.

You try to smile too. It must be the first time in a long while that a smile crosses your face.

The past few hours have been… far too tense for smiling.

“Thank you,” you say again.

“What’s her name?” Joel keeps his hands behind his back, as if trying to make you feel safer as he steps closer to the crib. “Tommy said you hadn’t decided yet.”

You shake your head.

That’s a lie. You’ve known what name you’d choose for your daughter since the moment you found out you were pregnant.

You told Tommy, and you can’t see a reason why he’d lie to anyone about it.

“Sarah,” you say, finally.

The faint smile on Miller’s face vanishes.

His brows furrow.

Joel steps back a few paces, his eyes fixed on Sarah like he physically can’t stop staring.

Suddenly, you’re not so sure you want him to stay in the room. Your protective mother instinct knows something is wrong.

“Is something wrong?” you ask anyways, suppressing the urge to get out of bed and stand between Joel and your daughter.

Joel doesn’t answer this time.

He looks at you, but you can’t decipher what’s in his eyes. Fear, anger, confusion? Impossible to tell.

Before you can say anything else… Joel leaves the room. In silence and with quick steps.

But, like I said, he can be mean sometimes.

“You’re a pain in the ass,” he grumbles, walking past you to open the fridge and grab a beer. “I didn’t say I wanted company today.”

“Don’t talk like that,” you murmur, your chest tightening. “You also didn’t say you didn’t want company, so…”

“I’m tired,” Mark cuts in, shaking his head. “I want to sleep. To relax. I don’t need you today. Go home. Was that clear enough for you, missy?”

You bite your lower lip hard. The pain that hits you is almost as strong as the one caused by his words. Almost.

“You’re such an asshole,” you say, grabbing the bag you left on the couch and walking away before he can see the tears welling in your eyes.

“That’s what everyone says,” he hisses, unmoved.

Then, with his door already open, you turn back to look at him one last time. A few rebellious tears slide down your face.

“Yeah, but I bet none of them knows what it’s like to be treated like your personal whore. That’s a thousand times worse.” You see his expression shift. His mouth opens to reply, but you don’t want to hear it. “Go fuck yourself, Meachum. I hate you.”

You slam the door shut. It’s dark in the neighborhood, and the walk back to your house takes about three minutes.

But before you cross the street, you hear hurried footsteps behind you.

“Baby, wait, please.” Mark catches up quickly, grabbing your arm—not hard at all, just enough to make you look at him, gentle like his touch alone could break you.

You can’t look at him. This is more humiliation than you can bear right now.

But your tears fall freely now, and you don’t try to stop them.

“Fuck, I’m sorry. Please.” he says, stepping in front of you. His fingers wipe away some of the tears, so gently. A gentleness you’ve never seen in Mark before. “I... I’m sorry. I was a dick. Had a shitty day, my head’s pounding. I took it out on you.”

“It’s okay. You don’t have to put up with me today.”

“No. I never have to put up with you. I love having you around,” he says—and the way the words come out makes it clear he didn’t think before saying them. They sound so... genuine. “Please, babe. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t call me that.”

“Right. I’m sorry.”

“Stop apologizing.”

Mark looks at you, waiting.

He doesn’t apologize again.

You wipe your face, taking a deep breath as you consider whether to leave or stay with him.

You look at him, and he looks so, so remorseful.

A heavy sigh escapes your lips.

“If you ever talk to me like that again, I’ll rip your dick off,” you warn.

A smile crosses his face.

Relieved.

“And I’ll love every second of it, babe.”