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Tommy tried to ease her in, get her to relax in that easy way he was able to. Made jokes, an arm slung around her shoulder, pulling her away from the corners of the room and smack in the middle with them with a, “C’mon, little ghost, you’re off duty.” It helped but Tess never quite had the same rapport as with the others, looking at her only for what she could bring to the table and not who she was as a person. The woman was logistical by nature. She weighed her worth and found her wanting.

And Joel…he was Joel. Gruff, blunt, looking at her under furrowed brows and crossed arms and communicating more in grunts than words. He was a guard dog, distrustful and quick to bite at whoever Tess pointed him to, half the time under the influence of whatever alcohol and pills they had smuggled. He didn’t play around and wanted things done his way, a stone splitting the stream and refusing to change ways.

She’d always been good at reading people and didn’t bother trying to win them over.

But there were perks to working with them. Ration cards became a little less scarce, the predatory gleam of eyes on her switched more to caution and wariness, and life got a little easier. She became known by association and that came with protection. 

The ones that didn’t learn, that made comments or grabbed her arm when she ignored them, figured it out quickly. Tommy was fast to make it clear she was with them, ready to throw fists at the slightest comment and at her side like an angry older brother. She didn’t ask him to defend her, was used to scraping by with a knife she sharpened often and staying quick on her feet. But it was nice to have the support.

It was Joel that surprised her.

She had considered herself little priority in his mind, a stray his brother had brought home that he had to deal with. Inconsequential. But more often than not he would be there before she could blink, large hands pushing her behind him or those fists brutally squeezing the arm of whoever grabbed her. She was a shadow but he was a storm cloud, coming in swift and angry and growling at whoever bothered her that if they so much as looked at her again he would break their teeth in. Tommy was loud and sharp, but in those moments she could see why Joel was the guard dog. 

He was terrifying.

It made it more baffling that he was guarding her. 

His eyes, dark and angry, would flicker to her and look her over before grunting and guiding her wherever she needed to go with a hand on her lower back. Most of the time it was back to their apartment, even if she hadn’t meant to go there or was intending to go to her own place. Like he needed to keep an eye on her a little while longer.

Maybe it was just part of being in their group.

When she was too busy, she would come back to him being there, shoving food into her hands with the complaint that she was getting too skinny. If she hadn’t come by the apartment in a few days, Tommy would show up to check on her with a passing comment that Joel had made him. Any injury Joel was quick to push pain medication into her hands or ration cards would mysteriously get added to her wallet and he would grunt at her to take a few days off.

It was hard not to get attached to the Miller brothers. Their protectiveness, the way they cared out loud and secretly. How they didn’t downplay her strength and skills and trusted her to do what she could, but not without worry.

She was used to being invisible but being seen was nice.

But Joel belonged to Tess. It wasn’t ever said outright but it was in the way they moved around each other. A dance neither of them had to think about, the way their eyes found each other, Joel going to check on her first during scrapes and anytime they ran into infected outside the QZ. Sometimes when curfew was late and she couldn’t make it back to her place, she would crash at their apartment. Tommy would be passed out on the cot, having given her the couch, and she would try to ignore the pang when she noticed Tess and Joel go into the same room together. 

It made sense, but left an ache of longing she thought she had pushed away.

Then Tommy joined the Fireflies and started to pull away.

She kept an eye on him, listened to the whispers and kept track of the Fireflies and FEDRA and made sure he was okay. When they were in the apartment, Joel and him would get into it, Tess chiming in but mostly silent as they argued about purpose and a better world. He tried to convince her once to join but she couldn’t make herself pretend that she cared about the grander scheme of things. FEDRA was a shitshow but it was more firm than the pipe dream the Fireflies believed in. Better the devil you know.

Tommy would show up at her door more often than not, sleeping on her couch if only because the fights with Joel were increasing. She didn’t argue with him, didn’t berate him for his choices, just became a silent comfort while he sulked. He went on runs less, the absence of him large in their four person dynamic.

And then he was gone. 

She tried not to take his leaving personally, but it was hard not to. He was the tether between her and Tess and Joel, the one that made her feel like she wasn’t only an asset but that there was a bond between them. And he’d left, leaving her unmoored.

Joel withdrew more, Tess became sharper and more critical, snappier. Her work increased but never felt lonelier.

She couldn’t quite figure out her place anymore. The loss of Tommy almost felt like an end to her work with them, but there were still strings keeping her attached no matter how tight she tried to pull them loose. Joel became more protective somehow. Would find her on rooftops and tell her to go home and rest. Almost broke the jaw of a man at the bar who had grabbed her ass. Snapped at one of Robert’s men when he condescended to her during negotiations.

He had practically carried her and forced her to sit down when she slightly sprained her ankle navigating some of the city ruins during a run. The rain had made everything slick and she had lost her footing while scouting a pathway. It hadn’t even been a big deal but he’d notice the slight limp and picked her up before she could protest. Tess had rolled her eyes and went to look over their supplies while Joel had taken off her shoe, checking the limb meticulously while berating her under his breath for not being careful enough. He had even ripped the bottom of his shirt to use as a makeshift compression wrap, thumb rubbing soothing circles into her skin as he wrapped it around her.

“Don’t know what I’m gonna do with you,” he had muttered, the tone softer than she was expecting. 

He’d forced her to stay back on the next run and she had felt useless, wondering if they saw her as a burden if she couldn’t do her one job.

Tess would stare at her sometimes, lips pressed together as if trying to decide if she was worth the help. It was never out of malice or hatred, but calculation. Like she was weighing the pros and cons of her presence now that Tommy wasn’t around to tip the scales. She was almost sure that Joel’s growing protectiveness weighed in, her guard dog getting distracted.

She doubted it. Joel was Tess’ first and foremost. 

Yet more often, she was getting left behind. The excuse of her skills not being needed or that it was a quick job came about. Sometimes there wasn’t any excuse and they’d just be gone for days at a time. 

She’d still get her split, still find ration cards in her wallet when left unattended or would feel Joel’s presence when she’d walk through the alleys where business was done. The echo of him everywhere.

She avoided staying over at what was now Joel and Tess’ apartment but couldn’t always. When she had no choice, she would lay there late at night on the couch and tried to ignore the rustling of fabric in the other room, the murmured voices and breaths. The apartment walls were paper thin and she could practically feel the low tenor of Joel’s whispers.

But they weren’t for her.

She wasn’t an idiot. She knew that somehow she had developed a crush on Joel no matter how rough and dangerous he was or the logic that he wasn’t interested. Some nights she wished it had been Tommy, how much easier it would have been with him instead of the unavailable older Miller. But she hadn’t felt that way with him. His touch didn’t burn every time he brushed her skin or breath shake when they were close together in the darkness, his hand pressed along her back as they waited for paths to clear. 

Tommy had been cheerful and boyish even during dark times, but Joel had drawn her in with his salt and paper hair, furrowed eyes, and that look that screamed experience and being able to take care of her. She had never even cared about that before, being taken care of. Joel had a way of making you want his attention. 

Maybe it was why Tess held onto him so tight. It must be intoxicating to have all that focus on you, lips brushing your skin and tilted in something other than a frown while calloused, worn hands held you. It was hard not to want that. To be seen. Years of quiet, of sticking to shadows and scrounging and surviving alone. No family, no friends, living on the outside. 

It was safer that way. She couldn’t lose what she didn’t have.

Now she had lost that comfort. Tommy had left and she had never felt more alone even with Tess and Joel. Because they had each other and she was the outsider. 

She was back to being a ghost. Maybe it was for the best.

It made sense then when another group asked her for help on a run. It was business, nothing more. She had a skillset that was in demand and it wouldn’t step on Tess’ interests, especially as she could see the woman still weighing her value and how often she was left behind. A simple run to supplement the work she was already doing.

The group was inexperienced and more than once one of the guys, Jason or Jared or something, tried to proposition her. But it wasn’t an awful couple of days and she felt a little more assured in her skill compared to them. Especially when she was the one that had to direct them when they almost got caught sneaking back into the QZ.

She got a break from Boston, a good share of the loot, and the feeling of being needed warm in her belly.

But she hadn’t made it more than halfway to her quiet lonely apartment before a large hand wrapped around her arm and dragged her to a different set of buildings. Fear didn’t flare as she knew exactly whose hands they were, could see the shape of him outlined in the cast off of the spotlights even as they traveled in the darkness to avoid FEDRA.

Joel had never handled her like that though. Anger and frustration radiated off of him with every step and when they got to his place he practically tossed her inside, locked the door, and stood there with his leg cocked and both hands on his hips, “Where the fuck have you been?”

“What the fuck, Joel?” she hissed back, teeth clenched as she looked at him with wide eyes, “You can’t just drag me here-”

“I’ve been looking all over the goddamn QZ for you only to hear you went on a job with fucking Carter?” he snarled, taking a step toward her.

She scoffed and shrugged, voice still raspy from being quiet though she had always been soft spoken, “Okay? Yes, I was on a job. What’s the big deal?”

He looked down like he was trying to collect himself, taking slow breaths though his jaw ticked and nostrils flared, “Carter is a fucking moron who is gonna get you killed. You didn’t even tell me, you simply took off-”

“I’m sorry, I wasn’t aware you were my keeper?” she snapped back, “Besides you and Tess take off plenty of times without telling me, but I guess it’s only okay when she says, right? God forbid I do anything without her approval.”

Joel frowned, eyes darkening with anger and a tinge of confusion, “The fuck you getting at?”

She was tired, dirty, and didn’t want to be arguing with him but couldn’t help the way her body tingled under his gaze. But there was so much bitterness under the surface, her mind on repeat reminding her that he wasn’t hers and was only mad because it would mean losing her as an asset, “Nothing, Miller, I’m going home.”

His hand gripped her arm when she tried to move passed him to the door, “The hell you are-”

“Why do you care?” she tried to shake her arm out of his hold but he held on tight, not letting her go so easily, “You both have made it perfectly clear you’re more than capable without me so I found a group that actually wants my help. What’s it matter to you?”

“It matters because I don’t trust them with you,” he snarled, stepping in so close they were almost chest to chest, “I don’t trust them to have your back or make sure you’re okay or not to fucking get you killed out there where I can’t fucking reach you.”

The air thickened as she looked up at him. She could almost count the growing number of silver hairs in his beard and trace the deepening wrinkles in his skin. Maybe once upon a time they had been laugh lines but life had worn him down, his lips more prone to frowning. And his eyes were burrowing into her, almost like he was tracing out the features of her own face in return.

It was the closest she had been to him in weeks. She forgot how big he was, how consuming his presence could be.

“So what?” she whispered shakily. So what if she went out alone, if she survived alone, if she got killed alone. It had no bearing on him.

Both of them were tightly wound with tension, waiting for the other to snap. Words behind clenched teeth and his fingers involuntarily rubbing into her skin, her heart pounding in her ears.

But instead a knock sounded at the door.

It sounded so far away in her mind but she could see the way he flinched at the sound, the tick in his jaw as he continued to stare until another round of knocks reverberated louder. Frustrated, he turned away with a snarl and dropped her arm, hastily unlocking the door and jerking it open with a hissed, “What?”

It was Margie from the first floor. They paid her occasionally to keep an eye on FEDRA, run to them with tips and make sure certain people weren’t snooping around. Eyes tired and wary, she glanced behind Joel then nervously stuttered, “It’s Tess. She needs you in the basement.” No further info. She whispered the words and scuttled away, disappearing into the dim hallway and down the stairs.

Joel huffed, shoulders slumped and fist clenched on the knob of the open door. The silence was oppressive, hot with anger and things left unsaid. Without turning around though, he grunted a rough, “We’re not done.”

Then he was out the door. Gone without further comment, racing to Tess the second she called him. 

She tried not to let that bitterness spread, but it coated her mouth and beat along her skin as she stood in their apartment, traces of both of them everywhere she looked. He was at Tess’ beck and call and had left without even a look back.

Never had she felt more alone and unwanted.

She was gone by the time they came back.

Some days she regretted not going with Tommy. She missed the days of all of them in the living room, going over maps and Tess’ careful inventory, joking and passing a bottle of homebrewed whiskey around. Those days it was easier to not want to be wanted, to ignore the tingles when Joel would look at her and accept it wasn’t in the cards. She hated that ache of wanting him to want her in the same way he had Tess.

Want left you weak. 

She couldn’t even hate the woman. Tess was Tess. Smart, capable, ruthless, both of them birds of a feather with years of history between them. They clicked, simple as that. Tess was cold, calculated fire and she was a shadow, unobtrusive and hidden away.

A ghost, Tommy liked to call her sometimes jokingly, a nickname that had stuck. Their little ghost.

Ghosts don’t get hurt, just existed on the edges of your peripheral. Held to the earth by want and longing. It fit. A ghost of a person with no ties, unnoticed and living in darkness. Invisible.

She kept to the roofs most nights, skittering from one to the next and listening to the sounds below. Navigating fire escapes, broken balconies, above but not a part of the workings of the city. Voices whispered secrets, yells behind walls, the rhythmic pattering of feet on patrol. She traded secrets for check-ins with the radio tower controller, info on Tommy and if he was safe. Traded hints of new FEDRA patrols to Fireflies and passed along info to barter for ammo or alcohol or stupid things like chocolate. 

She didn’t see Joel or Tess for a while. They still went on runs, now without her entirely. Figured Tess’ list of cons now outweighed the pros. She knew because she followed them from up high, watching the quiet motion of Joel’s shoulders and the tension there. Sometimes he looked up and around as if scanning for her, but she folded that away as yearning and not fact. The reality was they had moved on without her like they had only been entertaining her presence because of Tommy.

It had been a silly crush, nothing more. A moment in time that was over.

The world shifted and she tried to go back to how it was before, but it wasn’t as easy as she had hoped. Like trying to fit back into a puzzle piece sized hole when she was no longer the right shape. And people around her were noticing the lack of a Miller sized shadow behind her. 

Exchanges were tenser, more often than not taking more work or worse, a knife. More than once she had been jumped as if she was weaker on the ground than the rooftops. They were wrong but fighting multiple people wasn’t her strong suit. She was made to be fast, hard to catch. Strength wasn’t her job, it had been Joel’s, but she managed. Didn’t have a choice but to manage, nursing bruised fists and sore ribs alone in her apartment.

So she went back to runs. Sometimes with Carter’s group, sometimes with Lin across town, sometimes solo. 

Every now and then she wondered if she should bother going back. If life outside the QZ would be easier for a ghost. But it would only be a thought before she’d go back to the walls and harsh reality of life post-Outbreak. A pity party. Her life was information and the infected didn’t have any use for that.

Then one day Carter fucked up and pissed off the wrong patrolmen. 

Instead of looking away, they had been waiting at the wall. Most of them got caught on re-entry, Jared shot immediately and Carter hit so hard with the butt of a gun his teeth scattered across the ground. She had managed to slip away with two of the others, all of them taking off, but FEDRA was searching and it was taking everything to lose them.

Rain had started to pour, covering the pants of her breath but making scrabbling onto perches dangerous when tired. She was backtracking around the alley, trying to lose her tail when a hand wrapped around her mouth and dragged her into the shadows. 

Nails digging in, she bucked and thrashed to try to break free even as she was easily picked up and pulled down a set of stairs and a door she hadn’t noticed. Once they were inside, the arm let her go and she spun with her blade out, angry and wet and calculating getting out of the new  situation she had found herself in.

But even in the darkness of the room, she could tell it was Joel. 

Joel angrily standing there in soaked flannel and dark curls plastered to his forehead and breathing hard in the damp basement they were in. His eyes were daggers as he moved, barricading the door with a dresser and turning on a small lamp on a slapped together end table.

It’d been weeks but the sight of him sent her heart into her throat, despite her anger and the adrenaline coursing through her from running.

“Sit down and take off your coat before you freeze to death. You’re soaked,” he ordered, pulling off his backpack and taking his own flannel off, leaving him in a worn gray shirt underneath.

“What is this, Joel?” She stayed standing, muscles locked and brow furrowed, knife gripped in her hand.

He turned to her with a glare, the dim light casting his face in harsh shadows, “It’s me saving your ass because you don’t listen to a goddamn thing I say. I told you not to work with him-”

“-if this is a lecture, I don’t need it,” she growled.

Joel stomped forward and before she could react, yanked the knife away and tossed it before pulling her backpack off roughly followed by her coat, “You almost got fucking killed back there, darling, so you don’t have any room to backtalk right now. Is that what you want? To get caught then hung up in the fucking square.” He jerked the fabric away with the last words, balling up the jacket and throwing it down angrily. 

“Who fucking cares?” she shoved at him, hands pressed to his chest, needing room to breathe. His presence was suffocating, pressing in all around her and she needed air. Because it hurt to have him this close after weeks away and all the distance. “If I get caught it has nothing to do with you!”

He refused to back up, to concede ground, only gripping her wrists and yanking her closer despite how she tried to pull away, “That what you think? That no one gives a shit what happens to you?”

The word yes was on her tongue but wouldn’t leave her mouth as she fought against him. Because speaking it out loud was too much, a confirmation that yeah, she was alone. And it hurt. 

But the smallest part of her, that hope she’d tried to snuff out, whispered from the darkness, “Then why was Joel in front of her and so angry?”

One of his hands brushed her cheek, so tender despite the anger radiating from him, before twisting through the damp strands of her hair. Joel pressed his lips together and shook his head, eyes almost black in the darkness, “What do I have to do to knock some sense into you? I dunno how someone can be so brilliant and so fucking dumb at the same time.”

She scoffed, flinching in indignation, but couldn’t get the biting words out before his lips were on hers devouring the sound. 

A whimper left her unbidden, heart exploding, feeling the rough feel of his beard against her skin and the way his chapped lips sought hers out desperately. The hand in her hair was tugging her towards him, cradling her head, and she could only try to keep herself above the tide of him as he drowned her. 

Joel was kissing her. 

Had kissed her first, clawing at her and pulling her body tight against his. Her fingers flexed, gripping the fabric of his shirt as her mind struggled to catch up. But her body was moving before she could process what was happening, kissing him back like she was starving. His tongue licked at her lips and she gave in, letting him devour her whole. 

They were moving, his feet maneuvering and guiding them until they sunk onto the dilapidated couch against the wall. He was above her and all around, small noises groaning into her mouth and fingers gripping her like she was his lifeline. It was feeling him pressed against her, hard even through jeans and his body between her thighs, that made her brain finally catch up. 

She stopped, pulling away and breathing hard, looking at him like he had turned the whole world on its axis, “Wait.”

Joel stopped immediately, pulling back and checking on her, fingers pushing strands of her hair back behind her ear. His brow was furrowed but he seemed more worried about why she had stopped and the panic coating that one word, “You okay? What is it?”

All she could do was shake her head, breath starting to become almost frantic because what was this? An hour ago she had written Joel off, ready to let him go, then  a few minutes ago he was dragging her and angry beyond belief, and now he was on top of her kissing her like she had dreamed. It was too fast, too much.

“I don't- you- what about Tess?” The words were clumsy, breathless, tumbling out incoherently.

He frowned and sat back, hand resting on her neck to stay touching her, “What? What about Tess?” She wanted to scream because what do you mean? Tess, who had been by his side every day. Who shared an apartment, a bed, with him. Who made it clear through actions that she held his leash and could direct him where she wanted. 

Tess who she knew he fucked sometimes and had been with him for years.

“I- I can’t,” she was starting to back away, sitting up fully and looking around everywhere but him. Because it felt like getting everything she wanted but at the realization of how little she mattered in comparison. This was a moment of release to him, nothing more. She was stepping on someone else’s territory because Joel wasn’t hers, he wasn’t hers, he wasn’t hers. 

Joel’s other hand came up though and held her cheek, keeping her from running, shushing her softly and trying to get her to look back at him, “Hey, hey, what’s going on? You’re fine, settle down.”

She was babbling, composure gone and everything she kept bottled up pouring over. It felt like being teased, a mouse on a string dangling in front of her and going to be ripped away at any second, “You…we can’t- You’re with Tess and I can’t-”

“Sh, sh, slow down,” he rubbed her arms up and down, working to get the chill out of the still damp skin, “I need you to breathe, baby.” He furrowed his brow and adjusted onto the couch, tugging her closer easily. He watched, taking in the way her eyes darted around the room and how even though she was half heartedly pulling away, her fingers clung to his shirt. 

The patchwork of her words filled the silence and he shook his head, trying to piece it all together, “You think me and Tess are together? That what this is about?”

Sanity was slowly coming back and a scoff left her lips, bouncing in the space between them, “I’m not an idiot, Joel. You two- I’ve heard…the walls of the apartment are thin.”

At that he did wince, chewing on his lip and looking away.

Her throat felt tight, heart hammering, but she shrugged as if she hadn’t dreamed of having his hands on her and this wasn’t killing her, “I don’t know what’s going on between you two, but I’m not getting between it. I’m not just a quick fuck. I can’t do that.”

He turned back to her then, eyes hard, “Stop. Just…stop. I need you to sit there and listen.” Joel leaned an elbow onto the back of the couch and leaned in, fingers grasping her chin hard, “First things first, you are not a quick fuck. That ain’t what this is. It ain’t what I want.”

She tried to control the look on her face, shove everything behind walls and disappear, but he refused to let her, “Second, yeah, me and Tess have had sex. But that’s it.” It wasn’t new information but hearing him say it so bluntly twisted her stomach and made her want to back away, crawl into the shadows, get away from the way his eyes bore into her and watched every little reaction.

“Tess and I have been around each other for a long time. She knows me and I know her, but I don’t feel that way about her,” Joel tightened his grip on her chin, words brusque and laid out like fact, “We had needs, we took care of it. Either way, that’s in the past.”

Frowning, she looked at him in confusion, “What does that mean?”

“If you had stopped avoiding me,” he commented pointedly with a raised brow, “You would know Tess moved out a while back. We’d stopped having sex and she was seeing someone so she moved out to her own space.”

The words were a tanged mess in her brain. Tess had moved out, it had only been sex, she was seeing someone, “if you had stopped avoiding me.”

“I-” she swallowed, mouth dry, “I wasn’t avoiding you-”

“Darling,” he chuckled half from frustration, “You watch everything and everyone but sometimes you’re clueless. Cause you think that no one notices you. But I see you, no matter how much you try to disappear and act like no one can, just like a fucking ghost. I’ve always seen you though and I saw the moment you started pulling away.

“For a while I thought that maybe it was cause of Tommy. Maybe there was something going on there, but even before he left he was pushy about you and me. Would tease me about how I watched you. I tried to be there for you, deny whatever this is, but you hadn’t ever looked at Tommy the way you looked at me.”

I see you. And he had. He had always noticed the little things so she wasn’t sure why she was surprised he noticed the big ones. Like the fact he was right, she hadn’t ever looked at Tommy in the same way. 

“I thought letting you go was the right move when you started to distance yourself, but hearing you do runs again, being reckless,” Joel grit his teeth and shut his eyes tight, “Drove me fucking insane. Would have killed Carter myself if you got hurt. Almost ripped into those FEDRA fucks when I saw yall get caught.”

“I can take care of myself,” she whispered, the smallest of protests as her fingers tightened on his shirt. A small act of defiance if only to keep her feet on the ground as he shook everything apart. 

He chuckled and his hand left her chin to dive back into her hair, pulling her forward a bit, “I know you can. But you don’t have to. I’ll feel a whole lot better if I can be there to keep you safe myself cause you drive me up the goddamn wall.”

She wasn’t sure whether to laugh or cry or try to wake up because Joel Miller was sitting in front of her and seeing her, choosing her. 

So she kissed him, gripping him tightly and practically crawling into his lap to get as close as possible. His hands were equally tight in her hair, the delicious tug of the strands making her groan into his mouth as he yanked her close. They were fervent, pouring every tense moment into each other like the flood gates had been opened between them.

Joel wasn’t gentle and that was fine with her. Too many late nights had been spent imagining how he would feel, the way he liked to fuck and kiss and touch. Joel was not a soft person and she wanted to feel that directed at her. She didn’t want soft. So she took every bit he gave, letting him take over and his tongue explore every bit of her mouth, teeth biting on her lips and his hands bringing her down to grind onto him. 

She could feel how big he was, slightly damp jeans doing nothing to disguise the hard press of him against her covered center. He held her like his touch was the only thing keeping her from disappearing back in the shadows, one hand constantly moving and squeezing, guiding her backwards until her back hit the cushions of the couch. 

“You tell me to stop, I stop,” he whispered into her lips, hand finding its way under her shirt and exploring the soft expanse of her stomach. She wanted to tell him that stopping would destroy her, would break her into a thousand tiny bits, but she only raked her nails down his back and pulled him closer.

Her hands trembled at being able to explore him to her heart’s content. The warmth of his back and the way his muscles flexed under her fingertips, the trail of hair along his soft belly leading to his waistband, the strength of his biceps as he held himself above her. His calloused fingers found her breasts, flexing and squeezing and rolling her nipples causing her to almost whimper in return. Every touch was electricity and fire, endless and overwhelming. 

She tugged at the bottom of his shirt and he practically ripped it off so he could resume kissing her, lips moving to bite and suck at the underside of her jaw. Her skin had been cold from the rain and he was like a heated blanket on top of her, warmth sinking in and leaving her panting. 

They were frantic and clumsy, all teeth and moans as they struggled to unbutton jeans and discard shirts. She was usually so quiet but when his mouth wrapped around her nipple hard he had to cover her own with his hand as she cried out loudly, lifting her chest to press it closer to him. He kissed and sucked one then the other while his free hand slipped under the waistband of her underwear, finding her completely soaked for him. “Fuck,” he whispered into her skin, forehead pressed to her sternum as his hand explored her slick folds and the way her hips chased his touch, “Fucking so wet for me already.”

“Joel,” she gasped as his thumb rubbed at her clit, the tip of a finger dipping into her slowly. It was almost embarrassing how good it felt, how easily she could topple over the edge already simply from the fact it was him touching her. He let out soft pants, curls ticking her chest as he looked down and concentrated on exploring her. They had kept their jeans mostly on, a reminder that this wasn’t their apartments and it wasn’t safe to be completely naked, the only thing keeping him from stripping her bare. 

“I’ve got you, sweetheart,” he moaned, slowly pumping a single finger in and out of her, stretching her out, “Fuck, I can’t wait to take you back and have you fall apart on my tongue. Wanna taste you so bad.”

Her hips jerked at the thought, feeling him sink in deeper while his thumb kept up slow circles on her clit. “Yeah, you’d like that wouldn’t you,” Joel chuckled into her skin, teasingly biting at the underside of her breasts, “Gonna have that pretty little cunt cumming all over my mouth so hard you’ll listen to what I say for once.”

Her orgasm was a quickly rising wave, the sound of his voice whispering filth leaving her trembling as he added a second finger inside of her. They moved in and out, curling and stretching and hitting a spot her own fingers could never reach. She felt simultaneously full and like it wasn’t enough. 

“Fuck fuck,” she gasped, squirming and holding onto his bare back as her legs trembled.

“That’s it, baby, give it to me,” Joel growled, speeding up and dragging her over the edge as her orgasm hit her so hard it left her breathless.

Stars were exploding behind her eyelids and sensation was overwhelming. The feel of his beard dragging deliciously as he kissed a trail up her neck, the callouses of his hands a contrast to the soft skin of her cunt, the way his belt dug into her thighs. 

He was everywhere and yet it wasn’t enough. She wanted him inside of her, hot and filling. The feel of his naked torso against her own was intoxicating and even though he had said it wasn’t a quick fuck, one and done, she couldn’t imagine what it would be like to have him fully naked over her. 

“I need you,” she mumbled against his lips and tugged at his hair, pushing him to sit back. He easily sat up, pulling her with him like she weighed nothing to settle with her knees on either side of him. Both were panting, breathing heavily between kisses, as she scrambled to shove her pants down and he did the same. It wasn’t graceful, the wet denim fighting and Joel getting distracted by the slick painting her inner thighs. 

He let out a hiss and his head fell back against the couch as his cock was pulled free between them, thick and hard and weeping at the tip. Joel jerked when her thumb trailed through the bead of precum and slid along the underside to touch the pulsing vein there.

“Fuck,” he growled and ripped her hand away, pulling her close to hover above, “Later, baby. Right now I need to feel your pussy on it or it’s gonna be over too damn quick.”

She didn’t think she was one for dirty talk but his southern drawl and the gravel in his voice hit her low and hard. She wrapped her hand around him and slid his cock through the arousal pouring from her before slowly easing down onto him. He was fucking big, so big, and it burned to be stretched out after being alone for so long. 

Joel let her take control, let her impale herself and go at her own pace, whispering, “Good girl, good fucking girl,” over and over again. His arm fully stretched along her back, bracing her and able to grip the back of her neck tightly. She had never whimpered or begged in her life, but feeling him holding onto her, groaning with muscles taut with restraint as he let her have control, made her want to beg him to fuck her so hard the memory of him would be imprinted on her skin.

The angle was breathtaking as she fully sank down, the patch of curls at his base rubbing against her clit and his cock so deep she wanted to cry at how perfect he was. They both moaned, looking down where they were joined and her stretched around him, as he murmured praise at how good she felt. 

She moved slowly at first, rocking a little, hips instinctively canting to rub against him. His grip on the back of her neck was a steady presence, his other hand moving up and down her neck, pressing against the sides of her throat and making her slightly light headed. It was intoxicating, feeling him after wanting him for so long, the dig of his fingertips on her windpipe controlling her breath.

“That’s it, darling, you take what you need,” he grit his teeth, jaw clenched, rolling into the rhythm she was leading. Her nipples moved against the bare skin of his chest, sending twinges of pleasure coursing through her. Her moans were breathy, brow furrowed and she was drowning in how good it all was. It was like being consumed, those eyes in the darkness burning deep down into her. If this was all she got from him, she would die happily. 

“Joel,” she cried, nails digging into his broad shoulders and biceps. 

Everything she wanted was in the way his name broke from his lips and with it, his control. He kissed her hard enough she could almost taste blood from cracked lips and he pistoned up into her with a growl. It wasn’t slow or soft, almost brutal in the way he drove his cock up, punching the air from her lungs and splitting her open. 

He kept her lips against his, tongue tasting the inside of her mouth and swallowing the screams that threatened to rip from her as he thrusted over and over again frantically chasing both of their orgasms. It was pain and pleasure and the sun exploding underneath her skin as he coaxed her release like it was the last thing on earth. It was all she had hoped for, dreamed of late at night, imagining how it would feel to be at his mercy.

Every nerve was set aflame and she clung to him desperately as she went over the edge, arousal coating their thighs as her orgasm barreled through her. 

He whispered her through it, fucking into her as pleasure crested through her, and then cursed. His voice was a low rumble that hit deep in her before he easily lifted her off him, cock slapping against his stomach before he wrapped his own giant hand around himself and furiously worked himself to release.

She was slumped against him, dazed and watching as he gripped himself tightly, feeling the deep moan as he cummed over his fist and onto her stomach. Everything felt like it was floating, the warmth of his skin and release all over her and she couldn’t tell if it was sweat or the rain that clung to both of their hair and was dripping down their backs. They were sticky and hot and out of breath, but she had never felt better.

“Holy shit,” he groaned, blowing out a breath and pressing a kiss to her hair while wrapping his arms around her. She couldn’t properly form words yet, boneless and only able to nuzzle her nose into his neck. 

She let herself drift in the silence, feeling him run fingers up and down her spine and the way both their breaths started to even out.

He kissed her temple again, whispering almost hesitantly in the calm, “You do runs with me. No more other groups, just me. And no more avoiding me or I’m going to drag all your shit to my place and lock you inside.”

A chuckle left her, putting him slightly at ease as if his command would throw the balance of them into disorder, “Bossy. You wouldn’t.”

Joel only smiled and tightened his hold on her, “Sweetheart, you have no idea what I would do for you. Don’t tempt me. Wouldn’t mind keeping ya all to myself.”

It was said jokingly but her heart sped up, hearing words she had hoped but never thought she would actually hear, “That so?” She pulled away to look at him, eyes connecting even in the dim lamp lighting up the darkness of the room they were stashed away in.

He didn’t say anything at first, cupping her face and thumb tracing over her bottom lip. His eyes swept over every bit of her face like he also couldn’t believe she was there with him. Slowly, he kissed her, breathing in her sigh and whispering almost with reverence back at her, “I see you. You’re not going to be able to get rid of me, baby.”

✮⋆˙ ✮⋆˙ ✮⋆˙

it was another day in jackson. always something to do. you were wiping away sweat with the back of your hand and resting your hands on your hips. you huff out a breath, your hair sticky against your neck and cheeks. it was unbelievably hot during the day. the only time you’d ever feel fresh during the day was when you were in the shower. but today, you were stuck on reconstruction duty with a handful of other people. everyone looked as equally tired as you.

“gonna keep standing around lookin’ pretty or gonna help out,” someone barks from behind you. you immediately snap in the direction of whoever the fuck said that. your eyes land on a tall man, brooding and scowling in the most annoying way you have ever seen.

“‘xcuse me,” you say sternly, voice low and eyes piercing into the mans.

“told maria i didn’t want girls like you on my shift,” he mutters, looking you up and down.

“girls like me,” you spit. “i’m sorry, what’s that supposed to mean, asshole?” his mouth in a straight line, eyes not easing up at all as he steps closer to you. permanent scowl, noted.

he’s nearly toe to toe with you, you have to crane your neck up just to try to seem more intimidating. “girls that just stand around worrying about gettin’ their nails dirty.”

you had literally took a moment to breathe. and this fucking guy is acting like it’s the end of the world. you laugh, a breathy sarcastic laugh. “alright, old man.” you brush past him and pick up the first useless fucking tool you see. this man isn’t gonna get the best of you. he won’t. you don’t turn around to see the man glaring at you. you don’t turn around to ask who he was. you don’t turn around to try to get a better look at him. you don’t give him the satisfaction of another look. fuck him.

✮⋆˙ ✮⋆˙ ✮⋆˙

over the next couple of days, you find out the man’s name is joel. and that he’s usually like that. everyone seems to love him. everyone also seems to be extremely intimidated by him. and you have no fucking clue as to why. he’s a dick. that’s all. everyone was just too nice and sweet to put the man in his place. but not you. definitely not you.

you were working in the greenhouse now. maria deemed you fit to be what she calls a ‘floater’. you float to where the hell she needs you. a jack of all trades. it wasn’t that you were good, you just worked. it’s not that you followed orders, you just got the job done. like today, for example. you wouldn’t tell anyone— but the greenhouse was your favorite. you were checking on the fruits, making sure you pick the most perfect strawberries when you hear a door open. you look up and see that familiar scowl.

“oh, great,” you say, “to what do i owe the pleasure.”

“not here for you,” his voice sharp. you ignore him and keep on doing what you’re doing. and honestly? you loved this job because you can take your time. you weren’t rushed or feeling pressured. everyone loved this job. it was easy. simple. “jesus. gonna fucking stare at the leaves all day or do your job?”

you stand up, quick to your feet and watch joel brush past you, bumping into your shoulder as he makes his way to the back room. you remembered the light didn’t turn on so he was more than likely here to fix that. “you are such a dick, joel.”

he mumbles, even in that low tone, it’s dipped in sarcasm, “haven’t heard that before.”

“oh i bet.,” you say, “asshole,” you mutter— barely above a whisper and he storms back. boots heavy and kicking up dirt as he walks up to you. you stand your ground and hold your chin up.

“you’re real fuckin’ mouthy,” he says through gritted teeth. his eyes piercing through your fucking skull.

“you’re real fuckin’ miserable,” you bite back.

his nostrils flare, he doesn’t look away. not when you step up closer to him. he looks down at you, his jaw clenches. your chest is heaving— slightly. up, down, up, down. this was the third time this week you stood toe to toe with the man. only difference is, you don’t have an audience to shoot you sorry looks and mutter pity words to you.

he’s like that with everyone.

oh no, she doesn’t know better.

the new ones’ got spunk.

he exhales a hard breath and you swear his eyes flicked towards your mouth, but you can’t be sure because he retreats to the back room just as fast as he stomped over here. fucking joel miller. you hated that guy.

✮⋆˙ ✮⋆˙ ✮⋆˙

here you are again. in the damn greenhouse. well— locked out of the damn greenhouse. it was late, you were laying in bed when you realized that you forgot to shut off the light in the back room. wasting electricity here in jackson was nearly a crime. (the townspeople would be so annoyed with you that they’d have to move curfew an hour earlier just to make up for the electricity you used up.)

you muttered a few fucks, pushing your shoulder into the door, twisting the doorknob, peaking in the window. “fucking shit!” you’re fumbling with the doorknob again when you hear his voice, low and ragged, rumble behind you.

“stealing?”

“oh fuck off, joel. no,” you say, your voice slightly raised. “i fucking forgot to turn off the-“

“don’t care. move,” he interrupts you. he basically fucking yanks you out the way by your shirt and pulls out a carabiner rattled with keys. he doesn’t even filter through them, in one swift motion he’s picking out the right key. you scoff. arms folded over your chest, gaze anywhere but joel miller. you hate this. hate that he always seems to be around when you’re fucking up. hate that that’s what he associates you with. hate that joel fucking miller always gets the upper hand. he pushes the door open, his palm flat on the door. he looks at you, that scowl still there. “gonna just fucking stand there or-”

you push past him. stomping to the back room. “fuck off, joel,” you call over your shoulder. joel smirks and watches you stride past him. he loves this. loves that he’s always around when you fuck up. loves that feeling of ‘i told you so’ when he hasn’t even fucking said shit. loves that you need him to fix your messes.

you don’t even look to see if joels gone. you don’t care. he never sticks around to actually help— just call you out on whatever the fuck is bothering him. you’re muttering now. fuckin’ nerve of that guy. always so damn mad. never needed his help-

“gonna say that a little louder,” his voice grumbles. you straighten up, taking a small breath as you feel his near your ear. he’s so fucking close. if you as much as breathe wrong, your ass would be pressed against his jeans.

“i said… you’re always so damn mad. needa get laid or somethin’,” you say. voice even and drenched in annoyance, but he doesn’t miss the way it falters just a little bit. almost as if… this turned you on.

“and you?”

“me what,” you spit. titling your head just a tiny bit, his eyes scanning the side of your face. he’s tilts his head in an almost observing way. his eyes dragging down to your mouth. the light was still on. his tall frame casting the faintest shadows on your features. you were so damn small compared to him.

“you needa get laid?”

your breath catches, he notices. you start to feel that familiar ache between your thighs. you hated him though. it was just because you’re so sex deprived that a leaf can turn you on. “by you? no thanks.”

he chuckles, gruff and low. he steps closer, his hands ghosting your waist. his lips grazing your ear, “bend over.”

and you don’t fucking wait. you bend over right on that work bench. his hands greedily tugging your pants and panties down in one swift motion. you hear the clinking of his belt and brace yourself for him. his palm is warm and hot and big on your back, strong, holding you down. your cheek pressed against the rough wood as you feel the tip of his cock press right where you need it the most. your mouth betrays you and you fucking whimper at the contact his cock makes with your entrance.

“yeah,” he growls, breath hot on your neck, “you fuckin’ needed this, huh?” voice drenched in that fucking same annoying ‘i told you so’ tone.

but your body right now can’t register your hate for him. you just fucking need him. you whimper, gasping as he slams into you from behind, each thrust punching little helpless noises out of you.

“say it,” he grits.

“i—i needed it—”

“didn’t hear you.”

you sob out, “i needed it, joel—”

“that’s fuckin’ right,” he snaps, hand tangling in your hair, yanking your head back, “goddamn. look at you. just a hole, huh?”

you moan at that—humiliating and hot—and he laughs, low and mean, chest pressed to your back as he ruts into you, filthy and rough. fuck him you think. fuck me you wanna say.

“you take cock so fuckin’ well,” he mutters, almost like he’s angry about it. “so desperate for it, ain’t you?”

and you don’t answer. you just moan at that. he pushes you back down hard, your face pressed against the bench again. “opening your legs for a man that don’t even like you,” he says in that low, gravelly tone of his.

“you’re still fucking me, ain’t you,” you voice broken with each thrust into your dripping cunt. he growls at this, hands between your shoulder blades pushing you down harder. you yelp at the pain on your collarbones from the hard surface. but the way his cock slides in and out of you with finesse makes it better.

“such a goddamn brat. gonna teach you.”

he fucks you harder, breathes harder too. his thrusts becoming more erratic. he’s fucking you for him. using you. and this gets your pussy pulsating around his thick, heavy cock. he moans at that, pressing his forehead to your back as he buries himself to the hilt and gives you short thrusts. he’s close. you can tell. and with a few more thrusts, he finishes inside you. not a word. not a kiss. he doesn’t stay inside you for long either. he pulls himself out quickly, doesn’t even help you— just zips up, watching his cum drip down your thighs and says in his usual gruff tone—

“you don’t tell anyone. understand?”

you nod, trembling, heart racing, still bent over and wrecked. he’s gone before the room even stops spinning but before he leaves, he flicks off the goddamn. fucking. light.

✮⋆˙ ✮⋆˙ ✮⋆˙

it doesn’t stop. as a matter of fact, it happens so often that you leave your front door unlocked. he shows up at random. slams the door behind him, grabs your throat, throws you up against the wall and grinds his hips into you. never a smile. never sweet. always desperate.

“fuckin’ knew this was what you wanted,” he grits, pulling your shorts down roughly, “walkin’ ‘round with that little look in your eye. that fucking attitude. like you need to be fucked dumb to learn your lesson. you wanted to be used, didn’t you?”

you moan, already slick, already soaked. he lifts you like nothing, tosses you on the bed.

“look at this filthy fuckin’ thing,” he mutters, parting your legs with his knees, staring down at your dripping cunt. “soaked for me already. jesus.”

sometimes he uses his fingers first.

“hold your fuckin’ legs open,” he growls, pressing two fingers deep into you, curling them. “there you go. that’s it. that’s my good girl.”

but he never says your name. never kisses you. never lets it feel like anything more than what it is. just fucking. just frustration. just punishment. but that’s okay. perfect even— because he’s just a cock you’ve desperately needed.

he uses your mouth like a toy some nights—grabbing your jaw, tapping his cock against your tongue.

“open,” he demands.

you do. you always fucking do. and he slides in slow, lets the head hit the back of your throat.

“look at you,” he mutters darkly. “mouth full of cock. so fucking nice when you’re not talking. when you’re being used.”

you moan around his cock, making him hiss. you pull back and try to speak, try to say screw you but he just grabs your head and pushes you back onto his cock, eyes watering and drool dripping down your chin. he fucks your mouth til your jaw aches. then shoves you back, flips you over and moves your panties to the side.

“don’t need you to talk,” he mutters. “just keep takin’ it.”

and you do. over and over.

✮⋆˙ ✮⋆˙ ✮⋆˙

joel is an expert at keeping this shit under wraps. in public? cold. detached. polite enough. but no hint. no touch. no glance. it’s as if he can’t fuck the hate away. no one would guess that a few hours ago, he had you face-down in your bed, ass red with the shape of his hand, moaning like you’d break in half if he stopped. no one would guess he growled “gonna fuckin’ ruin you,” right into your ear while you came shaking around him, fingers clutching the sheets so hard they tore.

that just excited you more. especially when you’d give him extra sass that day. it was your favorite. because you knew that he’d fuck you senseless later that night. it was going real fucking good. you enjoyed being joel’s cum whore. you were fine with it. but then the sex began to get a little… different. more …personal. you knew he wasn’t coming over tonight.

said he had things to do. supplies to get. said you’d “worn him out enough” yesterday—grunted it against your throat while he pushed his cum into you so deep your legs shook for hours after. but then he’s there. door creaks open with a heavy groan, and his silhouette fills the threshold. you hadn’t even heard your front door open and shut. hadn’t heard his footsteps make their way down the hall. you’re brushing your hair in front of the old mirror when you see him behind you—his face dark, shoulders squared, eyes locked right on yours in the reflection. you don’t turn. you keep brushing.

he doesn’t speak. you feel him before you hear him. boots thud against the floor, slow and heavy. he comes up behind you, towering over you—hot breath brushing your ear. “you wearin’ that for me?”

you blink slowly. the old shirt you sleep in is short—barely grazing your thighs. no bra. nipples tight under the cotton. no panties. (okay, you might’ve hoped he would come over anyways)

“didn’t know you were comin’,” you whisper.

“didn’t either,” he says roughly, then grabs the brush from your hand and tosses it on the floor.

“hands on the dresser,” he mutters. his voice low and even. you obey.

he glances at you through the mirror—his rough palms dragging up the backs of your thighs, pushing the shirt up your waist, exposing the soft curves of your ass. his jaw clenches. you see it. see his nostrils flare.

“fuckin’ hell,” he mutters under his breath. “you always this wet for me?” he dips a finger between your legs, groaning at how slick you are. then he pauses. doesn’t slide it in. just barely circles your entrance with the tip of his finger. you whimper.

“want it?” he murmurs, voice low and wrecked.

“joel—”

“i said,” he cuts in, dragging his mouth up the side of your neck, “do you want it?”

“yes,” you breathe.

“then look at yourself,” he growls. “look what you fuckin’ do to me.”

you lift your gaze to the mirror, and oh god. joel’s looking right at you. his hand wrapped around his cock, thick and hard, stroking himself slow while he stares down at you like a goddamn meal. he pushes the tip between your folds and stays there.

“joel—please—”

“i don’t think you do wanna be fucked,” he growls softly. “you don’t even know what it means.”

“i do. i need it, joel—please.”

“you need it?”

he slides in just an inch and your breath stutters. your eyes flutter shut then– smack.

his hand cracks across your ass, not hard, but sharp enough to jolt you. “open your eyes,” he hisses.

you do. and when you do, he presses all the way in. you cry out, knuckles white against the dresser’s edge, your reflection unraveling right before your eyes.

“now watch,” he grits. “wanna see how fuckin’ filthy you look gettin’ used like this.”

you do. you watch. you watch the way his hand fists your hair, tugging your head back. you watch the way your mouth falls open, the way your tits bounce, the way your thighs quiver every time he slams into you. the way his hand reaches up and his fingers squeeze your nipples.

“you like watchin’ me fuck you, don’t you?”

you nod frantically, moaning out something senseless. something that sounds like words mushed all together. his hips slow suddenly—dragging his cock out almost all the way, then grinding back in slow. too slow. torturous.

“you take cock so fuckin’ good,” he growls, watching your expression in the glass. “tight little thing. just made for this. made f’me.”

“joel,” you whine, back arching, “don’t stop, please—”

“not gonna,” he mutters, pace still slow, deliberate, “but i should. should leave you here like this. beggin’. desperate.”

“don’t,” you cry.

“tell me who you belong to.” that was new. but fuck, did you love it.

“you—fuck—you.”

he grips your hips tighter, thrusts deeper, and groans against your neck, “that’s fuckin’ right.”

you come with your face pressed to the mirror, eyes blurry, mouth open. moaning his name. and then he flips you. picks you up like nothing and lays you across the dresser, leans over you and fucks you again while your legs shake and tremble and your pussy’s still twitching.

“gonna give me one more,” he growls, voice cracked and filthy.

“can’t,” you sob.

“you can, and you will. look at me.” he gives your face a gentle love tap with his hand. so you do. you look at him. your eyes meet his. just for a second. and for the first time—just once—he kisses you. fast. desperate. possessive. then he pulls back and whispers, “ain’t never lettin’ anyone else see you like this.”

and you break. this might’ve been a mistake. surely he didn’t mean that, you think. except.. he definitely fucking meant it.

✮⋆˙ ✮⋆˙ ✮⋆˙

his favorite was when you took control. when you went running to him. telling him you need him. and when that happens, he sits. he leans back in your old wooden chair, legs spread, thighs wide open, hands resting on them like he’s some damn throne, watching you pull your shirt over your head in the flickering lantern light.

“thought you liked bein’ handled,” he mutters, voice low and amused.

“i do,” you say, straddling him, panties still on, dragging your heat over the bulge in his jeans. “but tonight I’m gonna handle you.”

joel raises one brow, that crooked little smirk tugging at his mouth. “is that right?”

you grind against him slowly. enough pressure to feel the size of him, not enough to give either of you relief.

“don’t act like you haven’t thought about it,” you whisper into his ear. “me on top. you underneath. me using you.”

he groans—quiet, like he didn’t mean to let it out. you pull back. grip his chin. “keep your mouth shut tonight, miller. just let me fuck.”

that smirk widens. his eyes flash. but he nods. “go ahead, baby girl,” he murmurs, voice thick with heat. “show me what you think you can handle.”

you undo his jeans. drag them down, push your panties to the side, and lower yourself onto him—slow. his cock stretches you, fills you, and you keep your eyes on his the whole time. joel groans, fists clenched on his thighs, but doesn’t move. doesn’t buck. doesn’t thrust. just watches you slide down every fucking inch. and then he says, “look at that,” he mutters. “didn’t think you had it in you.”

you snap your hips down, sharp and fast. he hisses through his teeth. “oh, i do,” you breathe, riding him rough, palms planted on his chest. you find your pace—grinding, snapping, rolling—gripping his hair, tugging his head back, claiming him. “you’re gonna sit there,” you pant, “and let me take what i want. no more teasing. just shut the fuck up and let me use you.”

he laughs. low. dark. turned on as hell. but he obeys. keeps his hands to himself. doesn’t thrust. just grits his teeth and takes it. and somewhere along the way? he breaks a little. his eyes glaze. his jaw slackens. and his voice is barely a whisper when he mutters, “fuckin’ look at you. so fuckin’ pretty.”

you lean down. grab his throat—not tight, just enough to make him blink up at you. “don’t get all soft on me now, asshole,” you whisper. “but thanks,” you bite your lip, a small smile threatening to show itself. and that’s when he comes. hard. bites his own fist to keep quiet, and when you clench around him, moaning loud, trembling, he watches you like he’s never seen anything so filthy but beautiful in his life.

you slide off slowly. wipe his cum off your inner thigh with his discarded shirt. on purpose. he doesn’t move. Just breathes hard. and as you walk past him to get dressed, bare and smug and glowing, he grumbles from behind you,“next time, you ride like that again, i ain’t lettin’ you leave bed for a fuckin’ week.”

you just toss him a smirk over your shoulder. “next time? we’ll see if you earn it.”

little by little, the sex began to get more intimate. it began to mean something. starts to be like second nature, like you two heal each other through this. he knows your body needs it before you do. especially on your hard days.

your muscles ache. your back’s sore. you’d been out in the fields all fucking day, sun beating down on your shoulders, dirt caked under your nails, sweat dried on your neck. you don’t realize how quiet you’ve been. you don’t know he was watching. but joel miller sees everything. he always has.

it’s past dark when you hear the knock. two short raps. sharp. then silence. you open the door and there he is—leaning against the frame, arms crossed, face unreadable. “rough day?” he doesn’t actually care. you have to fight the urge to roll your eyes. you don’t answer. you just step back and leave the door open. he walks in like he owns the fucking place. doesn’t say anything. doesn’t ask.

he turns you around by the hips, presses your chest into the table, tugs your pants down and growls, “don’t talk. just fuckin’ take it.”

and you do but tonight.. tonight is different. because instead of just using you until he grunts and spills inside, joel grips your hips, pulls you back onto him slow, and says with that rasp in his voice like he’s already gone, “gonna make you cum first.”

you freeze. he doesn’t repeat himself. he just says, “don’t argue.”

you swallow, trembling. “didn’t say anything.”

“didn’t have to. i can tell.”

he fucks you just the way you need. deep, slow, rhythm steady enough to drive you insane. one hand on your lower back, the other sliding between your legs. he touches you like he means it. finds your clit, starts rubbing tight circles, murmuring just under his breath, “fuckin’ soaked already. knew you needed this.”

you whimper, and his grip tightens.

“come on. let go. i got you.”

you never hear that from him.

you come hard, body shaking, eyes wet, hips grinding back into him like he’s the only thing keeping you tethered. and even after you’ve cummed, he doesn’t stop. he fucks you through it. chasing his own high now, grunting into your neck.

“goddamn,” he hisses, breath ragged. “this pussy—fuck—it’s mine when i want it.”

you nod, desperate. “mhm, yes, god yes, it’s yours,” through a clenched jaw and gritted teeth.

he groans, pulls you close, and finishes inside you with a brutal snap of his hips. he doesn’t leave right away. like he usually does. this time? he steps back, lets out a long breath, and watches the way your body trembles from release. his hands falling down your body back to his sides. he stares at your back, your spine, the sweat along your skin. he wants to reach out. wipe the dirt off your face. run a hand through your hair. lay you down in bed and hold you til your bones stop aching.

but instead, “clean up,” he mutters, already turning. “see you around.” and he’s gone.

you knew something was up with him. but what you don’t know? he saw you that morning. shirt soaked with sweat, bent over a wheelbarrow, jaw clenched. he saw you laughing with someone who wasn’t him. and something in his chest twisted. not jealousy, not exactly. just this awful, possessive ache. something like– she lets other people see her smile, but i’m the one who makes her fall apart.

he hates it. hates what he feels when he sees you. hates that he notices your moods. hates that he shows up for you without knowing why. but most of all? he hates that he’s starting to want more than just the fucking. and he doesn’t know how to stop.

✮⋆˙ ✮⋆˙ ✮⋆˙

it starts like always. you let him in. you don’t speak. he’s already unbuckling his belt as you back toward the bedroom, shirt half off, nerves buzzing, mouth dry. he pushes you onto the bed, yanks your panties down, kneels between your legs, and fucks into you raw—bare, thick, deep. one hand clutches your thigh. the other grips your jaw.

“been thinkin’ ‘bout this pussy all fuckin’ week,” he growls, hips snapping, breath ragged. “knew it’d still be mine.”

you moan, back arching. his pace gets brutal. he grits his teeth. “you missed me, didn’t you? missed gettin’ split open.”

you’re so close, burning, buzzing, boneless—and that’s when you say it. mid-moan. barely a whisper, “this is the last time.”

his whole body stops. just like that. motionless inside you. chest heaving. a beat of silence. the —

“…meaning?” his voice is gravel. dangerous.

you meet his eyes. swallow. the reason you hadn’t bothered to come looking for joel all week. “i’m seeing someone.”

his jaw tightens. he stares at you, nostrils flared. not angry. not sad. just… calculating. and then he thrusts. hard. once. deep. cruel. you gasp. then again. and again. slow. deliberate. vicious.

“they know you like to get fucked like this?” he growls.

you tremble.

“they know this little cunt gets stretched out, sloppy, takin’ cock like a fuckin’ whore?”

you whimper, try to pull back—he grabs your hips, yanks you flush to him.

“don’t you fuckin’ move now.”

his hand slides down—rough on your clit, circling, forcing. god you loved this so much. but dammit you knew what the hell joel was doing. no one can fuck you the way he can, the way he knows your body needs— loves.

“wanna stop? we can. after you fuckin’ come on my cock one last time.”

you try to fight it. try to stay still. try to show him he doesn’t have that much of an effect on you. but your body betrays you. he knows how to ruin you. knows the angle, the pressure, the filth to whisper in your ear.

“bet he don’t even know how to touch you right.”

“he kiss your pussy or just fumble around like a fuckin’ idiot?”

“you’ll think about me next time you fuck him. know how I know?”

“‘cause you’re squeezin’ ‘round me so tight right now.”

you come with a choked moan, body clenching, tears pricking your eyes. he watches you like you just broke something in him. he finishes inside you. stays buried. breathing hard. and then pulls out without a word. pants up. shirt down. you stay lying there. spent. ruined. he stands at the edge of the bed and says—quietly, “don’t call me when it falls apart.”

✮⋆˙ ✮⋆˙ ✮⋆˙

you’re out with him— miles. he’s nice. sweet smile. soft hands. a little younger than joel. harmless in the way joel never was. he makes you laugh.

youu don’t even realize joel’s there. standing across the street, half in shadow, pretending he’s looking for something—someone—else. but he’s watching you. he watches you lean into this guys shoulder, watches your smile, that sweet little laugh—the one joel’s never earned, the one you never made while he was fucking you into the mattress. he watches him tuck your hair behind your ear. so gentle. and something snaps in joel’s chest. jealousy? couldn’t be. he doesn’t even like you. right?

he just hates… hates that someone else gets your softness. hates that he never touched you without making you cry or beg or moan into the dark. hates that he wants to see that smile again—but only for him. that night, he doesn’t sleep. lays awake, jaw clenched, staring at the ceiling.

thinks of your laugh. your mouth. the way your face used to twist when you came so hard around his cock that your knees buckled. so finally—he gets up. doesn’t even know if you’ll be home. if you’ll be alone.

you’re still half-dressed when the knock hits. two short, sharp bangs. you freeze. you know that knock. you open the door slowly. a mistake, but oke you don’t mind making. and there he is.

joel miller.

grim. unshaven. eyes shadowed with something dangerous. you open your mouth, but he steps into your space, grabs your jaw. leans down. and says in that low, gravel voice of his. “get on your fuckin’ knees.”

you don’t think. you drop. hands to the floor. knees hitting the hardwood with a soft thump. door slamming shut. joel’s already undoing his belt, one hand still tangled in your hair.

“you missed this, didn’t you?”

you look up at him. wide-eyed. silent. starving.

“bet he don’t know what this mouth is capable of,” joel mutters, stroking himself, thick and hard, the tip already dripping. “bet he don’t know how you gag on it. how you moan with it down your throat.”

he slaps it against your cheek. you flinch. he groans. “open.”

you do. he shoves in. no warning. no softness. just rage and lust and something bitter at the back of his throat. he grips your hair. thrusts deep. watches your eyes water.

“yeah,” he hisses, hips snapping, “that’s right. take it. take what you fuckin’ need.”

you gag, but you don’t pull away. you do need this. crave it. you’ve been aching for it. he uses your mouth like it’s his to own. his to ruin.

“mm, fuck,” he growls, eyes fluttering, “missed this. missed that look.”

he’s breathing hard now, fingers twitching in your hair, hips bucking faster— then he rips you off with a wet gasp. you pant, drool slicking your chin, lips swollen, cunt throbbing. he looks down at you, cock still twitching, and says low–

“tell me he makes you come.”

you stare at him. chest heaving. you say nothing. joel’s jaw clenches. “does he?”

you shake your head no. he leans in. Just enough for you to feel his breath. “that’s what i fuckin’ thought.”

he grabs you under the arms, drags you to your feet, flips you around, and bends you over the back of the sofa like he owns your body and the rights to your soul.

“gonna fuckin’ remind you,” he mutters, pushing into you raw, rough, deep, “who made you like this.”

all you can do is moan because he’s right. you’re ruined. you’re his. you always were. and he fucking knew it. he’s already backed you into your bedroom, already shoved your clothes off with nothing but gritted teeth and hands that shake too much to be just lust. you didn’t stop him. you didn’t say a damn word. he spreads you open and buries himself in you without a kiss, without a whisper, just a choked “fuckin’ missed this,”—you moaned like he owned you. he fucks you like he never plans on doing it again.

you’re on your back, one leg thrown over his shoulder, the other shaking against the sheets. joel’s braced over you, chest gleaming with sweat, eyes locked on your face like he’s watching something burn.

“look at you,” he snarls through clenched teeth, dragging his cock deep. “so fuckin’ pretty when you’re ruined.”

you sob—tight and breathless—and he growls, fucking into you harder. “you want it this bad, you let me back in this easy? you still need me that bad?”

you whimper, hand reaching up blindly—he grabs your wrist, slams it down above your head. asshole.

“don’t start now,” he pants. “this ain’t sweet. this ain’t a goddamn reunion. you opened the door. you let me in. you fuckin’ asked for this.”

joel grabs both your wrists now, pinning them down, chest pressed to yours, and grinds deep—his hips heavy, cock thick and pulsing, dragging against the spot that makes you break.

“yeah,” he mutters. “right fuckin’ there. that where you want it?”

you sob, nod, eyes wet. and then he lets go. let’s you grab at him. let’s your nails drag down his arms. let’s you sob his name when your cunt tightens and your orgasm hits like a freight train. joel curses. loud. filthy.

“fuck—fuck, there you go—made this pussy mine again, didn’t i?

and then he groans, dropping his head to your shoulder, hips stuttering as he spills inside you. the silence deafening. just breath. sweat. the creak of the bed. he pulls out. doesn’t say a word. you roll to your side, legs trembling, trying to breathe again. and he—he sits there. still shirtless. still catching his breath. but he doesn’t move. doesn’t grab his pants. doesn’t leave like he usually does. he stares. watches you pull the blanket up over your chest. watches you wipe your mouth, your thighs. watches you sit up and press the heels of your palms into your eyes.

“he treat you okay?”

the words drop like a stone in water. your eyes flutter open. you nod, slowly. joel stares at the floor. jaw tight. like saying it made something inside him crack. he says, “better than I ever could, huh?”

it’s not sarcastic. not smug. just low. honest. soft. and you look at him. straight on. eyes tired. voice flat. “probably.”

he doesn’t say anything. doesn’t argue. just gets up and grabs his shirt. he walks to the door and as he opens it, steps into the dark, he says over his shoulder—

“see you tomorrow.”

like it’s not even a question. like he knows you’ll let him in. like he knows he still fucking owns you. lil always, you hate that he’s right.

✮⋆˙ ✮⋆˙ ✮⋆˙

the patrol is hell. at least, it is for joel. who’s brilliant idea was it to put miles on his team? surely joel would give whoever was responsible for that hell. joel doesn’t even remember his name—just that he smiles too much and keeps fucking talking.

“i think i’m startin’ to really like her, man,” he says with a grin, reins loose in his hands, horse trotting beside joel’s like he doesn’t notice the tension rolling off him. miles thought everyone was his friend, always spilled too much of his business with little remorse. joel hates it. he doesn’t respond. just keeps riding. eyes narrowed. jaw clenched.

“she’s real funny,” the guy continues. “smart as hell. kind. don’t know what i did to deserve her.” the guy laughs, nudges him. “You know her, right? Said you two work together.”

joel finally turns. his voice flat, empty, “not that well.”

but that night? joel can’t sit still. all he can picture is your laugh, your soft touches, your lips on someone else’s skin. someone who doesn’t know the sounds you make when you’re writhing underneath him, begging for more. someone who doesn’t know how you look when you fall apart. someone who doesn’t fuckin’ deserve to touch you. so Joel shows up. no knocking this time. he just opens your door and steps inside. the door you purposely left unlocked. specifically for joel.

he doesn’t speak. just grabs you by the hips and pushes you back onto the bed, his hands already yanking your shorts down. you’re too stunned to fight it, to ask what the hells going on. he’s on his knees. spreads your legs wide. spits on your pussy and looks up at you with a darkness in his eyes that steals the breath from your lungs.

“he don’t do this, does he?”

you stutter. shake your head. brows pulled together. whimper. joel groans—deep and guttural—like that’s all he needed to hear. he dives in. mouth hot and fucking desperate. his tongue drags up your slit, slow and thick and possessive. he sucks your clit between his lips and moans into you like he’s tasting salvation.

“fucking miss this pussy,” he growls into you, “miss the way you taste. sweet little thing. just made for my mouth.”

you’re already shaking. but he’s not done. he presses his fingers into your thighs, spreads you wider, tilts your hips just right, and starts tongue-fucking you like a man with something to prove.

“bet he doesn’t do this, huh?” he snarls, lips wet, voice wrecked. “doesn’t get on his knees. doesn’t tongue fuck you so deep your eyes roll back.”

you cry out, hips bucking, and he grabs your ass, drags you closer.

“fuckin’ knew it. he’s too soft. too sweet. don’t know what to do with a pussy like this. you need this. you need me.”

his tongue circles your clit again, fast and tight, and you arch—screaming, clutching the sheets underneath your palms so tight, it aches. he keeps going. overstimulating. torturing. lapping you up like he’s thirsty and you’re the only thing that’s ever quenched him.

“let me hear it,” he rasps. “let me fuckin’ hear how good i eat this pussy.”

you wail, fists still twisted in the sheets, legs locked around his head as he rips your orgasm out of you. and when you start to come down, he doesn’t stop. just growls, “again.”

you prop yourself up on your elbows and watch him. after he is satisfied with the mess he’s made of you, he sits back on his heels. his face is soaked. his lips swollen. he wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. he looks like a man who’s been holding his breath for too long. he steps to you—when his rough hands find your hips, slide under your shirt, push you slowly back onto the bed—there’s something aching in his eyes.

you don’t speak. he undresses you gently. properly getting you naked. kisses your trembling knee. joel never kisses your knee. he climbs over you like you’re the softest fucking place he’s ever laid his body. you feel his cock through his jeans. your hands fumble with his belt, shimming his jeans and boxers down, freeing his hard shaft. his cock drags through your slick folds and pushes in slow, both of you moan. but he doesn’t move. he just leans down. brushes your hair back. you’re staring at him, his eyes scanning your face. taking all of you in.

he whispers, “say my name.”

“joel.”

“again.”

“joel,” you breathe, furrowing your brows as your hands cup his face.

his lips part. “just like that. don’t stop.”

he starts moving—deep, steady strokes that melt your spine. he keeps his eyes locked on yours, breathing hard, tasting his name on your lips with soft, deep kisses. and then—he crumbles. he fucking breaks.

“jesus christ, baby girl,” he groans, fucking into you harder, faster. “look at you—look at how fuckin’ beautiful you are like this.”

you gasp. joel’s hand grabs your face. thumb brushes your bottom lip. he’s killing you!

“lemme hear it again.”

“joel,” you cry, moaning, legs around his waist, hips meeting every thrust.

he grunts, mouth at your jaw. “that’s my girl. that’s my pretty fuckin’ girl. say it when you come. wanna feel you say it.”

your head falls back, your whole body climbing, burning, breaking.

“c’mon, sweetheart. make a mess for me. show me who fuckin’ owns this pussy.”

“you, joel—fuck—it’s yours—”

he lets out the dirtiest groan you’ve ever heard. his hands are on your face again. both of them. he’s looking down at you like you’re fucking holy. it kills him. “you’re so fuckin’ beautiful,” he whispers, still pounding into you. “all fucked out and still takin’ it. you were made for this. made for me.”

you’re crying now. shaking. guilt? love? lust? an orgasm? overstimulation? don’t know but joel sees it—leans in, presses his forehead to yours and moans—

“that’s it, baby. that’s it. let me have it. come for me. come on my cock, baby girl. i got you. say my name when you do.”

you scream it. loud, “joel, fuck, joel!” you convulse around him, trembling, breaking, and he follows— catching all your broken moans into his mouth with a desperate kiss— a low, wrecked grunt, spilling inside you like he’s trying to leave something real behind.

he collapses on top of you. breathing hard. face buried in your neck. he lifts his head. looks at your face. wipes the tears from your cheeks with a rough thumb and says—

“so much for just fucking, huh?”

you blink. your heart hammers. “did grumpy, joel miller just make a joke?” your voice soft, sweet, that little smile on your face joel has been dying to see for him.

joel miller– gruff, cold, filthy joel—just smirks softly.

“don’t get used to it,” he murmurs, kissing your cheek.

“don’t go fallin’ in love with me now, asshole. still just your fuck buddy.”

“we’re buddies?”

you roll your eyes and he brings his face down to yours, his nose grazing the tip of yours. “if that’s okay with you,” you say.

he hums, lifting his eyes to meet yours, “‘slong as i get to keep you here underneath me, anything’s okay with me.”

you groan, playfully tugging on curls at the nape of his neck, “you love me, don’t you.” a statement. playful but true.

“would it be so bad if i did?” joel holds your gaze for a long time. his fingers lazily tangling into your hair, body still pressed up against yours. and for a moment, this feels nice. feels warm, domestic. your soft limbs wrapped into his rugged ones. too busy arguing with him all the time that you never stopped to think that maybe just maybe, you two were meant to balance each other out. but miles. sweet, innocent miles. never had a chance, did he?

The bar is a little too dark to be respectable and exactly bright enough to be a dare.

Neon washes the bottles in cherry and cobalt. An ember glow that feels warm. A jukebox in the corner throbs out some old two-step that keeps tripping the hips of couples who can’t help themselves. You sit alone at the rail in a short black dress that knows how to say please and thank you and as if, left leg crossed over right, heel dangling, wedding band shining like a small, smug moon at the end of your fingers.

Your hair is soft and messy on purpose. Your lipstick is the kind that stains. You tilt your glass and watch amber slide. You’re the kind of woman who comes out anyway, even when she shouldn’t. Lonely wife. Restless. Bad idea dressed like a good one.

The door sighs. He’s there.

Joel Miller walks in like Friday and overtime. Stubble thick enough to rasp if you leaned close. Hands he could fix a fence with or lay you open with. Black Henley stretched over a chest that says he can carry you without breaking a sweat. He looks like every trouble you’ve promised yourself you wouldn’t touch, and he looks straight at you. You don’t know him. Not tonight.

He orders a beer and doesn’t drink it, not yet. He leans on the rail two stools down, then one, then he’s there in the empty space beside you, presence big and warm like the edge of a summer storm.

“G’nna go ‘head and say it, darlin’,” he murmurs, voice molasses and Texas dust, eyes dropping to the ring on your finger. “That a warning sign or a challenge coin?”

You let your mouth curve. “You always open with a felony?”

His smile isn’t much—just a line tugging crooked, like he can’t quite decide if he’s amused or hungry. “Depends who I’m talkin’ to. You look like a woman who set herself a trap and then forgot to tell her heart to stay put.”

You glance at your ring, twist it like it’s a worry bead. “My husband’s… busy,” you say, lying through your teeth, and the lie tastes delicious.

“Mm.” Joel’s eyes flick down your body, slow as a hand. “Man’s a fool.”

“Is that your professional opinion, Mister…?”

“Joel.” He stretches it, that single syllable. Jo-uhl. He nods at your glass. “Can I be bold and say somethin’ you’ll pretend you don’t want to hear?”

“Try me.”

“I’m lookin’ at you and all I can think is—” He leans in, breath warm against the shell of your ear. “—how fast I could get your thighs open in a bathroom with a broken lock, how pretty you’d whine if I put you on the counter, how sweet you’d swallow if I told you to. And I’m thinkin’ your lipstick’d look like heaven on my cock.”

Heat pours through you, shameless and immediate. Your smile never wavers. “That’s awfully specific for a stranger.”

“Don’t need to know your name to know what your mouth’s for,” he says, filthy, soft. “I can smell the trouble on you, sugar. Bet it tastes like peaches and bad decisions.”

You take a sip to hide your grin. “What if I told you I’m a good girl?”

He laughs, low—God, that laugh. “No such thing after midnight.”

His hand is on the bar, knuckles nicked, veins a map you could follow anywhere. You put two fingers onto the back of it like you’re testing temperature. He doesn’t move. “What if my husband walks in?”

“I’ll apologize with my tongue.” He tips his head, eyes going darker. “You kept the ring on. Either you forgot, or you want me to see it while I’m on my knees.”

You swallow. Slowly.

He’s too close now, pine and clean sweat and the leather of his belt. The jukebox hiccups into a slower song and couples press tighter. You wet your lips and watch his pupils drag the motion like a thumb to a bruise. Slow, gentle.

“Bathroom’s down the hall,” you say.

He huffs. “Thought you’d never ask.”

You slide off the stool and he’s there, palm at your lower back, not quite touching until you lean on it. He doesn’t guide—he possesses the space around you like it belongs to him and makes you choose to step into it. Your dress swishes wickedly against your thighs. The hall is dim, one bulb flickering. The women’s door is propped open with a bucket; the men’s is out of order. The single-stall at the end has that crooked lock you both were praying for.

You step inside and the door clacks. The lock snags. His back is against it before you can blink, and you’re caged in the press of him, all heat and hide me.

He looks at you like he can read every page. “Stop?”

“Go,” you breathe, and the way his eyes flare—that’s your favorite book.

“Good girl.” He says it like a promise, not a crown. His hand cups your jaw, thumb dragging your lower lip down to see the wet. “You want my mouth, or you want me to ruin you quick?”

“Both.”

He grins like a habit you can’t break. “Greedy.”

He kisses you first, because you like to be ruined by something soft before the hard. It’s filthy without being rushed, tongue hot and sure, the heel of his palm lifting your chin to keep you open. You moan and he catches it, eats it, presses it back into you. His other hand hikes your skirt and this time he doesn’t pretend. Fingers drag up the inside of your thigh, callus catching silk, until he finds the heat you brought for him.

His knuckles press through damp lace. He swears against your mouth. “Knew it,” he growls. “Knew you’d be wet for me already.”

“Joel—”

“Shh. Say please.”

“Please.”

“Please what?”

“Please put your fingers inside me.”

He smiles with his teeth. “That’s my dirty girl.”

Two fingers slip beneath the edge of your panties, stroke through soaked heat, part you with indecent patience. You shake. He watches your face like it’s the only mirror he’s ever trusted. He drags the pad of his finger over your clit and you gasp—you always gasp—and his eyes go reverent and mean at the same time.

“Look at you,” he murmurs. “Little married thing with her legs open for a stranger.”

“Joel—” it comes like a whine.

“I got you,” he soothes, even as his touch firms. “Gonna make you forget your husbands name for ten minutes and then ask you for it. That what you want?”

“Yes.”

He circles, slow, slow, and then not. Your head knocks the wall. The sink creaks when your hip bumps it. There’s a poster for karaoke night taped crooked to the mirror and in it you see your own eyes going glassy, his shoulders big in the door’s shadow. He slips two fingers inside—Jesus, the stretch—and you clutch his shirt, nails finding warm skin at his collar.

“Fuck, baby,” he breathes, the ‘baby’ breaking your bones sweetly. “You’re tight enough to make a man stupid. You wanna be fucked stupid, don’t you?”

“Yes,” you whisper. You’re not proud.

He curls his fingers and your knees nearly go. He laughs in your mouth and holds you up with one thigh slotted between yours, working you open until you’re panting, until your cunt is slick and clutchy and threatening to embarrass you both. Then he pulls his hand away.

“No,” you say, shameless, grabbing at his wrist.

“Patience,” he says, thumb skimming your lip again to smear your spit, then lifting it to your cheek like a thumbprint he’s claiming you with. He kisses you once, filthy and soft. “Need you to remember this.”

He turns you by your hips. You plant your hands on the sink, watch yourself in the mirror: hair ruined, lipstick smeared, pupils eclipsing. He doesn’t drop his gaze. He wants you to see every terrible thing he says.

He rucks your dress up to your waist. The cool air kisses the heat of you and you hear his breath catch like you just knocked the wind out of him. “Fuckin’ hell,” he says softly, almost to himself. “Perfect little ass.”

His belt comes open with a sound that hits you directly between the legs. The zipper follows. He drags his cock along your slit through your panties and you whimper, mouth open against the mirror’s edge.

“You hear yourself?” he taunts, amused and fond in the same breath. “Whole goddamn bar’s lucky the music’s loud.”

“Joel, please—”

He hooks two fingers into the damp gusset and yanks your panties aside. He fists your hair at the nape, not to hurt, just to angle your head so you keep your eyes open, so you watch, and then he presses in.

Your knees give and his hand on your hip is iron. He shakes with you, the breath rushing out of him like he’s been starving all week, like he found water. “There you go,” he grunts, voice going low and rough around the edges. “Take me. That’s it.”

He doesn’t start fast. Not yet. He pushes slow, savoring, dragging over every slick inch like he wants to memorize friction. The first full seat of him makes you cry out, helpless. The mirror fogs with your breath; your ring flashes in the harsh light where your fingers clutch porcelain.

“Look at that,” Joel pants, eyes on the reflection where you’re spread on him, taking him deep enough to make prayer meaningless. “You like bein’ full? Like feelin’ me where you’ll think about it tomorrow?”

“Yes,” you stammer. “God, yes.”

“Good.” His mouth curves like he’s about to be awful. “’Cause I’m not leavin’ this pussy empty ‘til you say you can’t take it anymore.”

He pulls back and slams in. Stars, white and hot. His hand clamps over your mouth, half to muffle, half to own, and his hips go merciless. The sink squeals. The lock rattles. Your eyes roll because he says terrible, perfect things in that Sunday-ruining drawl.

“Knew you were trouble when I saw that dress.”

“Look at that ring while I stretch you open, think about your man not doin’ what I’m doin’.”

You keen, slick and obscene. He laughs against your ear, breath hot. “You love it,” he says, and it isn’t a question.

You nod, frantic, gasping against his palm. He lifts his hand, wanting the words. You give them to him like confession. “I love it, I love it, Joel, fuck—”

“That’s it.” He slides his hand down your front, the other bruising your hip, and finds your clit again. The touch is practiced devotion—he draws you tight on the pitchfork of pleasure and then eases, letting it sing, then presses again. “You’re gonna come on my cock, pretty wife. Gonna soak me. Make a mess on this floor and walk out with your thighs stickin’.”

You shudder all over. He kisses your shoulder through the strap, tongue catching salt, teeth a love bite he works over with his mouth until your knees buckle. His rhythm goes cruel, then kinder, then cruel again until you’re ragged with it.

“Say my name,” he orders, low as a church bell.

“Joel,” you gasp.

“Again.”

“Joel.”

“Again.”

“Joel.”

“That’s it.” His voice breaks on the T. He’s close too, you can feel it in the way he stutters inside you, the way his fingers tighten like he’s holding on to the last decent thought he has. “Give it to me, baby. Now.”

You go like a snapped wire. The orgasm hits hot and rolling, breathless and mean, every muscle drawn tight as a bow. You wail and he swallows the sound with his mouth, tongue claiming, hand steady, fucking you through it, through every flutter and clamp, praising and filthy—good girl, that’s it, squeeze me, Jesus, feel you melt—and then he slams deep, groans, and spends, heat pulsing where you’re still fluttering around him.

For a breath, it’s just the dripping faucet and the wild echo of your pulse. His forehead rests between your shoulders; your hands are white-knuckled on porcelain. He kisses the nape of your neck like a thank-you note he doesn’t have the words for.

When he draws out, slow and careful, you both hiss and laugh at the same time. You pull your panties back into place with a soft, wrecked giggle; he slides them to the side again, grinning, like he can’t help himself, then lets them go with a savoring pat.

“Filthy,” you murmur.

“Yours,” he says.

He wets a wad of paper towels and does the ritual you both love, clean hands, tender hands, nothing like the hands that just wrecked you. He dabs between your thighs, murmuring sorry when you flinch, kissing your hip, your knuckles, your ring. He washes his hands. You fix your lipstick with a finger and a little prayer. He straightens the strap of your dress and arranges your hair with warm, heavy fingers that make you want to start again.

When you open the door, the hallway feels like another world. Music, laughter, the clink of glassware. You walk out first. He follows with his hands in his pockets, that useless attempt at looking casual, heat still all over him like a crime scene.

You don’t bother with goodbyes. The night outside is thick and humming. He steers you to his truck with a touch at your back that isn’t pretending to be anything but what it is.

The drive home is quiet and saturated. You kiss his knuckles at a red light. He drags your palm to his mouth and bites gently, a private grin curving his lips. Austin breathes around you and the cab is warm and safe.

Home swallows you. The door shuts behind him and everything sluices soft. He drops his keys; you catch his face. The kiss is slow and grateful, a far cry from the bathroom’s hard mercy. He parts for you and you take it, lazy and sweet, lips slipping like tide on sand. He lifts you without thinking and you laugh into his mouth, heels kicked off, legs around his waist. He carries you to the bedroom like he promised earlier not to sweat and lied.

You make the bed creak in a different rhythm. He lays you down and crawls in beside, hauling the quilt, hand finding your belly to pet like he’s checking you’re still here. You tuck into the curve of him—your favorite corner of the world, your man and his heartbeat and his heat.

He kisses your temple. The afterglow buzzes like bees in clover.

“I love you so much,” he says, simple as a hammer hitting true. No drawl to hide behind. Just Joel.

Your throat tightens. The answer is easy. “I love you, handsome.”

He exhales like you just handed him exactly the tool he needed. His nose nudges your hairline. He breathes you in. His palm slips to your sternum, warm weight, a grounding.

A minute later, he laughs softly into your hair. “So—hypothetically—” he starts, teasing, “you would cheat on me?”

You roll enough to see his face, the light from the street bending over his cheekbone. You nudge your nose along his. “Not when you fuck me like that,” you say primly, wicked twinkle in your eye.

He groans, dramatic. “That’s all you want me for? Sex?” He’s joking, eyes sparkling, mouth playing at a pout you kiss away.

“And your big, warm heart, baby,” you whisper against his lips.

“Mm.” He pretends to consider it, thumb wandering along your jaw like a man who can’t help but touch what’s his. “You’re lucky you’re pretty with your hair all messed up.”

“Oh yeah?” you say, breath sweet and smug. “Kiss me.”

He does. He kisses you like the bar was rehearsal and this is the show—long, slow, the shape of your name silent between your teeth. His hand slides to the back of your neck, cradling. Yours drift to his chest, palm over the thick beat under his Henley, and you swear it beats a little harder when you say his name into his mouth.

When you break, foreheads together, you’re smiling in that loopy, spent way that makes you both a little silly.

“You know what I liked most?” you murmur.

“Mm?”

“How you looked at me in the mirror like I was gettin’ away with somethin’.”

He huffs. “You were. Gettin’ away with murder.”

“You’re very dramatic.”

“Says the woman who wanted to fuck in a honky-tonk bathroom or she’d ‘just die unhappy’.”

You nudge him with your knee, scandalized and pleased, and he catches your thigh, slides his palm up, anchoring you against him like he intends to sleep right there with his hand on you. You tilt your face and he kisses the corner of your mouth, then the other, then the soft spot where your cheek goes tender when you laugh.

“Tomorrow,” he says into your skin, lazy, content, “we can roleplay grocery shoppin’. I’ll be the man who forgets the list and you can punish me in produce.”

You snort. “Only if you promise not to fondle the peaches.”

“No promises,” he says solemnly, and then, with that smile that always undoes you, “C’mere, wife.”

You go, tucked under his chin, leg thrown over his, ring catching the low light. His fingers find the back of your knee and hold you there, just enough pressure to say stay. Outside, the streetlights hum, a car passes, a dog settles. Inside, the two of you exhale in time.

You feel sleep pulling, heavy and soft. Just before it takes you, you feel his mouth move against your crown.

“Love you,” he says, a little drowsy, a little stunned like it still surprises him to get to have this.

“Love you, Joel,” you whisper back.

He squeezes your thigh, an answer in the dark. And if his hand strays in the night, if he wakes you with a slow press and a rough kiss and a “please” that sounds more like a vow, that’s between you and the quilt and the moon sneaking through the blinds. Because tonight, you got to be strangers who found each other and then you got to be yourselves—greedy, grateful, ridiculous with it.

“Sleep,” he grumbles finally, more tender than the word deserves.

“Mm. One more?”

He sighs like a martyr. “One more what?”

“One more kiss.”

“Bossy,” he says, and obliges, and you think, as your mouth opens under his, that you will never ever get tired of the way this man uses his filthy tongue and his big, warm heart.

“Whatcha doing?”

Joel tilts his chin up, a deep set of hazel eyes meeting yours. He flicks his wrist, showing you the notebook in a casual shrug. “Workin’ on some ideas for the shed.”

Your ears perk up in interest, and a familiar warmth fills your chest. “The shed?”

“Mhm,” he hums, like the revelation isn’t surprising. 

It is, actually. 

You had almost forgotten about the comment you had made over dinner one time, of wanting more space to store your books and childhood memorabilia, but Joel remembered. And not only did he remember, he proved to have done something about it right away. Joel wasn’t the type to listen to you complain about things that bothered you, he fixed them. 

He spreads his legs and pats the broadness of his thigh in invitation. In an instant, you have climbed onto his lap, leaning against the strong arm he’s caged around your shoulder despite the heat, as you throw your legs over his. 

“There ya go,” Joel lets out in a small groan, sounding simultaneous with your happy hum of comfort. 

The movement pulls the lacy hemline of your dress up your thighs, the sliver of skin catching a faint, golden glow of light that seeps through the wooden pillars of the patio — and disappears again when Joel covers your leg with the warm palm of his hand. 

You rest your head against his shoulder, trying to catch a glimpse of the sketch. “Can I see?”

“‘S not finished yet.” 

The corners of your lips lift. There is something so precious about Joel’s bashfulness when it comes to sharing things he’s created. Whether it’s a new picking pattern on the guitar, a constructional design he’s made with Tommy, or even when he follows a recipe of yours for dinner. But eventually, he’ll show it to you. Still craving the confirmation (especially yours) of having done a good job. He tilts the notebook to you, eyes nervously flicking over your frame and halting at your face in inspection of your reaction. 

You let your fingers slide over the pencil strokes, careful to not smudge the lines. 

He places his hand on top of yours, gently guiding your finger across the page. “That’s gonna be a bookcase,” he points. “The top part’s shelves, I’ll leave the bottom open for your boxes.”

The smile on your face blooms larger in adoration, and you press the tilted corners of your lips against his scruffed cheeks. “It’s perfect.”

A breathy chuckle escapes him. “I haven’t even gotten around to building it.”

“Well, I love it already.”

You place your hand on his chest, knotting the light fabric of clothes in your fist as you lean in to give him another peck, this time on the lips. “You’re so sweet to me.”

“Well, I am the romantic type,” he teases playfully and connects his lips to yours. 

His breath hitches as you deepen the kiss, your free hand finds its way into the short, tousled hairs at the nape of his neck, while you keep the other on his chest, relishing the way his heart speeds up under your palm when you slide your tongue over his bottom lip. 

“Honey,” Joel grumbles in warning. The timbre of his deep voice reverberates against your lips, igniting a spark low in your stomach.

“What?” you feign innocently. “It’s just a kiss.”

“Sure thing,” he sarcastically mutters. “‘S never just a kiss with you.”

The assumption might be true, but it doesn’t stop him from accepting the offer of your tongue when you smoothly slide it against his. He clamps his hand around your thigh — anchoring himself from the sudden need that’s overcoming him. He massages the soft flesh by dragging slow, deep circles with his thumb. 

The action pulls you in deeper, feeling lightheaded by the possessiveness in his touch. Joel angles his head to take control over the kiss, greedily taking advantage of the small gasp you let out to devour you deeper. His hot tongue messily traces every crevice of your mouth until all your thoughts blur into a dizzying static. 

His hand inches away from your thigh, and Joel has the audacity to shush you when you let out a  small, needy whine. “Don’t sulk,” he hushes against your jaw, and you can’t even be mad, because he drags his lips further down to the sensitive spot in your neck, sucking a mark into the skin. 

“Now there ya go…” he teases as he licks a stripe over the art he’s created. He shamelessly inhales your scent, not minding the light layer of salt from your sweat, completely focused on the sweet smell of your perfume mingled with the remnants of his spit.  

You’re too distracted to notice the move of his hand until it’s there. Three of his thick fingers are roughly pressed against the damp material between your legs. 

“Shit!” You gasp, hips jerking back as he cups your cunt without warning, grinding the heel of his palm right where you’re throbbing. 

“Jesus, baby…” he growls against the shell of your ear. “Pussy’s all warmed up for me already.”

Joel’s mouth wraps around your earlobe, his beard scraping against you as he suckles. His hand slides higher, over your panties and brushing against the softness of your lower stomach, as he pushes your dress up until the fabric is bunched around your hips — out of the way. 

You fist your fingers tighter in his shirt, clutching onto him in preparation for falling apart. The fabric pools, and your knuckles brush against the coarse hair peeking above his collar. Joel continues the motions of his hand, dragging his fingers over your swollen, covered folds in agonizing slowness, until the friction has you squirming in his lap. Instead of relieving you from the uncomfortable, damp fabric, he slides his hand up your panties and curves two of his fingers in the waistband and tugs. 

“Joel!”

He’s unfazed by your sharp yelp and the arching of your back. He just leans back to watch you with a smug smirk plastered on his lips. “Oh, did that sting, honey?”

His heavy, half-closed eyes take you in in fascination, glimmering in a newfound spark as he watches the aftereffects of his actions: your nose still scrunched and your mouth still parted as it's deciding whether to let out a whimper or moan.

Joel tips his head, lips pouting as he asks the next question. “Want me to make her feel better?” 

Your body answers for you. A soft moan escapes your throat, and you press your thighs closed around his wrist. “Please.”

“That’s what I thought,” he hums back in quiet satisfaction.

The hand hidden behind your waistband dips lower, this time yanking the thin fabric aside, exposing you to the air. Sunlight spills onto your cunt, and Joel feels like he’s in fucking Heaven when your pussy reflects your glimmering wetness. His thick fingers slip between your folds, collecting the slick that was awaiting him. 

“Christ,” he mutters, calloused fingers rubbing up and down your heat. A guttural groan vibrates through his chest as the tips of those fingers enter your needy hole without any resistance. “Look at her swallowing me, baby. Didn’t have to do a damn thing. Bet my cock would slide right in.” 

The thought alone makes your walls clench, needing his cock (or at least more of his fingers) inside of you. You bury your face into his neck, the previously fine skin now damp with heat and need. “Joel…” you whine. “Need more.” 

“I know baby, I got it.” The words are tender as he presses a kiss to your temple. So is his touch, as he gently pushes two of his digits into you. 

You’re whimpering before he has even moved, grinding your hips and slicking his knuckles with your wetness as it drips out of you. “Look at you,” he rasps thickly. “Rubbin’ yourself all over me. Such a good girl, reckon you don’t even need my help.”

“I do! I do!” You quickly speak in a hitched breath. God, you needed him. You were just too impatient, couldn’t help yourself from moving when his long fingers were nearly reaching that sweet spot inside of you. 

“Atta girl, just stay where you are,” he soothes and scissors his fingers around your heat. “Let me stretch you out.”

A slight burn follows. No matter how many times you take Joel’s fingers, it always takes a while to get used to him. The bite simmers to a pleasant warmth when he curls them, brushing your g-spot and knocking a sob out of you.

“Right there,” you gasp in a moan, fingers digging into his arm. 

“I know. That’s the spot, huh?” He double-checks his hypothesis by flicking his wrist, hitting the spongy part repeatedly. 

Your thighs quake, confirming his beliefs. He hums, fastening the motions of his hand. “Feels good, doesn't it? Doing so good for me, honey.” 

Every drag of his fingers made you clench your stomach, sharp sparks of electricity shooting through your body and making you shake. Your clit stood peaked, and so did your nipples through your sundress — every sensitive part of your body was on high alert, begging for more.

Like his senses were sharpened too, Joel reached out the arm that was wrapped around your back and slithered it into your dress. In an instant, he had his thumb and pointer finger pinched around your nipple, twisting the hard peak around.

“Fuckkk,” you stammer, biting your bottom lip to stop you from crying out.

Joel groaned at the slutty, whiny mess of a woman he had in his arms. “There’s my sweet girl. We’re gettin' there, ain’t we?”

Your hips shoot up, nails digging harder into his covered bicep. “Oh,” you shakily breathe out. “Yes… yes, I’m getting there.”

The rhythmic push and pull of his fingers fills the air with wet and obscene sounds, combined with the creaking and squeaking of the rocking chair you were sitting on.

Arousal hits you like a fever when you remember that he built that chair. Joel's big arms and calloused hands had chopped the dark wood and had carved all of those pieces so intricately so that the chair would rock perfectly. And now, those same arms and hands were touching you, just as rough and delicately.

“You want to come for me, honey?”

You nod your head up and down in embarrassing swiftness.

“Got my hands full of ya… Why don’t you help me out a bit and rub that pretty little clit for me?”

Your hand trembles as it moves down your stomach. It’s now for the first time that you’re paying full attention to Joel touching you. Seeing his big fingers slipping in and out of you and the physical effect it has on your body as you watch your goosebump covered thighs shake and clench.

The sight was too arousing to not touch yourself, so you obeyed. Your finger finds your clit, all slick and puffy underneath your fingertip. So sensitive that you hiss when you rub the bud.

“God damn, baby. Can’t stop lookin’ at you.” Joel groans as he thrusts his fingers into you at a faster speed, igniting every nerve in your body to life.

The circles you were drawing on your clit were sloppy, careful, because one more push against it would rip your orgasm through you. And you wanted to give Joel the honors.

“Kiss me.” You murmur, the last words you spoke before singing a melody of moans and cries as your orgasm washes over you. Joel kept his lips pressed roughly against yours, swallowing all of your sounds as you came down around his fingers. You couldn’t stop rubbing your clit now, using the flat tip of your finger as you desperately tried to prolong your pleasure.

Your body stuttered and pulsed, not in any control of it anymore, fully letting yourself go in Joel’s arms. He holds you tightly, keeping you up on his lap. Slowly, he removes his fingers, and the same goes for his lips as he moves his head back. He took you in, all tear-struck, trembling, and out of breath.

“It’s okay, honey. You did good.” He reminds you as he now takes your own hand away from your cunt, grabbing you by your waist as he hoists you up onto his lap.

“Don’t want it to be over yet,” you pout at him.

A deep chuckle leaves him. Then he thrusts his hips into yours, knocking a moan out of you as you feel the thick bulge of his cock pressing against his jeans.

Joel’s chest rose and fell heavily, his jaw looked tight like he was fighting the words back, but he lost that fight long ago. He lost it the second he saw you earlier laughing with another man, realizing how that could’ve been him, how if he didn’t act you were gonna spend the rest of your life with someone else making you happy, and Joel would spend it drowning in what ifs, in the thought of what could’ve been. He knew this was his last chance.

“Look… you don’t gotta take me back right away,” he said, the words sounded as if they were being ripped out of his heart. “I know I screwed it all up, I know I did. But we can take it slow. Real slow. I’ll… I’ll earn my way back to you, one step at a time if that’s what you need.”

You just stared at him, your heart was twisting, but not enough to break open. Not anymore. “Joel,” you whispered, shaking your head, “you’ve said that before. And I know that if I give in again, I’m the one who’s gonna end up bleeding for it.”

The rain kept spitting down, cool drops sliding over your hair and your cheeks. Joel didn’t move, he didn’t blink, just stared at you like he was drowning. His whole body looked rigid, like a man held together only by stubbornness and sheer desperation, water soaking through his shirt, plastering it against the ridges of his chest and shoulders.

“Please,” he rasped, stepping closer, his hand twitching like he wanted to reach for you but didn’t dare, he couldn’t stand the sight of you pulling away from him. “Don’t shut me out. Don’t—don’t tell me it’s too late. I can’t—” His voice broke off, he didn’t know what else to say to take it all back, to make it better, but he knew he had to keep trying.

You crossed your arms tight across your chest, as if to hold yourself together, you were trying to be brave, but seeing the man you once loved…the man you still loved so broken in front of you, completely consumed by the sorrow and the pain, it was still hard. “I am tired, Joel. Tired of waiting for you to be the man I’d want you be. Tired of believing that this time, maybe, things will work out.”

“Please. What do you want? Do you want me to get on my knees?” He said, laughing, but nothing in his face showed any amusement. “Do you want me to get on my fuckin’ knees and beg you?”

“No, Joel. I don’t want that. I just want-”

And that’s when he dropped. Literally dropped to his knees in the mud, right in front of you. The sight nearly undid you. Joel Miller, who never bowed to anyone, who you were sure the last time he’d ever kneeled down was at church, many years ago before the world had gone to shit, he was now kneeling in front of you, like you were his altar.

He grabbed onto you, his big, work-worn hands were clutching at the fabric of your jeans as his forehead pressed against your stomach. The scent of that familiar soap you used to wash your clothes nearly intoxicated him, he had missed your smell so much. And even if the night was cold, and you were completely soaked by the rain, your body heat still warmed his face. His body shook with sobs he didn’t even try to swallow down, he’d been dying to feel you again, just this barely there contact was enough to remind him of all he’d lost for being a coward, for not maning-up when he had to.

“Don’t say that. Please don’t say it’s over,” he begged, his voice was muffled against you. “This is the last time, I swear it to God. You give me this one last chance, darlin’, I’ll show you. I’ll prove it. I’ll do it right. I’ll love you the way you should’ve been loved all along.”

His tears mixed with the rain soaking into your sweater, his arms were locked around your waist like if he held tight enough, maybe you wouldn’t slip through his fingers again, maybe he’d be able to hold you forever, maybe you’d be his once again.

“I can’t lose you,” he choked out, shaking his head against your belly. “I can’t. You’re—hell, you’re the only thing I got left. Please, sweetheart. Don’t turn me away. Not for good. Not when I finally see it clear.”

You closed your eyes, the pain splitting through your chest was too much to withstand, just when you’d finally started to move on again, when you were trying to enjoy the little things in life after he’d shred your happiness, he appeared again, begging for another chance. Even if seeing him like this broke your heart in little pieces, you still didn’t move your hands to hold him, you didn’t comb your fingers through his wet hair the way you wanted to. You just stood there, stiff, trying to swallow the sob that threatened to break free.

“Joel…” your voice was soft, “you always come back like this. Begging, promising. And I know if I open the door for you again, I’ll end up with another scar to show for it.”

His grip on you tightened, almost frantic now, the need to hold onto you was imperative, he knew that if he let you go now, it’d be the last time he ever held you. “No more scars,” he swore. “I’ll spend the rest of my damn life patchin’ the ones I gave ya already. Just—just let me try. I’ll take it slow, I’ll wait, I’ll crawl if that’s what it takes. I’ll do anythin’. Just don’t walk away from me.”

The rain came down harder now, as if mother nature was a sucker for soap operas and wanted to give dramatism to the pain you both were feeling. The rain was plastering his hair to his face, running in rivulets down his cheeks, masking his tears but not the trembling of his body. And still you didn’t touch him, because love wasn’t always enough, you’d always believed it was, that love could cure it all, that it was the answer to every problem, that love could save people… that it could save the world. And now for the first time, you were finally starting to believe that it wasn’t nearly enough.

“Joel,” your voice cracked, barely more than a whisper as the rain slicked your face and hair, “please stand up. Don’t make this harder than it already is.”

You tugged gently at his shoulders, at his arms wound tight around your waist. But Joel just clutched you harder, pressing his face into your stomach, soaking your sweater through as he tried to memorize the scent of you, the feel of you. His beard scratched against the wool, his lips trembling where they brushed your skin through the damp fabric.

“I can’t,” he rasped. His voice was broken, because that’s how he was. He was only the shell of a man ever since you’d walked out of his life, he moved through the motions, but he wasn’t really there. “Don’t ask me to stand. Don’t ask me to let go. I ain’t strong enough to do it.”

“Joel—” You tried once again, almost asking him to have mercy on you, because he might’ve been hurt, but you were too. This might be painful for him, but he didn’t know just how much it was for you as well.

“You’re the only woman I’ve ever loved like this,” he cut in, his words were a confession straight into your body. “I’ve loved before, sure, but not like this. Not where it feels like I… like I ain’t even a whole man without you. I can’t breathe without ya, darlin’. I can’t—” His voice splintered into a sob. “I can’t lose you.”

The rain poured harder, pattering against the mud, streaming down your faces, running cold into your collar and sleeves. You were shivering, but Joel was warm, his grip was desperate, unyielding. Every time you tried to step back, he shuffled with you on his knees, clutching and dragging himself through the wet dirt just to keep his face pressed to your belly.

“Stop it,” you said, your voice sharp with hurt. You tried to pull away again, your hands pushing at his shoulders, but he only buried himself deeper against you, his arms just simply wouldn’t let go. “Joel, you’re making this impossible.”

“I’ll make you happy,” he promised, his voice rising over the storm. “Every single day of my life, I’ll make it up to you. You won’t go one mornin’ without knowin’ how much I love you, you won’t lay your head down one night without me showin’ you. Please, darlin’. Please let me.”

The words gutted you, but they weren’t enough. Not anymore. “Joel, I can’t just forget all the things you said about me before.” Your voice shook. “I’m tired of patching myself back together after you break me. I can’t—”

“Please,” he begged, over and over, the word collapsing into itself. “Please, please, please. Don’t walk away. Don’t leave me like this. I can change. I swear it. I’ve changed. I swear it on Sarah, on Ellie, on my life. Just one more chance.”

The pain in his voice shredded you, but you forced yourself to breathe through it, to press your shaking hands against his head and try, one last time, to pry him away. “Joel,” you whispered, squeezing your eyes shut through the pain, “I need time. Time to think. Time to breathe without you swallowing me whole.”

He shook his head fiercely against you, his arms locking harder. “Don’t need time. Don’t leave me. Don’t—” His voice broke, the words were spluttering sobs.

Your heart cracked in two as you finally pried yourself free, peeling his hands off your waist, one finger at a time. His palms clung, slipped against your wet skin, trying to hold on even as you pulled yourself back. The moment you stepped away, Joel collapsed forward into the mud, still on his knees, hands grasping at the empty air where you’d been.

“Please,” he begged again, and you couldn’t help but think about how much he looked like a ghost, like a man who’d been alive once, but now he was cursed to just wander, trying to hold onto that life he once was able to have. “Please, please, please…”

You turned, your whole body shaking, and even if it felt like getting your heart ripped out and stepped on, you walked away through the storm, leaving him kneeling in the rain, clinging to nothing but your absence. His broken voice followed you into the night, that one word echoing, echoing, only for the storm to hear.

“Please… Please, sweetheart… Just—please.”

Joel stayed where you left him all night long. The rain never let up, it poured down through the darkness of the night, pounding the ground, and soaking him to the bone. There was mud clunging to his jeans, crepting higher up his thighs where he knelt in the dirt, but he didn’t care. All he cared about was that your warmth was gone. And even when the echo of your touch still lingered on his skin, he was terrified that if he moved, if he even breathed too hard, it would vanish completely. So he stayed kneeling in the storm, whispering your name and that one word he had left. “Please.”

Joel’s back ached, his knees screamed, his throat was raw, but he stayed there, rooted to the ground like a tree refusing to fall. At some point, the storm shifted from night into morning, and still Joel hadn’t moved an inch. His lips muttered broken scraps of your name, half-formed promises he’d already made and already failed to keep.

That’s when he heard boots squelching up behind him.

“Jesus Christ,” a voice he instantly recognized as his brother’s drawled. “Ain’t this a sight.”

Joel blinked blearily up through the rain, and saw Tommy standing a few feet away, his mouth half-curled like he wasn’t sure whether to laugh or drag Joel to a doctor for the pneumonia he was about to catch.

“Don’t tell me you been sittin’ here all night,” Tommy said.

Joel didn’t answer. He just dropped his gaze again, he was too lost in his own thoughts to even feel embarrassed about people seeing him on his knees in the mud, with his eyes red from crying.

Tommy let out a whistle. “Well, hell, brother. You really went full soap opera, huh? I swear I saw it last night from my porch… you, on your knees, rain pourin’ down, beggin’ like a man in a goddamn telenovela. All you needed was some dramatic music behind ya. Almost woke up Maria to come see it with me.”

Joel’s head lifted, and he gave one of his unamused looks to Tommy. He was in no mood for his brother’s jokes. “Shut it, Tommy.”

Tommy smirked, but his voice turned into something a little gentler. “You’re lame as hell, y’know that? Whole town’d agree. But—” He walked closer to crouch down in front of Joel. “Lame or not, you love her. That part’s real clear.”

Joel swallowed hard, the words he didn’t want to admit left his mouth for the first time. “She’s gone, Tommy.”

“She ain’t gone, she’s three houses down the block. She said she needed time. That ain’t the same thing.” Tommy studied him, his expression was more serious now. “You sittin’ out here all night in the mud don’t prove nothin’ but that you’re stubborn. But if you mean what you said to her, if you really want her back, then you get your ass up and you prove it the right way.”

Joel’s hands flexed in the mud, and he lowered his head again. “I can’t lose her.”

“Then don’t.” Tommy reached out and gripped Joel’s shoulder, squeezing it hard in an attempt to show him some support. “But you can’t just sit here like some fool prayin’ she’ll come back. You gotta move. You gotta work for it. Y’hear me?”

Joel closed his eyes, the rain was dripping from his lashes, carving paths down the worn lines of his face. He knew Tommy was right, he knew this wasn’t over until it was really over, but the thought of another rejection, of watching you walk away for good… he wasn’t sure he could survive it.

Tommy stood, clapped his brother’s back. “C’mon now. You look pitiful. Get up before somebody else sees you like this and starts spreadin’ stories. ‘Cause lord knows, I’ll be tellin’ this one at every damn poker night for years.”

Joel let out a hoarse sound that wasn’t quite a laugh, wasn’t quite a sob. He braced his hands on the ground and finally pushed himself up. His knees cracked, his back screamed, his clothes clung heavy with water, but he stood anyway. And even though he swayed, when he met Tommy’s eyes, there was something flickering there, behind the ruin of the man he was, there was a spark of hope.

Tommy nodded. “There you go. That’s my brother. Now let’s get you cleaned up. You got a woman to win back.”

Joel glanced down the street, toward the direction of your house. He might be wrecked, but he wasn’t broken. Not yet. And he sure as hell wasn’t going down without one last fight, one last chance to get you back.

By mid-morning, he’d made up his mind. If words weren’t enough, and God knew words had never been his strong suit, words had ruined you, then what else did women like? Flowers. That’s how he ended up at the edge of Jackson’s little greenhouse patch, staring down at rows of wildflowers that had somehow survived the brutal climate. Purples, yellows, a few red blossoms. He picked a handful, made an improvised bouquet of mismatched flowers. He figured you were the kind of woman who’d like it, who wouldn’t care if it wasn’t red roses. You’d probably say the colors looked pretty together. Because you were the kind of person who saw beauty where no one else did, who saw worth in broken, pitiful things, like you once saw it in him.

As Joel turned back toward town, he felt the eyes. Women passing on the street didn’t bother to hide their stares. Some whispered behind their palms, others just gave him the full-on stink eye, shaking their heads like he was scum. He was convinced the women of Jackson were part of a secret club called Screw You, Joel Miller, with Maria and Ellie probably running it as co-presidents.

“Look at him, does he think flowers will fix it?” one muttered, loud enough for him to hear.

“Poor thing. She deserves better,” another said.

Joel’s jaw ticked, but he didn’t fire back. He couldn’t, because they were right, you did deserve better. Still, he wasn’t going to stop trying to be better. If all he had were some wildflowers, a shattered apology, and a promise to be the man you deserved, then that’s what he’d give.

Halfway down the street, Maria spotted him. She crossed her arms and blocked his path before he could duck away. Her eyes flicked down to the flowers in his hands, then back up at his face with pure disdain.

“You’ve got some goddamn nerve, Joel Miller.” Her voice cut sharp. “Turn around and leave that poor woman alone.”

Joel tightened his grip on the stems. “I’m goin’ to see her.” His voice was steady, the kind of voice of a man who’d already made his choice. “I’m tryin’.”

Maria let out a short, humorless laugh. “Tryin’? Joel, let her breathe. She doesn’t need you draggin’ her down more than you already have.”

Joel looked down at the flowers, then back at her. His voice cracked under the weight in his chest. “I can’t, Maria. I ain’t givin’ up on her. I—” He faltered, but forced the words out. “She’s it. And I’m not gonna stop tryin’.”

Maria’s expression softened by a fraction, but she still sighed, shaking her head. “You’re pathetic, Joel. You know that?”

Joel almost smiled at that. “Yeah. I know.”

She held his gaze for a beat, then stepped aside. “Don’t expect me to feel sorry when she slams the door in your face.”

Two blocks later, Joel was at your door. The flowers, already wilting from his rough grip, looked smaller and sadder the longer he stared at them. His heart pounded hard enough to split his ribs. He raised his fist once, hesitated, lowered it. Then finally forced himself to knock.

For a moment all there was, was silence. He thought maybe you weren’t home. Or worse, that you were, and just ignoring him. He almost turned to leave the flowers on the porch like some coward’s offering, but then, the lock clicked. The door cracked open, and there you were. Joel, hair still damp from the rain, shirt wrinkled, a little mud on his jeans, looked at you like you were the only thing in the world.

He swallowed hard, held out the crooked bunch of flowers. “They’re… uh. They’re not much. But I saw ’em growin’ and thought maybe…” He trailed off, cleared his throat. “Maybe you’d like ’em.”

You looked down at the flowers, at his hand trembling as if it would break if you didn’t take them. Slowly, you reached out and accepted them. Joel let out a breath like he’d been holding it for hours.

“I told you I needed time,” you said.

He nodded, exhaling. “I heard you. And listen… I know I can’t just come knockin’ and expect everythin’ to be alright. I know I—” His voice cracked, lips pressing tight before he tried again. “I know I hurt ya. What I said, what I did… I ain’t proud of it. Hell, I’d give anythin’ to take it back. But I can’t.”

You opened your mouth, but he lifted a hand. “Just—just let me finish. Please.” Your hand tightened on the flowers, but you nodded. “I ain’t askin’ you to take me back. Not like before. Not right away. I don’t deserve that, not after how I treated ya. But maybe… maybe you could let me try again. Start over, bit by bit. Let me prove I mean it this time. That I won’t hide, or push you away, or, God help me, make you feel small ever again. I’ll wait. I’ll keep showin’ up, however long it takes, ‘til you see I ain’t the same man that broke your heart.”

Your chest ached at the rawness in his voice. And all your girlfriends, the ones who trashed Joel endlessly, repeated time after time that men never changed, and made you swear you’d never forgive him… well, they’d be furious, because when you looked at Joel, in his eyes, you believed him. You believed every word that came out of his mouth.

He shifted on his feet, cleared his throat again. “Uh… I heard they’re playin’ a movie down at the theatre tonight.” His lips twitched, almost a smile. “It’s Jaws. Great movie. ’Bout this shark. I uh… I thought you’d like it. You like animals, and I figured you’d have some shark facts you could tell me while we watch it.”

“While we watch it?” you repeated.

Joel rubbed the back of his neck, nervous as a boy half his age asking his crush out for the first time. “Yeah… I thought maybe… maybe we could go together. Just sit in there, watch a good movie.”

“You realize people will be there, right? They’ll see you with me. I don’t want to embarrass you. Or maybe I’ll talk too much and won’t let you watch in peace.” Your voice was full of sarcasm, proof of how much you were still hurting, and Joel couldn't blame you, he deserved that and worse.

Joel didn’t flinch. “I don’t care if they see. Hell, I want them to see me takin’ the most wonderful girl in town to the movies. And I don’t care how much you talk, I just—” His voice dropped. “I just wanna be there with you.” The words hung heavy between you. “You don’t gotta decide now, you can slam this door in my face and I’ll still be here tomorrow, knockin’ again. But I had to ask. I had to try.”

He stepped back, giving you space, and bracing himself for the worst. You leaned against the doorframe, the flowers were clutched in your hand, but your eyes were studying him, this man who looked beaten down but still stubbornly alive. His fingers twitched like he wanted to reach for you but didn’t dare.

Finally, you let out a breath. “Alright,” you said softly.

His head snapped up so fast it made your chest ache. His mouth opened, shut, then opened again, but no words were coming out. Instead, he gave a shaky nod, and then the biggest smile you’d ever seen cracked across his face, his eyes lighting up so bright you almost wanted to punch him for looking so damn handsome.

“Yeah,” he whispered. “Yeah, alright.”

You didn’t promise forgiveness, didn’t kiss him, didn’t say things would be like before, but you gave him a chance. And for Joel Miller, that was enough to keep standing, enough to keep fighting.

When the door shut behind you, Joel stood there on the porch for a long time. He hadn’t expected you to say yes, not even to something as small as sitting through a movie. But this was the proof he needed to know that not everything was lost, there was still a flicker of hope.

He turned back toward the street, muttering under his breath like a man giving himself orders. Don’t fuck this up, Miller. Don’t you dare.

Back at his house, Joel stared into the mirror above his dresser. He hadn’t thought about what to wear to a movie in… hell, decades. His clothes were all the same, flannel shirts, worn jeans, jackets. Nothing fancy, but he wanted to look like he tried. He trimmed his beard, buttoned a clean shirt, pulled on his best pair of jeans. He sat on the edge of his bed, elbows on his knees, heart pounding too fast for a man his age. He remembered the first time he’d ever taken a girl to a movie, back when he didn’t have grey hair in his body, and his knees didn’t ache. It was just a movie, but for him, it felt like standing on the edge of something bigger, a chance to start over. A chance to finally do it right, to be the man that you deserved.

After Joel left, you closed the door and pressed your forehead against it, clutching the flowers so tight you nearly crushed the petals. Your stomach was a tangle of nerves, half of you wanting to laugh, the other half wanting to sob. Maybe you’d made a mistake. Maybe it was weakness. Maybe it was the image of him standing there, wrecked after he’d spent the entire night crying under the rain, that broke your resolve. The worst part was that you believed him. You actually believed he’d changed, or at least that he was trying. And you knew, deep down, that if he broke your heart again, you wouldn’t be able to blame him anymore. The blame would be all yours, for giving yet another chance to a man who’d already hurt you too many times.

But it was done now. You’d said yes, and now, you had a date with Joel Miller.

You set the flowers carefully in a chipped jar with water, watching as their colors brightened the kitchen table. And when the sun dipped lower, you found yourself standing in front of your closet, staring at clothes you hadn’t worn in months. For what? A movie, just a movie. But your hands still smoothed over the fabric, pulling out a shirt Javi had once told you looked nice on you, as if you were really trying to look pretty for Joel. The whole time, a voice in your head whispered, Don’t make this bigger than it is. But your heart thudded harder anyway.

By the time the sky turned soft shades of orange, Joel was pacing outside Jackson’s theatre relentlessly. He was starting to worry you’d changed your mind, that he’d been foolish to believe this would work out, that you’d actually accept a date with him. But then he saw you, walking toward him, and the sight instantly took his breath away. He swore you looked prettier than you’d ever looked, which was saying a lot, because he’d never seen anyone more beautiful. And here you were, looking like you’d tried, like you’d purposefully fixed yourself up nice for him.

He smiled at you, just as wide as before, and your stomach flipped. You forced yourself to move forward.

“Hey,” you said softly when you reached him.

“Hey.” His voice was quiet too, rough at the edges, as though he hadn’t spoken all evening. His gaze swept over you, and then he cleared his throat. “You, uh… you look nice. Real nice. I, uh… I like the shirt. And the hair.”

You bit your lip to hold back the grin tugging at your mouth, you didn’t want to give him the satisfaction of making you smile just yet. “You too.”

He glanced down at himself, clearly unconvinced that his jacket and shirt deserved the compliment, then gestured stiffly toward the door. “We should… go inside and, uh… find our seats.”

The theatre was alive with chatter and laughter, with bowls of popcorn and mismatched mugs passed from hand to hand. There was something about Jackson’s normalcy Joel still struggled to get used to, how much it looked like the world before. Because here he was, at the movies. On a date. With a pretty girl. Sitting side by side.

You ended up near the middle of the room, close enough that others could see you sitting together, not hiding in the last row like you would’ve assumed Joel wanted. His thigh brushed yours when he settled into the seat, and even though the touch was small, it sent a spark of warmth rushing through you.

“You watched this one in the theatre when it came out?” you asked, trying to make light conversation. It felt strange, talking to him after so long, and even stranger still knowing you were talking to a man who’d once seen every inch of your body.

“Darlin’, I’m not that old.” Joel chuckled. “Nah, this one came out ‘fore I was born. But I’ve seen it a couple o’ times. ’m sure you’ll love it.”

The lights dimmed, murmurs rippled, and the projector sputtered to life. The movie began, and the audience hushed except for the occasional cough or laugh. You couldn’t care less about the movie, for you it might as well have been the best film in history, but it was still hard to focus when Joel Miller sat right beside you. You could smell his cologne, the one you knew he’d put on just for you, and you couldn’t stop thinking about how the same man who, a month ago, had been ashamed to be seen walking with you, was now sitting proudly in the middle of the theatre, on a date.

“I don’t understand this.” You leaned close to his ear, brows arching. “I thought it was a shark movie. Where’s the shark?”

Joel chuckled low. “That’s what makes it better, y’know? The suspense. You never know when it’s gonna show up.”

“People really got scared of this? I thought we were gonna see some blood or something.” You huffed, and Joel couldn’t help but find your complaints endearing.

About halfway through, you noticed Joel’s knee bouncing. A nervous tic, or maybe just restlessness. Each bounce brushed his hand against yours, once, twice. At first you thought it was accidental, but then he didn’t pull away. Slowly, he shifted, his palm hovering against the back of your hand, hesitating, asking permission. And then, carefully, he turned his hand over and slid his fingers between yours. That simple gesture had taken Joel half the movie to gather the courage for. He didn’t want to pressure you, didn’t want to make this bigger than it was, but he wanted you to know how much this meant to him, and that he didn’t care who saw.

The air left your lungs. You’d never expected this, not from him, not here. The man who had once been private, closed-off, ashamed to claim you, was now holding your hand in front of everyone. The world narrowed to the warmth of his skin, the solid weight of his fingers wrapped around yours. And in that silence you realized: for Joel, this was louder than words, louder than promises or apologies. This was him saying, I’m here. I want this. I want you.

And you realized, with a start, that Joel Miller was nervous. Not about the crowd, not about the movie, but about you. About whether you’d pull away, whether you’d let him hold your hand.

You squeezed back, gently, and felt the smallest shudder of relief ripple through him. When the movie ended, the crowd spilled out of the theatre, voices rising with chatter about the shark, some laughing, some complaining how old movies always looked fake. You didn’t say much, you’d held Joel’s hand until the very end, but when the lights came up, instinct made you pull away before too many people noticed.

Joel had insisted on walking you home, and you’d let him.

“Come on,” he said as you walked. “I know you wanna give me one shark fact. Been waitin’ for it all night.”

Hearing him beg for something he used to complain about made your chest ache with equal parts pain and tenderness.

“Don’t have any,” you replied flatly.

“Y’know I’m not buyin’ that.” He shot you a look. “I know you’re full of shark facts.”

You sighed, pretending it annoyed you, though Joel could probably tell you were dying to share. “Fine. Did you know sharks can eject their stomach when they’re under stress or threatened? Because it can—”

“Distract their predators? Like lizards and their tails?” he finished for you.

You froze, staring at him. He remembered. All those patrols, all those times you rambled useless facts while he pretended to be annoyed by it, while he ignored you… he’d been listening. He’d remembered.

“Y-yeah. Like the lizards,” you murmured, blinking away the tears threatening to spill before he could notice them.

“That’s some crazy shit. What do they do after? Just… swallow it back?” He tilted his head like he really wanted to know.

“I don’t know.” You giggled. “That’s how far the book went.”

Joel laughed with you. The sound was easy, unguarded. It felt simple, just two people sharing an evening together, walking home, trying again. Even though the walk was short, Joel dragged it out, slowing his steps, wishing it were longer. Every second beside you felt borrowed, precious, like something he couldn’t afford to lose again.

When you reached your porch, you turned to face him. “I’m not inviting you in.” Your voice was firm, you needed to set the boundary before he made you weak enough to break it, before he pulled you closer and kissed you, making your brain go stupid to the point where you’d agree to have his babies if he asked you to.

Joel shifted uneasily, rubbing the back of his neck. “I know… I wasn’t expectin’ you to.” It was true. Just you agreeing to the movie had been more than he could’ve hoped for, more than he deserved. “I know you don’t want me comin’ in, and you’re right.”

You crossed your arms, head tilted. He swallowed. “I just… I need you to know what tonight meant to me. Bein’ next to you. Sittin’ in the same room, hearin’ you breathe, feelin’ your hand in mine—” His voice cracked, and he forced a breath through his nose. “That was more than I deserve. More than I thought I’d ever get back.”

You shifted, chest tight, but stayed silent. Joel took a careful step closer, not too close to invade your personal space. “I’m grateful, darlin’. More grateful than I can put into words. You gave me somethin’ I thought was gone forever. You don’t know how happy you made me tonight.” He gave a shaky laugh. “Probably looked like a fool, sittin’ there grinnin’ like an idiot every time you didn’t pull away.”

Your eyes softened despite yourself, though you steadied your voice. “Don’t make me regret it this time, Joel.”

His face sobered, the humor was gone. He nodded once. “I won’t. I swear it. I’ll spend every day provin’ it, even in the smallest ways. No more hidin’. No more pushin’ you away. You gave me this chance, and I ain’t wastin’ it.”

For a moment, neither of you moved. Joel’s eyes stayed fixed on you, until you finally stepped back toward your door. “Goodnight, Joel,” you whispered. “I had a good time.”

“Me too.” His lips pressed tight, as though holding back a thousand words. “Goodnight, darlin’.”

You closed the door gently, leaning against it once it clicked shut, your chest rising unevenly. Out on the porch, Joel stood there for a long moment, staring at the door, before turning and walking back to his house, feeling like the luckiest man alive.

The movie date had been a beginning, and a good one. Joel couldn’t just sit still with his arms crossed after that. Not now, not after finally getting the chance to win you back, to prove himself, to earn that forgiveness he’d been wishing for ever since the day he lost you.

He’d spent the whole morning rehearsing this invitation in his head, trying to make it sound casual, trying to convince himself it wasn’t a big deal. But when the time came, when he finally saw you, his palms were sweaty, and his throat felt dry.

“Thought maybe you’d let me cook for you tonight,” Joel said, like he was testing the ground under his own feet. “Nothin’ fancy, just… somethin’ I’m good at.”

You raised an eyebrow, biting back the smile tugging at your lips. “What’s on the menu, chef Miller?”

His ears went red instantly, and god, he must’ve looked ridiculous, like a schoolboy working up the courage to ask his crush to the dance. “You’ll see.”

By the time you showed up at his place that evening, Joel had gone all out. The table was set with two plates, a clean cloth laid neatly across it, and a couple of candles flickering in the center, throwing soft light across the room. The kind of romantic ambiance you’d only seen in old movies, not something you ever expected from him. You had no idea Joel Miller could be thoughtful like this, or maybe you’d just never been allowed to see that part of him before.

The smell of what he was cooking hit you as soon as you walked in: rich and savory. And it surprised you, realizing that Joel Miller could actually cook. You knew so little about him, you realized that most of what you’d pieced together had been from looking around his place, seeing what books or music he was into, what were his hobbies and interests. You knew about Sarah, and that Joel had once worked in construction, because Tommy had let that slip once. But this… this domestic, careful side, was something newer entirely.

“Spaghetti,” Joel explained, stirring the pot. His voice softened with the memories. “Used to make it for Sarah back in the day. Nothin’ special, but she always said it was her favorite.” A small half-smile tugged at his lips. “She really liked it.”

You set your coat aside and leaned against the counter, your chin propped in your palm as you watched him fuss in the kitchen. He was trying to chop garlic with one hand while the other rushed to stir the sauce before it burned, mumbling under his breath about needing another pan. You liked watching him like this, concentrating on the little things, lining up the spoons neatly, double-checking the salt like the world would end if he got it wrong.

By the time you sat down across from him, Joel couldn’t take his eyes off you. You talked with your hands, animated and full of energy, telling stories about your day around Jackson, and he hung onto every word like he’d been starved for them. And he had been, he knew it now, sitting here, listening to you ramble about small, ordinary things.

“So me and Javi spot this bear,” you said, waving your hands around with exaggerated enthusiasm, wide-eyed with mock horror. “And he’s like, ‘Relax, that’s one of the good ones.’ And I just look at him and go, ‘Are you insane? That’s a grizzly!’”

Joel was grinning already, his eyes fixed on you. “And what did you do?” His voice was different than usual, the same story that before would’ve earned a grunt of annoyance from him, was now one that he was invested in.

You shrugged, breaking into a laugh. “Turns out it wasn’t a grizzly. Just a really, really big marmot.”

Joel chuckled, the sound rumbling in his chest, and it made your stomach flip, he looked stupidly handsome when he laughed, and when the sound faded, the smile didn’t, it lingered on his lips, like he couldn’t shake it off even if he tried. You made him happy, that was the truth. He’d always thought that happiness was something that he wouldn’t ever experience again, that just simply wasn’t in the menu for him after everything life had taken away from him, but then you came into his life, and reminded him that it wasn’t too late yet to be happy, that maybe he wasn’t broken beyond repair, that he could still have something worth living for, a reason to wake up and try to do better every day.

“You’re smilin’,” you teased him tilting your head. You liked seeing him like this, and knowing that you were the reason for it.

Joel cleared his throat, trying to keep his expression neutral, but it was hopeless... he was hopelessly in love with you. “’m allowed to smile, ain’t I?”

You giggled, and Joel swore it was the sweetest sound in the world. His chest tightened, a stupid sort of warmth spreading through him, and he didn’t even try to hide how much he loved it. He wanted to wake up every morning with that sound, wanted it to be the last thing he heard before falling asleep at night. He wanted to be the one who could make you laugh like that, uncontrollably, until tears ran down your cheeks, and only ever tears of joy, never sorrow, never pain again.

The spaghetti turned out better than you expected, it was simple, yes, but delicious. You finished your plate with a satisfied sigh, leaning back in your chair. “Okay. I’ll admit it. You’re a pretty damn good cook. Honestly, I had zero hope for you.”

Joel’s eyes crinkled at the corners, his chest swelling with pride after hearing your words. It had been a simple gesture, but he wanted to share all the little details with you, to fill you with the proof of how much you mattered to him, how much you lingered in his thoughts every moment, how he longed to let you into the ordinary pieces of his life, even something as small as a simple dinner.

“Glad it passes,” he said, dropping his gaze to his empty plate for a fleeting second before lifting back to meet yours. There was a vulnerability he rarely let anyone see. “Been a long time since I cooked for someone who… mattered.”

Later, after the dishes were washed and the candles burned low, Joel shifted on his feet, clearing his throat again. You could see him working himself up to something, rubbing the back of his neck, his eyes fixed on the floor. He didn’t want you gone yet, but he didn’t want to push, didn’t want you thinking he’d really meant it when he called you a warm body in his bed, the last thing he needed was for you to think he only wanted you back because he missed the sex. But god, how he missed your warmth at night.

“Listen…” he began. “I know it’s late, and I ain’t askin’ for nothin’ like that. But—” He finally looked at you. He was being vulnerable in a way Joel Miller never let himself be. “Would you stay? Just the night. We don’t gotta do a damn thing. Keep your clothes on, hell, pile up blankets between us if you want. I just… I missed you. Missed wakin’ up knowin’ you were right there. If you let me have that again, even just for one night, I’d be real grateful.”

Your heart pounded so loud you thought he might hear it. Joel Miller, the man who not so long ago never begged, never asked, never admitted how he felt, him who’d been so reluctant to admit his feelings for you... was laying himself bare in front of you, nervous and hopeful, and he looked so ridiculously endearing you almost laughed.

You let him squirm under your silence for a beat longer, watching the way his thumb rubbed over his palm. Then finally, you said, “Alright. I’ll stay.”

He exhaled with relief, like he’d been holding his breath all evening up until this very moment. He ducked his head, but not before you caught the gratitude in his eyes. “Thank you,” he murmured. “Swear I won’t push. Just… need to feel you near.”

That night, Joel rummaged through a drawer and came back holding a folded-up t-shirt and some old sweatpants. He offered them to you with an almost sheepish shrug.

“They’ll swallow ya whole,” he said. “But they’re more comfortable than your jeans.”

You took the clothes from him, brushing his fingers in the process. They were warm from his hands, soft and worn from years of use, like most of his clothes. He immediately turned his back, giving you privacy to change without his eyes on his body, his shoulders were stiff like he was holding himself too carefully.

You smirked, because even if he was acting like a new man, there was something that had always been there, and that was how gentlemanly he’d always behaved, even when he didn’t need to. Clutching the clothes to your chest, you teased, “Joel, you’ve already seen all there is to see.”

The blush that crept up the back of his neck nearly made you laugh out loud. “That don’t matter,” he said gruffly. “I’ll look when you want me to look. Not before.”

And he didn’t turn, not even a glance, just stood there, looking at the wall, head tilted down like a boy caught doing something wrong, until you were done changing. Your smile softened, this wasn’t just him trying, it was him showing you respect, patience, proving he meant every word he’d said that night under the rain.

You slipped into his bed, the clothes hanging loose on you, soft with the faint scent of him. Joel followed after a moment, settling on his side of the mattress, careful not to crowd you. True to his word, both of you stayed fully clothed, but you could feel the restraint in his body, how badly he wanted to reach for you and how hard he was holding back. Finally, after a long stretch of silence filled only by the patter of rain against the window, Joel shifted, and tentatively, his arm stretched across the space between you, offering the palm of your hand to you. You hesitated, just a second, but then you slid your hand into his, your smaller fingers curling around his calloused ones.

The two of you lay there, hands joined, rain singing outside. Then Joel chuckled under his breath.

“What’s funny?” you whispered.

He turned his head, his eyes crinkled at the corners. “Feelin’ like I’m sixteen again. Layin’ in bed next to a girl, heart beatin’ outta my chest, too nervous to do nothin’. Never thought I’d live through all that again.”

Your chest tightened at the tenderness in his face. “I think it’s good to take things slow,” you said, giving his hand a squeeze.

“’m grateful,” he murmured. “More’n I can say. You bein’ here… just this? Means more than I got words for. I wanna do things right this time.”

Warm silence stretched between you, but your mind wouldn’t settle. You thought back to dinner, to the way his voice softened when he mentioned Sarah, to how much you still didn’t know about his past. The question slipped out before you could overthink it. “Joel… can I ask you something?”

He shifted slightly. “’Course.”

You hesitated, then took a breath. “You’ve talked about Sarah, but uhh… you’ve never mentioned Sarah’s mother.” The words landed hard between you, and you immediately felt him tense. For a moment you worried he’d shut down. You rushed on, stumbling. “I mean, she had a mother, right? Well—duh, obviously, I mean, unless maybe you adopted her, well she’d still have a mother then but I—”

“She had a mother,” Joel interrupted softly. His gaze fixed on the ceiling, his thumb brushing over the back of your hand in slow strokes. “We were young. High-school sweethearts. And I uh… got her pregnant.”

Your brows furrowed. “How young?”

“Not relevant,” he said quickly.

You tilted your head, studying him. “I thought condoms were pretty accessible in your time.” The innocence in your voice made him let out a laugh that was half scoff, half disbelief.

“They were. That’s not the— Look, we were just kids. Young and reckless. Had no damn clue what we were doin’.” You stayed quiet, letting him untangle it in his own way. “So I did what you were supposed to do back then,” he continued. “Married her. Got a job. Tried to build somethin’ steady. Be a man, and a father.”

You could see the way he struggled, the clench of his jaw, so tight it definitely had to hurt, the stiff line of his shoulders, the way his grip on your hand tightened without him realizing.

“Sarah was born, and for a while, I thought maybe it’d work. But…” He swallowed, shaking his head. “She didn’t want it. Not that life, not the baby. She wasn’t built for stayin’. One day she just… left. Walked out. Left me with this tiny little girl who needed me for every damn thing.” His voice cracked.

Your heart ached. “What?” you burst out, indignation bubbling in your chest. “She just left you two alone?”

Joel gave a tired shake of his head. “I can’t say I blame her. Not really. She was young. Scared. Did what she thought was better.” His tone was calm, but it carried the weight of years, the sound of a wound that had never fully healed.

“Well, I can blame her! You were young and scared too,” you said fiercely.

“Not gonna lie to you, I hated her for a long time.” He gave a humorless huff. “But… I understand why she did it. Doesn’t mean it hurt any less. After she left, all I had was Sarah. She was my whole damn world.”

You rolled onto your side, facing him fully now. You let your hand slip free from his only to press your palm to his chest, right over his heart. His steady heartbeat thudded against your touch.

“And even if it might’ve seemed like a mistake at first,” he whispered, “Sarah never was. Not once. Lookin’ back… I wouldn’t change a damn thing.”His voice cracked on Sarah’s name.

“Joel…” you whispered, feeling your throat tight.

He turned his head at last, meeting your eyes, they looked glassy. “It’s hard for me to talk about this. But I’m tryin’. F’you. Tryin’ to open up.”

“I’m glad you did,” you murmured. “Thank you.”

His lips twitched into a small, sad smile. “Reckon I don’t wanna keep nothin’ from you anymore. Don’t wanna screw it up again.”

You let out a shaky laugh through the heaviness. “At least now I know where all that repressed trauma and fear of abandonment comes from.”

“Hey,” he shot back, mock warning in his voice, though there was no real bite. Just a hint of amusement shining through the sadness. “Don’t you start psychoanalyzin’ me.”

“I mean it,” you said softly. “You clearly have abandonment issues, and struggle with the idea of people leaving you.“

“Hell, why didn’t I think of that?” He said with sarcasm in his tone.

“Not everyone’s gonna leave, Joel. I won’t. Not unless you push me away again.” You leaned in then, resting your forehead against his shoulder. He didn’t move, didn’t ask for more, just let you settle against him. And in that moment, the two of you felt it… something different, something new. A fragile new beginning for you two.

When you thought Joel Miller couldn’t possibly surprise you anymore, he went and proved you wrong.

“A picnic?” you gasped, half-laughing, half-shocked, your hand flying to your mouth as you stared at the scene laid out before you. A colorful blanket stretched across the soft grass of the hills just outside Jackson’s gates, a basket perched in the middle, looking like something out of a storybook. You turned on him, your eyes full with mock suspicion. “Who are you and what have you done with Joel Miller?”

Joel shifted his weight, a huff slipping from his chest. His mouth twitched like he was trying not to smile, but failing. “So you like it or what?”

“Like it?” you repeated incredulously, dropping to your knees on the blanket. “Joel, this is adorable. This is… this is like some man from a romance novel possessed your grumpy self.” You laughed, shaking your head in disbelief. “Nobody’s ever done anything like this for me.”

And it was true. Joel wasn’t the first man who’d ever broken your heart, but every one before him had only shown you how wrong love could go, how careless, how selfish. But this? Joel setting out a picnic? That was something different entirely.

“’S nothin’,” he brushed it off as he knelt down beside you and began pulling items from the basket. He was careful with each one. “You deserve more’n this.”

Your eyes widened as the spread grew before you, loaves of sweet bread, scones, slices of pie, your favorite blueberry muffins wrapped neatly in cloth.

“Joel,” you breathed, reaching forward like child on Christmas morning. “How much was all of this? Don’t tell me you robbed the bakery, ‘cause I’ll have to turn you in.”

Joel shot you a look, half amusement, half reproach, as he sat down fully. “Ain’t that desperate. Just traded somethin’.”

You tilted your head, catching the way his hand went up to rub the back of his neck, his tell whenever he wasn’t sure how you’d react. “What’d you trade? Couldn’t have been anything small.”

“Nothin’ important,” he said quickly, dismissing it.

You narrowed your eyes. “Oh, come on. If you traded anything good for me, I’m gonna feel guilty as hell.”

His jaw worked for a moment before he gave in. “Coffee beans. No big deal.”

Your mouth fell open. “Coffee? Joel!” You smacked his arm lightly, with playful scolding. “You love coffee more than anyone I’ve ever met. Whenever we patrolled and you didn’t have coffee, you were grumpier than usual, which is saying something.”

He gave a little shrug, but you caught the faint smile tugging at his lips. “Yeah, well. Figured it was worth it.”

Something in your chest pulled tight. Joel Miller, the man who had clung to coffee like it was his last tether to the world before it ended, had given it up for you. Just so you could sit on a blanket and eat muffins under the sun. He’d traded what he liked the most for you.

And maybe that’s what undid you most. Because you couldn’t remember ever being loved like that before, not this way, not with someone willing to give up pieces of themselves just to make you smile. The same man who’d once broken your heart was now stitching it back together with quiet gestures and patience, piece by piece, with love and care. He was showing you that you were one of his priorities, making you see how much he wanted you in his life. He was giving you back all that hope you’d lost, all those dreams he’d shattered.

You dug into the baked goods eagerly, savoring every bite and going on and on about how the baker deserved a medal, about how you’d drag Joel back to the shop next time so you could try everything else. Joel just sat beside you, leaning back slightly.

“Oh Jesus, this pie is so sweet I swear it’s attracting every ant in a ten-mile radius,” you groaned, licking sugar from your fingers.

Joel let out a laugh at your theatrics.

“No, this is serious,” you insisted, mouth still full. “Did you know ants have one of the biggest brain-to-body ratios in the animal kingdom? They’re planning world domination, I swear.”

Joel chuckled low. “Oh yeah, I’m sure. Guess we’ll have to start worryin’ about ants instead of clickers.”

“Laugh it up,” you said, pointing your fork at him, “but ants are evil, they raid other colonies, kill the queen, enslave the rest. If I were you, I’d be terrified.”

He shook his head with amusement. “I missed this,” he said suddenly.

You blinked, thrown off. “Missed what?”

“Hearin’ you go on ‘bout everythin’,” he admitted. “You know I don’t ever get tired of it?”

You froze, cheeks heating, caught off guard by the raw honesty in his words. Ducking your head, you smiled shyly. “Well… you better not. ‘Cause I’m so happy I don’t think I could stop if I tried.”

He leaned back on one hand, watching you with a look that made your stomach twist and flutter. “Don’t. Don’t stop. Feels… quiet in my head when you’re not talkin’. Don’t like that kind of quiet.”

Your throat tightened. For a long moment, you couldn’t even answer, couldn’t even breathe. So you did the only thing that felt right, you reached across the blanket and brushed your fingers over his. He didn’t hesitate, his hand turned, catching yours, holding on firm, like he’d decided he had no intention of letting go.

“Don’t reckon I ever been this happy just sittin’ still,” he said softly, as though admitting it too loud might shatter the moment.

Your smile broke free, you shifted closer, your free hand pressing against his chest, feeling the beat of his heart beneath your palm. You leaned in and kissed him. It started soft, just a brush of lips, sweet. But the second his hand came up to cradle the back of your neck, you deepened it, pouring everything you’d been holding back into that kiss. Weeks of patience, of stolen looks, of wanting… it all unraveled at once.

Joel kissed you back like a starving man, like he’d been holding this in for too long, like this was the moment he’d been waiting for since the second you’d given him another chance. Enough of trying to take things slow, you’d been seeing Joel for weeks now in all kinds of dates without not even a peck on the lips. And now all that restraint, all that patience, was being poured into this kiss like you both couldn’t afford to waste another second.

You needed him, you were hungry for his touch, for his kisses, and for his sex as well, because no other man you’d had before had ever compared to him, and it had been months since the last night you shared with Joel. Your thighs rubbed together in restless ache, your core clenching with every shallow breath as you remembered the stretch of his cock, the heat of his mouth. Nobody else even came close, Joel ruined you for anyone else, left his mark inside you in a way no man could erase. Your body was on fire and he was the only one who could put it out.

“Lord,” he murmured, almost to himself. “Don’t let me mess this up.”

You smiled against his mouth, brushing your thumb over his jaw. “Then don’t. Just… keep showing up like this. That’s all I need.”

He pulled you closer, and when your lips parted for him he didn’t hesitate. The taste of him filled you instantly, his tongue slid against yours, and you melted into it, a little whimper escaping you. That sound seemed to undo him, his other hand came to your waist, gripping you firmly, and he kissed you harder.

You broke the kiss with a laugh, breathless, pushing at his chest lightly. “Joel… we’re outside.”

He looked at you. “Ain’t a soul out here, darlin’.” His thumb stroked along your jaw. “Ain’t lettin’ you go back without remindin’ you how much I missed you. As long as you want me to.”

Your stomach flipped at the hunger in his tone, and in his eyes. “Yeah?” you teased softly, even though your pulse was racing. “Missed me that much?”

Joel didn’t bother answering with words. The answer was in the way he devoured you, his mouth crashing back onto yours, until you were leaning back against the blanket, your head spinning. His mouth trailed down your throat, biting lightly at the sensitive skin there, and you gasped, fisting your hands in his shirt.

By the time his fingers worked at the waistband of your jeans, you were already trembling with anticipation, every tug at your denim making your cunt clench harder. You let out a shaky laugh. “You’re really gonna do this? Out here?”

Joel looked up at you, his beard rough against your stomach as he tugged your pants down. “Been dreamin’ about this every damn night. Miss the taste of this sweet pussy.”

The heat in your cheeks burned hotter at his words. You lifted your hips to help him slide your jeans down. Your was cunt throbbing with need as the damp heat of your panties grew unbearable. When he settled between your thighs and pressed them apart with his big hands, he couldn’t help but shiver, because your panties were fully soaked, he hadn’t even touched your cunt and you’d already dampen the fabric, with only a few kisses on your mouth and neck. You were so easy to unravel under him, it made Joel full of proud that he had that effect on you, like your pussy knew who she belonged to, who she opened up for.

He pressed the tip of your calloused fingers against your clit over the thin cotton fabric, and your body instantly spasmed, the fabric stuck to your folds as he massaged little circles over the swollen nub. Your back arched, thighs twitching, the wet spot spreading wider under his touch. He groaned, his eyes locked on the outline of your cunt through the soaked cotton.

“What do you want, sweetheart?” He said, looking at the expression of pleasure in your face.

“You… uh… you know…ah… what.”

“You’re gonna have to say it.” He traced kisses all over your stomach, down to your navel, to the inside of your thighs, leaving your skin wet. His voice was muffled. “Say what you need.”

“Your mouth!” you said with desperation. “Want you to eat me out, please Joel, please.”

“Attagirl.” He murmured, and not a second later he was moving the fabric of your underwear to the side, parting your soaked folds with his thumbs, and licking a long stripe across your pussy, from your hole up to your clit. “Fffuck, missed this pussy, baby. Tastes sweeter than I remembered.”

Your head fell back as he dove in properly, licking you deep, savoring you. His tongue worked you with an ease that had your toes curling, his beard dragging over the insides of your thighs in the most delicious way. He groaned into you, like he’d been dying of thirst and finally got water. He’d never seen a pussy so pretty, never tasted anything as good, eating you out didn’t feel like an obligation, like something he had to do. It was something he deeply enjoyed, hearing you moan in pleasure, squirm under him, gave him so much satisfaction.

“That’s it sweetheart ,” he whispered against your soaked flesh, his tongue circling your clit slow before flicking it mercilessly. “Let me take care of you, baby. You deserve it.”

“Fuck, Joel,” you gasped, your fingers sinking into his hair. He groaned at the pull, rutting his face deeper between your thighs, smearing his chin with your slick. “I—I missed this. Missed you so much.”

He pulled back just enough to smirk up at you, lips glistening, his beard drenched in your arousal. “Then don’t you ever leave me starvin’ again, sweetheart.”

He hummed against you, the vibration making you jolt, your thighs twitching helplessly. “Wanna die between your legs,” he paused just long enough to drag his tongue flat in slow, filthy circles around your entrance, slurping your juices obscenely. The wet sounds filled the quiet evening, every lap and suck was loud in your ears. He groaned, lapping you up like honey. “Goddamn… pretty pussy’s creamin’ f’me. Can taste how bad you missed me.”

“Joel, please—” Your voice cracked, broken with need, your hips squirming against his mouth.

“Please what, baby?” His eyes flicked up to look at your face. His mouth stayed pressed to your folds as he spoke, his breath humid over your clit. “You want my tongue deeper? Want me to fuck your pussy with it? Split this sweet little hole open on my tongue?”

You whimpered, nodding desperately, the words tumbling out in a stuttering plea. “Yes… please… please Joel, fuck me with your tongue.”

“Good girl,” he rasped, and without another word, his tongue pushed inside you in long, hungry strokes, pumping in and out of your tight hole. The lewd squelch of his tongue fucking you had your eyes rolling back. He groaned into you, rutting his face like a man starved.

Your hands clutched at his hair, hips jerking as he forced his tongue deeper. “Oh god—Jo—oel—” The syllables broke apart on your tongue, your cunt clenching down around the wet muscle inside you.

He pulled back suddenly, leaving you empty, only to circle your clit with ruthless precision, sucking so hard you nearly screamed. Joel just pinned you down, his broad hand pressing firmly against your stomach to keep you from writhing away, holding you like you belonged there under his mouth. His tongue flicked quick, until your thighs were trembling, until your vision blurred.

“Keep those pretty legs apart for me,” his voice was muffled against your cunt, the words vibrating into your clit. “Don’t you dare close ’em. Wanna see how good I’m makin’ you feel, baby.”

“Joel, fuck—ahhh—” you cried, trying to obey, your legs quivering too much to stay open.

His hand slid under your ass, lifting your hips higher into his mouth like you were a meal he couldn’t waste a drop of. His other arm hooked around your thigh, forcing it wide, making sure he had you spread for him, your pussy swollen and glistening in front of him. You were moaning louder now, your thighs trying to close around his head, but Joel just pried you apart and shoved his face back in, devouring you like he owned you.

“F-feels so good… oh Joel,” you choked the words out in breathless moans, your nails dragging down his scalp. “Y-you d-don’t know h-how good it—ahh—”

“Shhh, I know,” he growled into you between sucks. “I know this pussy better’n anyone. Can’t believe it’s mine. Can’t believe you still open up like this just for me.”

“Joel!” you wailed as his mouth latched tight around your clit again, tongue swirling and flicking against the swollen bud until your entire body seized.

“Can’t believe this pussy’s mine.” He licked and sucked and moaned into your cunt like he was obsessed, and God, maybe he was.

You broke with a cry, your back arching off the blanket, thighs quivering uncontrollably, Joel’s name falling from your lips in a stuttering moans. “Joel—ohmygod—Joel—”

“That’s it,” Joel grunted, dragging his mouth down just enough to press two thick fingers into your soaking pussy, curling them deep while his lips sealed back over your clit. Even if his fingers were long and thick, your pussy was so wet and desperate it sucked him in greedily, stretching wide around the invasion, swallowing him to the knuckles. “Look at that, takes my fingers like you been waitin’ for ’em. C’mon, baby. Give it to me. Lemme feel you cum.”

You were already so close, the pleasure hot in your belly, ready to snap. “Joel, I’m gonna—”

“Good,” he growled, his lips glistening when he glanced up at you for just a second. His fingers pumped in and out of your cunt, knuckles-deep, curling to hit that spot that made your entire body jolt. “Give it to me, darlin’. Soak my goddamn face. Wanna drown in it.”

That was all it took. You shattered, screaming his name as Joel licked you through it, never letting up, groaning against you like he couldn’t get enough. Your thighs clamped around his head as your pussy gushed on his tongue. He just held you open, tongue lapping up every drop, coaxing every last tremor out of your body until you were sobbing his name.

When you finally slumped back against the blanket, gasping for air, your whole body slick with sweat, Joel lifted his head slowly. His beard was dripping, his mouth shining with you, and he licked his lips with a satisfied hum, moaning as he swallowed you down. “Sweetest thing I ever had,” he said as he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, only to lick his palm clean, smirking at your wrecked body. “Ain’t never gonna stop eatin’ that pussy. You hear me? Gonna have this pretty thing sittin’ on my face till the day I die.”

You let out a shaky laugh, tugging him up by his shirt to kiss him again, tasting yourself on his tongue. The kiss was sloppy, your lips still trembling as his tongue slid against yours with the taste of your orgasm. When your body finally stopped trembling, Joel stayed right where he was, with his head laying against the inside of your thigh, his beard scratchy against your skin, lips still wet from before

“Yep, it’s confirmed.” You were the first one to break the quiet. “You still haven’t lost your touch.”

He hummed against you, and tilted his head lazily to look up at you. His eyes were heavy-lidded, like a man drunk on the taste of you. “You enjoyed that then?”

“You ate me into a new dimension, what do you think?” you giggled, but stopped when you looked down and noticed the big tent that had taken residence in his crotch under his pants. The outline was thick, straining against rough denim, the kind of hard-on you could see and feel just from looking. “Do you want me to…?” You ask him pointing to his erection.

Joel cut you off with a small shake of his head and a soft smile. His lips brushed your thigh before he pulled back, a little flush painting his cheekbones. “No, darlin’. Today’s all about you.”

Your brows pinched. “Joel…” the outline of his bulge against the zipper of his pants was hard to ignore. The denim looked like it was punishing him, biting into his cock where he was swollen. “You’re like… hard.”

He reached up, cupping your hip in his big hand. “Ain’t askin’ for nothin’ back. Just needed to make you feel good. Still got a lot to earn with you, and I don’t mind waitin’.” His mouth quirked into something between a smile and a grimace. “Hell, this was more than I deserved already.”

Your chest tugged, that familiar ache of loving him mixing with the frustration of how little he seemed to think of himself. You shifted, stroking your fingers through his curls, damp with sweat at the hairline. “But Joel, you’re really hard.”

“Yeah, I noticed, sweetheart.” He chuckled, a little embarrassed. He dropped his head back onto your thigh like he was hiding. “Ain’t the first time I’ve had to walk it off. Don’t worry ‘bout me.”

You sighed, exasperated but softened. “Doesn’t it hurt?”

“Just a little uncomfortable. Nothin’ I can’t handle.” He explained with calm. “You just relax.”

“Oh I am relaxed. I’m very relaxed.” you sighed. “I was scared you had lost practice, but that tongue it’s still very much trained.” The orgasm had left you loose-tongued, and Joel was quiet, content to listen, so you filled the silence. “You know,” you began, “the clit actually have more than eight thousand nerve endings? Twice as many as—” you flicked your eyes meaningfully downward—“yours.”

Joel lifted his head just enough to raise a brow at you, looking downright smug now. “That so? Guess I’ve been doin’ my homework all these years without even knowin’ it.”

You laughed, threading your fingers deeper into his curls. “Apparently. You get an A-plus in pussy eating. Obviously.”

“Christ,” Joel muttered, hiding his face against your thigh again. But you could feel the smile stretching against your skin. And worse, you could feel the faint throb of his cock as he shifted slightly, the poor man trying to ignore it while his body betrayed him.

You kept going, your words tumbling out easily. “Oh! And did you know men are actually more likely to die during sex if they’re cheating? Stress levels, heart rate, all that. Not trying to scare you, but just so you know.”

Joel barked out a laugh. His shoulders shook against your leg. “Good lord, what the hell kinda facts are you readin’?”

“The interesting ones,” you teased.

His laugh softened into a hum, “Don’t worry about that. Don’t have any intentions in ever doin’ this with anybody else.” He said, and you could tell he was honest, a man you had so much trouble opening up, who’d spent years without sex, who was a miracle he’d even let you in… yeah, he wasn’t gonna go find anyone else.

“You better mean that, Joel Miller.” You threatened him playfully.

“Darlin’, what would I even do if I slept with a woman and she don’t bomb me with sex facts after it?” he pressed a kiss on your belly, his lips lingering there like he wanted to brand you with his mouth. “Nah, you set the bar too high.”

You chuckled, his body felt heavy where it rested against you. After a while, his breathing evened out, like he could fall asleep right there with his head in your lap. His erection still strained stubbornly under his jeans, but he ignored it, too content to move. And still you stroked his hair, talked too much, filled the silence with more sex facts, while Joel listened, soaking up every word like he’d been hoping for this kind of peace his entire life.

“Keep your eyes closed,” Joel said while standing behind you, his hands firm on your waist as he guided you carefully through his home. His voice was soft but carried that quiet command of his. “Come on, I see you peekin’ through.”

“I’m not!” you insisted, laughter spilling out. “But I’m worried, you’ve been secretive all day.”

Joel’s workshop smelled like wood and sawdust. It was a room he’d remodeled in his house as his studio. You’d seen it before, the walls lined with guitars he’d built with his own two hands; shelves stacked with his animal carvings, deer, rabbits, wolves, even a little pig. He led you there with a nervous energy you could almost feel through his palms on your waist.

He scratched at his beard, that shy little shuffle of his boots on the floor betraying him before he even spoke. “Been workin’ on somethin’. For you.”

Your heart gave a little kick, but you forced your voice steady. “For me? What, like a chair?”

“Not a chair. Open your eyes.”

You blinked them open, and the familiar sight of his workshop filled your view: tables crowded with tools, shelves full of bottles of paint and brushes, scraps of wood scattered all around. Your gaze darted eagerly. “Where is it?”

He grunted, pretending to be put out by your excitement, but there was no hiding the twitch at the corner of his mouth. Reaching to the back of his table, he pulled something from behind a folded cloth. When he set it in front of you, your mouth dropped open.

It was a small wooden carving, polished smooth by his hands. A scene, tender in its detail: a rooster with its chest puffed out proudly, head tilted down, a worm held delicately in its beak. A hen leaned toward him, accepting the offering, while two little chicks stood at their feet, round and soft with etched feathers so fine it almost looked like they could fluff out if you breathed too close.

You stared at it, feeling your throat tightening. “Joel,” you whispered, brushing your fingertips lightly over the rooster’s tail feathers, the wood smooth under your touch. “This is…”

He cleared his throat, shifting his weight like he wasn’t sure what to do with himself now that you were looking. “’S just somethin’ small. Nothin’ fancy. I remembered ‘bout that time you told me you’d like to be a chicken and… ‘bout the rooster cacklin’ to call the hen when he found food.”

He might’ve said it was nothing, but it wasn’t true. It was everything. It was proof, once again, that he remembered, that he cared, that he took the time to carve something meaningful just for you. Not some generic piece, not a trinket for anyone else. He had carved your silly little rambles into wood, made it permanent with his hands.

Your smile trembled as your eyes watered. “You—you listened. You actually listened.”

Joel huffed softly, almost embarrassed, his beard scratching against his shirt as he ducked his head. “’Course I did.”

You cradled the statue like it was something fragile, something you knew you would treasure forever. “What are their names?”

Joel blinked. “Names?”

“Yeah,” you said, grinning now. “The rooster, the hen. You can’t just give me this whole family and not tell me their names.”

“They’re… they’re just chickens,” Joel said baffled but amused. “They don’t have names.”

You gasped dramatically, clutching the statue to your chest. “Just chickens? Come on, they must have names.”

“That’s Rooster. That’s Hen.” He pointed gruffly at them. “And those are chicks number one and two.”

“Oh, those names suck.” You complained, but your smile didn’t falter. “They’re obviously in love. Are they married or what?”

He sighed through his nose, long-suffering. “They can’t get married. They’re chickens.”

Another gasp burst out of you. “Of course they can!”

He wanted to argue, you could see it, but the corner of his mouth twitched, betraying him. “Yeah. Sure. Married.”

“Good,” you said firmly, then tilted your head at him, your eyes gleaming. “So… are they us?”

Joel froze. For a moment he looked like he might deny it, but then he gave a short, rough laugh. “They’re nobody. Just chic—” He stopped when he saw how bright and wide your eyes were. “Yeah, guess they’re us.”

Warmth spread through you, overwhelming and giddy all at once. You set the carving down carefully before launching forward, wrapping your arms around his middle. Joel caught you with a surprised grunt, but his arms folded around you tight.

You mumbled against his shirt, “I love it. I love you for making it.”

His hand slid up your back, fingers curling at your nape, tilting your face up. “Ain’t much, but… it’s yours.”

“It’s everything,” you whispered.

Joel kissed you right there in the sawdust-scented workshop. Just a slow kiss, a way to seal this tender moment between you two. The second you cradled that carving in your hands again, your heart nearly leapt out of your chest. You kept brushing your thumb over the rooster’s beak, your smile stretching wider and wider until Joel finally muttered, “You’re grinnin’ like a damn fool.”

You only laughed, too full of joy to be embarrassed. “You made me a chicken family, Joel. A chicken family! Do you have any idea how much I love this?”

He tried to grumble something, but you caught that tiny twitch at the corner of his mouth, the one that gave him away every time.

“They’re adorable. Married. With kids. Deeply in love. And…” you let your voice dip playfully, “…I bet they’re mating like crazy when no one’s lookin’.”

Joel’s head snapped toward you, narrowing his eyes. “Darlin’…”

You bit your lip like you were considering something scandalous. “I mean, this time he might’ve cackled when he found a worm, but they already have two chicks, so I bet he does a lot of that other type of cackling, y’know, the one when he wants to have some fun with his wife.”

The noise Joel made was somewhere between a scoff and a growl. “Lord almighty.”

You pretended to sigh dreamily. “Maybe we should take a page outta their book. You feed me, I feed you… and we do other things.” You trailed off, letting the suggestion hang in the air.

Joel’s jaw tightened, his gaze burning heavy on you. “You’re pushin’ it,” he warned, though his voice was already lower.

“Am I?” you teased. “Or maybe you’re just thinkin’ the same thing.”

That did it. Joel moved before you could blink, his arms sweeping you up off your feet like you weighed nothing. You yelped in surprise, clutching the carving tight against your chest, then hurriedly set it back on the table before he carried you away.

“Joel!” you gasped, laughter bubbling out of you as your arms wrapped around his neck. “What’re you—”

He cut you off with a firm kiss, stealing your breath. His lips were hot, hungry now. “You should tell me now if you want me to stop,” he muttered against your lips.

“No,” you murmured back, breathless. “Been too long already. You earned it, you so, so, so earned it.” Your giggles spilled into his mouth as his grip tightened.

And just like that, you were being carried down the hall, his steps fast, as if he couldn’t get you to his bed quickly enough. His heartbeat thudded against your chest, matching the throbbing pulse between your legs. You could hear your pulse in your ears, a mix of nerves, and sheer happiness that this was finally happening again, after all the time you’d both gone without it.

When Joel laid you down on his bed, it was with a care that contrasted the urgency in his body. His hands lingered at your waist, squeezing, sliding up like he couldn’t help himself, his eyes scanning your face like he needed to memorize every expression you made.

“You sure?” he asked low.

You nodded immediately, pulling him down by his shirt. “I’m sure, Joel. I’ve missed you. I’ve missed this.”

That broke whatever restraint he had left. His mouth claimed yours again, deeper this time, a filthy clash of teeth and tongue. His hands slid over your body with reverence, cupping your tits through your clothes, squeezing your hips like he was afraid you’d vanish. You melted under him, the months of tension between you unraveling as he touched and kissed and murmured against your skin.

Clothes fell away in uneven bursts, you laughed when his fingers fumbled with a button, he chuckled when you tugged too hard at his shirt. But then there was only heat, bare skin against bare skin. His eyes roamed every inch of you, like he was trying to decide what do devour first.

“You’re so damn beautiful,” he whispered, brushing his thumb over your cheekbone. “Don’t know how I went so long without havin’ you like this. Don’t know how I fuckin’ breathed without it.”

“Then don’t,” you whispered back, arching into him, pressing your bare chest to his. “Don’t go without it anymore.”

You pushed him off your body, forcing him to lay next to you.

“Mm… baby… what’re you—” His voice cracked into a groan when you leaned in and climbed on top of him, straddling his hips, your cunt already slick against his stomach.

You slid down carefully, traveling down his body, your tongue dragging over his chest, his ribs, his stomach. Joel stood still, he didn’t move until your lips brushed the soft skin at his hip, making him shiver. His body twitched, and when you began to pull down his boxers to wrap your hand gently around him, already thickening, he let out a ragged sound from deep in his chest.

“Oh, sweetheart.” He mumbled under his breath, as your fingers stroked his heavy length. “You don’t have to, you don’t—” He shut up once you leaned in and took him in your mouth with eagerness.

His cock swelled fast against your tongue, your lips stretching around him as you sank deeper. Your throat fought to open, your jaw aching already, but the weight of him filling your mouth had you wetting the sheets under you. You set a steady rhythm, your hand twisting, giving him gentle strokes at the base where you couldn’t reach with your mouth. His cock was as big and gorgeous as you remembered, standing proud with its veins bulging from how hard it was.

Your tongue stroked the sensitive underside, because you remembered how much he liked that, and Joel’s whole body went taut. He slapped a hand over his face, groaning into his palm like he couldn’t handle the sight.

“Fuck… Jesus, baby, you tryin’ to kill me?” You hummed around him, the vibration making his hips buck involuntarily. His hand fisted in the sheets. “Goddamn, don’t deserve this… don’t deserve you.”

You popped off him just long enough to smirk up the length of his body, saliva slicking your chin, dripping down your throat. “You deserve every bit of it, Joel. After everything you’ve done to prove yourself? You earned this.”

His eyes fluttered shut, but he shook his head anyway, groaning. “No, no, sweetheart, I swear—don’t even know what I did in life to have you between my legs like this… lookin’ so goddamn pretty with your mouth full of my cock.”

You giggled softly, then swallowed him down again, taking him deeper this time, until your nose brushed the coarse hair at his base. Joel’s hips jerked helplessly, a strangled curse falling from his lips. His hand flew from the sheets to your hair, tugging, keeping you there.

“Shit—baby, that mouth… you’re perfect, you know that? My perfect girl. You love suckin’ me, don’t ya?” His voice was desperate, the filth rolling off his tongue without shame.

You moaned your answer around him, your throat working hard, clenching around him every time his fat tip hit the back of it. You bobbed your head faster, the big intrusion of his member had spit dripping down your chin and down his shaft, soaking his balls. You spread the wetness with your free hand, massaging one ball first, squeezing gently, rolling them slow, then tugging harder when he groaned. He hissed, the tendons in his neck standing out.

“Fuuuck, baby,” he groaned,“playin’ with my balls too? You dirty little thing. Gonna make me lose it…”

Every whimper, every curse that fell out of him only spurred you on. You pulled back to swirl your tongue over the head, teasing the slit, tasting the salty pre-cum that was already leaking. You licked it up eagerly, humming at the taste.

“Fuck, I ain’t gonna last… been so long without it, without you—oh, baby…” His free hand reached down, fingers tangling in your hair to hold you there, guiding your head with a rough urgency. Joel was gone. His thighs trembled under your palms. “Sweetheart, please—fuck—I don’t deserve you takin’ me like this… don’t deserve you worshippin’ my cock…”

You pulled back just enough to murmur against him, lips brushing the swollen tip. “Guess you’ll just have to get used to it. I like having your cock down my throat.”

That undid him. “Fuck—shit—baby, stop,” he let out a strangled groan, his hand yanking lightly on your hair. “Get off, baby, get off before I…”

You looked up at him, pulling off with a wet pop, a string of saliva joining the head of his cock to your lips. “Really want me to stop?” you asked him, giving soft kisses all along his shaft back to the tip, kitten-licking the swollen head.

“Y-yeah… don’t… don’t wanna cum just yet.” He said, looking at you with pleading eyes, reaching out to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear with surprising tenderness. “Come up here, sweetheart. Wanna feel you wrapped around me instead.”

You settled over him once again, straddling his waist, one leg on each side of his body. Your slick lips dragged over the thick length of his cock, teasing yourself and him both, before you finally sank down. The first slide of him into you had you both groaning, the stretch almost overwhelming after so long without it, but perfect… so perfect you clutched at his shoulders and pulled him closer, desperate not to lose the connection for even a second.

Joel moaned after feeling the stretch of your pussy, the warmth welcoming him around his cock. His head dropped back. “God, I missed you,” he panted. “Missed the way you feel, fuck, missed this pretty pussy wrapped around me.”

You rolled your hips in little circles, just barely-there movement to let your cunt adjust to him, the fat head of his cock grinding right against that spot inside you. You laughed softly between kisses. “Guess the chickens were right. You should cackle more often cause I… oh god… I really missed this too.”

Joel let out a shaky laugh, his smile breaking through even as your body moved with more urgency now, bouncing over him, sliding up and down over his cock. Each drop of your hips had him bottoming out, the thick head pressing so deep inside you it hurt in the sweetest way, your ass smacking down against his thighs.

“God, it’s been so long,” you moaned, palms running over the hard lines of his chest as your movements kept with the same intensity. “I tried using my fingers—”

Joel raised a brow, amused even through his ragged panting. “Oh yeah?”

You nodded, giggling at the memory, even as your pussy clenched down on him with every bounce. “But after you? Joel, I’d have to sneak into the garden and steal the biggest cucumber I can find just to get close.”

Joel groaned, dropping his head back against the pillow, one hand sliding down to squeeze your ass. “Jesus Christ, girl.”

“What? I’m serious!” you teased, giving one hard thrust that made him grunt. “This thing’s ruined me for life. There’s no goin’ back.”

Your chatter didn’t slow you down, in fact, it only seemed to make him harder. Even through the haze of pleasure, your words kept spilling out, half moans, half jokes, because you felt so comfortable around Joel, you could be filthy and messy and still laugh. You two weren’t just fucking, it felt like making love. Like two people who deeply trusted the other.

“You know roosters… ahhh… when they mate, they’re real quick? Like less than five seconds, oh God, guess I’m glad you’re not a rooster.”

Joel laughed, a breathless, sound as he thrust deeper, his cock driving up into you so hard your tits bounced against your chest. “Guess I oughta prove I’m not, huh?”

Your giggles dissolved into broken cries of pleasure as he began to push his hips up to meet your movements, setting a rhythm that was even deeper now. He held you by your hips, yanking you down faster while he kept thrusting up into you, the wet slap of your bodies echoing through the room.

His eyes moved to where your bodies were joined, and the sight had him growling. Your cunt was swallowing him greedily, stretched wide around his cock, creamy slick gushing down his shaft, leaving wet rings at the base every time he bottomed out.

“Fuck baby… gonna cum… this pussy, shit—it’s makin’ me cum.” He groaned, and the hands at your waist tried to lift you off him. “Sweetheart, gotta pull out.”

You shook your head, standing your ground, grinding down harder, your cunt fluttering around him like it was trying to milk him dry. “No,” you said, your voice breaking into moans. “Want it inside. Please Joel, please.” You begged shamelessly, “Just fill me up, wanna feel it dripping out of me.”

“You sure?” he managed to mumble, his back arching off the bed as his hips kept jerking up into you, fighting his own restraint.

“Yes… yes, please Joel—cum inside me,” you cried out, nails digging into his shoulders.

Your filthy words, and the way your walls kept gripping him tight, squeezing the life out of him, was all Joel needed to finally unravel. He came with a loud groan, grabbing your hips and forcing you down onto him as deep as he could. His cock throbbed violently, spilling into you, pumping you full of his hot seed. His body shook in pleasure, toes curling, as his cum kept spurting, filling you up just like you’d begged. Even buried to the hilt, he saw the way his milky cum leaked out of your stretched hole, dripping over his cock and pooling at his balls. The sight was obscene, and he felt such undeniable satisfaction at marking you, owning you from the inside out.

You felt the warmth of his release flooding your cunt, the thick spurts painting your insides, the heavy throbs of his cock pulsing with every spasm. The gush of him inside you was so much you swore you felt it in your stomach. And when you thought he might collapse on the bed, drained after the orgasm, he proved you wrong, because he yanked you down flat and rolled over you, pinning you under his body.

His cock, not one single bit softer, pushed back inside you in one brutal thrust that made you gasp, your pussy clenching hard around the intrusion.

“Oh wow,” you whimpered, half laugh, half cry. “You’re still… you’re still going, huh?”

“Not stoppin’ ‘til you’re cummin’ on this cock, baby.” His voice was dark with lust, as his hand slid under your thighs and yanked your legs up higher around his waist. “Gonna fuck you ‘til you soak me, ‘til you’re cryin’.”

“See? Definitely not a rooster,” you teased through the moans, even as your body shook from the way he drove into you. “You know… uh,” you started, words breaking around his thrusts, “in the… ahhh—animal kingdom, most males just… disappear after mating. Sometimes the female literally eats them. Aren’t you glad I didn’t bite your head off?”

Joel huffed a laugh that quickly turned into a groan as your pussy clenched around him. “Darlin’, sometimes I think you’d like to.”

You grinned, your hands clutching his shoulders. “Only if you deserved it. Which you don’t, ‘cause—” you tilted your head back with a moan—“uhhh, ohhh, this is way longer than five seconds. Roosters could never.”

You noticed how Joel’s grunts and groans only intensified as he kept pounding into you, rougher than before, his hips slamming against yours with relentless force. He was louder than usual. His eyes were squeezed shut, his face twisted like he was straddling the line between pleasure and pain. He almost looked like it hurt, but you knew he was probably just pushing himself past his limits.

“Jesus, baby…” His voice trembled, broken with every thrust. “So tight, so fuckin’ warm. Can’t—fuck… can’t stop.” Each push inside came with a ragged groan, a hiss, a strangled curse.

You couldn’t help laughing between your own gasps of pleasure. “Wow,” you pressed back into him, “you’re really feeling it, huh?”

Joel buried his face against your shoulder, teeth scraping your skin as he groaned again. “Yeah… feels so fuckin’ good, baby…” His words were ragged. “Pussy still grips me so goddamn tight… like it’s made for me.”

But underneath the pleasure, a different kind of strain was growing. His abdomen tightened with each thrust, and flashes of pain shoot through his stomach with every deep roll of his hips. He swallowed it down, masking it beneath louder moans and curses. He didn’t want you to know, didn’t want to ruin this. You felt too good, and he finally had you back, he wanted to give it all to you, to keep going until you broke apart under him.

But the pain kept building, sharper each time his cock drove into you, until his groans sounded almost desperate, and it was getting harder to mask it and pretend it wasn't there.

“Joel?” You twisted your head, trying to see his face. His jaw was clenched, there was sweat dripping down his temple, and his knuckles were white where he fisted the sheets. “You okay?”

“Fine,” he shoved into you again, though the sound that he made was more pained than pleasured. His hips faltered for a second. “Just—fuck—just feels good, baby… too good…”

But you knew him too well. You felt the tremor in his body, the uneven hitch in his breathing. His rhythm faltered, and his hips stuttered against you before he suddenly stopped altogether.

“Joel,” you whispered with concern.

He cursed under his breath, rolling carefully onto his back and clutching his side. His face was pale, he definetely wasn't alright. “Shit,” he groaned. “Ain’t—ain’t you, baby. Somethin’s wrong.”

Panic spiked through you, as you scrambled upright. “Wrong? Joel, what’s—what hurts? Is it your dick? DID I BREAK YOUR DICK? OH MY GOD, JOEL! PLEASE TELL ME I DIDN’T BREAK YOUR MOST PRECIOUS ASSET.”

“Relax, it ain’t my dick.” He pressed his hand into his abdomen as though trying to hold the pain back. “It’s somethin’ in my stomach. Shit—don’t feel right.”

Your throat went dry. “Hospital. Now.”

Joel groaned, shaking his head like he didn’t want to admit defeat, but the way he doubled over when he tried to sit up said it all, the pain was too sharp. You grabbed his clothes in a rush, tugging on his jeans for him, fumbling with buttons, helping him dress even as he muttered between clenched teeth, “Sorry, baby. M’sorry, I didn’t wanna stop. Just wanted you.”

The diagnosis came fast at the hospital.

“Appendicitis?” you repeated after the doctor explained. “Wait, wait, like, you’re sure? Not just a really bad stomach ache?”

The doctor gave you a look that practically screamed, ‘Did you go to med school or did I?’ “I’m sure. He needs surgery. He’s going to be fine.”

Your eyes widened with panic as your words tumbled too fast. “Okay but… like you’ve done this before, right? Not just read it in a textbook? You’ve done it more than once?”

The doctor sighed. “Yes. More than once. It’s a standard procedure. Quick recovery.”

Joel reached over weakly, his fingers searching for yours. “Darlin’, stop grillin’ the man. He knows what he’s doin’.”

You turned back to him instantly, clutching his hand tight. “Joel, don’t you dare die in there, you hear me? Not from your appendix. That’s like… the lamest way to go after everything you’ve survived.” You tried to sound like you were just joking, but your voice broke, and the tears started to burn at the corners of your eyes.

Joel let out a faint chuckle, though it clearly hurt him to do it. “You’re ridiculous,” he murmured, squeezing your hand. “Ain’t goin’ nowhere. You ain’t gettin’ rid of me that easy now that I got you.”

You pressed a soft kiss to the back of his hand, holding it against your cheek. “You better keep that promise. You don’t know how annoying I can be when I’m grieving.”

The waiting was the worst. You paced the hallways, then sat down, then got back up again. You asked the nurse if everything was going okay four times in half an hour. You asked if you could see the doctor’s med school diploma, and then if she’d allow you to personally step into the OR to supervise, just in case.

By the time you saw Joel again, he was lying in a hospital bed, looking groggy but alive, his eyes fluttering open as you rushed to his side.

“Hey, hey—” you grabbed his hand, brushing your thumb over his knuckles. “See? You didn’t die. Thanks for that.”

He blinked at you, his pupils were still heavy from the anesthesia. “M’sorry, baby.”

Your brow furrowed, and you leaned closer to him. “What? Sorry for what?”

His mouth twitched in that tired, sheepish way of his. “Didn’t… didn’t get you to cum before. I left you hangin’.” His voice cracked around the words, like it cost him effort to even admit it.

For a moment you just stared at him with your mouth falling open. Then you dropped your forehead onto his shoulder, torn between laughing and crying. “Joel Miller, you just came out of surgery because your appendix tried to kill you, and you’re apologizing for not getting me off first?”

He gave you the faintest grin. “Well… yeah. You deserved to.”

You lifted your head, cupping his face in both hands, your thumbs stroking his scruff. “You’re alive. That’s all that matters. I don’t care about anything else. You think I’d trade you for an orgasm? Don’t answer that.” A watery laugh broke through your tears.

Joel chuckled weakly, his eyes softening. “Don’t deserve you,” he murmured quietly.

“Good thing you don’t get to decide,” you whispered back, pressing a kiss to his forehead. Then, despite everything, a little laugh slipped out. “You know, this is actually kind of funny.”

He grunted. “What’s so funny about it?”

“I’m gonna tell everybody I rode you so good I tore your appendix.” You giggled, already picturing it. “I mean, how many women can say that?”

He closed his eyes, scoffing. “‘m not sure your riding skills are related to my appendix almost explodin’ inside me.”

“Oh, I believe they are,” you said confidently. “Or maybe it was God’s divine intervention. You broke my heart, and whoever’s up there lookin’ down on us broke your appendix. It’s called karma, Joel.” You couldn’t stop grinning.

His gaze softened again. “Well, even if it’s karma… I’m glad. I’d take a failin’ appendix a thousand times if it meant havin’ you back in my life.” The sincerity in his words hit you so hard it made you ache.

Your fingers wrapped tighter around his, guarding him like you could fight off the whole world if it tried to take him from you again. “I’ll take real good care of you. Gonna make you my special soup, give you sponge baths, all of it.”

His lips twitched into the faintest smile. “Shit…don’t deserve you. But I’m so glad you’re mine.” Tears swelled in his eyes, whether from pain or from seeing you beside him, ready to care for him when he was at his worst, despite everything he’d put you through, despite all the pain he’d caused you before, here you were, without any resentment, just loving him like nobody had, “I love you. I just wish—wish I could find better words. But there ain’t. I just love you.”

You bent down, pressing a soft kiss to his lips, gentle enough not to hurt, but deep enough to leave no doubt. “I love you too, Joel Miller.”

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A/N: I hope you enjoyed this fourth part! I know not everyone’s going to be happy with the way it turned out, some of you probably wanted me to basically kill Joel, hahaha, but I really feel like he did things right this time. He’s finally earning reader’s trust and love.

I’d be so honored if anyone who draws ever made a little piece based on any moment from the series. I feel like a drawing of Joel’s craving gift for reader would be especially sweet, it’s such a cute and meaningful part of the fic, but it’s just a thought.

Sorry for the long chapter, I promise I wasn’t trying to bore you, but I felt like everything needed to be there so the whole forgiveness arc wouldn’t feel rushed. Hopefully you enjoyed the mix of fluff, smut, and the silly little moments in between.

And oh, you thought I was joking when I said I’d give Joel appendicitis? Well… I did, hehehe. It’s so silly, but honestly, it’s so fun having the free will to write whatever nonsense I want.

I think this will be the last part before an epilogue to give them some closure. Thank you so much to everyone who’s been reading and supporting this series, it means the world🩷🩷

tags: @spacegirl-3 @kaseynsfws @wow-life-love4 @pixieeee101 @hhjhgdaiqoqoan @mydearzero @ultra-nina-bella @martuxduckling @unforgivemn @puduvallee @gorzelnia-blog @conrzd @applebloom928 @glitterspark @imjustaprettyyprincess @mani-pedro @jettia @sunnyssimming @sethell @thescxrpio @cowboylikejoha @dugiioh @crimsonxcobra @twigleektribute23 @alexxavicry @thievin-stealing @tearsweetenedtea @serenity-1221 @lover-of-books-and-tea @joelsgoodgirl @nightbornangel @millersweetheart @spacemooi @bbyanarchist @nixiaw @dlwrish @yeswhale456 @uncassettodiricordi @looking1016 @Ghostlover19 @sofisweb @lanasdolll @smvtwitchmiller @bolitadesol @anheloamores @chrrypascal @froggyloora @afyreinjuly @mslxsx07 @mxmsuki @deardev0teddelicate

Two hours.

That’s how long you’d been sitting there. Not on the bed. Not at the desk.

On the floor.

Back against the baseboard, knees drawn up, one heel still on, the other kicked off somewhere around whiskey number four. Or five.

You’d lost count around the same time your blazer hit the ground in a heap.

The lights were off now. Just the city glow leaking through the curtains, painting the room in soft, melancholy gold. It looked romantic, if you were someone else. Someone not holding an empty mini bottle like a lifeline. Someone not muttering to themselves like the goddamn tragic lead in a slow-burn corporate nightmare.

You were supposed to be celebrating.

That was the plan.

You’d pulled it off. Nailed the pitch. Cleaned the blood off the floor and walked into that boardroom like you hadn’t just been eviscerated behind closed doors.

You’d even put on a nice dress. Something silky. Something that whispered I won.

You touched up your makeup, fixed your eyeliner. Thought maybe you’d see Daniel. Let him congratulate you. Or hell, maybe even find Zane and grin wide while he swallowed his pride.

But your fingers had started to shake when you were fixing your lipstick.

The smell made you gag.

It was too much. All of it. The powder, the perfume, the goddamn pretense.

So you washed your face in a hotel sink that reeked of bleach and panic.

You’d been raw ever since.

Now your room phone sat in your hand like it had grown there. Your thumb hovered, then pressed numbers you barely registered.

A voice answered too cheerfully. Like it hadn’t been summoned to a grave.

“Hi,” you rasped. Your voice sounded like gravel. “Yeah. I need, uh… two bottles of wine. Red. Whatever’s expensive. And… crackers. Cheese. Whatever you got.”

A pause. Then a polite “Of course, ma’am.”

You didn’t say thank you. You hung up.

The phone thudded to the carpet. You watched it roll a little. Your head hit the wall behind you with a soft thunk.

What the fuck were you even doing?

This wasn’t a breakdown. Not really. You weren’t weeping. You weren’t screaming.

You were just… done.

Done holding it in.

Done pretending like you were too sharp to break.

You let your head lull to the side, eyes burning.

You didn’t want to feel this. You weren’t supposed to feel this.

But now the weight was here, pressing into your ribcage like bricks. Like it had been waiting for the moment you sat still too long. Waiting for you to stop being useful.

Tommy.

You squeezed your eyes shut.

I needed your honesty. Not your rescue mission.

Your constant. Your family. Through every bad day and every darker night.

And tonight, he’d looked at you like a stranger.

Worse.

Like a mistake.

You didn’t even hear the knock at first. Not until the footsteps faded.

“Leave it!” you croaked out too late.

You dragged yourself up—barefoot, wobbly, a hand against the doorframe to steady yourself. Your dress clung to your legs with static. Your hair was loose, falling in strands into your eyes. You didn’t fix it.

You dragged the tray in with your foot and dropped to your knees.

The wine was cold. Cheap-cold. No soul. But it would do.

You wrestled the cork out with shaking hands, poured a glass with the sloppiness of someone who'd already stopped caring, and tipped it back like it was water.

It burned.

Good.

You poured again.

Slower. Like you were savoring the fall.

You slid down to the floor again, this time facing the coffee table. The light hit the wood grain just enough to remind you that yes—this was real. This was really where you’d ended up. A thirteen years of clawing your way to the top and this was your throne: a hotel carpet, cheap wine, and the hollow silence of success with no one left to share it.

You’d thought about calling your dad. But even that felt too far away. Too fragile. He wouldn’t understand this version of you.

Hell—you didn’t.

You stared at the corner of the table like it owed you something.

You tried to think of what you’d say to Tommy, if he ever picked up again.

But all that came out was a laugh.

Broken. Bitter. It scraped its way out of your chest and sat there in the dark like an unwanted guest.

You reached for your glass again and sipped. Slower this time. Let it stain your lips and warm your chest.

Your eyes burned, but you didn’t cry.

Not for the pitch. Not for the win.

You cried for your best friend.

For the man who had always seen you.

And now couldn’t even look at you.

A single tear tracked sideways across your temple. You let it. Didn’t brush it away.

Your lips parted.

Voice low. Slurred.

“Fuck you, Joel,” you whispered.

But the crack in your voice wasn’t anger.

It was heartbreak.

And you drank again.

Because what else was there to do?

What else could you do when everything good turned to ash the second you touched it?

How could Joel be so cruel with that mouth of his—sharp as a blade, honed on distrust—while still managing to be gentle in those rare, infuriating moments when he didn’t mean to be? When he said your name like it meant something? When his silence said more than any cheap sorry ever could?

It was the question that kept circling you like smoke in your chest.

How could he hurt you like this—then look like he hated himself for doing it?

But no matter how much your stupid, bruised heart tried to pin the blame on Joel, it always came back to one thing.

One person.

You blinked hard, your head heavy with wine and shame, and fumbled for your phone again.

You opened your texts—his name sitting there like a ghost in your recent threads with Tommy.

You stared at it.

No unread messages. No typing bubbles. No angry voicemail waiting in the queue.

Just... nothing.

Blank.

The same man who once sent you thirty memes in a row when you worked late was now dead silent.

You could text first.

Say I’m sorry.

Say Please talk to me.

But wasn’t that what started all of this? You being the fixer? The planner? The one who always cleaned it up, made it better, made it work?

Maybe they didn’t want you to fix it anymore.

Your thumb hovered over the keyboard. Then drifted.

Then fell.

The phone slid from your hands and landed on the bed beside you with a soft, final thud.

The silence in the room thickened. Wrapped around your shoulders like something wet and suffocating. You were used to being alone. You had made peace with it, long ago.

But not like this.

Not this brand of loneliness—the one that came when someone you loved was still just next door.

Your gaze shifted, slowly, toward the wall.

The one that separated your room from Tommy’s.

You didn’t even realize when your knees hit the carpet.

One second, you were staring at the wall like it might crack open and give you something—anything—and the next, your legs just buckled. Folded. Like even they were sick of holding you up.

The carpet scratched at your knees through your dress, but you didn’t care. Your wine glass had rolled somewhere behind you. Forgotten.

You didn’t even wipe it.

You just sat there, swaying slightly. Empty. Eyes burning.

And then you whispered it.

“Tommy…”

You swallowed, hard. That name hurt more than the whiskey did. It felt like pulling glass out of your throat.

You leaned in, pressed your palm to the wall like maybe that could transmit something. Heat. A pulse. A prayer. Nothing. Just drywall. Painted beige. Cold.

“Tommy, I didn’t mean—fuck, I didn’t mean for it to go like this.”

Your voice cracked on the last word. You coughed. Choked. Gasped out something like a breath, then laughed. Ugly and raw.

“I know. I know how it looks,” you muttered. “I know I look like the goddamn villain.”

You sat back on your heels, hand still flat against the wall.

“But I swear—I didn’t do it for me.” Your head tilted, cheek against the drywall now, voice slurred and soft. “I did it for you. For the company. For Joel. For us.”

You closed your eyes. Whispered, “I thought I was saving something.”

Then your lip curled. Bit down hard.

“I’m so fucking stupid.”

You dropped your hand. Pulled your knees to your chest, arms curling around them.

“Why did I think I could fix things without breaking them?” you whispered. “Why do I always do this?”

You laughed again, but this time, it sounded smaller. Meaner. It didn't sound like you at all.

“I ruin things. That’s my thing, right?” You looked around the room like someone might confirm it. “I talk a big game. I wear nice dresses. I have the answers. But deep down?” You scoffed. “I’m just a scared little girl with control issues. That’s the truth, isn’t it?”

The silence didn’t argue.

You let your head fall back against the wall. Hard. A thud. You didn’t flinch.

“I always think I’m doing the right thing,” you said. “The smart thing. The necessary thing. But what kind of friend decides to play puppet master with her best friend’s life? With his brother?”

Your voice rose on that last word—shaky, broken.

You wiped at your face and found tears. You hadn’t realized they started again.

“I didn’t think you’d walk out,” you whispered. “I didn’t think you’d look at me like that.”

You swallowed the next sob. It didn’t help.

“I always think I’m the smartest person in the room,” you hissed. “Always. And maybe that’s the real problem, huh? Maybe I’m not as clever as I think I am. Maybe I’m just selfish. Arrogant. A goddamn fraud who can talk her way into anything but doesn’t know how to keep anything real.”

Your fingers curled tight against the fabric of your dress.

“I used you, didn’t I?” you said, and it felt like knives. “I didn’t mean to. But I did. I saw what you wanted. I saw how much this deal meant to you. And I knew if I just—if I just said the right words, you’d trust me.”

You sniffed. Rubbed at your eyes with shaking hands.

“I didn’t want to manipulate you. But that’s what it was. Right? I pitched it like it was a win for all of us, but I knew what I was doing.”

You looked at the wall again, as if Tommy might be standing on the other side, listening. Fists clenched. Jaw tight. Eyes disappointed.

“You should hate me,” you whispered. “If I were you, I’d hate me.”

Your breath hitched.

“I do hate me.”

Your chest heaved. Once. Twice. Then again, smaller.

“I thought I was doing the right thing,” you whispered again. “God. I said that like it was a mantra. I’ve said it my whole life, and it’s never true.”

You dropped your head to your knees.

“I just didn’t wanna lose. And I didn’t wanna lose you. But I picked the first one.”

You sat there in silence. Breathing heavy. Heartbeat uneven. Wine pulsing in your temples like a warning light.

Still no sound from the wall.

Nothing. Not even a creak.

You scoffed. “You’re not there, are you?”

You forced yourself up—wobbling, groaning. Your knees popped. Your head spun. You dragged yourself to the bed, dress rumpled, heels kicked somewhere near the minibar wreckage. You fell face-first into the comforter and didn’t move.

Face half-buried in the pillow, you whispered it one last time, like a prayer to someone who used to believe in you:

“I’m sorry, you idiot.”

And then, nothing.

Just the hum of the air conditioner.

And the quiet sound of someone who had finally run out of words.

You curled in tighter on the bed, pulled the blanket around your legs, and hugged your knees to your chest like it might keep your ribs from shattering open.

And for a moment—just one drunk, aching second—you wished you’d never said yes to any of this.

To Tommy.

To Joel.

To the dream you’d built out of scraps and long nights.

Because it didn’t feel like a dream anymore.

It felt like a grave you’d dug with your own hands.

Then—because pain wasn’t done with you yet—you turned your head, slowly, toward the opposite wall.

Joel’s room.

At first, nothing. Just the steady hum of the AC sputtering in unison with your own, both units wheezing like tired lungs. You stared at the wall for a long moment, expecting—hoping—for silence.

But then, low.

Murmuring.

Your heart stuttered.

You blinked, unsure if the wine was playing tricks on you—but no. There it was again.

Joel.

His voice. Bleeding through the wall, distant but unmistakable. A slow, guttural growl of syllables like he was spitting out something bitter. You pushed off the wall and padded forward on unsteady feet, the carpet snagging at your toes.

You pressed your ear to the wall.

The voice was low. Frayed. Like he was arguing with someone who wasn’t there. Or worse—someone who was. His ghost of a conscience.

You couldn’t catch much. Just scattered fragments.

“…fuckin’ mess…”

“…always gotta push, always gotta—"

“…goddamn…”

Then—a thud. Loud. Sudden. You flinched.

You pictured him there: pacing, fuming, a storm ready to rip through everything. That clenched jaw. Those big hands flexing uselessly like he wanted to grab the world by the collar and shake it for putting you in his path.

Another muffled string of curses.

Then footsteps. Heavy. Pounding.

Crossing the room like he could wear a hole through the floor.

BANG.

The hotel door next to yours slammed so violently, your entire wall shuddered.

You jerked back from it, heart in your throat.

“…Jesus,” you whispered. “I hope someone complains.”

But your voice was small. Hollow. Like it didn’t even believe itself.

Your body moved before your brain did, wine courage and grief rising in your blood like heat. You stumbled to the door, bare feet sliding slightly on the laminate tile by the threshold. One hand hovered above the deadbolt. The other gripped the handle with white knuckles.

You pressed your eye to the peephole.

There.

Joel.

Marching down the hallway like it had personally offended him.

He wasn’t in pajamas or sweats. Wasn’t dressed for sleep or comfort or anything resembling peace.

No.

This was Joel’s in full armor.

Dark jeans. That old, battle-worn flannel layered under his scuffed jacket. Hair mussed from pacing, jaw hard enough to cut steel. The kind of walk that belonged to a man heading toward a confrontation, not a casual stroll into the night.

His boots struck the carpeted floor like they wanted it to bruise. His whole body crackled with a kind of static tension, like lightning before the break.

You didn’t breathe.

Just watched.

Tracked him with your gaze as far as the peephole would allow.

And then—just like that—he vanished beyond the frame.

Gone.

The hallway was empty again. Silent.

Your hand was still on the knob when you let your forehead resting against the wood.

That was it.

Just footsteps and fury and the echo of a door slammed hard enough to leave a hairline fracture in your ribs.

You stepped back, turned slowly, and took in the room—the crumpled blazer, the empty glass, the wine bottle sweating on the table like it regretted being opened.

The quiet rang louder now.

You peeled yourself away slowly, like your body was stuck to the wood. One step. Another. Back into the muted hotel room, where all the light was artificial and the silence pressed in on all sides like hands around your throat.

You wandered.

Aimless.

Bare feet padding across the carpet as your fingers brushed along the dresser, then the arm of the couch, then the edge of the kitchenette sink. You weren’t looking for anything.

You just didn’t know what else to do with yourself.

You passed by the coffee table, caught sight of your blazer slung over the back of the chair—sharp and professional, still crisp from the pitch—and grabbed it like it had personally betrayed you.

Hurled it.

Hard.

It slapped the wall and slid to the floor, limp. Useless.

Like it knew it had backed the wrong side.

You let out a breath, rough and bitter, too close to a laugh.

“Fucking Joel,” you muttered.

Your arms crossed over your chest, nails digging into your elbows. A makeshift barrier. A punishment.

“Self-righteous, stone-faced asshole.”

You turned and started pacing, words chasing you like ghosts.

“You don’t talk. You don’t try. You just sit there like a goddamn statue, expecting me to fill in the blanks—like I’m supposed to read your mind, solve the puzzle that’s you, without so much as a hint.”

Your hand flew up, gesturing wildly—at nothing, at everything, at yourself.

“And heaven forbid someone have a plan. A little initiative. God forbid I do something without your silent little nod of approval.”

You kicked the leg of the coffee table. This time on purpose. It didn’t budge much, but the jolt up your shin felt good. A sharp, clean consequence.

You deserved that.

Fingers trembling, you pressed your palms to the counter and dropped your head. The granite was cold against your forehead. Unforgiving.

“I hate you,” you whispered. “God, I hate you.”

But even as you said it, your throat burned.

Because you didn’t. Not even a little.

You hated the silence. You hated what you’d said. What you hadn’t.

You hated that you’d made this harder than it had to be.

“I hate the way you look at me like I’m chaos. Like I’m some broken thing to be managed or tolerated. Like you’re just waiting for me to fall apart so you can prove you were right.”

You squeezed your eyes shut. Your breath stuttered.

“And I hate that I can’t stop wishing you’d said something. Anything. That you’d stopped me. Told me no. Told me yes. Told me something.”

Your arms folded tighter. Your fingers twisted into the fabric of your dress until it wrinkled and bit into your skin.

“And the worst part?”

Your voice broke into a whisper.

“I know this wasn’t all you. I know I’m the one who pushed. I forced the pitch. I played the game like I was the only one who mattered. I made Tommy choose. I made you choose.”

You turned back toward the couch and dropped onto it like gravity had doubled in the time it took to cross the room.

“I did this.”

You said it flatly.

Like a confession.

Like a curse.

You stared up at the ceiling, its pale surface as blank and indifferent as Joel’s face had been that night.

“And I still want to blame you,” you whispered. “Because if I blame you, then maybe I don’t have to admit I gambled the one good thing I had just to prove I could win.”

The couch groaned beneath you. It was ugly. Lumpy. Uncomfortable.

It didn’t care about your pride, or your guilt, or the way your chest ached like something was splintering inside you.

You sniffed, wiped at your nose even though you weren’t crying. Not really.

“I hate you, Joel Miller,” you whispered again.

But it didn’t sound like hate anymore.

It sounded like grief.

You’d thrown your arm over your eyes like a dramatic movie heroine, and let the ambient noise of Dallas nightlife bleed in through the walls.

You didn’t remember falling asleep. Just a blur of ceiling and half-drunk silence.

But now…

A dull thrum pulsed behind your eyes as someone shouted in your ear.

You squinted at your phone where it had slid down onto the floor.

12:34 a.m.

You groaned, flopping onto your back. The room tilted for a second, like the floor had floated sideways. Everything itched—your skin, your scalp, your chest. The cheap hotel dress was sticking to you like flypaper. Your heels were still on.

You should’ve taken everything off, peeled back the night, crawled into bed and slept through the regret.

But then—

“AND THAT’S ANOTHER INTERCEPTION!”

You blinked.

Nope.

Not your imagination.

The wall shook. The commentators roared. Someone—probably Joel—shouted, “Bullshit!” like he was in the stadium.

A whistle blew. A goddamn vuvuzela might as well have joined in.

You sat up like you’d been resurrected from the grave. Your head throbbed.

Your eye twitched.

You waited. One Mississippi. Two Mississippi.

The volume got louder.

That was it.

You grabbed your key card like a weapon, somehow found your heels, staggered to the door, and slammed out into the hallway like a woman possessed.

You didn’t knock gently. You didn’t knock twice.

You pounded like you were trying to punch through it.

Bang. Bang. BANG!

The door flew open mid-fourth knock.

Joel.

Flannel traded for a wrinkled shirt. Jeans barely clinging to his hips. His curls were a mess, like he’d dragged his hands through them too many times. He was gripping a bottle of Jack like it owed him rent.

His eyes were glassy. Tired. Livid.

“Oh,” he muttered, blinking slowly. “It’s you.”

You shoved the door all the way open and stormed inside.

“Turn it the fuck down.”

He stared at you like he was trying to remember which level of hell you’d crawled out from.

“Didn’t realize you were sleepin’ on the floor between the TV and my patience,” he muttered, stepping back just enough to let you pass. “You always barge into people’s rooms when ESPN hurts your feelings?”

“You’re literally screaming at a preseason game,” you snapped, spinning toward the TV and slamming the mute button. “What are you even doing, Joel? Throwin’ yourself a pity tailgate?”

He sloshed the bottle in your direction. “Least I don’t cry into it.”

“And what—this is you coping like a man? Drunk yelling at the Cowboys like they personally canceled your birthday?”

Joel didn’t even flinch. Just muttered into his drink, “They kinda did.”

You blinked.

“Oh my God,” you growled. “You are such a disaster.”

“Better than bein’ a snake in heels.”

You actually stopped moving. Just stood there, staring at him, like the words hadn’t quite landed yet—but when they did, they burned.

Joel took a long, slow swig of Jack and wandered back toward the bed like he wasn’t reading you to filth.

“You lied to Tommy. Lied to me. Lied to everyone.”

Your mouth dropped open. “I pitched an idea, Joel. Sorry I didn’t run it by King Joel of Construction before doing the thing you were too afraid to do.”

“We didn’t need savin’,” he muttered, low and bitter. “We were doin’ just fine until you rolled in with your buzzwords and big promises and made it all about you.”

Your laugh was sharp, humorless, hating how right he was, but it hurt you to admit it outloud. “You seriously think I did this for me?”

Joel spread his arms like it was the most obvious thing in the world. “Well, it sure as hell wasn’t for us.”

You crossed the room in two furious strides.

“You are so full of shit,” you snapped. “You didn’t even want the deal. You sat in that room with your arms crossed like a kid, glaring at everyone like we were personally offendin’ your honor.”

“Because I knew it was gonna blow up in our faces,” he fired back. “Because I knew it wasn’t ready—we weren’t ready.”

“No.” You pointed at his chest. “You weren’t ready. Because the second something shifts—something dares to change—you freeze up. You dig in your heels and make the world go around you.”

Joel stood up—bottle still in hand, like it was an extension of his fury. “I don’t freeze.”

“Bullshit.”

“I think,” he barked. “I build. I protect. I don’t gamble with everythin’ just to chase some shiny corporate carrot danglin’ over our heads.”

Your voice cracked around the heat in your throat. “I built that pitch from nothing, Joel. I stayed up all day—rewriting, reworking, fighting—because if I didn’t, we were gonna drown in your caution.”

“You don’t get to spin it like that.”

“Like hell I don’t. I carried us to that table.”

He took a step closer, like he couldn’t stop himself. “You carried yourself.”

Your chest heaved. The wine in your blood made your hands tremble.

“I did it for Tommy,” you said suddenly—loud, shaky, honest. “I did it because I thought—I thought if we didn’t grab that deal, this whole thing was gonna collapse on him. On you.”

Joel just stared. Blank-faced. Quiet in a way that made your guilt echo even louder. He blinked. Just once. And then—he stepped closer. One slow, deliberate step.

“Tommy’s not speakin’ to either of us,” Joel said quietly. “He looks at you like he don’t even recognize who you are. And me?” His voice cracked—just a hairline fracture. “I had to sit there and watch it happen. Watch him fall apart. Watch you throw away every bit of trust we had.”

You swallowed.

“What?” you asked, voice barely above a whisper.

“I tried talkin’ to him.” Joel shook his head, the whiskey sloshing. “Followed him outta the room after your big hero move. He wouldn’t even look at me. Then he snapped at me and went out the damn hotel.”

You sat down. Hard. Like the words had pulled your knees out.

Joel didn’t follow. He stayed standing, watching you with something hollow in his eyes. Not smug. Not cold. Just… tired.

“I didn’t mean to hurt him,” you said quietly.

He snorted. “Well. You did.”

The silence was a live wire. Your hands twitched.

“I didn’t—I never thought it’d go that far,” you whispered. “I thought if we just got the deal, he’d understand. I’d explain it.”

“You lied to him,” Joel snapped. “You lied to me. You made a decision without us, then you shoved us onto the stage like we’d been part of it the whole time.”

“I panicked,” you said. “I was scared. And I told myself it was the right thing, because that made it easier to sleep.”

Joel’s gaze sharpened. “And did it help?”

You looked at him. Raw. Ashamed.

“No.”

He nodded once. “Good. You shouldn’t sleep easy after that.”

You opened your mouth to argue—but nothing came out. Because part of you had wanted that win. You stood again, slow and unsteady.

“You’re so goddamn righteous,” you said. “Like you’ve never done anything selfish. Like you’re some noble martyr of modest business dreams.”

Joel’s eyes darkened. “And you’re so goddamn blind to your own reflection.”

“I made a mistake.”

“No. You chose one.”

The words felt like a slap. You turned away. Walked toward the window just to get distance, but the guilt followed like a second shadow.

You rested a hand against the glass.

“You’re a goddamn narcissist,” he barked when you didn’t respond.

“You’re a goddamn coward.”

“You manipulated us!”

“You resent me!” you cried out.

The air cracked open between you—rage, sadness, betrayal, guilt, years of these emotions swirling between you both like syrup. Sticky and impossible to ignore. It vibrated in the walls. You could taste it.

Joel’s jaw was clenched. His knuckles white around the bottle.

You were panting now. “You are the most insufferable, stubborn—”

“Manipulative. Arrogant—”

“—controlling, mule-headed—”

“—attention-starved—”

“—emotionally constipated grump!”

“—shiny-shoed snake oil saleswoman!”

“JACKASS!”

“HARPY!”

“SON OF A—!”

Your foot slammed into the dresser with a dull crack—you yelped, stumbled sideways, and Joel’s beer bottle landed with a thunk on the nightstand, wobbling dangerously before something behind it hit the floor with a crash. You didn’t even look to see what it was.

You both froze, panting like you’d just run screaming from a burning house.

Joel stood a few feet away, chest heaving, eyes glassy and wild with heat and alcohol and so much fucking fury it made the air feel heavy. His face was red, hair a mess, shirt untucked and hanging off his shoulder like he didn’t notice. Or didn’t care.

You weren’t much better. Dress half-twisted. Hair clinging to your neck in sticky waves. One heel on, the other kicked off at some point in the chaos. You weren’t even sure when.

The silence that followed wasn’t relief. It was ominous. Thick. Like the air just knew you weren’t done.

Joel didn’t move. He just stood there like a loaded gun, eyes tracking your every movement like he didn’t trust himself to take one step closer. You swayed slightly, blinked against the wine-drenched fog in your skull, then laughed—sharp and bitter.

“This is so fucking stupid,” you muttered, pacing—two short, angry steps toward the window, then back to the dresser. “This whole conference. All of it.”

He let out a dry, humorless chuckle. It cracked in the middle, barely held together by whiskey and whatever was left of his patience.

“You wanted a spotlight—I stepped aside. You wanted to do things your way—I let you. But don’t confuse my silence for approval.” he said, slurring just slightly, like the words were too heavy in his mouth. 

You spun, hair whipping across your face. “What the hell else was I supposed to do, Joel? Wait for your sacred permission like some underpaid intern hoping you’ll pat me on the head?”

“You were supposed to talk to me!” Joel bellowed, and your stomach twisted at the sound. “Not just run off and go over everybody’s head like you always do—’cause you’re too goddamn scared to fail unless you’ve already rigged the game!”

You stormed toward him, one heel clicking against the tile, the other dragging. “Scared? I’ve already failed, Joel. I know what failure feels like. This wasn’t about ego. It’s about making damn sure we didn’t end up back in Austin with a handshake and a go-fuck-yourself.”

Joel threw his arms out. “So the answer’s what? Deceit? Sellin’ Tommy out?”

“I think doing nothing is worse!” you roared, jabbing a finger into his chest now. “I did the work. I made the call. I owned it. I pitched it. And it worked, Joel.”

He didn’t flinch, but his jaw twitched.

“That’s not the point.”

“No, of course it’s not,” you hissed. “Because if the point isn’t you being right, then it doesn’t matter.”

Joel reared back like you’d struck him. His expression cracked—something sharp and quiet bleeding through the surface. His mouth opened. Closed. Then he laughed.

Low. Dark.

“You always gotta win, don’t you?” he said. “Even if you burn the whole thing down.”

You stared, blinking slow.

“Better than sitting in the ashes pretending it never lit,” you said quietly.

Joel’s face hardened.

“Everythin’ with you’s a performance,” he said. “Every smile, every outfit, every ‘good mornin’’—it’s all just armor. You play untouchable so no one sees how desperate you really are.”

Your breath caught. For a second. Just a second. Then:

“And you,” you whispered, stepping in, “use that drawl and your whole grumpy-man shtick like it’s gonna scare the world into leavin’ you alone. But I know you, Joel. You’re not scary. You’re scared.”

His whole body stiffened.

“You think you know me?” he rasped.

“Oh, I do.”

“No, the hell you don’t.” He stepped in, close enough to feel the heat of his breath. “Been gone thirteen years and think you’ve got me all figured out?”

You let out a short, humorless laugh.

“I don’t need thirteen years to recognize a mess, Joel.” You tilted your head. Smirked like it hurt. “I see so much of me in you it hurts so much.”

That stopped him—just for a second. Just long enough for you to aim lower.

“I know you,” you slurred. “You don’t say what you mean until it’s too late. You’d rather go down swinging than admit you want something. You push people away so you don’t have to watch them leave. You walk around like you’re some lone-wolf martyr when really—you’re just scared. Same as me.”

His jaw tensed.

“You think we’re the same?”

You shrugged, hicupping. “No. You’re worse.”

The words were quiet. Measured.

“You pretend you’re protecting people. That silence of yours? That cold shoulder? It’s not strength, Joel. It’s cowardice dressed up like control.”

His nostrils flared. He took another step forward like he didn’t trust himself not to do something reckless.

But you didn’t back down. You leaned in, voice dropping, eyes steady.

“Me? I break things before they can break me. Burn it all down so I don’t have to watch it rot. You just... starve it. Slow. Quiet. Until there’s nothing left.”

Why were you being so honest? So raw about yourself to a man who clearly despised you? But it came out easy, the words. It was either that, or screams, and your throat was too raw to do the latter.

You swallowed hard. The next words tasted like blood. Or wine.

“Maybe that’s why we always come back to each other. ‘Cause we deserve each other.”

Joel didn’t say a word. But his expression shifted—barely—but enough. Something cracked beneath the fury. That tight, angry mask wavered. Just for a breath.

You stood there, chest rising and falling, heart thudding like it didn’t know what body it belonged in anymore.

Then, slow and strange and almost thoughtless—you reached out. Your fingertips touched his jaw.

Not soft. Not sweet. Firm, confident. Like you were studying him. Like you were trying to understand how something could be so hard and still break.

His skin was warm beneath your palm. He flinched at first—but didn’t move away.

You didn’t blink. You didn’t smile. There was no affection in it.

Just your thumb brushing along the curve of his cheekbone, like you were confirming something ugly you’d both always suspected.

“Ain’t that the fucking tragedy?” you whispered. “That we’re both so goddamn broken, we actually fit.”

Joel’s eyes went wide—wild, even—caught somewhere between resentment and whatever that buried thing was he refused to name.

And just like that—

He pulled back.

Not physically. Not yet.

But emotionally.

You saw it happen.

Like a light switch flipping off behind his eyes. That brief, gut-wrenching crack in him slammed shut before you could breathe it in. The rage cooled. The grief retreated. Whatever truth had tried to rise up in his chest curled in on itself and died behind his ribs.

He swallowed hard. Jaw set. That thick muscle in his cheek jumped once.

Then came the blankness.

That look. That version of him.

You knew it. You’d studied it.

You saw it in elementary school when he stormed out of the gym, lips pressed into a line, after someone said, “You talk like your mouth don’t even wanna be on your face.”

You saw it at twenty, when Sarah’s mom dumped him for the third time that month, and he showed up at your door with a busted lip and a bottle of beer, laughing too loud at things he would’ve never found funny.

You saw it now.

It always looked the same. That quiet kind of pain.

Like he was folding the hurt up small, neat—tucking it somewhere deep you’d never be allowed to reach.

His shoulders rolled back. That jaw ticked again.

And then his eyes slid past you—out the window, toward nothing.

Like you weren’t even standing there anymore.

That wall. That goddamn wall. He was climbing behind it again. Brick by brick.

And it hit you like it always did—like betrayal in slow motion.

This wasn’t yelling.

This wasn’t rage.

This was erasure.

And it made you feel fucking insane.

Because how were you supposed to fight with someone who left the room emotionally? How were you supposed to reach someone who made sure you couldn’t?

You couldn’t argue with a wall.

You couldn’t scream into silence and hope it answered back.

And God, God, it wasn’t just this time.

It was every time.

It was years of feeling like you were shouting across a canyon he’d dug himself. Years of Joel shutting down the second things got real.

It was the thing that ruined your relationship with him in the first place. It was all the things he wouldn’t say, and all the times you sat in the wreckage of another closed-off moment, wondering if you were the fool for even trying.

It wasn’t just that he pulled away.

It was that he left you alone in the worst parts.

The sharp sting behind your eyes caught you off guard. You blinked it back, furious at yourself for even daring to feel sad.

No.

You were angry.

Livid.

But underneath it—God—it hurt.

The silence roared louder than the shouting ever had.

He spoke.

“You done?”

It wasn’t a challenge.

It was resignation. Tiredness in its cruelest form—like he’d already decided you weren’t worth the energy. Like he was folding you up now, stuffing you into the same drawer where he kept everything else he couldn’t deal with.

Your spine straightened. Your breath caught—sharp and burning. You dropped your hand.

Your heart slammed against your ribs, climbing your throat like it wanted to claw its way out.

No.

You weren’t done.

So you stepped forward. Hard. Your chest brushed his. You jabbed your finger right into the center of his chest.

“No,” you said, cold and clear. The word cracked through the silence like ice underfoot.

He blinked. Something flickered in him—reflex, guilt, recognition. You didn’t care.

“Feel something, Joel.” Your voice rose—thicker now. Shaking. Furious. “Say something. Be angry. Be fucking present. Do anything except disappear the second it gets real.”

You jabbed your finger again. And again. Like maybe, just maybe, if you pressed hard enough, you’d finally hit something he couldn’t bury.

“You act like you’re made of stone,” you spat. “But the truth? You’re scared to feel anything.”

“I feel everythin’,” Joel hissed—voice torn, low, almost broken. “Every goddamn day.”

“Then act like it,” you shouted. “Stop hiding behind silence and control like it makes you strong. It doesn’t. It makes you a fucking ghost. You want to talk about broken? I can work with broken. But I can’t with nothing.”

His hands twitched. His breathing went shallow. Still, he said nothing.

You stared at him, heart hammering. Voice dropping to something lethal, final.

“Just admit it.”

His voice rasped out—barely more than a breath:

“Admit what?”

You didn’t blink.

“Everything.”

Silence again.

But this one was different.

This one wasn’t an ending. This was the aftermath. The moment right before the dam breaks—or the foundation finally collapses.

You stood there, both of you shaking. Drunk. Furious. Thirteen years of weight in your lungs and one night’s disaster bleeding into the floor.

And then—

He kissed you.

No warning. No hesitation. Just fire. With everything he had.

His mouth crashed into yours like a fist. Dry. Harsh. All teeth and heat and whiskey. It wasn’t tender. It tasted like punishment. Like guilt. Like every damn thing he didn’t have the words to say.

You froze—shocked, breath caught in your throat, fists clenched at your sides. Your body screamed what the fuck is happening—and your brain fired off a dozen alarms.

Push him away.

Slap him.

Say something.

Do something.

But instead, your hand clawed into his shoulder instead like you needed him to bleed for this. Like his anger had to match yours. Because anything else would break you.

Joel’s hands came up—one at the back of your neck, the other gripping your hip hard, grounding, furious. He held you like you were slipping through his fingers. Like he needed to pin you to the earth or you'd disappear.

The kiss got uglier. Hotter. His teeth scraped your bottom lip and you gasped against him—startled and somehow already addicted. His jaw was tight under your palm. His body was all tension, no give.

But then—

He ripped away like he’d been burned.

“Fuck. Fuck!”

He staggered back a step. Then two. Hands trembling. His chest heaving like he’d just come up for air after nearly drowning.

“I shouldn’t’ve…” he muttered, barely there, words splintered at the edges. “Fuck. Go. Just—go.”

He wouldn’t look at you. Couldn’t. But you couldn’t take your eyes off him.

Not with the way his hands kept flexing like they didn’t trust themselves. Not with the way he stood there, backlit by hotel lamplight and catastrophe, like he was already grieving what just happened.

You blinked, dazed. Lips parted. Your fingers drifted to your mouth—still burning. Still tasting him. Still tasting the burn and bitterness and Joel.

“Joel…” you said, but it came out hoarse. Barely a whisper. More of a tremor than a word.

He flinched.

Didn’t turn. Didn’t speak. Just breathed hard—shoulders shaking, face turned away. You watched him, chest tight. You could see it now. See everything.

The anger. The shame. The guilt. God, the lust. Like it was breaking him.

He looked like he’d crawl out of his own skin if he could.

“Fuck,” he bit again, voice strangled and dark. “I didn’t mean to—just—go.”

“Joel—”

“I said go!” he barked, the full weight of his voice crashing down on the room. “I don’t—I can’t—we can’t—” He cut himself off. Jaw clenched. His fists tight. He finally turned and looked at you—and it was brutal.

His gaze hit you like a blow.

Dark. Raw. So much fury and confusion and something else brimming just beneath the surface. You didn’t know what hurt worse—the kiss, or how much he clearly hated himself for it.

You were trembling now too.

Shaking where you stood.

But not just from rage. Not even close.

You were drunk. On wine. On grief. On Joel. On years of wanting something—anything—that didn’t feel like drowning.

And this—this kiss—it was a lifeline you didn’t trust but took anyway.

You didn’t walk away.

Didn’t demand space.

You didn’t want clarity. You didn’t want sense. You didn’t even want peace.

You wanted silence. Skin. A body. You wanted heat. Pressure. Pain.

You wanted something louder than the guilt.

And that—that was the part you couldn’t take.

The guilt of hurting Tommy was unbearable.

The grief, unrelenting.

You were watching yourself fall apart in real-time, and Joel—fucked up, furious Joel—was the only thing that made you feel anything besides shame.

So you leaned in.

Closed the gap.

No hesitation. No thoughts.

You grabbed the front of his shirt and kissed him again—hard. Like an act of war. Like you could rip the pain out of him with your mouth. Like it could cauterize all the terrible feelings.

Like if you pressed hard enough, deep enough, all the rot inside you would melt down to nothing.

He didn’t move at first. Frozen, solid, like you’d hit him with a tidal wave. Your lips pressed hard against his and nothing came—no sound, no movement.

You didn’t care. You tilted your head, kissed him harder, like a dare. Your teeth dragged across his lower lip in a sharp, claiming bite that made him groan deep—low in his throat, almost involuntary.

His control snapped right there.

Joel’s hands shot up again, tangling in your hair, fingers gripping too tight. He dragged you closer like he wanted to bruise the space between you. Like he needed to erase everything you’d just said. Every word. Every accusation.

His stubble scraped your skin as his mouth moved over yours, all heat and friction. Nothing soft. Nothing apologetic. Just a collision of fury and want, poured into every rough kiss, every desperate pull of your hips.

He kissed like he was still arguing. Like this was the only language he had left.

You opened your mouth suddenly, just to throw him off—and he took the invitation like a challenge. His tongue slid in, sweeping deep, learning you, claiming you.

But you didn’t surrender.

You met him head-on, pushed your tongue against his, kissed him like you were still in the middle of the fight. Because you were. Every gasp was a retort. Every moan was a counterstrike.

Joel growled into your mouth, like it pissed him off how much he wanted this—wanted you. His hands fisted tighter in your hair and he leaned in hard, putting all his weight on you like the proximity still wasn’t enough.

You stumbled back a step. Then another.

Your back slammed into the wall with a dull thud, and the impact knocked a startled breath out of your lungs.

You barely caught yourself on his shoulders, nails digging in like claws.

Joel didn’t apologize. Of course he didn’t.

His mouth was still on yours—rough, desperate—but he was unraveling in real time, muttering against your lips like he was trying to convince himself this wasn’t happening.

But you felt it again when his lips faltered. The way his thoughts came barling back even though you just beat them away.

You felt it not in the kiss itself, but in the absence. A split-second pull. That shift. Not distance in inches. Distance in presence.

He was still holding you, still kissing you, but his hands slackened just enough for the panic to crawl up your spine.

No. No, no, no.

Not now.

You pressed in harder, but his body had gone rigid. Like the part of him you’d cracked open was already sealing shut again.

“Joel,” you breathed against his mouth.

“This is a mistake,” he said, breath hot. “I shouldn’t…fuck—” he muttered, voice cracking on the edges.

“Then stop,” you snapped.

But he didn’t. His hands were still on you, gripping too tight like he couldn’t decide if he wanted to shove you away or pull you under. His mouth kept brushing yours in broken stutters—torn between restraint and hunger.

He was shaking. Not dramatically—but subtly. Tension radiated off him like a furnace. Like something pressurized and close to rupture.

His jaw clenched. His nose brushed yours. And when he kissed you again—messy, angry, breathless—it came with a broken sound, deep in his chest, like the pressure was finally too much to contain.

His lips hovered, rough against yours. “You don’t want this,” he said hoarsely.

“You don’t get to choose for me,” you cut in, sharp. “Just say it. Say what you mean.”

He hesitated. Breath catching. Eyes wild.

“Say it like there’s no consequences.”

And there it was—his breath hitched, chest rising like he was going to fight it. But the words never came.

That was it.

That was the second he broke.

He growled low in his throat, dragging his mouth along your jaw, each inch filled with the violence of everything he hadn’t said. “I should’ve slammed that door in your face. Threw you out on your ass the second you walked in.”

“Then do it, Miller. Kick me out.” You jerked your head back just far enough to glare at him. “But you won’t. You want this.”

“I want you to shut you the fuck up.”

“Then do it,” you snapped. “Make me shut me up. Since yelling didn’t work and logic never was your strong suit.”

Joel’s hand fisted in your hair again, hard, tilting your head until your throat was bared to him—until the only thing between you and a mistake was the tremble in his fingers.

“You never fuckin’ stop.” he hissed. “Every word out of your mouth is just noise.”

“Funny,” you shot back. “You never seem to walk away from the noise. You just stand there and soak in it like it’s the only thing keeping you warm.”

His mouth crushed against yours again.

The kiss wasn’t sweet. It wasn’t soft. It was the kind of kiss that happened in the wreckage of something else. All fire. A collision of teeth and breath and something years in the making, clawing its way out through clenched jaws and bitten lips.

Joel groaned—low and rough—his hands finding your waist, dragging you in like he’d been dying of thirst and you were the only thing that could quench it. His fingers splayed wide, thumbs digging into the curve of your hips.

You gasped against his mouth, and that sound—God, that sound—was enough to make him bite your bottom lip. Not hard. Just enough to make your knees threaten to give out.

He pulled back for half a second, just enough to look at you—really look at you. Your lips kiss-swollen, your chest heaving, your dress strap slipping off one shoulder. His eyes tracked the fall of it, then snapped back to yours. Dark. Wild.

Teeth scraped the delicate skin beneath your ear, tongue chasing the sting, lips planted bruises like he wanted to mark every inch of you. Your head tilted back, unthinking, mouth parting on a ragged breath as his hands roamed—over your ribs, down your back, greedy in their precision.

It wasn’t soft. Nothing about him ever was. His words and touches felt like a challenge—like every inch he claimed was another insult he meant to erase with pressure, with heat, with the rough drag of his palm over fabric and skin.

And each touch made your eyelids heavier than they already were from the wine, making you like putty in his hands. You zoned onto something, a plant, the remote. Anything but having him win.

Your hands slid beneath his shirt without ceremony, nails dragging across the muscle of his stomach—just hard enough to leave raised lines in their wake. He hissed through his teeth, and you smiled, sharp and smug.

He moved, suddenly, a shift of hips that brought your bodies flush—no space, no pause. The friction punched the air from your lungs, and still you arched closer, grinding down against the thick line of him, desperate to remind him who started this. Who could finish it.

His mouth was back on yours before you could gloat. It was possessive. A sharp pull at your lower lip, tongue sweeping inside like he meant to steal the fight from your throat. But you didn’t yield. You matched him, matched every greedy slide and bite, gave him back every ounce of fury he tried to devour.

His hands curved under your thighs, and you felt the shift in his stance—like he was about to take you somewhere, carry you somewhere—and you shoved your hands against his chest, hard.

He froze, breath heaving.

You didn’t step back.

Instead, you hitched your leg around him, letting his hand hold you there. Then, you moved.

A slow, brutal grind of your hip that made his fingers dig into your skin. His head tipped forward, forehead brushing yours, jaw clenched so tight you could feel the tension in his breath.

And God, you could feel him.

Thick, waiting, confined to denim that you knew was the only thing holding him back. He was hot, but you couldn’t tell if it was him, or your cunt clenching over nothing.

Your nails dipped lower, catching the edge of his waistband, teasing just beneath it, not out of flirtation—out of spite. Out of a desire to prove you could unravel him faster than he could you.

His answering groan was raw, and when he caught your wrists, it wasn’t gentle. He pinned your hands to his chest, holding you in place, his body trembling under the strain.

Breath crashed between your lips. Sweat beading at the back of your neck. Neither of you moved, just hovered—bodies pressed, mouths swollen, clothes tangled between heat and urgency and rage.

And still, his mouth found yours again, slower this time, but no less punishing. He kissed you like he hated that he liked it. Like he needed to win this just to survive it.

You bit his tongue.

He growled.

Before you could blink, Joel’s hands were gripping your waist, hauling you off your feet with a fierce tug. The world tilted as he pushed you backward, the heel of his feet digging into the hotel room’s plush carpet, steadying his weight. 

You stumbled—just barely catching your balance—before his body slammed into yours, driving you against the couch with a force that stole your breath.

The leather groaned beneath you, but Joel didn’t pause. His mouth crushed against yours—raw, demanding, like he was swallowing every syllable you’d thrown at him in that fight. Hands found your thighs again, and he pulled them over his hips.

Then, he pressed.

You almost gave him a high-pitched moan, almost broke. It was like he was meant to be there, his clothed cock lined perfectly where you begrudgingly wanted him most. 

His lips moved with a brutal urgency, teeth scraping over your bottom lip, tugging it between his own in a bite that seared hot and sharp. You gasped, the sting blooming between your legs as his hands slid lower, pressing possessively against the curve of your hips.

His head dipped, breath hot against your skin as his teeth grazed your collarbone. The rough scrape of his stubble sent electric jolts racing down your spine, and your back arched instinctively, letting him press deeper into you.

Then, as if not satisfied with just marking your mouth and throat, he trailed downward—his lips, his teeth, his tongue—leaving a trail of fire across your skin. Each kiss, each bite, was a warning and a promise wrapped in one, dragging you further into the tangled chaos of hate.

Your hands clenched into fists against his shoulders, but your body betrayed you, melting into the storm he’d unleashed. Every nerve screamed for more—the sharp bite of his mouth, the weight of his hands, the wild, unrelenting pace of his touch. The tension between you exploded into something fierce, something dangerously close to surrender.

And yet, even in the madness of it all, the battle raged on. Your eyes locked onto his, a spark of challenge burning bright beneath the haze of desire.

“Think you can handle this, Miller?” you whispered, breathless, voice thick with fire.

He smiled against your skin—a slow, dark curl of lips—and growled back, “Try me.”

Joel yanked your remaining strap down, letting the fabric slip past your shoulders, glide down your arms, and pool somewhere at your waist. His breath hitched, just barely—a subtle intake, but enough for you to catch it.

He leaned back just a little, arms braced on either side of your hips, eyes dragging over you like he was trying to memorize it all.

“Jesus,” he muttered, almost under his breath. His voice had dropped, rough and thick and reverent. “Look at you.”

You watched his gaze flicker—neck, collarbone, then lower. His pupils darkened when they landed on your breasts, full and exposed in the soft light.

You opened your mouth, but no sound came—his hands had already come up, broad and warm, cupping your breasts like he couldn’t decide if he wanted to worship or devour. His thumbs grazed lazily over your nipples, the touch light, testing. His eyes stayed locked on yours, like he was waiting to see how far you’d go before cracking.

You arched into him instinctively, breath hitching.

“Sensitive, huh?” he murmured, mouth twitching at the corner.

Then he leaned in—slow, confident—and dragged his lips over the curve of one breast, the scrape of his stubble catching just enough to make you shiver. He didn’t kiss, not at first. Just breathed hot against your skin, his lips barely brushing, letting you feel how close he was. Letting the tension bloom.

Then, finally — his mouth closed around you.

He sucked deep, groaned low in his chest like he meant it, like he’d been starving and just got a taste. His other hand worked the swell of your opposite breast, fingers teasing and coaxing while his mouth pulled more gasps from your throat. And all the while, he stayed between your thighs, letting the heat build, letting you squirm under the weight of him without giving you an inch more.

You tangled your fingers in his hair, back arching, heartbeat pounding loud in your ears.

“Joel—” you breathed, half a warning, half a plea.

His tongue swirled slow. Purposeful.

You gasped—not just from the heat of it, but from the restraint. The way he took his time, like he had all night to explore you, like this was more than just want. His mouth moved with agonizing patience, lips soft but determined as he circled your nipple again, then pulled away just long enough to blow cool air over the damp skin.

Your back arched in response, a soft whine escaping before you could stop it.

He grinned against your chest, low and smug. “Thought you were gonna make me work for it.”

“You haven’t earned it yet,” you shot back, though your voice was breathless.

Joel chuckled, deep and rough, the sound rumbling from his chest straight into you. “That right?” His hand slid down your ribs, fingers pressing into your waist. “Guess I better put in a little overtime, then.”

His fingers slipped under your dress, shifting the fabric higher, teasing the bare skin of your upper thigh.

Your hips twitched under his touch, impatient, and he hummed again — amused, darkly pleased. He kissed down the valley of your chest, slow and steady, tongue dragging just enough to leave heat in its wake.

Then his mouth hovered at your stomach, just above where you really wanted him. His beard scratched gently as he dragged his jaw along your skin, his hand still toying with the hem of your dress.

It was excruciating—the way he moved like he had all the time in the world, like you weren’t already strung tight and trembling beneath his hands.

Then, finally, he hooked his fingers into the hem and flipped the skirt up.

He went still.

The air changed. Thicker. Warmer.

You felt the heat of his gaze hit your thighs like fire. His breath stuttered just once before he whispered it—quiet, rough, like it punched the air right out of his lungs.

“Fuck…”

You blinked down at him, chest rising and falling faster now. Joel’s eyes had gone dark, stuck somewhere between reverence and hunger, with his anger swirling in there. His thumb dragged lightly along the edge of the lace where it sat snug across your hip.

He didn’t say much. He rarely did. But you could read it all in his face.

He liked them.

More than liked.

You’d picked them out on a whim—something soft and barely there, pale against your skin with tiny bows at the sides and delicate stitching across the front, pretty for the sake of being pretty. You hadn’t known then that Joel Miller would ever get close enough to see them.

Now, here he was, staring at you like you were something he was still trying to believe in.

“You gonna keep staring or—” you started, voice cracking.

“Shut up.” He muttered it into the skin of your thigh, lips brushing just enough to make your head tip back. “Real mouthy for someone ‘bout to lose it.”

You opened your mouth again, a protest half-formed, but he was already lowering his head, pressing a kiss right above where the lace met your skin. You shivered.

Another kiss, lower.

His breath hit you through the fabric. Your hips jerked and his hands immediately pinned you down, steadying you with an amused grunt. His mouth never stopped moving—small, maddening presses of lips along the edge of your panties, like he was tracing them, committing them to memory.

You swallowed hard, your hands gripping the couch cushions like they were the only things keeping you tethered.

“Don’t tease,” you managed, barely.

Joel lifted his head just enough to meet your eyes. “Yeah,” he said. “But you deserve that.”

And then—his nose pressed in deeper, the lace growing damp where his mouth lingered. You whimpered. It was instinct. Immediate. Shamefully honest.

You felt everything. Every flicker of warmth. Every thread of fabric. Every ragged breath he took was like he was trying to keep himself in check. And yet he still didn’t move your panties. Didn’t slip a single finger beneath. Just explored the edges like he had nowhere else to be.

“Joel—”

“Hush.” His voice was firmer now, with an edge that made your heart knock hard in your chest.

Then his thumb slid along the top of your thigh, dipping dangerously close to where you were aching. You writhed, a little, just enough to see if he’d follow the motion.

He didn’t.

Of course, he didn’t.

Joel was too good at this. Too patient. Too goddamn cruel.

“Please,” you whispered before you even realized it.

He groaned against you, a low, rumbling sound. “Please, what?”

You should’ve pushed him away. Said something sharp. Kept your pride.

But he mouthed against you again, this time directly over your center, and your whole spine arched off the couch.

“Touch me,” you gasped. “Please just—just touch me.”

He hummed—like he was considering it. Then he leaned in again, slow and steady, pressing a long, heated kiss over the damp lace before pulling back and finally, finally hooking his fingers into the waistband.

Your breath hitched.

You thought he might take his time. Might ask again.

But instead, he tore them.

The rip was clean and quick, and you gasped—not just at the sound, but at the sudden rush of cool air, the way it made you feel completely bare in front of him.

Joel looked up at you, eyes heavy, jaw tight. Then his hand splayed over your stomach, and he bent low again, his mouth moving with intent this time.

You barely had a second to brace yourself.

And then—heat. Tongue. Pressure.

You moaned, loud and broken.

Joel groaned in return, like he couldn’t help it, like the sound of you did something to him. His hand slid to your thigh, holding you open as he worked his mouth against you, no teasing now. No restraint.

Your head tipped back hard against the cushions. You couldn’t look at him anymore—not with the way he was devouring you, not with how undone you felt. Vision blurred, breath fractured, body caught somewhere between floating and burning.

It wasn’t just what he was doing. It was how he did it.

Like he needed it.

His tongue moved like he already knew every angle, every weak spot, like this wasn’t the first time he’d imagined you falling apart in his hands. And when he dipped lower, flattened his tongue and dragged it with slow, deliberate force—you nearly sobbed.

There was heat blooming deep in your stomach, coiling tighter with every pass of his mouth. Your thighs trembled beneath his grip. Your hands were in his hair, pulling without meaning to, holding tight like you were afraid he might vanish. He groaned when you did that—low and guttural—and the sound vibrated against you.

“Joel,” you gasped, barely above a whisper.

He didn’t answer. Just slipped one strong arm over your thighs and hauled you closer like he hadn’t quite gotten enough of you yet.

Your breath hitched again, sharper this time.

God—he was relentless. The kind of focus that made it feel personal. He didn’t just want to make you come—he wanted to wreck you. Leave you shaking and spent, and rub it in your face that he did that to you.

And it was working.

Your hips jerked once, chasing his mouth. He didn’t scold you for it—just tightened his grip and adjusted, following your motion with one long, languid stroke of his tongue that pulled a whimper from your throat.

Then—his fingers. One hand dragged up the curve of your hip, slow and steady, before his fingers slipped between your thighs. You gasped, high and startled, when he pushed one in, then another, the stretch deep and grounding, a perfect counterpoint to the dizzying flick of his tongue.

The heat inside you cracked wide open.

“Joel—” Your voice trembled now, hands shaking against his scalp. “I—I’m gonna—”

He pulled back just enough to mutter against your skin. “Do it.” His voice was hoarse. Wrecked. “I know you wanna.”

And then he went back in, tongue and fingers working in perfect tandem, and you shattered.

It started in your spine—fire and light—and rushed outward in a sudden, devastating wave. You cried out, thighs clenching around his head, breath catching hard in your throat as pleasure ripped through you so fast it almost hurt.

He held you through it, grounding you, never letting up. Even as you pulsated around his fingers. Even as your body jerked, helpless and overwhelmed. He stayed there—his face buried in you, mouth still moving slow, like he was drawing every last drop of it out.

By the time you came down, you were shaking. Sweaty. Boneless.

Joel finally eased back, fingers slipping free, his mouth shining, eyes dark and unreadable as he looked up at you.

He didn’t say anything right away.

Just watched.

Like he was memorizing the sight of you—wrecked, dazed, laid bare in every possible way.

Joel’s gaze roamed over your face like he’d carved it into memory a hundred times already, but still couldn’t believe it was real. His hands, still warm on your thighs, finally loosened. He pushed himself up slowly, deliberately, like he wasn’t in any rush to break the moment.

When his face came into view, you swallowed hard.

His beard, his lips, even the edge of his mustache—soaked. Glinting in the soft light. Your release slick on his mouth, shamelessly displayed, like he wore you with pride.

Your breath caught.

“Joel,” you whispered, nearly dizzy with it. He was still so close. He smelled like skin, sweat, beer, and something sharp. The look in his eyes hadn’t softened—it had deepened. Turned molten. Controlled, but barely.

He didn’t speak, just leaned in again, and you felt your body tilt toward his like a tide pulled to shore.

His mouth brushed your jaw. Then the curve of your cheek. Featherlight. Reverent. You could still feel the wet warmth of him—you—against your skin. His lips trailed back to your mouth, and when he finally kissed you, it wasn’t careful.

“You proud of yourself?” you managed, breath still shaky. “Or just shocked I taste that fucking good?”

That got him.

He huffed something like a laugh—more air than sound—and shook his head like you were dangerous. His hands slid up your sides, rough and warm, and you saw it—the clench of his jaw. The way his eyes flicked to your mouth.

“You’re a damn menace,” he murmured, voice rasping and low.

You grinned, smug even with your thighs trembling, and tugged him closer by the collar of his shirt.

But when you kissed him, it shut him up. Fast.

It wasn’t neat. It wasn’t sweet. It was filthy. His mouth crushed against yours like he was trying to devour the taste you’d left on his tongue. And you kissed him back just as hard, refusing to let him be the only one taking.

You dragged your fingers through his messy hair, tugging—maybe too rough—and he groaned into your mouth like you’d punched the air out of his lungs.

You laughed against him, dazed but still sharp. “You like that, Miller?”

He didn’t answer—just bit at your lower lip and kissed you again, deeper, hungrier.

You knew the answer anyway.

But you weren’t done. Not yet.

Your hand slid to his jaw, thumb brushing through the damp edge of his beard. Without thinking—without hesitation—you tilted your head and dragged your tongue across his mouth, slow and sure, like you were cleaning him up.

He froze.

Completely.

You felt it instantly. The hard stop of his breath. The sound he made was barely audible—somewhere between a growl and a gasp—and his fingers clenched against your hips like he was fighting instinct. Fighting himself.

His voice, when it came, was a low rasp. “You tryin’ to break me?”

You didn’t answer. Just did it again. Another slow sweep of your tongue from one corner of his mouth to another, tasting him. Tasting you. Something intimate and feral about the way your lips caught his, like you needed to know what he’d taken from you. What he’d kept.

You tasted him. Tasted yourself. You cleaned him up like it was your reward now.

You smirked, lazy and smug. “Thought you already had.”

Joel groaned low in his throat, like you’d punched right through whatever thread of control he had left.

Then he moved.

Before you could blink, his hands were on you—one around your back, the other under your thighs—hauling you up like you weighed nothing. You yelped, breath catching as the room spun, and then your back hit the bed with a soft bounce. Sheets rustled beneath you. Your limbs were loose, boneless, still trembling from the intensity he’d already wrung out of you.

Joel stood at the edge of the bed for a second, chest heaving, jaw tight.

And then—without a word—he yanked his shirt up and over his head, tossing it somewhere behind him.

You pushed yourself up on shaking elbows. And then you saw him.

All of him.

Flushed, chest rising and falling like he’d just run a goddamn mile. His body wasn’t perfect. It was better. All strong lines and real strength—broad shoulders, thick arms, a solid chest dusted with hair, a line of it trailing down toward his belt. Small scars littered his skin, each one you could probably name. 

And you couldn’t help it.

You let your eyes drop.

There, straining against the front of his jeans, was proof, undeniable, that he was seconds from breaking. Thick, obvious, and twitching beneath.

You let your gaze linger. Then, slowly—like you had all the time in the world—you sat up straighter. Still breathless. Still undone. But that teasing edge was back in your voice.

“Well,” you said, eyes locked on the bulge in his jeans, “Looks like I’m not the only one a little worked up.”

Joel’s jaw clenched. Hard.

You dragged yourself toward the edge of the bed on your knees. Let your hands slide up the bare skin of his stomach—feeling the warmth, the tense muscle, the way his breath hitched when you touched him. You flattened your palms against his chest, fingers splaying wide, nails teasing lightly through the hair there.

He watched you with fire in his eyes, but didn’t move.

“Jesus,” you murmured, just to rile him up. “You’re solid.”

Your hands trailed lower.

Down his abs.

Past his waistband.

Until you pressed your palm flat over him.

Joel’s hips jolted—just a twitch—but his breath caught sharp in his throat.

“You’re hard,” you whispered, mouth curling in a dangerous smile. You rubbed him slow, palm-to-denim, feeling the heat, the weight of him. “Is this for me, Miller? Fighting me got you worked up?”

He said nothing.

Didn’t have to.

His fingers flexed at his sides like he wanted to grab you. Like he was barely hanging on.

You leaned in closer, breath warm against his stomach as you continued to stroke him over his jeans—slow, purposeful, just shy of cruel.

“I mean,” you went on, “You threw me around like a rag doll, and now you’re just standing here letting me do this? Didn’t expect this is what I have to do to get you quiet.”

That did it.

Joel’s hand shot out—one gripping your chin, tilting your face up to his. His mouth was inches from yours, eyes blazing.

“You’re playin’ a dangerous game,” he rasped. “You really wanna find out what happens when I stop bein’ patient?”

You grinned. "Kinda think I already do."

And then you gave him one more slow, deliberate stroke.

He growled.

Actually growled.

And in the next breath, he shoved you back down onto the bed—not harshly, but firm, decisive—and crawled on top of you. His body was heavy, warm, bracketing yours, and his mouth was suddenly at your throat, kissing, biting, panting against your skin.

You felt his hand at your thigh again, already tugging your legs open like he couldn’t wait. His voice dropped against your ear, low and wrecked:

“Now you’ve done it.”

Joel’s voice was barely a growl—deep, dark, a promise more than a threat.

Before you could blink, his hand slid beneath your thigh, yanked your ruined panties off, and over his shoulder. He was lifting, maneuvering—moving you exactly how he wanted you. 

One strong arm curled around your leg, keeping it hitched up around his waist, opening you wide beneath him. His chest pressed close, his body caging yours, and even though he still had his jeans on, you could feel him. The thick, hard line of him, hot even through the rough denim, notched perfectly between your thighs.

He didn’t move. Not yet.

Just stayed there.

Letting you feel the weight of him right over your bare cunt, pressing down on you this time as a threat.

You sucked in a breath, sharp and shaky.

Joel’s gaze dropped to your face. He saw it—all of it. The flicker of need, the pulse jumping in your throat, the way your hips shifted, just a little, desperate for friction.

He smirked. Leaned in so his mouth was right at your ear.

“You feel that?” he murmured, voice wrecked and low.

You whimpered. Couldn’t help it.

“Joel,” you whispered.

But he didn’t move. Didn’t give you more. Just held your leg tight against him, kept that unbearable pressure steady.

“Answer me,” he rasped.

You swallowed hard. “Yeah. I feel it.”

He pulled back enough to look at you again, eyes dragging over every inch of your face—your parted lips, your flushed cheeks, the need written in every shaky breath.

“You see what you do to me?” he asked, voice almost reverent now, like it wasn’t just lust—it was awe. “You got me this fuckin’ hard and I haven’t even been inside you yet.”

Your hips jerked.

Joel’s grip tightened, locking you in place.

“Uh-uh,” he warned, eyes glittering. “You don’t get to use those hips unless I tell you to.”

You exhaled a shaky laugh, still breathless. “You’re evil.”

“And you,” he said, lips tracing your cheek bone, “Are gonna pay for turnin’ me into this.”

His hand slid between you then, palm cupping your mound as he teased your ruined clit. His fingers were slow. Cruel. Barely-there strokes that made you arch, made you want to beg.

But still, he didn’t move his hips. He just held you there, caged under him, the thick heat of him a breath away from where you needed him most.

You blinked up at him, half wild. “Joel—”

He hushed you with a kiss—hard and deep.

Then pulled back with a smug little murmur against your lips.

“You’ll take me when I say so,” he whispered. “And when I do—” his hips rolled, just once, enough to make your eyes slam shut— “you’re not gonna remember how to tease ever again.”

Your breath caught. The rough press of his jeans was all heat, and it made your thighs tense around him, instinct taking over as you tilted your hips up in search of more. You didn’t get far.

Joel’s grip on your thigh tightened, holding you still, grounding you. The fabric of your dress had ridden up, the whole thing a strip of color bunched high on your waist, and he was still fully dressed from the waist down, still maddeningly in control.

“Take off  my belt,” he said, voice low and wrecked, a demand laced in gravel and restraint.

Your hands moved before your thoughts could catch up, fingers slipping down to the worn leather. The buckle clinked as you worked it open, trembling just slightly. Your eyes flicked up—he was watching you. Not blinking. Not breathing, maybe. His mouth was slack, chest rising hard, and the muscles of his stomach flexing with each controlled breath.

When you tugged the zipper down, he let out a low grunt, the kind that made your pulse jump. You reached in, hand brushing against him through the open denim—and your whole body stilled.

Jesus.

He was heavy in your hand, hot and hard and pulsing with tension. The kind of thick that made you swallow instinctively, like your body knew what was coming before your brain did.

Joel leaned down, bracing his weight above you on one arm, his breath brushing your cheek.

“That’s what you do to me,” he rasped. “All that talk. That mouth.”

You nodded, lips parted, blinking slowly like your thoughts had melted into syrup. His hips shifted again, a teasing roll that made his length press against you, just enough to feel, not enough to satisfy. Not yet.

“God, Joel…” It came out half-moan, half-whimper. Not begging. Not quite. But he heard it.

He ducked down, kissed the side of your jaw, then your neck—open, hot kisses that had you arching up into him again.

“You're already gone for me, sweetheart,” he muttered, dragging his mouth across your cheek to your lips. “Ain’t even inside you yet.”

He stepped back just far enough to shove his jeans down the rest of the way. You whined, instinctively, hips chasing him like your body couldn’t stand the loss of contact. He gave a quiet, breathless laugh—no tease, just surprise—then turned to grab something from somewhere nearby.

When he came back, your eyes dropped automatically. You couldn’t help it. 

He was big. Long enough to make you question the amount of space in you, and thick enough to put doubt in your mind if he could fit. It was a dizzying combo that had your mouth slightly parted.

Joel caught the look in your eyes and leaned over you, bracing one hand by your head, the other trailing down your leg to lift it, guide it just where he wanted. His mouth ghosted over your ear.

“You need this?” he whispered again, pressing himself right up against you, just barely.

You did. Every inch of him as he slipped past your entrance. And your whole body clenched in response, eager and aching.

“Good,” he murmured, dark and steady. “Then keep lookin’ at me. ‘Cause I want you to remember exactly who’s gonna finish this.”

Joel's voice wrapped around you like heat—thick, low, and final. There was nothing soft about the way he looked down at you now. His eyes were fire and hunger and something deeper too—like he was watching a slow fuse burn down between you.

You could barely breathe. Not with the weight of his gaze, not with the way he held you down, your leg hooked over his arm, his body slotted against yours. Every part of you was on edge, nerves stretched taut, a mess of want and anticipation.

Then, you felt the thick press of his tip, hot and deliberate.

Joel was making a show of it—not thrusting, not fucking, just pressing in. Like every inch was something he wanted to carve into you—into your memory, into your bones.

You gasped when he eased in deeper, the stretch biting and beautiful. Your hands fisted the sheets, your legs twitching around his hip and forearm, already trembling from the pressure. He was thick, your body fighting to take him, wrap around him, hold him.

“Thought you were smart with that mouth,” he growled, the words dragging through grit and want. “Thought you liked talkin’. Not so clever now, huh?”

You tried to buck up into him, to get more—but he didn’t move. Didn’t give.

“Joel—” It came out as a plea, ragged and helpless, and he grinned at that. Not soft. Not kind. Just cruel and knowing.

His thumb traced your inner thigh, maddening and light, like he wasn’t already driving you wild. You burned under him—your skin, your breath, your chest—and he was still in complete control. Slow. Unrelenting. Smug.

And then—

He pushed. Just enough. Just that last inch. That last claiming stretch.

He sheathed himself to the base.

All the way in.

Full.

And it hit you like a punch—the fullness, the heat, the devastating weight of him. Your body trembled beneath him, jaw going slack, a breathless moan clawing its way out of your throat. Your muscles clenched around him, trying to adjust, trying to cope.

Joel froze.

Just for a second.

He felt it too.

His jaw locked, head dipping forward, eyes squeezing shut. His breath hitched hard against your throat. You felt the restraint in his body like a damn earthquake trying to stay contained—his thigh trembling against yours, his fingers digging into your skin. One hand clutched the back of your thigh, the other braced beside your head, his muscles locked tight with restraint.

He was big. Thick. And even with the smallest movement, you could feel your body open around him, every inch drawing a reaction you couldn’t hide.

“Jesus,” he ground out, jaw flexing. “You feel that? How worked up you are?”

Your eyes fluttered shut, but he caught your chin in two fingers and nudged your face back to him.

“Fuck no,” Joel rasped. “Eyes on me. You don’t get to hide.”

His tone—low, filthy, commanding—had your body shivering against his, mind hazy with want. He dragged his hips back, just enough to make your stomach dip with the loss, then pushed forward again, quicker this time, but you felt every second of it.

“Good girl,” he muttered, like the words just spilled out of him, like he didn’t mean to say them—but they cracked something in your chest anyway.

You whimpered again, helpless under his weight, your body tight and desperate for more. But Joel wasn’t giving you more. Not yet.

“You demand that you’re the one in charge,” he said, breathing hard now. “You talk back. You make me crazy all goddamn day…”

He rolled his hips again, just barely. Your eyes rolled back as your back arched.

“…but now you’re soft,” he said, voice dipping low, dirty and gentle at the same time. “All that sass gone quiet. That mouth of yours can’t even form a word now, can it?”

“You talk a lot for someone who’s clearly about to lose it,” you cracked open your eyes, breathless and smug, even as your body shook under him.

He laughed, low and dangerous, the sound vibrating through his chest.

And then he snapped.

No more teasing. No more games.

His hips slammed forward again, a sudden, rough thrust that knocked the air from your lungs and made your head tip back against the pillows with a cry. It was a shift you felt—not just in your body but deep in your chest, like something broke loose inside him and he wasn’t about to put it back.

“Yeah,” he growled, like he’d been holding back just to prove a point. “This what you wanted?”

You couldn’t speak. Couldn’t answer. All you could do was clutch at him as he started moving—deep, relentless, every thrust angled to undo you.

You gasped his name, legs trembling when they were wrapped around his waist. He caught one behind the knee, pushing it up, opening you wider for him, driving even deeper. Your back arched on instinct, and he groaned, gravel and fire and heat scraping his throat.

Joel was everywhere. His breath on your neck. His rough hands on your hips and waist. The heavy weight of him over you, holding you down, pressing you deeper into the mattress like he never wanted you to leave it.

Your nails scraped across his back, desperate for something to hold on to.

“Joel—God—”

“I got you,” he gritted out, voice breaking like his restraint. “You’re mine like this, aren’t you? Look at you—already fallin’ apart.”

You were. You could feel it. A second wave building fast, faster than you were ready for. He wasn’t giving you a second to breathe—just pounding into you like he had something to prove, like he needed you to know how much you’d gotten under his skin.

And maybe that’s what undid you most. The way he looked down at you, sweaty and flushed and wild-eyed, like you were the only thing keeping him sane. Or driving him insane. You weren’t sure which.

“Show me,” he murmured, his voice low and hoarse.

You did.

It hit you hard—body arching, eyes slamming shut, a ragged cry torn from your throat as you clenched around him. The room spun, stars burst behind your eyelids, and you felt him feel it—his rhythm faltering for just a second before he growled low, hands tightening on your hips like he was barely holding himself together.

But he didn’t stop.

He couldn’t.

You were barely catching your breath, your body still fluttering from aftershocks, when Joel pulled out—slow, trembling, like it took everything in him not to let go right then and there.

You whimpered at the loss, dazed and limp beneath him, eyes fluttering open just in time to see the fire still raging behind his gaze. No relief. No softness yet.

Not until he got what he wanted.

Joel pushed up onto his knees and shifted, the mattress dipping under his weight as he moved around you. Big hands gripped your hips and flipped you onto your stomach in one practiced, firm motion. You gasped—half from surprise, half from the overstimulated ache already building again.

“Still with me?” His voice was ragged, but there was something tender buried under the heat.

It made you sick, how caring his tone was, but your drunk body nodded, cheek pressed to the sheets, your body weak, wrecked—but somehow ready for more.

He drew a hand slowly down the curve of your spine, pausing at the small of your back before lifting your hips, guiding you up until you were on your knees, chest still to the mattress. You could feel the cool air on your skin, on the slick mess between your thighs, the way your muscles fluttered and tensed again when he lined himself back up behind you.

He pushed in slow—so slow—but it didn’t feel gentle. It felt intense, like this was the only thing worth thinking of at that moment.

You cried out again, the stretch deeper this way, his grip tightening on your hips to steady both of you.

“Fuckin’—Jesus,” he hissed through his teeth. “You’re so fuckin’ tight like this.”

And God, he was so much bigger this way.

Your body was burning, trembling—cheek pressed to the sheets, spine arched, arms useless by your sides as Joel drove into you with slow, relentless force.

Every movement was devastating. He was deep—so deep—stretching you with every deliberate thrust like he had nowhere else to be. He wasn’t chasing it. He wasn’t rushing. He was watching—hands gripping your hips, thumbs pressing bruises into your skin, breath unsteady as he rolled his hips again and again and again.

And you were gone.

Your mouth opened on a soundless cry, fingers twisting into the sheets. You felt hot all over—like every part of you was made of nerves and heat and tension, ready to snap again.

He leaned over you, voice low in your ear.

“That’s it. Take it. Take every bit of it, sweetheart.”

You whimpered, the sound catching in your throat. You didn’t know how he could still speak—your mind was a blur of sensation, every sharp stroke of his hips dragging you higher until your body didn’t feel like your own anymore.

“You’re squeezin’ me so tight,” Joel growled, teeth gritted like he was the one about to fall apart. “You… you’ve been lookin’ for a good fuckin’. That right?”

You nodded, a broken noise escaping you. “Yes. Yes—need it—”

“Thought so.”

His pace never faltered. The bed creaked beneath you, the air thick with heat and the slick sound of him filling you over and over. You didn’t even realize you were babbling until you heard yourself—quiet little whimpers and words that didn’t make sense.

Joel noticed, too.

He grunted, rough with pleasure, and adjusted his grip—one hand sliding up your spine, grounding you, steadying you.

You barely felt him move.

Not until he wrapped his arm under your stomach and pulled—lifting you up, your back flush against his chest, his other hand slipping up and curling lightly around your throat.

You gasped, your head falling back onto his shoulder.

“Easy,” he murmured, breathing hot against your temple. “You’re alright. I got you.”

You weren’t alright. You were wrecked. Barely able to breathe, your body overwhelmed from everything he was giving you—but the weight of his arm around your middle, the soft pressure at your throat, his mouth at your skin—it held you together.

He started thrusting up into you like that, from below. The angle made you cry out. His rhythm was slower now—meaner, controlled, like he wanted to savor the exact way your body reacted to every inch.

And you did react.

Your legs shook. Your hand flew to his wrist. Your mouth opened again—but this time, what slipped out was different.

Words.

Barely a whisper into the air. “I—God—I love how you—”

Joel froze.

Still inside you, panting hard, his arm tight around your waist.

“What’d you just say?”

You tensed, blinking hard, the haze of pleasure snapping just enough for your brain to catch up with your mouth. You didn’t mean to say it. Not like that. Not when you were already trembling.

But Joel wasn’t going to let it go.

He turned your face slightly, his grip firm but careful, his chest rising against your back like he was holding back something volcanic.

“Say it again.”

You didn’t speak. Couldn’t.

So he made you.

His hand slid higher—not choking, just enough to tilt your chin—just enough to own your attention. He thrust into you again, once, hard and deep, and your mouth fell open on a ragged gasp.

“Say it.”

Your eyes fluttered shut. “I love how you feel,” you breathed. “How you—God, Joel—how you take me.”

Joel groaned, deep and ragged in your ear, like he’d been hit square in the chest.

“That's what you’ve been tryin’ to say, sweetheart? Hidin’ your pretty little voice in the fuckin’ pillow?”

His hand left your throat to cradle your jaw, tilting your head just enough for his lips to brush your cheek.

“Louder this time. Need to make sure you hear it too.”

You could hardly think straight, but you obeyed. “I love it. Love how you make me feel. How you fuck me—Joel—”

“Jesus Christ—” he cut you off with a growl, his arms locking around you like he couldn’t let go. He thrust harder, deeper, faster now—his control finally slipping. “That’s it. That’s what I wanted. Knew I’d win. Knew you’d fall apart for me.”

You did. You were.

Falling, breaking, burning. Every part of you lit up, alive under his hands, his voice, his body.

You weren’t sure where you ended and he began.

Joel was everywhere—pressed against your back, inside you, holding you like he was afraid you’d disappear. But even that moment of closeness didn’t last long.

He breathed heavily against your neck, then slowly slid his arms from around your body. Carefully, he guided you back down onto the bed, easing you onto your stomach again. Your limbs felt boneless, but he didn’t give you time to recover.

A hand spread across your lower back, pressing you down.

You barely caught your breath before he started moving again—this time, rougher. His hips snapped forward with intent, and the shift in pace sent a shockwave through your body. You moaned into the sheets, forehead pressing into the mattress as he found a devastating rhythm.

No more slow tease.

This was raw. Consuming.

Your muscles tensed as pleasure wound tighter and tighter in your gut. Your hands twitched, searching for something—anything—to hold onto.

Joel found them first.

He grabbed your wrists and pinned them both behind your back with one strong hand, forcing your arms to rest against the small of your spine. The position left you completely exposed, helpless beneath him, and the tension shot straight through your core.

You gasped. “Joel—!”

“You’re gonna give me one more,” he panted behind you. “You hear me?”

You couldn’t answer. Your body was already too close—your pulse thudding in your ears, your legs shaking. The only sound you made was a high, desperate whimper.

But Joel knew.

He leaned over you, his chest brushing your back, his mouth hot and low against your ear.

“I know you’re close,” he rasped. “You’re clenchin’ around me like you’re already there. Just need a little help, don’t you, baby?”

His free hand slid low—slow at first, almost taunting—and then his fingers circled your clit.

You shattered.

Your whole body shook, wrists straining uselessly in his grip. Breath caught, thighs trembling, mouth falling open in a silent, broken gasp before his name ripped out of you like it was dragged from your chest.

“Joel—fuck, Joel!”

It was too much. Again. Like a freight train—relentless, overwhelming, blinding. You didn’t ride the edge—you were thrown off it. Your vision went white, muscles twitching around him as pleasure coursed through you in wave after brutal wave.

He didn’t let up.

His grip stayed iron-tight around your wrists, pinning them to your back like it was the only thing keeping him grounded. His hips kept moving, slower now, deeper—drawing out every last tremble. Every last twitch. Refusing to let you go, even as you writhed beneath him, breath stuttering.

“Fuck,” he hissed, voice wrecked. “Still fuckin’ stranglin’ me.”

You didn’t answer. Couldn’t. Your mouth was open but empty, panting as your body shuddered, boneless and spent beneath him.

But you could feel him coming undone, too.

His pace was faltering—rhythm turning ragged, messier, less precise. His breath was hot and erratic against your spine, his body curling over you like he was trying to hold himself together with sheer force of will.

His hands were shaking.

You felt it. In his grip. In his chest. In his hips, like every thrust was a fight he was about to lose.

And in that haze—floaty and fever-warm, with your cheek pressed to the sheets and your limbs trembling—you whispered it.

Low. Uncertain. Honest in a way you hadn't meant to be.

“…Joel.”

He didn’t respond.

So you spoke  again—softer this time. Raw. Careful. “It’s okay.”

His hips stuttered, the sound that came out of him harsh and torn straight from his chest.

“I want it too,” you murmured, eyes fluttering shut. “Please.”

The silence after that wasn’t empty. It boiled.

You didn’t know anything—couldn’t see, couldn’t ask, couldn’t think—but in that moment, it didn’t matter. The alcohol still buzzed behind your teeth, your limbs jelly-soft, your voice glassy with surrender.

He made a noise then—a low, strangled groan, like he was angry at himself for needing to hear that. Like it had broken something open in him that he couldn’t shove back down anymore.

“Jesus,” he rasped. “You’re gonna to be the death of me.”

Then—he snapped.

His hand fisted into the sheets beside your head. The other clamped tight around your wrists. And he buried himself in you—hard, deep, to the hilt—grinding into you like he needed to stay inside, needed to feel every inch of you until his body remembered it.

His breath turned into growls, thick and ragged, his mouth hot against your shoulder as his hips jerked. He was chasing it now—desperate, furious, helpless.

“Fuck—fuckfuckfuck—” The words tumbled out of him in time with each broken thrust, his rhythm faltering, collapsing. “Don’t know—how long—goddamn—!”

And then, he was there.

He came with a full-body shudder, jaw clenched against your skin, hips shoved as deep as they’d go. You could feel him lose it—feel every throb, every desperate tremor as he spilled with a sound ripped raw from his throat. His body locked up, chest pressed tight to your back, a deep, ragged moan muffled against your shoulder.

For a second, neither of you moved.

There was no rhythm anymore. Just him, trembling above you. The sound of your breath, shaky and uneven. The dull pulse of your heartbeat in your ears.

And beneath all of it—beneath the sweat, the tension, the violence of what you'd just done—something else pressed in.

Not softness. Not comfort.

Just weight.

Joel’s weight, still on you—his chest rising and falling against your back, breath heavy and humid where his mouth hovered near your shoulder. You felt it ghost across your skin, slow and hot, brushing over the ink on your back like it meant something.

It didn’t.

It couldn’t.

But your body shivered anyway.

Your limbs were useless, melted into the mattress.

Muscles spent. Bones gone soft. Blood sluggish in your veins.

You didn’t know if it was the aftershocks still rolling through your system or just the wine—the mess of it, sloshing through your head and your stomach, dizzying and dull.

Somewhere in the silence, Joel moved.

Not far. Just a shift of his hips, a slow, dragging pull as he slipped out of you.

You whimpered. Too soft. Too real. You bit it back like it might undo something.

His hand lingered at your waist—hovered, hesitated—then dropped.

“C’mere,” he muttered, voice rough and low, heavy with liquor and something bitter. Not comfort. Not regret..

He collapsed onto his back, and with a clumsy tug, pulled you with him—like gravity made the choice for both of you.

You didn’t fight it.

Not because you forgave him. Not because the ache in your chest had faded.

But because your limbs were water. Your pulse, a slow crash in your ears. You didn’t have the strength to stay angry and upright at the same time.

So you let him pull you in, half-rolled into his side, legs tangled, too close and too far all at once.

He didn’t kiss you.

Didn’t whisper anything soft. Didn’t try to explain or pretend.

He just threw an arm over your waist—too heavy, too real—and left it there.

His hand splayed low on your stomach, fingers twitching like he wasn’t sure if he was holding you… or holding himself together.

Your skin stuck to his. The sheets clung to your legs.

The air smelled like sweat and sex and cheap whiskey and regret.

Your head dropped against the curve of his shoulder—not gently, just because it was there. Just because the world tilted that way and you let it.

Your hair was damp against his skin. Your breath, slow and uneven, catching every time your body remembered something it didn’t want to feel.

Joel’s chest rose too fast. Still.

You didn’t know if it was the fucking or the fallout. The weight of what you’d said. The weight of what you hadn’t.

You blinked slow. Turned your head just enough to see the tension in his jaw, the way his eyes weren’t closed.

Not really. Just heavy-lidded. Unfocused. Looking somewhere far away, at something only he could see.

But his hand didn’t move.

And that—that—was almost worse.

Too much closeness from someone who had spit your name like it burned him.  Too much warmth from someone who hated you and fucked you in the same breath.

But you were drunk. You were wrecked. And Joel was warm. And here. And solid in a world where everything else felt like it might break if you breathed too hard.

You told yourself not to fall asleep. Told yourself this was dangerous. Stupid. Still bleeding. Still broken. Told yourself this wasn’t forgiveness, and it sure as hell wasn’t right.

But the room was quiet. Your body ached. And your blood was syrup-thick with too much wine and too many bad decisions in one day.

So you let go.

And you didn’t dream.

When they finally fuck but its full of miscommunication

Joel didn’t want to be here.

Didn’t want to sit at this goddamn table in this goddamn bar, pretending he gave half a shit about whatever livestock report Tommy was tryin’ to show him. Didn’t want to make small talk with Maria, who kept giving him those sideways glances like she was bracing for a storm.

And he sure as hell didn’t want to look across the room again.

But he did.

Every few seconds.

Like a fucking compulsion.

There you were. Sitting at the end of the bar. Back straight, drink in hand. Your laugh was softer than usual—he could only hear it in flashes—but it still hit him like a punch to the gut.

The man beside you? He was new. Joel had seen him around, helping out with the fencing crew. Young. Maybe thirty. No older than thirty-five. Sharp jaw, easy grin. The kind of guy who didn’t creak when he stood up. The kind of guy who could keep up with someone like you.

You were smiling.

Not the way you used to—not that quiet, tired smile you saved for Joel when you were curled up in bed, wearing one of his shirts and tracing old scars on his chest with your fingertip—but still. It was real.

You were smiling.

And it wasn’t for him.

Joel’s jaw flexed. He took another drink, fingers clenched so tight around the glass that the joints ached.

“Joel,” Tommy said cautiously. “You okay, man?”

He didn’t look at him.

Didn’t trust himself to.

Maria shifted in her seat beside Tommy, hands laced neatly on the table, watching Joel with those calm, sharp eyes that always saw more than they let on.

“We can go,” she offered gently. “You don’t have to sit here and torture yourself.”

“I ain’t torturin’ nobody,” Joel muttered, staring down into the amber swirl in his glass.

“Right,” Tommy said. “That’s why you’ve been starin’ holes through the side of her head since we walked in.”

Joel didn’t answer. Just rolled his shoulders, tried to act casual. Failed.

Because the truth was, he couldn’t stop looking at you.

Not since the moment he saw you walk in.

Hair brushed and curled, your favorite sweater hanging soft off one shoulder. Lip gloss catching the light. You didn’t look like someone trying to prove a point—you didn’t look like you were out to make anyone jealous.

You looked like you were trying to feel normal again.

And that cut deeper than anything.

Because Joel had spent years convincing himself he was the one who knew how to keep you safe. How to make you feel steady. Loved. Even if he never said it aloud, never gave you the words.

Even if he kept his past locked up behind his ribs and only ever let you peek at it in pieces.

He thought it’d be enough.

But it wasn’t.

You left.

And you didn’t slam the door. Didn’t scream. Didn’t throw a single fucking thing. You just… packed a bag, folded one of his shirts, and said I can’t keep giving you everything and getting silence in return.

He didn’t stop you.

Didn’t say what he should’ve said.

Didn’t say Don’t go.

Didn’t say I need you.

Didn’t say I love you.

Because he thought he had time. Thought you’d cool off. Thought you’d come back.

But here you were. With someone else.

And Joel had never felt older in his life.

His knuckles were swollen from last week’s patrol. His back ached from the cold front. There were lines on his face he hadn’t noticed before, deepening around his eyes and mouth like time had finally caught up.

What the hell did he have to offer you anymore?

What could he give you now, at fifty-fucking-eight, that you didn’t already deserve from someone younger? Someone untouched by twenty years of blood and grief and failure?

He rubbed a hand over his mouth, suddenly too warm in his coat, suddenly too loud in his head.

“I shoulda said somethin’,” he mumbled. Barely audible.

Tommy raised a brow. “What?”

“I shoulda—” Joel cut himself off. Exhaled hard through his nose. “Never mind.”

Maria leaned in, voice low. “It’s not too late, Joel.”

He shook his head.

“It is,” he said. “She’s movin’ on.”

Tommy sighed. “Maybe. Or maybe she’s just tryin’ to remember what it’s like to feel somethin’. After you spent months makin’ her feel invisible.”

That one landed.

Joel flinched. Visibly.

He deserved it.

He knew it.

But the truth was—he didn’t make you feel invisible because he stopped loving you.

He did it because he loved you too fucking much.

Because loving you meant dragging you into all the wreckage of his life. It meant you knowing how deep the damage went. How fucked up he really was underneath the surface. And he’d spent so long building walls, burying things—Sarah, Tess, everything in between—that letting you in felt like peeling his skin off.

But you’d already seen him, hadn’t you?

You saw every goddamn thing. And you stayed.

He had just forced your hands until you couldn’t stay. 

And he let you go anyway.

Now here you were.

And that man beside you? He leaned in to say something. You smiled. Shook your head. Looked down at your drink, then back up at him with a softness that wasn’t flirtation, not yet, but it could be.

It could become something.

Joel swallowed hard.

He needed something stronger.

The bourbon wasn’t cutting it. Not tonight.

Not with that man’s hand still resting a little too close to yours. Not with your laughter trailing through the bar like a ghost he couldn’t catch. Not with every goddamn ache in his body echoing the one in his chest.

Joel pushed up from the table, muttering something half-formed to Tommy, who just gave him a look. One of those you sure you’re alright? looks that Joel didn’t want to deal with right now.

Maria said something too, something soft, but he didn’t catch it.

Didn’t care.

He moved through the crowd like a man with a mission. Eyes forward. Shoulders tight. His boots thudding against the floor louder than they needed to. He kept his jaw clenched the whole way to the bar, biting down the burn rising in his throat.

He wasn’t drunk. Not yet. But he wanted to be.

Not sloppy. Not out-of-control.

Just… numb.

He flagged down the bartender with a lift of two fingers.

“Something rough,” he said gruffly. “Whatever’s got the most bite.”

The man behind the bar nodded and poured something dark amber into a glass that looked too clean. Joel wrapped his hand around it, let the chill seep into his palm.

He didn’t drink it. Not yet.

Just stared at it, watching the way the light fractured through the liquor. The way the ice cracked against the sides. It reminded him of tension—of pressure building until it finally snapped.

He was so tired of pretending this didn’t hurt.

So damn tired of holding it all in.

And then—

A tap.

Faint.

Right on his shoulder.

He turned sharply, half-expecting some drunk asshole wanting to start something. Maybe the guy you were talking to—hell, maybe Tommy, coming to drag him home before he embarrassed himself.

He opened his mouth to growl something ugly—

He stopped cold.

You.

You were standing there, looking up at him like you hadn’t just shattered his entire evening. Like you hadn’t carved him open just by walking into the same room.

Your eyes were soft. Cautious.

Like you were bracing for the wreckage too.

Joel’s spine went stiff. His mouth opened, then closed. His first instinct—to glare, to cover the bleeding with anger—flickered and died the second you tilted your head.

“Hey,” you said gently, barely audible over the buzz of the bar. “Can we talk?”

He blinked.

His throat worked around a knot that hadn’t been there a second ago. Talk? Here? With him?

You gestured vaguely toward the back of the room, where a few couples were swaying in the open space cleared for dancing. The music was slower now—some old Willie Nelson track playing softly on the speakers. You looked like you weren’t sure what to do with your hands. One of them lifted. Reached for him.

Not quite touching.

Not until he nodded.

“…Sure.”

The word felt jagged in his throat. He downed his drink in one brutal motion—felt the liquor burn down to his ribs. It wasn’t courage. Not really. But it was something. Something to help hold back the goddamn shake in his hands when you stepped closer.

You reached for his hand.

And Joel, without thinking, gave it to you.

His fingers closed around yours instinctively, like they remembered this. Like they’d been aching for this. You turned, tugged gently, guiding him through the bar. He followed.

And it was so easy.

Too easy.

That’s what scared him.

Because this—your fingers threaded with his, the scent of your shampoo drifting back as you walked ahead of him, your thumb brushing once against the side of his hand—this felt like home.

And home wasn’t something Joel had let himself believe in for a long damn time.

Not until you.

The dance floor was dim. Sparse. Only a few couples moving in lazy circles under the fairy lights strung up overhead. Your steps slowed. You turned to face him, your expression unreadable. Something sad flickered in your eyes, but you didn’t speak right away.

Instead, you pulled him a little closer.

Joel stared at you.

Then at your hand.

Then back up.

“You wanna dance?” he asked quietly, unsure, half-hoping he’d misread this whole thing.

You didn’t answer his question with words.

You just stepped in close.

And slowly—tentatively—you lifted your arms and draped them over his shoulders, like you’d done a hundred times before, in moments far easier than this one. Joel’s hands hovered awkwardly in the space between you for a second too long before they found their way to your waist. The fit was still there. Muscle memory. His palms curved around you like they remembered every inch.

You started to sway.

No rhythm. No flourish.

Just… movement. Just closeness.

The kind that ached.

Joel exhaled, slow and quiet. His forehead didn’t quite touch yours, but you were close enough that your breath ghosted across his chin when you spoke.

“I need to get my stuff back.”

It wasn’t angry. Wasn’t even cold.

Just a fact.

Something real to ground all this softness.

Joel’s grip tensed, just slightly. A beat passed. Then another.

“Yeah,” he muttered, eyes unfocused. “’Course. Figured you’d ask.”

You didn’t say anything.

Joel tried to hide the way his throat worked around the words he wanted to say.

The way his chest tightened at the thought of your toothbrush still tucked in the bathroom drawer. Your sweater draped over the back of the chair by the window. That dumb mug with the cracked handle you always reached for first. Your handwriting on the notepad by the fridge, where you’d scribbled half a shopping list before storming out five weeks ago.

He’d left it there.

Still did.

Your stuff was everywhere.

It wasn’t just stuff. Not really.

It was the only proof he’d managed to build something with warmth.

And now you wanted it back.

Joel cleared his throat.

“I can drop it off,” he said. “If you want. Save you the walk.”

You pulled back just enough to look at him. Not all the way—just enough for your gaze to meet his. Joel hated the way his stomach dropped when he saw the flicker of sadness in your eyes.

“Or I can leave it on the porch,” he added quickly, like he didn’t care. “Whatever’s easier.”

You didn’t answer right away.

You just looked at him.

Like you saw through every defense he was scrambling to raise.

“Joel,” you said softly. “How are you?”

He blinked. Pulled his gaze away. Let it drift over your shoulder, toward the corner of the room where the shadows were quieter.

“I’m fine.”

He said it too fast.

Too clipped.

You didn’t buy it. He knew you wouldn’t.

You always had a way of getting him to drop the act.

You leaned in a little closer, your arms shifting slightly around his neck. “That’s not what I asked.”

He closed his eyes.

Just for a second.

Because he was so goddamn tired. Tired of pretending. Tired of swallowing everything that should’ve been said when it mattered.

His hands tightened gently on your waist. Not pulling. Not holding on. Just… needing.

“How am I?” he echoed quietly. “I wake up, and your shoes are still by the door. That sweater you always wear when you're cold—it’s still hangin’ on the back of the chair like you’re gonna come grab it in the mornin’. I make coffee and pour too much ‘cause I forget you ain’t there to drink it.”

You blinked hard.

Joel looked down at you again. There was no anger in his face. No heat.

Just exhaustion.

And grief.

He paused. His voice dropped to something near a whisper.

“I left your favorite vinyl on the turntable the other day. Just… forgot to change it.”

Your eyes shimmered in the low light. You didn’t interrupt. Didn’t say I’m sorry. You didn’t owe him that. You didn’t owe him anything anymore.

Joel swallowed hard.

“I’m not great,” he admitted, finally. “That’s how I am. I’m not great.”

The silence between you pressed in heavy. Not suffocating, but weighty. Like truth always was.

You shifted your arms, one hand rising to thread your fingers into the back of his hair. Joel closed his eyes at the contact. His grip stayed steady at your waist, but he swore he felt his legs go weak.

“I’m not great either,” you said softly. “Thought I would be.”

Joel gave a breathy laugh through his nose. “You seemed happy earlier.”

“I was trying,” you admitted. “I was pretending I didn’t still feel you in every room.”

Joel’s eyes opened slowly.

Met yours.

And there it was—that thing he thought he’d lost. That unspoken current. The pulse of something still alive between you, flickering just beneath the surface.

You swayed in silence again.

Neither of you said a word.

The music faded into the background, just soft enough not to matter. Just enough to give the illusion of rhythm while you swayed together in the quiet middle of a too-loud room.

Joel leaned in, forehead brushing against yours. Barely there. But it felt like too much and not enough all at once.

You smelled the same.

Like soap and skin and something faintly sweet—something that lived in your sweaters and in his sheets. Something he hadn’t been able to scrub out no matter how many nights he’d tried to sleep alone.

Five weeks.

Five fucking weeks.

It didn’t sound like much. Not in the grand scheme. He’d gone longer without food. Without rest. Without safety. But this?

This was something else entirely.

And for a second…

God.

For a second, he let himself pretend you were still his.

That you’d be there in the morning. That when he turned over in bed, he’d feel your bare thigh brushing his, your palm resting lightly on his chest, your breath rising and falling in that easy rhythm he used to memorize.

He missed waking up to you.

He missed the sound of your yawn when you stretched beside him. The way your hand always found his under the covers, cold and shameless, like you knew he’d warm them for you.

He missed the shuffle of your slippers down the hall. The smell of toast. That little click of your coffee mug against the counter.

He used to grumble, pretend he hated it when you cooked breakfast like he couldn’t do it himself.

But he fucking loved it.

You’d hand him a plate with that quiet smirk, always fussing—“Eat it before it gets cold, Miller”—and he’d do exactly that. Because it tasted like care. Like you loved him even when he didn’t ask for it.

He missed coming back from patrol and finding you stretched out on the couch in one of his flannels, legs bare, book cracked open on your chest, a throw blanket half-falling to the floor.

You’d look up when he walked in, and there’d be this softness in your eyes. This quiet little smile, like there you are, like the whole day had been waiting for him.

He missed that look.

Missed you tossing your book aside just to sit beside him, curl up under his arm, legs thrown over his lap like you belonged there.

You did belong there.

He missed passing the bathroom after a shower and catching the scent of your soap in the steam. That faint citrus smell. The one that lingered on his pillows. On his shirts. On his goddamn skin.

He hadn’t smelled it in days.

He left the bar of it sitting in the shower anyway. Stupid hope.

Like maybe if he didn’t move it, you’d walk in again. Humming. Smiling. Telling him to get out 'cause you needed the mirror.

Joel’s hands gripped your hips a little tighter.

He swallowed hard.

And then—God help him—his thoughts slipped lower.

Because it wasn’t just the comfort. Not just the routines. Not just the domestic quiet you brought into his chaos.

It was the heat of you.

The need.

He missed the feel of your hands on his chest, tugging his shirt off impatiently. The way your mouth dragged across his jaw with purpose. Like you knew exactly what he needed and weren’t shy about giving it.

You were never shy with him.

Not once.

He missed you pulling him in with a handful of his belt, whispering against his mouth, Come on, baby, take care of me, like you weren’t the one unraveling him.

He missed the way you straddled him on the couch, kissed him deep and slow while your fingers dragged down his stomach. How you’d rock your hips against his, lazy and teasing, like you had all the time in the world to ruin him.

He missed how you bit him when you came.

Soft, quick, right against his shoulder.

Like a secret you couldn’t keep.

Joel breathed out slowly through his nose, trying to steady himself.

But it didn’t work.

Because you shifted against him then. Innocent. Barely a move. But enough to bring your chest flush against his, enough for your fingers to tangle a little deeper into the hair at the nape of his neck.

You were warm.

So fucking warm.

And soft.

And his whole body was screaming for more.

He missed your thighs clenching around his hips as he buried himself inside you. The way your breath hitched when he pressed deeper. Slower. When he held your wrists above your head and whispered all the filthy things he’d never say anywhere else.

He missed the mess of it.

The sweat. The gritted teeth. The way you’d cry out his name like it meant something. Like you trusted him to break you apart and put you back together again.

He missed your skin. The taste of it. The scent of you in his sheets. The way you said Joel like a fucking prayer when he brought you over that edge again and again and again—

He missed being needed.

Physically. Completely.

He missed being yours.

Not just in the daylight. Not just in casual moments or shared coffee or post-patrol silence.

He missed being the man you reached for at night, when you were desperate and aching and honest in a way the sun never got to see.

Joel opened his eyes.

And you were right there.

You were still swaying with him.

Still close.

Still holding onto him like this moment mattered. Like it meant something. Joel could feel your breath against his throat, warm and even. You hadn’t spoken. Neither had he. And part of him wanted to stay in this silence forever.

But it wasn’t real.

It was borrowed time.

And he couldn’t keep pretending.

Not with you so close.

Not with the memory of your smile already fading from his house, from his mornings, from the quiet in the shower.

So he forced himself to speak. Quiet. Raw.

“I won’t stop you,” he murmured, barely louder than the hum of the song.

You blinked.

Pulled your head back just slightly, brows drawn.

“What?”

“If you wanna go.” He swallowed hard. “If you wanna be with that guy—”

“Joel—”

“—I get it,” he cut in. Not harsh. Just final. “You should. He’s younger. Smoother. Probably better at sayin’ all the right things. Probably ain’t spendin’ half a day tryin’ to get up from a chair.”

You stared up at him, clearly not amused by his joke. Your lips parted, but no sound came out.

Joel’s heart ached.

“And if that’s what you want,” he said softly, “I’ll wish you the best with it. With everythin’.”

You shook your head, once. Like you didn’t understand.

Joel held your gaze.

“I mean that. I’ll always be your biggest supporter. Even if I ain’t the one beside you anymore.”

Your breath hitched.

The tears came fast.

You let go of him like you’d been burned.

Took a full step back. Then another. Shook your head again, more violently now.

“Stop—” you choked, voice cracking. “Don’t say that. Don’t fucking say that.”

Joel’s throat closed. But he couldn’t take it back.

You looked down at the floor like it hurt to meet his eyes.

And then, just like that, you turned.

You pushed through the crowd with both hands, shoving someone out of the way, rushing for the back doors like you couldn’t breathe. Joel’s stomach twisted.

He stood frozen for half a second too long.

Then he moved.

The air outside hit him like a slap.

It was cold. Windy. Crisp.

You were standing a few feet away, arms wrapped around yourself, back to him, shoulders trembling.

He could hear the sharpness of your breathing—hiccuped, fractured, like you were trying not to fall apart again.

“Hey—” Joel called softly. “Wait.”

You didn’t turn.

Didn’t speak.

Joel stepped closer, slow.

“Just—let me say this,” he said. “Please.”

You finally turned. Tears were streaked down your face. Your eyes were red. You looked like you hated him and missed him all at once.

“You always do this,” you whispered. “Every time. When it gets hard, you freeze up. You disappear. You shut down and I’m left talking to a fucking brick wall.”

“I know,” Joel said. Quiet. Barely there.

“You don’t fight for me,” you said, voice cracking again. “You never fight for me. And now you’re telling me to go be with someone else—like that’s what I want? Like I left you because I didn’t love you?”

Joel shook his head. “That’s not what I meant—”

“Then what did you mean, Joel?” you snapped. “Because it sure sounded like you were giving me permission to leave like it doesn’t matter. Like we don’t matter.”

He was breathing hard now.

“I meant I want you to be happy,” he rasped. “Even if it kills me.”

You blinked.

Hard.

Joel took another step closer.

“I didn’t know how to love you right. I never got it right. But God—darlin’, I love you.”

You didn’t answer. Just stood there, trembling, tears tracking down your cheeks like you couldn’t stop them even if you wanted to.

Joel didn’t know what to do with his hands. His chest ached like a bruise, sharp and sore and tender all at once. He reached for you, slow, cautious—his arms wide like he was afraid you’d vanish if he touched you too fast.

But before he could pull you in—

You grabbed him.

Fisted your hands in the front of his jacket.

And kissed him.

Hard.

Messy.

Desperate.

Joel froze for half a second. Shocked. Breath stolen clean from his lungs.

And then—

Goddamn.

He kissed you back like a starving man.

Like he hadn’t tasted anything real in five whole weeks.

His hands flew to your face first, palms cradling your jaw with a tenderness that didn’t match the pace of his mouth—rough, hungry, grateful. Then they dropped, skimming your waist, your ribs, your back. Like he needed to touch every part of you to make sure you were real.

You gasped against him, lips slipping, teeth clashing just slightly. Joel groaned—deep—from his chest, like something inside him had just cracked under the weight of everything he’d been holding in.

The kiss broke for a second—barely.

You caught your breath.

Then grabbed him again.

You didn’t speak with your mouth. You poured it into him—every ounce of pain and love and fury and longing you’d been biting back since the night you left.

Joel didn’t care who saw.

Didn’t care who was still in the bar, or if Tommy looked out the window, or if Maria came after you.

None of it mattered.

Not when your mouth was on his like this. Not when your hands slid under his coat, under his shirt, gripping his waist like you never wanted to let go again.

He pressed you back against the side of the building, brick cold under your spine, his body flush against yours. His hands roamed like he’d earned it. Like he needed to feel you again, every inch, before it all disappeared.

You broke the kiss just long enough to whisper against his lips.

“Take me to our home.”

Joel’s chest clenched.

Not a home.

Not your home.

Just ours.

His.

Yours.

Ours.

Something hot twisted in his gut. He buried his face in your neck, breath shaky, lips brushing the skin just beneath your jaw.

“You sure?” he murmured, voice low and wrecked and so goddamn soft.

You nodded, nose brushing his. “Joel. Please.”

That was all he needed.

He didn’t wait.

Didn’t think.

He just took your hand, gripped it tight, and started walking.

The streets of Jackson were still.

Quiet. Cold. Empty.

Winter was still holding on by its teeth—frost clung to the edges of porch steps, old snow gathered in shadowed corners of roofs and fences. The moon was low and yellow, clouds creeping over it slow like they didn’t want to interrupt.

But Joel didn’t notice any of it.

All he could feel was your hand in his.

Still there.

Still warm.

Still real.

He didn’t look back at you—not directly.

Not yet.

He glanced, sideways, just enough to watch the shape of you in the corner of his vision, like if he turned too fully, the spell would break. Like if he looked too hard, you’d vanish all over again.

It felt like a dream.

No, not a dream.

A story.

Something ancient. Mythic.

Like he were Orpheus, and he was walking you out of the underworld. Back to him.

Except this time—he wouldn’t look back. Wouldn’t ruin it.

Your fingers stayed locked in his, tight but calm. You didn’t speak, and neither did he. The silence wasn’t heavy. It was sacred. Like everything unspoken was too delicate to be named just yet.

He was scared.

Not of you.

Not of the cold.

But of what came next.

Scared of what he might say when the door closed behind you.

Scared of what you might see when you stepped inside and realized—nothing had changed.

He hadn’t moved your book off the coffee table. Hadn’t folded the blanket you always used. Your mug was still beside the sink. He didn’t touch the turntable. Didn’t fix the curtain you always claimed was crooked in the bedroom.

He hadn’t let himself forget.

Not a single goddamn thing.

When you reached the porch, Joel fumbled for the key.

The lock stuck—like it always did—and his fingers were stiff from the cold, from nerves, from you.

And then he opened the door.

Let you step in first.

He followed, closing it gently behind him.

And then… you stood there.

In the soft dark of his home.

Your home.

Your eyes moved slowly.

He could feel it—your gaze drifting across the living room, catching on the blanket you left draped on the arm of the couch. The open book Joel had kept exactly where you left it. The throw pillow you always used, still shaped to your body like it remembered better than he did.

He stood behind you awkwardly.

Cleared his throat.

“I, uh…” His voice cracked. He tried again. “I can make you coffee. If you want. I know it’s late but—”

But you were already turning.

Already closing the space between you with three sharp steps.

And before he could finish the offer, you were on him.

You gripped his shirt in both hands and crashed your mouth to his like you were making up for all the time lost in the silence.

Joel reeled.

He gasped against your mouth, caught off guard—but only for a second.

Then instinct took over.

He kissed you back hard. Messy. Like he needed to taste every second of the last five weeks he’d spent alone.

Your hands were greedy, tugging his shirt free from his jeans, palms sliding underneath to find his skin. He groaned—loudly—into your mouth, arms locking around you, pressing you into him like he couldn’t stand even an inch of space.

Your coat hit the floor with a thump, and his followed soon after. You both knew what the other craved. 

Your lips moved down his neck, open-mouthed and reckless.

Joel swore under his breath. “Shit, baby—”

Your teeth scraped his pulse point and he hissed.

He couldn’t think.

Couldn’t breathe.

The adrenaline, the grief, the relief—it all crashed together like a wave breaking in his chest.

“I missed you,” you breathed against his skin. “I missed you so much.”

Joel’s hands were everywhere—your back, your waist, the curve of your ass, your thighs, your jaw. He couldn’t decide what to touch first. Couldn’t hold enough of you, not all at once.

He wanted you in his arms. In his bed. In his house.

Where you fucking belonged.

You pulled back just enough to look at him—cheeks flushed, lips swollen, hair wild from his hands. And Joel?

He stared at you like you were the only goddamn thing in the world that ever made sense.

He didn’t let you walk.

He couldn’t.

You were back in his arms, and Joel Miller was not taking a single goddamn risk.

He carried you to the bedroom like something precious. Sacred. Like if he set you down too soon, the moment would vanish—just another dream he’d wake from, soaked in sweat and aching with loss.

Your arms were around his neck. Legs around his waist. Mouth on his jaw, his neck, the hinge of his throat. Joel groaned every time your lips brushed skin. He was hard already. Had been from the moment you kissed him outside the bar. But he ignored it. He could wait. He would wait.

He stepped into the room and kicked the door shut behind him with his boot.

You looked at him like he was everything.

Like home.

He couldn’t take his eyes off you.

He sat you down on the edge of the bed with careful hands, just for a second. You started to reach for his belt, desperate, and Joel caught your wrists again—not rough, not punishing. Just still.

“Slow,” he rasped. “Let me.”

Your eyes flicked up to his, wide and breathless. You nodded.

He exhaled, like he’d been holding his breath for five weeks.

Then he knelt in front of you. Not to tease. Not to play.

To worship.

His hands came to your ankles first, callused thumbs brushing just under the hem of your pants.

“You’re shakin’ already,” he murmured. “Missed me that much, huh?”

You gave him this broken smile. “Joel—”

He slid his hands up your calves, your thighs, slow and sure.

“I know,” he said. “I missed you too.”

He leaned forward and kissed your knee.

Then your inner thigh.

“You been thinkin’ about this?” he asked, voice low and rough. “’Bout me undressin’ you like this? Slow?”

You swallowed hard. “Every night.”

Joel smirked. “Yeah? Bet you touched yourself. Got all needy in that big ol’ empty bed.”

Your breath hitched.

“Thought about me,” he said, dragging your pants down inch by inch, pressing a kiss to every new strip of skin. “Thought about my hands on you. Mouth on you. My cock inside you—deep. Slow.”

You moaned—loud and broken—and Joel’s chest ached with it as he tossed your pants over his shoulders.

“God, I missed that sound,” he growled. “You sound like heaven when you want me.”

You took off your own shirt and bra. God, those breasts. He loved them. Beautiful and tight. Another classic example of you. He stood, hooked his thumbs in your waistband, and pulled your underwear down next. You lifted your hips willingly.

He didn’t look away—not once—as you were revealed to him again. And fuck—his knees almost gave out.

Pretty. Pink. Folds swollen and wet to the point that he knew you would be embarrassed about it. But never him. He loved how messy you got when you wanted something, like your body was speaking for you when your mouth clamped shut. 

He stared up at you from below, chest heaving, eyes dark with something deeper than lust. Something older. More carved in. More earned.

“Goddamn,” he muttered, voice hoarse. “You’re so fuckin’ gorgeous like this. Laid out for me. All soft and warm and—mine.”

Your breath caught.

Your thighs trembled.

He kissed your inner knee, the inside of your thigh. His hands rubbed up and down your calves, your hips, his thumbs digging into the softness like he was grounding himself.

“I missed this more than I missed anythin’,” he rasped. “This right here—” he kissed the crease where thigh met hip, “—was all I thought about. Woke up some nights with your name in my mouth and nothin’ but air in my fuckin’ bed.”

You whimpered.

Joel leaned in, closer. He kissed lower.

And then—

He devoured.

There was no preamble. No soft, lingering kiss meant to ease you in.

No, this was hunger. This was over a month of tension, weeks of near-misses, days of unsaid things and glances that scorched.

His mouth met your cunt like it belonged there. Like he’d been born for this, for you. His tongue parted you, slow at first, just to taste. Just to sample the mess you’d already made for him. But then—

Then he groaned. Low and deep, the sound rumbling through his chest like thunder.

“Jesus Christ,” Joel muttered, voice rasped and reverent, breath hot against your folds. “You taste better than I remembered. Sweet fuckin’ heaven.”

Your thighs twitched at the sound, at the praise, at the pressure of his tongue licking a long, deliberate stripe right through your center.

You cried out—sharp and breathless—your hips jolting off the mattress. And he grinned against you. Like the bastard he was.

His hips jolted forward against nothing, instinctively, like his whole body couldn’t take being this close to you without burying himself inside.

“Fuck,” he growled, lips still brushing your soaked skin. “She’s drippin’ for me already. Look at her, baby. So fuckin’ wet.”

Your thighs twitched at the sound of it. The way he said it.

“You miss this?” he rasped, voice low and dangerous, eyes locked between your legs. “Missed my mouth on her? On this sweet little pussy?”

“Y-Yes,” you gasped, breathless. “God—Joel—yes—”

He chuckled darkly. “Thought so.”

Then he sucked your clit between his lips—slow at first. He knew exactly what to do, knew exactly what made your voice catch. Then harder. Focused.

Tongue flicking over you in tight, calculated strokes until your back arched and your hand flew to his hair, fisting tight.

You weren’t quiet.

You couldn’t be.

The noises—your moans, the wet suck of his mouth, the low sounds he kept making like he was drinking you in—filled the room like heat.

“Fuckin’ perfect,” Joel muttered. “She’s so goddamn soft. So sweet. You feel that?” His voice rumbled against your clit as he flattened his tongue and dragged it up through your folds. “That’s what I missed. The way she opens up for me. So greedy.”

You whined—broken and desperate—grinding your hips against his face.

He didn’t stop you.

He loved it.

“Go ahead,” he murmured, licking into your entrance, tongue fucking shallow and slow. “Use me, baby. Rub her all over my face. I can take it. I need it.”

“Joel—fuck—I’m gonna—”

“Nah.”

Joel’s voice came from low in his chest, ragged and breathless. He pulled back just an inch, his mouth flushed and glistening, his eyes wild.

“Not yet,” he said again. “Don’t come yet. She ain’t done with me, is she?”

You barely shook your head. Couldn’t even speak—

 Not before he fucking spit.

It landed right on your clit—hot and thick—and he watched it hit like it was the sexiest thing he’d ever seen. You jolted, crying out, already grinding into the air—

And then he licked it up.

Groaning as he did, slow and deep, mouth dragging through every soaked inch.

“Jesus fuck,” he muttered, thumb spreading you open wider. “Look at her. So wet she’s fuckin’ shinin’ for me.”

He spit again. Lazily this time. Watching it trail through your folds, mix with everything else he’d already coaxed out of you.

“Joel— your mouth,” you gasped, trembling beneath him. “God— I can’t fucking think when your mouth’s on me.”

Joel looked up at you, pupils blown, face shining. “Then don’t. Let her do the thinkin’.”

You moaned loud and shameless. “She’s not the one begging. I am.”

Joel grinned, tongue flicking out to catch the mess before it could drip too far. “That right? Then tell me. What do you want?”

“I want more,” you said, voice wrecked. “I want every bit of you. Tongue, fingers, cock—all of it.”

He growled, face diving back in like you’d just set off a fire in his brain. His tongue swirled, mouth suctioning hard around your clit, then easing off just enough so he could spit again.

“Fuuuck,” he groaned, watching the new mess drip over your cunt. “She loves it. Fuckin’ sloppy for me.”

“She’ll take everything you give her,” you breathed, chest heaving. “You know that. You trained her. Broke her in.”

“Oh, I know.”

He sounded proud. Possessive. Obsessed.

“She knows who she belongs to.”

Your body shuddered.

“I love her, you know that?” he said, fingers spreading you open for his tongue again. “Love this pussy. Love how she feels, how she tastes. I could fuckin’ die between her.”

Your fingers twisted tighter in his hair, thighs squeezing around his head, desperate and overwhelmed. But he loved it—grunting low, letting you pull him in deeper, tighter, closer.

“She’s got me fuckin’ obsessed,” he muttered against you. “Get hard just thinkin’ about her. Wake up fuckin’ leakin’ ‘cause I dream about the way she clenches around my tongue—”

He slipped a finger inside you. Thick. Rough. Curling just right.

Your whole body snapped.

“Oh my god, Joel—!”

“That’s it,” he groaned, voice low and ruined. “Come on. Let her come. Give it to me, baby—I want it. Want to feel her pulse on my fuckin’ face.”

You shattered.

Your thighs locked up, your body bowed off the bed, and your pussy clenched hard around his finger as you came with a cry that echoed off the walls. You said his name like it was the only thing you knew. The only word that mattered.

Joel didn’t let up. Not even as you started to tremble.

Not even as your legs threatened to close.

He held you open—pinned—and kept licking, kept sucking, kept claiming.

He moaned into you, letting you ride it out on his face, licking up every drop you gave him like he needed it to survive.

Joel could still feel your pulse on his tongue.

He still had your slick all over his mouth and beard. The taste of you burned into him—sharp and sweet and sacred. It had knocked something loose in him. Something primal. Something that made him want to tear the rest of his clothes off, drag you into his arms, and finally sink into the place he’d been dreaming about for five long, lonely weeks.

He staggered up from the bed, breath ragged, belt undone with trembling fingers. His body was flushed, hair mussed, lips still wet from your taste.

“You don’t know what you just did to me,” he muttered, voice hoarse like it had been scraped from the inside out. “I can’t fuckin’ wait anymore—I gotta be inside you, baby, now, I—”

But you moved.

Slid off the mattress like smoke. Like fire under silk skin and bare thighs. A slow, molten kind of hunger.

And Joel froze the moment your knees hit the floor.

You looked up at him with heat in your eyes, mischief in your mouth, and a hunger that dared him to stop you.

“Wha—baby—what’re you—”

“Shh,” you said, voice like velvet dragged over flame. “Let me.”

His hands fisted at his sides. His chest rose and fell in hard, shallow pulls. He looked down at you like he wanted to stop you, like he should stop you—

But didn’t. Couldn’t.

You undid the rest of his belt slowly, methodically. Let the tension stretch between you like something alive. The button popped. The zipper dragged down with a slow hiss.

And through it all, your eyes never left his.

“You know how many nights I imagined this?” you murmured, kissing the strip of skin just above his waistband. “How many times I touched myself pretending it was your cock between my lips?”

Joel groaned, hips jolting forward, instinctive and needy.

Your fingers slid beneath his boxers, confident and sure. And you didn’t tease.

You freed him. Let him fall heavy into your palm.

Fuck.

So thick. So hard it looked painful.

You looked at him like he was a goddamn revelation. And the sound that spilled from your lips—low and reverent—nearly knocked Joel off his feet.

“Oh, baby,” you whispered, wrapping your fingers around the base. “You’re perfect.”

Joel shifted, self-conscious in the way only time could teach. He wasn’t young anymore. He was never young, even when he met you. But you fed him well, and with all the labor, he bulked up, bringing out his stomach.

You slapped his thigh. Not hard. It was like you knew where his thoughts were heading. Just enough to snap his gaze back to you.

“Don’t do that,” you said, low and sharp. “You don’t get to hide from me. Not here.”

Joel’s throat worked. “You don’t gotta say that—”

“I’m not sayin’ it to be nice, Joel,” you growled. “I’m sayin’ it ‘cause I’ve been fucking starving. And now I get to taste what I’ve been dreaming about since the second I walked out that door.”

Joel’s eyes darkened.

You leaned in and kissed the base of his cock, slow and reverent. His body shuddered.

“You taste like him,” you whispered against the skin. “Like the man who used to own me without even trying.”

And then you licked.

From root to tip.

Deliberate. Worshipful. Filthy.

Joel’s head dropped back. “Jesus Christ.”

You opened your mouth—wide—and took him in.

Hot. Wet. Deep.

Joel moaned, sharp and sudden, a sound dragged straight from his spine. His hips jerked, but your hands were already tight on his thighs, holding him in place.

You worked him slow. Rhythmic. Purposeful.

You weren’t just giving head—you were consuming him.

Joel didn’t know where to look. The way your lips wrapped around him, the hollow of your cheeks, the spit starting to drip down your chin? It was sickeningly gorgeous.

He looked down, saw your eyes staring back at him. Saw your jaw straining to take more.

“S’too good,” he rasped. “Too fuckin’ good. You’re gonna ruin me.”

You pulled off just far enough to speak, letting a string of spit fall from your lips to his cock.

“Maybe I want to ruin you,” you whispered. “Maybe I want you thinkin’ about my mouth every time you jerk off alone in the dark.”

Joel hissed through his teeth. “You got a mouth on you.”

Your tongue traced a slow circle around his tip.

“And you love it.”

“I do,” he growled. “Fuckin’ love everythin’ about that mouth. But you keep goin’ like that, baby, and I’m not gonna last.”

“Good,” you said, licking along a bulging vein. “I want it. All of it.”

And then?

You took him again.

Deeper this time. Throat tighter. Drool messier. Your spit sliding down his cock in obscene trails.

Joel’s hips stuttered. His hands fisted at his sides like it physically hurt not to touch you. Like he was barely hanging on to the dominance he always carried.

“You like that?” you said when you pulled off again, spit smeared on your lips, eyes glazed with hunger. “You like seein’ me like this?”

Joel groaned, barely coherent. “Look at you. Mouth full’a cock, beggin’ for more.”

“I am begging,” you whispered, licking the tip and smiling like the devil. “So don’t hold back, Miller.”

Something inside him snapped.

He gripped your hair—tight, firm, not rough but definite—and held you right there.

“You want me to use this mouth?” he asked, voice low and filthy. “That it?”

You moaned again, eyes fluttering closed as your throat worked.

Joel cursed. "Fuck."

And then he started to move.

Slow at first. Testing.

Your hands gripped his thighs harder, anchoring yourself now.

Joel watched the way you took him. Let him own your mouth. The way your lips stretched, the obscene squelch of your throat as he pushed in and out. He could hear every inch of it. Wet and raw and real.

You looked up again, and he nearly came on the spot.

“You’re so fuckin’ good at this,” he gasped. “Jesus, sweetheart—you take me like you need it.”

You blinked up at him, teary-eyed and eager, your throat fluttering around him again.

Joel growled.

“You like it when I fuck your mouth like this? Like a goddamn filthy man?”

You nodded, or tried to, and he felt the motion around his cock.

His knees nearly gave out.

He was panting now. Full-body trembling. His hands threaded deeper into your hair, tugging at your scalp in a rhythm that matched his hips—thrusting in, slow but hard, dragging against your tongue and hitting the back of your throat again and again.

You whimpered, gagged just a little—and Joel lost it.

“Oh, fuck, baby—don’t do that—don’t you do that unless you want me to come right fuckin’ now—”

You pulled off, gasping, spit connecting your mouth to him in a slick string. His cock was flushed, angry-red, twitching in the open air, gleaming with your spit.

You licked your swollen lips, then backed toward the bed slowly.

Kneeling there.

Waiting.

Like a fucking vision.

Hair messy, skin flushed, mouth parted, chest rising and falling like you were starving for him. Like you needed him to get over there and do what he was made to do.

Joel stared.

Didn’t speak.

He dropped his flannel to the floor—then his shirt, then his jeans, his boxers—and crossed the room without breaking eye contact. He was breathing like a man chasing down his last chance. His thighs ached from how tight they’d been clenched. His stomach wasn’t flat anymore, body worn down by age and time—but you looked at him like he was everything.

Like he was still the man who could ruin you with just one touch.

He crawled up onto the bed—slowly, knees sinking into the mattress, palms planted on either side of your hips.

And you?

You laid back, legs parted, eyes heavy-lidded, the picture of wrecked devotion.

Joel hovered over you, arms caging you in.

For a second, he just looked at you. Like maybe this was a dream. Like maybe if he moved too fast, it would disappear.

Then he kissed you.

Hard. Deep. Tongue sweeping into your mouth like he needed to taste every part of you again. Like he didn’t just want to fuck you—he wanted to live inside you. Breathe with you. Lose every broken part of himself in the warmth of your skin.

Your hands gripped his arms. His back. Anywhere you could reach. Your legs wrapped around his waist, pulling him in tight.

And then Joel reached down, slid the head of his cock through your folds.

Up. Down. Just to coat himself in you.

He pushed in slow.

The first inch had his breath catching. The second had his eyes closing. And by the time he was all the way in—seated deep, buried inside you—Joel’s soul had already left his body.

You were everything.

Everything.

Warm and soft and tight, like you’d been molded just for him. Five weeks apart, and still—you welcomed him like nothing had changed. Like he belonged there. Like he’d always belonged there.

You gasped, mouth falling open, fingers clutching his arms like they were the only steady thing in the world.

Joel couldn’t move.

Not yet.

Not when it felt like this. Not when it had been five goddamn weeks of aching and silence and empty rooms and dreams that ended in nothing but sweat and a hollow bed.

His eyes opened slowly. Just to see you.

Your brows drawn together, lips parted, a soft shine in your eyes that had nothing to do with pain.

You weren’t crying.

But it was close.

So was he.

Joel braced himself above you—one forearm pressed into the mattress, the other hand gently pushing your hair back—and kissed you.

It wasn’t messy. It wasn’t greedy.

It was reverent.

He kissed you like he needed you to understand. That he never wanted to be without you again. That no one—no person, no place, no damn argument—could ever replace what you were to him.

When he finally moved?

It was slow. Careful.

A pull, and a push.

He exhaled, voice breaking. “You feel so good, darlin’.”

You whimpered beneath him, nails pressing into his shoulder blades.

Joel didn’t rush it.

Every movement was like worship. Like penance. Like he was apologizing with his body—saying all the things he hadn’t known how to say before.

He rolled his hips again.

Your mouth fell open. “Joel—”

“I know,” he breathed. “I know, baby. I missed you. Missed this.”

Your eyes met his. And for a moment, everything went still.

Just heartbeats.

Breath.

Bodies pressed together like they’d never come apart again.

Joel kissed you again, deeper this time, hand slipping under your back to hold you closer. And then?

He moved faster.

Not rough. Not harsh.

Just urgent.

Like he couldn’t stand the space between your skin and his.

You moaned—high and sweet and wrecked—and that sound went straight to his chest.

Joel groaned low. “That’s it,” he rasped. “That’s the sound I been waitin’ to hear. Five weeks without it, and I thought I’d lose my damn mind.”

You clung to him harder. Wrapped your legs around his hips, anchoring him there.

“Don’t stop,” you whispered. “Please don’t stop.”

Joel’s rhythm shifted—deeper, harder, but still loving. Still present. His forehead dropped to yours, eyes half-lidded, breath hot on your lips.

“Never gonna stop again,” he muttered. “Never lettin’ you walk out that door.”

You arched beneath him.

His name left your lips again, this time softer. A plea. A promise. A prayer.

Joel held you tighter.

“You fit me,” he panted. “Like you were made for me. Like you always fuckin’ have.”

Your breath hitched. Your eyes fluttered shut.

And Joel watched every second of it.

Because that’s what he’d missed most.

You. Just like this. Not just the sex. Not just the body. But the way you looked at him like he was worth it. Like you saw him, even when he couldn’t stand to look at himself.

He fucked you like it mattered.

“That what you needed?” he asked, thrusting again, a little harder. “Needed me to fuck you like you belong to me?”

You nodded—whimpered—and he growled.

“Say it.”

“I belong to you.”

“Louder.”

“I fucking belong to you, Joel!”

That was all it took.

He grabbed your thigh, hitched it higher on his waist, and slammed into you. Again. Again.

The bed creaked. Your cries filled the room. Joel’s voice—low, hoarse, reverent—was in your ear.

“Missed this pussy so bad,” he panted. “Missed how tight you squeeze me. Missed how you fuckin’ moan when I hit that spot—right there—yeah, you feel that?”

You squealed—a sound so pure and broken it made Joel want to cry.

He couldn’t stop.

Didn’t want to stop.

Not when you were wrapped around him like this, clinging to him, crying out his name like it was the only word you remembered. Not when you were looking at him with that shattered kind of love in your eyes. Like you’d missed him just as much.

Your thigh was hooked high on his hip. Your hands were in his hair, on his back, gripping, clawing, grounding yourself. Joel could barely think—could barely breathe—with how tightly your body hugged his.

“Fuck, baby,” he panted, voice strained. “This feel good to you?”

You nodded fast, desperate. “So good—so good, Joel, I missed you—I missed this—I—”

He caught your mouth in another kiss. Swallowed the words. Gave you everything in return. His thrusts hit deep, perfect, the way only he knew how to give. And he listened for it—that cry you made when he angled just right. When he found that spot and pressed into it, unrelenting.

“There?” he murmured, dragging his hips again.

You sobbed. “There.”

Joel grinned against your cheek, even as sweat ran down his back, even as his muscles ached and trembled.

And then you were saying things—soft, half-broken, whispered against his ear like confessions.

“I love you,” you breathed. “I never stopped. I never stopped.”

His heart clenched.

He pulled back just enough to see your face, still moving inside you, still holding your gaze like it was holy.

“I love you,” he said, voice breaking. “Been lovin’ you since the start. Been waitin’ for you to come back so I could say it again.”

You kissed him—messy, desperate, teeth clicking.

“Don’t let me go again,” you whispered.

“Never,” Joel swore. “Not a fuckin’ chance.”

Then he slid a hand between your bodies. Found your clit. Pressed two fingers to it, circling slow, firm, just the way you needed.

You screamed.

Your whole body arched beneath him—taut, electric, unraveling. You came hard, pulsing around him, your voice sharp and open in his ear.

And Joel—fuck—Joel lost it.

You clenched down, and he was gone. Buried deep, his body locking up, breath stalling in his throat. He groaned loud, raw, like the release had been dragged from his bones. His forehead dropped to your shoulder as he came inside you, holding you as tight as his arms would allow.

Everything was you.

Your scent. Your breath. Your body. Your voice still saying I love you like a prayer.

Joel stayed there, wrapped around you, chest heaving against yours. The room was warm now—sweat-slick skin, tangled limbs, the sheets pushed down and forgotten. Your bodies were still joined, hearts thundering in time.

You didn’t speak.

You didn’t have to.

His breath slowed against your shoulder, nose tucked into the crook of your neck, and you ran your fingers through his hair—soft, slow strokes. He could feel your pulse beneath his lips, steady and alive. Like you were anchoring him there. Like if he let go, the world might slip again.

He didn’t want to move.

But eventually, he had to.

Joel exhaled slowly and began to pull away, his hands careful at your hips. He didn’t want to hurt you—didn’t want to lose that closeness, not even for a second.

Still buried deep, he paused.

Then he slid out of you, slow and reverent.

You whimpered softly, body shivering at the loss. Joel glanced down, and the sight of it—his cum, white and hot, spilling from you—had his throat going tight. His stomach clenched.

“Jesus,” he muttered. “Look at that.”

You shifted on the bed, stretching slightly, and the movement only made more of him leak out of you, trailing down your thighs.

Joel cursed again. His voice was raw with wonder and regret.

You looked at him, flushed and glowing. A lazy, content smile pulled at your lips.

“Gonna gawk, or you gonna hold me?” you teased gently.

He huffed a breath—half a laugh—and climbed back into bed, gathering you into his arms like you were something fragile. He tugged the blanket up over both of you, let your head rest on his chest, one hand smoothing over your back, the other tangled in your hair.

For a while, it was just that.

Breathing.

Touching.

The afterglow wrapped around you like another blanket, and Joel held you tighter, like maybe he could trap time. Keep it from moving forward and tearing this moment away.

But it did move.

And eventually, you spoke.

“Can we talk?” you asked quietly.

Joel stiffened—barely. He nodded. Cleared his throat. “Yeah. Yeah, of course.”

You lifted your head just enough to meet his eyes. “I didn’t leave because I stopped loving you.”

“I know,” he said softly. “I—fuck. I know.”

Your eyes searched his. “But I needed more, Joel. I needed you. Not just your body, not just your actions. I needed your voice. Your thoughts. I needed to know what was goin’ on in your head when you shut down like that.”

Joel looked away.

The guilt was sharp. Cutting.

He exhaled, rubbing at his face. “I’ve always been like that,” he admitted. “Since… since Sarah. Since everythin’ after. When shit gets too much, I just… just go quiet. I don’t know how not to.”

You laid your palm over his chest, right above his heart.

“It hurt,” you whispered. “When we fought, and you walked away from me with silence. It made me feel like I didn’t matter. Like I was yelling into a void.”

Joel’s eyes flicked back to yours. Pain settled behind them, low and heavy.

“I don’t want you feel that way,” he said hoarsely. “I just… I didn’t know what to say. I didn’t wanna make it worse. Didn’t wanna say the wrong thing and ruin everythin’.”

“You not saying anything was the wrong thing,” you said gently. “That’s what hurt us.”

He nodded slowly. Took your hand in his. Pressed his lips to your knuckles like they were sacred.

“I know. I see that now.” He swallowed hard. “I want to fix that.”

Your expression softened.

“I don’t expect you to change overnight,” you murmured. “I just want to feel like you’re in this with me. That when things get hard, you don’t disappear.”

Joel’s grip on your hand tightened.

“I won’t,” he said. “You have my word.”

Silence fell again—but it was warm now. Comfortable. Like a sigh through the sheets.

After a moment, you nestled closer.

“I missed this,” you whispered. “Not just the sex. Just… this. You. Me. Quiet.”

Joel pressed his lips to your forehead.

“I missed you every damn day,” he said. “House was too quiet. Coffee didn’t taste right. Nothin’ did.”

You smiled. “You make shitty coffee anyway.”

He chuckled. “Hey now. It’s improved. Slightly…”

You laughed softly and tucked yourself against his side, a perfect fit.

Joel stared at the ceiling for a while, then turned his gaze down to you.

“I’m gonna try. I want this—you. For long as you’ll have me.”

You looked up at him, eyes shining again.

“Forever sound okay?”

Joel kissed you, slow and soft, like it was the easiest vow he’d ever made.

“Forever sounds perfect.”