Mrs. Negan

Your skin was slick with sweat despite the chill, and your eyes—those sweet eyes that usually held so much warmth, so much life—were glassy, trying to focus but failing to land on anything. 

Then, a light flickered inside. The lock scraped, and the door swung open to reveal Jack Abbott, still half-dressed in a worn pullover over his undershirt, his grey hair mussed from sleep that had clearly been interrupted. 

"What the hell happened?" He asked, eyes going worried. 

Joel didn't answer. 

He just moved, carrying you past Jack and down the narrow hallway that led to the small clinic room Jack kept in his home. 

The space was clean but lived-in: a metal examination chair in the center, shelves lined with bottles and worn medical texts, a couch, a single lamp casting a warm, yellow glow over the worn wooden floor. 

Jack Abbott arrived in Jackson a little over two years after Joel did. 

He had been traveling with a small group before, acting as their medic, but the constant moving wore him down. 

Jackson was the first place in years that felt safe enough to stop, so he stayed when Maria asked him if he wanted to, while the others moved on. 

Within a few months, he turned one of the unused small houses near the edge of town into two spaces: a tiny clinic in the front and a small living area for himself in the back.

People started calling it Abbott's clinic.

Joel met him after a patrol accident left him with a deep cut. 

Jack stitched him up with quiet, steady confidence, and Joel respected him immediately. 

He didn't ask too many questions, no bullshit, no small talk. Over time, Joel kept ending up at Jack's door, Jack kept patching him, and a quiet, practical friendship formed between them.

So when Joel set you down on his examination chair he knew you were in good hands. 

His hands stayed on you, steady, fingers curling into the fabric of your shirt. 

Jack followed close behind, already pulling out a pair of latex gloves from a box on the counter. 

The snap of rubber against his wrists was sharp in the quiet room. He moved to your other side, his eyes scanning you with the practiced efficiency of someone who had seen too many emergencies in too many late hours. 

"Joel." He said it firmly, not a question. Then softer, more insistent. "Joel. Talk to me. What happened?"

Joel dragged a hand down his face, the stubble rough against his palm. 

"We—" He stopped. Swallowed. And then started again, his voice lower. "We weren't supposed to be there."

Jack's eyebrows shot up. "Where?"

"The old storage yard. Past the perimeter."

The silence stretched for one beat, two, three and Joel could see the thoughts racing behind those dark eyes—the implications, the danger, the sheer stupidity of it. 

Jack let out a slow breath, his jaw tightening. "You two were past the forbidden perimeter?"

Joel nodded once, feeling guilty, miserable.

"She saw…" He let out a frustrated huff, shaking his head. "Hell, I don't know. Rabbits or somethin'. Wanted a closer look."

His voice cracked on the last words—with frustration, with...with anger at himself, at the moment of weakness that had led him to agree, to let you wander just a little too far, just a little too deep into the overgrown brush beyond the safe zone. 

You had smiled at him. God—that sweet, hopeful smile that made it impossible to say no. And now you were here, burning up and it was all his fault.

"She breathed in this cloud of…dust. Pollen. Somethin'."

Jack only stared at him, open mouth, gaze caught somewhere between disbelief and the cold calm of a man processing information. 

He opened his mouth, then closed it. Then, very quietly, he said: "Joel."

"It ain't important right now," Joel snapped, the words cutting through the air like a blade. But the edge softened almost immediately as his eyes flicked back to you, and his voice dropped to something quieter, more fragile. "Just—just fix her, alright?"

Jack held his gaze for a long moment. Then he nodded, once, and turned his full attention to you. 

He leaned in, his movements careful, deliberate, as he reached for a small penlight from besides him. "Alright, sweetheart. Let's take a look at you."

He leaned closer, bringing the penlight up to your eyes. But your head lolled slightly, and you squirmed on the chair, a low, restless sound escaping your throat. Jack paused, his hand hovering near your jaw.

"Easy now. I need you to hold still for just a second, okay?" He tilted his head, meeting your gaze from behind the flashlight. "C'mon. Look at me."

Your eyes—glassy, unfocused, pupils blown wide—drifted toward him. 

Jack clicked on the penlight, shining it first into your left eye, then your right, watching the way your pupils reacted—or failed to react. His brow furrowed. He hummed low in his throat, a sound that made Joel's stomach clench.

He clicked off the penlight, put it back into his place, and straightened up. He met Joel's gaze, his expression thoughtful.

"Pupils are dilated and sluggish. Could be a neuroactive toxin," he said, his voice carrying the weight of professional assessment. "Some kind of alkaloid, maybe. That targets the central nervous system." He paused, then added, almost to himself, "But her skin is flushed, and her pulse is tachycardic. Heart rate's way up. Could be pyrexia, but…" He trailed off, then turned back to you, his voice gentle again. "How did this flower look? Can you tell me anything about it?"

Your lips parted. "Trans…translucent. Purple."

Jack's eyes sharpened suddenly. 

He turned away, crossing to the cluttered desk in the corner where a worn leather notebook sat among scattered papers. He opened it and the silence stretched while he flipped through it. 

"Damn it," Jack muttered under his breath.

Joel stiffened. "What?"

Jack didn't look up. He kept turning pages, his finger tracing lines of cramped handwriting. "I've seen mentions of this before. Not many though, just scattered reports from patrol medics out west. And a couple of passing mentions in some old pre-outbreak botany notes I found in the library archive." He stopped on a page, reading it intently. Then he let out a slow breath and turned to face Joel.

"Reports of what?" Joel pressed, his voice tight.

Jack hesitated. It was a hesitation that Joel had never seen on him before.

He set the notebook down and crossed his arms, his gaze flickering between you and Joel.

"A mutated flower. Causes fever, disorientation, elevated pulse…and some....sexual changes." 

Joels head snapped up. "It ain't the time for jokes, Abbott." 

But Jack didn't flinch. "I'm not joking. That's what the reports called it. I told you—it causes fever, disorientation, elevated pulse." He paused, letting the words settle. "The body's been flooded with a compound that mimics extreme sexual arousal. It's not toxic on its own, but if left untreated, the fever and heart strain can cause complications."

Joel stared at him and when he turned back to you, he saw the way your fingers curled and uncurled against the metal and the way a soft, breathy sound escaped your lips as you shifted restlessly on the chair.

"Complications," Joel repeated, his voice hollow. "What kind of complications?"

Jack moved closer, his expression softening as he looked at you. He reached out, pressing the back of his hand gently against your forehead, feeling the fever that radiated off you in waves.

"If we don't address the underlying arousal-based symptoms, the body will keep ramping up. Heart rate spikes. Temperature climbs. Eventually, the system burns out." He pulled his hand away, his voice dropping lower. "The only effective treatment recorded in those reports is…direct physical release. Sexual stimulation to completion, multiple times, until the compound is flushed from the system."

He held up a hand as Joel opened his mouth, ready to protest. "Look, I know how it sounds. But I've seen enough strange things in this world to know that nature doesn't care about what sounds reasonable."

Joel turned away, his hand dragging through his hair, frustration in his face.

"So what are you tellin' me? That I gotta—" He couldn't even finish the sentence.

"I'm telling you that she needs care, Joel. And that care is going to involve intimacy. Whether that's with you, or with me helping her through it medically, or both—that's up to you. But she can't wait much longer." Jack's voice was calm, steady, the voice of a man doing his job. The room fell silent again. The only sounds were your labored breathing and the faint ticking of a clock somewhere deeper in the house.

Joel then turned back, his eyes meeting yours. He saw the fear in them—and something else, something raw and needy that he didn't know how to name.

And suddenly—

"Please," you whined, the word thick and broken. "Please…need…need something."

Your body was a furnace, burning from the inside out. Every nerve ending felt raw, exposed, screaming for relief. The fabric of your shirt clung to your skin, damp with sweat, and it felt like a cage. Your hands moved before your mind could catch up—grabbing at the hem, tugging, pulling.

Joel's eyes widened. "Hey, hey—hold on—"

But you couldn't hold on anymore.

You were beyond reason, beyond shame. You squirmed against the chair, your movements jerky and frantic, yanking your shirt over your head and tossing it aside.

Joel caught your wrists gently, trying to slow you down, but you twisted out of his grip, your fingers fumbling with the button of your jeans, the zipper, pushing them down your hips with a desperate, whimpering sound that tore at Joel's chest.

"Honey—" Joel started, his voice cracking.

But Jack held up a hand, his expression calm but intent. "Let her. The compound is driving her body to seek release. Fighting it will only make it worse, Joel."

Joel's hands fell to his sides. He watched, helpless, as you rid yourself of the last of your clothing, tossing jeans and panties to the floor until you were bare on the examination chair, your skin flushed and slick with sweat, your chest heaving with every ragged breath.

Your legs fell open without thought, your hips rolling against the cold metal, searching for friction that wasn't there.

"Need…please…I need something…" Your voice was a broken loop, tears starting to stream down your cheeks.

Joel's throat tightened. He looked at Jack.

When Jack met his gaze, there was no judgment in those dark eyes—only the weight of a man who understood the gravity of the situation. Jack's hand paused over your body, as he turned to Joel, his expression asking a silent question.

May I?

Joel stared at him for a long, breathless moment. Then he nodded, his voice low and rough. "Do what ya gotta do. I trust you."

Jack's shoulders relaxed a fraction and he moved to the foot of the chair, positioning himself between your spread legs. 

"I ain't no gynaecologist," Jack said, his voice carrying a hint of dry humour. "But I need to see if it's really the flower we're talking about. The reports mentioned specific physical changes."

Joel clenched his jaw, stepping closer and placing his hands on your shoulders, holding you steady as you squirmed beneath him. You looked up at him, your eyes glassy and wet, and you whimpered.

"Please…let him…"

Joel let out a shaky breath. He looked at Jack and gave a short, sharp nod.

Jack leaned in. His gloved fingers found your thighs, then he gently parted your labia with precision. 

He murmured to himself, cataloging observations as he worked. "Labia swollen. Significant engorgement. Vulvar tissue appears hyperemic, engorged with blood flow consistent with severe vasocongestion." 

You gasped as his thumb accidentally brushed against the hood of your clit, a jolt of electricity shooting through your core. Your hips bucked involuntarily, a desperate, wordless sound escaping your lips.

"Easy," Jack murmured, more to himself than to you. 

He shifted his grip, using his thumb and forefinger to part the inner folds, exposing your entrance. It was gaping, red, and glistening with a clear, almost viscous fluid that had already pooled on the chair beneath you.

Joel's hands tightened on your shoulders, his knuckles almost white. 

He trusted Jack—hell, he was the only man in this godforsaken place he trusted you with. But he still couldn't help the way he felt. A little too protective. Maybe even jealous.

"Her insides feel swollen," Jack said. He pressed two fingers—index and middle—against your opening, testing the resistance. The muscles fluttered and clenched, straining against the intrusion before it even begun. "Loss of tone in the pelvic floor muscles. Usually, there's some natural tension, but here…it's like her body is actively pulling things in."

And then he pressed inside.

The latex-covered fingertips breached you with a wet, slick sound that echoed in the small room.

You cried out—not in pain, but in need that tore through every nerve ending. Your back arched off the chair, your head thrown back, Joel's name falling from your lips in a desperate, ragged moan.

"Oh, fuck—!"

Jack didn't move. He held his fingers still, buried to the second knuckle, his eyes fixed on your face, watching your reaction with clinical detachment even as his body betrayed a slight tension.

"She's extremely sensitive. The internal tissues are swollen and hot—probably a few degrees above normal body temperature. The flower is causing nerve hypersensitivity."

Your hips bucked again, grinding against Jack's hand, seeking more. Every bit of shame leaving your body.

But the pressure of his fingers inside you was maddening—not enough, never enough. You whimpered, a high, thin sound that turned into a gasping sob as Jack slowly began to withdraw his fingers, dragging them along your inner walls.

And then, suddenly, an orgasm hit you without warning. 

It crashed through you like a wave, sudden and violent, pulling a strangled scream from your throat. Your entire body clenched, your inner muscles spasmed around Jack's retreating fingers, and a gush of fluid flooded out of you, soaking his gloved hand and dripping onto the chair in thick, sticky ropes.

Jack pulled his hand back, his fingers coated in the warm, translucent fluid. He held them up, examining the consistency with narrowed eyes.

Joel could only stare, his mouth hanging open. 

His gaze flicked from your flushed, trembling body to Jack's dripping fingers, and then back to your face, where tears and sweat had mingled in a mask of desperate relief and craving.

"Did she just…?" Joel's voice was hoarse, cautious. 

Jack nodded slowly, wiping his fingers on a clean cloth. "Ejaculate. Yeah. That's…that's exactly what that was. The flower causes her body to reach climax extremely quickly—and just as quickly, the need returns. It's like the release doesn't satisfy anything; it only opens the door for more."

You were already squirming again, your hips rolling against the empty air, your breath coming in sharp, frantic pants. "Please…more…need more…"

Jack set the cloth aside and picked up the blood pressure cuff, wrapping it around your upper arm. 

He pumped it up, watching the gauge as the numbers climbed. 

"This is an unusual procedure," he said, his voice flat. "Her body will need release. Repeatedly. And even then, the effects might last for hours—until the compound works its way out of her system."

Joel ran a hand through his hair, pulling at the grey strands in frustration. "Jesus Christ. Is there any medicine? Anything you can give her to stop this? To slow it down?"

Jack shook his head, the blood pressure cuff hissing as he released the pressure. "No. This is all about managing symptoms. The fever, the blood pressure, the dehydration. The only thing that treats the root cause is—" He paused, glancing at Joel. "—well, you know..."

He pulled off his gloves with a snap, tossing them into a bin. Then he grabbed a fresh pair, pulling them on with practiced efficiency. 

"I could now let you two go," Jack said, turning to face Joel fully. "Let you handle this on your own. Just fuck like goddamn rabbits for the next few hours. But her blood pressure is 160 over 110. That's stroke territory if we're not careful. And her fever is also still climbing."

You whimpered on the chair, your hand reaching out blindly. "Please…Joel…I need…"

Joel caught your hand, pressing it to his chest. "S'okey, honey. I'm right here. Don't be scared." He leaned down, pressing another kiss to your damp forehead, his voice softening to a trembling murmur. "I got you. I ain't goin' nowhere."

He turned to Jack, his eyes hard and resolute. "I'll do it. You keep her fever and blood pressure in line. I trust you."

Jack nodded. 

He pulled the chair behind your head, positioning himself so he could put cool towels on your forehead and monitor the equipment. 

"I'll keep the cold packs on her neck and forehead, monitor her vitals. You handle the rest."

Joel let out a long, shaky breath. He shrugged off his jacket, tossing it onto the nearby counter. He moved between your legs, his boots scraping against the worn linoleum.

"Jesus Christ," he muttered, looking down at the mess you've had made. 

Your pussy was a complete wreck; swollen, red, glistening with a mix of your own fluids and the lingering evidence of your climax. Your clit stood out, big and glossy, twice its usual size. Your hole gaped, soft and open, the muscles twitching with unfulfilled need. 

Joel had never seen you like that. Not even when he fucked you countless times the night before. 

Jack's voice came from behind your head, quiet and steady. "I know. That's the flower."

Joel looked at your face—your tear-streaked cheeks, your parted lips, your eyes glassy and fixed on him with desperate, animal hunger. He placed his rough, calloused hands on your inner thighs, spreading you wider.

"You'll be fine, babygirl," he whispered, more to himself than to you. "I'll take care of you."

Joel's jaw tightened, his gaze flicked anywhere but towards Jack as he unzipped himself and wrapped a calloused hand around his own cock. 

He stroked himself slowly at first, trying to will himself hard despite the awkward weight of another man's eyes in the room. Embarrassment flushed his neck, but the sight of you—needy, swollen, and waiting—pushed him forwards. 

He needed to do this for you, his sweet girl, no matter how strange it felt with his old friend watching.

Joel lined himself up, the thick head of his cock nudging against your entrance before he pushed inside in one steady thrust.

A high-pitched moan tore from your throat, your hips bucking up to meet him as your walls fluttered and sucked him deeper.

"Continue," Jack said quietly, nodding once, his voice calm and measured.

Joel grunted, hips snapping forward. 

The wet, splashing sounds of your soaked pussy filled the small clinic room with every thrust, obscene and loud. 

He punched into you harder, the head of his cock dragging against that sweet, sensitive spot inside while your cunt milked him greedily, rhythmic pulses drawing him in.

"You need to talk to her the way you guys always do it, Joel," Jack instructed, still monitoring your pulse. "Keep her grounded."

Joel's eyebrows furrowed, but he nodded, voice rough. "D-does that feel good, honey?" He drove deeper, breath hitching. "Prettiest cunt all fuckin' swollen. Look at you, takin' me so good."

You whined, the praise sending fresh heat through you. 

Jack suppressed a smirk, trying to focus instead on the steady thrum beneath his fingers. "Pulse is elevated but stable," he murmured. "Pupils are still dilated."

And without warning, another orgasm crashed over you. 

This time, your thighs fell further apart as a raw cry teared from your throat, back arching off of the examination chair. Your cunt clamped down, once, twice, then opened. A hot, gushing stream bursted hard, pushing Joel's cock out and making a splashing sound in the quiet room. 

"Joel—"

Joel's breath hitched as your cries echoed off of the walls, his eyes widening when the hot flood gushed against his groin.

"Fuck," he muttered, almost to himself. His eyes landed on Jack's calm ones, and a wave of embarrassment hit him. He was standing there like this was nothing, like the whole scene wasn't awkward as hell, and Joel just couldn't decide if that made it better or worse.

Jack nodded, his eyes landing on your clenching tummy. "Normal reaction."

Joel cursed again, gripping his slick cock and thrusting back inside your still-quivering pussy. 

"Wanted to see those bunnies, huh?" he rasped, tsking with his tongue as he set a punishing rhythm. "Now look at what happened to you." 

Each thrust made your squelching cunt echo wetly around him.

Jack's gaze sharpened as he noticed drool slipping from the corner of your mouth. "Hm. Another autonomic response; excessive salivation," he noted, and glanced at Joel mid-thrust. "Mind if I help keep her calm?"

Joel nodded without breaking his rhythm. He didn't care anymore. He just wanted you to feel better.

"Easy now. Breathe for me." Jack slid two latex-gloved fingers past your lips. "I'm just gonna help you." 

And you immediately sucked them in, tongue swirling, a broken whimper escaping around them. "Please, doctor…"

Jack's breath got caught in his throat, his own cock twitching to life, growing visibly against his pants even though he was trying to he professional. 

"S'okay, sweetheart." he soothed, fingers gentle but firm in your mouth.

You sucked on them with desperate, whining pulls, saliva coating the gloves. 

Joel shook his head, voice strained. "God damn flowers."

"I know," Jack replied, eyes flicking down to where Joel's cock disappeared into your soaked cunt. "Reports were way worse. It's like heat for humans—constant need until the cycle breaks."

Joel kept thrusting, the filthy wet sounds growing louder, his thumb finding your sensitive clit, giving only gentle, light rubs. You moaned around Jack's fingers, whimpered, your body arching from the stool as another orgasm ripped through you.

He buried himself deep, grunting as he came too, hot pulses of cum flooding your cunt while your walls clenched around him.

Jack's free hand stroked your hair. "You're doing so well," he whispered. "That's it. Let it all out."

Joel slowly pulled out, watching thick ropes of his release trickle down from your swollen pussy. He tucked himself back in, thinking that would be enough. 

But the needy ache in your core hadn't faded. Your hips still rocked, eyes glassy, silently begging for more. Your cunt started clenching again, desperate to be stuffed. 

Jack pulled his fingers out of your mouth, taking his gloves off. 

"She's…she's still not done," he said, his voice softer now, laced with an uncertainty that wasn't there before. 

He swallowed. "The flower's effects are cumulative. She's had three orgasms so far, but the pollen load was significant." 

Jack's fingers trailed down your cheek, your jaw, until they rested on your collarbone. "Your heart rate's still high." He glanced at Joel. "Can you hold her steady? I need to examine her cervix again."

Joel nodded, his hand moving to cradle your head. He leaned over you, his face inches from yours, his breath was warm against your cheek, pressing a kiss on your nose. "You hear that, baby? Doctor Abbott's gonna take a look. Just breathe, okay?"

Jack pulled on a fresh pair of gloves, the snap of latex loud in the quiet. 

He positioned himself between your legs again, his fingers gentle as he parted your slick folds. 

Your cunt was still a swollen, pink mess—puffy and raw, dripping with Joel's cum and your own release. 

Jack's brows furrowed deeper, his tongue wetting his lips. "No tearing. But she's inflamed. The tissue is still pretty engorged." He pressed two fingers just inside your entrance, and you gasped, your hips bucking. "Still sensitive. Very sensitive."

Joel watched, his eyes dark, the grip on your hand tightening. "What do we need to do?"

Jack withdrew his fingers slowly. "I think…I think she needs stimulation again. But maybe a different angle. She's been stimulated vaginally. The flower's compounds are absorbed through the mucous membranes, so oral stimulation might also help" He looked at Joel, and for the first time, a faint blush colored his cheeks. "I could…only if that's okay with you, I could use my mouth. On her. It's the gentlest way. Fingers or a toy might be too rough with the swelling."

Joel's eyebrows rised. He didn't say anything for a long moment, just stared at Jack with a mixture of surprise and unsureness. But he trusted him. "You're the doctor." 

Jack's answer was a shaky breath. 

He knelt down, his prosthetic clicking softly as he positioned himself between your spread thighs. He looked up at Joel, eyes wide, his voice was barely above a whisper. "I won't do something that you don't want."

"You won't," Joel said, and there's a quiet certainty in his voice. "You're good at what you do. And you care. That's all that matters."

Jack leaned in, his lips brushing the inside of your thigh first, a soft, hesitant kiss. He started murmuring to you, his words muffled against your skin. "It's okay, sweetheart. Just relax. Let me help you." 

He trailed his mouth up, leaving a wet path, until he reached your pussy. 

He hesitated at first, his breath hot against your swollen folds, and then his tongue darted out, flicking tentatively over your clit.

You cried out, a sharp, high sound, your hips jerking. 

Joel shushed you, his hand stroking your hair. "Easy, easy, honey. Let him work."

Jack's tongue moved in slow, careful circles, his eyes closed, his whole being focused on the task. He was so gentle—so so gentle it almost hurt. He let his tongue flatten, just barely, dragging the softest, wettest line from the bottom of your slit all the way up to the hood of your swollen clit.

When he reached the nub, he didn't flick or circle. 

Instead, he parted his lips just enough to take the tiny bud between them, not sucking, not even really holding—just resting it there, letting his breath ghost over it. He knew you were sensitive so he gave it a single, featherlight pulse of his tongue, like a heartbeat, before releasing it just as gently.

He pulled back for a moment, looking at Joel. "She's still very wet. The pollen keeps secreting fluids. That's good—it means her body is actively metabolizing." 

He pressed another kiss onto your inner thigh, his hand coming up to cup your mound, his thumb rubbing soft circles. "You're doing so well. Just a little more, okay? I'll make it good."

Joel watched, his breath coming heavier. He was hard again, his cock pressing against his jeans. 

He didn't touch himself, though. He just held you, his eyes locked on Jack's mouth as it worked over you, his own throat tight with something that feels like gratitude and jealousy all tangled together.

"I got her, Joel," Jack said between gentle strokes of his tongue, his voice strained. "She's responding. Clenching. She's—" He broke off as you moaned, your body beginning to tremble again. "She's close. Another one."

Joel leaned down, his lips brushing your ear. "Let go, baby. Let Jack take care of you. You can do it."

Your orgasm build, slow and deep, and when it finally broke; it's was a rolling, shuddering wave that pulled a desperate sob from your chest. 

He didn't stop, his tongue gentling through the aftershocks, drawing out every last tremor until you're limp, your body sagging into the chair.

"Good, yeah, that's real good," Jack pulled back, wiping his chin with his hand while looking at the fluids you released. "She did well." 

You breathed out, already feeling your cunt spasm again, in need of another release. 

Jack checked your fever and your blood pressure again, letting out a soft breath, turning to face Joel. His voice was low and gentle, unhurried. "It's still not stabilizing the way I'd like. Her heart rate's come down which is good. But her blood pressure's still sitting high, and her temperature's not dropping."

Joel's grip on your hand tightened. "God dammit. What else can we do?" He asked. "You said oral would help." 

Jack nodded slowly. "It did help. It brought her some relief. But the pollen is trapped in her pelvic tissue now. To fully clear it, she needs a stronger parasympathetic response. I think at this point, oral alone won't reach that deep."

He paused, thinking. 

"There's another option," he said, looking at Joel first, then down at you. "It's a bit more...involved. But I think it would work. I've read it in the reports."

Joel's brows furrowed. "Just tell me."

"Dual stimulation. It could trigger a more complete autonomic response. Simultaneous penetration of the vaginal and anal canals would increase overall parasympathetic activation, potentially clearing the pollen from deeper tissue through intensified contractions and fluid release."

He held up a hand, reassuring. "I know it sounds like a lot. But i've read enough of them in the reports."

Joel looked at you, then back at Jack. His voice was rough but not angry. "You mean, hell—both of us? At the same time?"

"If you're comfortable with that," Jack said, his tone still gentle, almost apologetic. "I wouldn't suggest it if I thought there was another way. But she's still suffering, Joel. I can see it in her eyes. And I don't want her fever to spike again."

Joel stared at the floor for a long moment, then looked at you. Your skin was still flushed, your eyes glassy with need, begging him to do something. You squeezed his hand weakly, a small sound escaping your throat. 

He let out a breath. "Fine. If it'll help her. But I swear to god above, Abbott, if she stays like this. Then—"

"Joel… I hear you," Jack murmured, hands half‑raised in a calming gesture. "I'm not…I'm not thrilled about this either. But I won't let anything happen to her. I promise you that."

He then knelt between your legs again, his hands resting lightly on your thighs. "I need to check if she's ready," he said. "The pollen causes natural relaxation, but I want to be sure there's no discomfort."

He pressed a thumb gently against your perineum, then traced it along the rim of your anus. 

The touch was featherlight, exploratory but uour body responded without a thought: a shiver, a soft gasp. 

Jack looked up at Joel, his expression calm.

"She's already relaxed. No prep needed." He nodded. 

Jack shifted his gaze to you. His hand remained where it was, a grounding pressure against your most intimate space. He spoke slowly, his voice a soothing murmur.

"Sweetheart, I'm going to tell you exactly what we're thinking, and you can take your time. There's no rush."

He paused, waiting for your eyes to meet his.

"Joel will be with you the way he always is—inside you, slow and gentle. And I'll be behind you, entering you here," he said, his thumb pressing just slightly inward, "in your bottom. We'll move together, very slowly, matching each other's pace. It'll feel full—intense—but it won't hurt if you're relaxed, and you are. The pollen will release, your fever will come down, and your heart will settle."

He watched your face, his eyes patient and warm.

Joel leaned down, brushing his lips against your nose. "It's your call, babygirl. I'm right here."

Your breathing hitched. The heat inside you coiled tighter, desperate. You looked up at Joel, then at Jack—his dark eyes patient, his hand steady on your body. 

You nodded, needy. 

"Yes," you whispered. "Please. I need something." 

Jack's lips curved into a faint, reassuring smile. "That's good. That's real good." He withdrew his hand slowly and looked at Joel. 

Joel's jaw tightened. He lifted your hand to his lips and pressed a kiss to your knuckles, slow and deliberate. Then he looked over his shoulder at Jack, and to the couch in the room. "This couch work for you? She'll be more comfortable there—pillows, somethin' to brace against."

Jack nodded, already moving. "I'll get it set up."

-

Jack cleared the sofa with efficient movements: tossing aside a pillow, spreading a clean blanket over the cushions, positioning two more pillows against the armrest. 

His hands moved with practiced precision, but there was a slight tremor in his fingers as he smoothed the fabric. 

He was trying to stay professional. It was cute, in a way; this man who had stitched up Joel's wounds and patched up Jackson's sick, now preparing a makeshift bed for something more intimate.

And you wouldn't lie if it didn't excite you. 

While Jack worked, Joel stayed with you. He cupped your face in both hands, his thumbs tracing the line of your cheekbones. 

"Hey," he murmured, tilting your chin up so you had to meet his eyes. "Look at me."

You did. His eyes so soft. Tender. The same eyes that had watched over you during patrol, that had softened when you begged him to take you to the forbidden parameter just to see those stupid, wild rabbits and play with them. 

"It's gonna be alright," he said. "You trust me?"

"Always," you breathed.

"Trust Jack?"

You glanced towards the sofa, where Jack was adjusting the last pillow. He caught your gaze and offered a small, reassuring smile—the same smile he gave before setting a broken bone, before delivering difficult news. 

Professional. Always kind and gentle. 

"Yes," you said. "I trust him."

Joel leaned in and kissed you then. Slow, thorought, a kiss that promised you stability. His lips moved against yours with a gentle pressure, his tongue brushing the seam of your mouth, tasting you. One hand slid into your hair, cradling the back of your head, while the other found the small of your back, pulling you just slightly closer.

When he broke the kiss, you were breathless. He rested his forehead against yours.

"Good girl," he whispered. "You're doing so good. Now let's get you comfortable."

Without warning, Joel slid one arm under your knees and the other behind your back, lifting you off of the exam chair as if you weighed nothing. 

You gasped, your arms instinctively winding around his neck.

Jack had positioned himself on the far end of the sofa, sitting sideways, his legs spread, a condom wrapper discarded on the side table. 

He was already hard—you could see the outline of his cock straining against his jeans, and when he shifted, the fabric pulled tight. 

"Come here," Jack said, his voice a low murmur. He patted the cushion besides him. "There we go."

Joel lowered you gently onto the sofa, your knees sinking into the plush cushion. You were facing him, your hands braced on his broad shoulders, while he sat down too. 

And behind you, you could feel the heat of Jack's body.

"Alright," Joel said, his hands sliding from your shoulders down your arms, leaving a trail of goosebumps. "He's gonna take care of you from behind. And I'll be right here." He tapped your chin, making you look at him. "Right in front of you. You need to stop, you tap my arm twice. You need a breath, you say my name. You hear?"

"Yes," you whispered.

"Good girl."

He touched you gently, his hands guiding your hips, your knees, until your back was closer to Jack and you were still facing Joel. He then  positioned you on your knees, the cushion soft beneath you, your thighs spread just enough to accommodate what was coming.

Jack's breath caught. 

His eyes roamed over you; the curve of your ass, your pretty waist, and your back. 

"You're in control," Jack said, and his voice was strained but still carrying that professional cadence, the doctor's calm. "I'm gonna put on a condom, then you can take it at your own pace." 

You heard the crinkle of a condom wrapper. Then the slick sound of him rolling it on. You looked over your shoulder, watching him position himself—knees spread, cock standing up from his body, the condom sheathing him in a thin layer of latex. 

His cock was thick, smaller than Joels, standing full and erect from a nest of dark and grey curls. His head was already a dark plum shade, slick with pre-cum bubbling on top, indicating that he was already hard all the while he examined you earlier.  

"Whenever you're ready, sweetheart." Jack said, and there was a raw edge to his voice now, the professional slip giving way to something hungrier. "Lower yourself onto me."

You reached behind you, fingers brushing his thigh. He flinched—a tiny jolt, involuntary. You saw his cock twitch, the head bobbing slightly.

"Please," you whispered. 

Jack's jaw tightened. His nostrils flared. He forced himself to nod, keeping his hands on his own knees. "It's okey. I'm right here." 

You braced one hand on the back of the sofa, the other reaching down to guide him. Your fingers found the head of his cock, slick with latex. 

You positioned it against your entrance—the tight ring of muscle that had just been stretched—and pushed back.

"There she goes." Joel murmured. 

The pressure was intense. 

A fullness that bordered on overwhelming. 

You felt every ridge, every inch as you sank onto him, your body yielding slowly, grudgingly. Jack's breath hissed through his teeth, a sharp, bitten-off sound. His knuckles were white where he gripped his own thighs, the tendons in his forearms standing out with the effort of staying still.

Joel breathed out, holding onto your waist as he guided you gently down. 

"Good," Jack managed, his voice strangled. "That's…that's perfect. You're doing so well." 

He was fully sheathed inside you then—your ass stretched around his cock, the sensation so deep it seemed to reach into your belly. You felt full, split open, but not in pain. Just…finally filled the way you needed it. 

In front of you, Joel watched your face with an intensity that made your stomach flip. His hand left your waist and stroked your thigh, a slow, grounding rhythm, his thumb tracing the crease where your leg met your hip. "You're my good girl." He whispered. 

His own cock was hard, straining against his jeans, but he made no move to touch himself. 

All his focus was on you.

"You got her?" Joel asked Jack, his voice low and gravelly.

"Yeah," Jack said, and his hands finally moved, settling on your hips. Not to guide you, not to push—just to steady. His palms were warm through the thin gown. "She's fully seated. Go ahead, Joel."

Joel's eyes never left yours. His cock thick and flushed, already slick with precum and your release from earlier. 

He shifted closer, his knees bracketing yours on the cushion, his cock pressing against your wet, waiting entrance. He didn't push in immediately. Instead, he leaned forward, pressing a kiss to your forehead, then your temple, then your lips—soft, lingering.

"I've got you," he murmured against your mouth. "Breathe for me. Deep and slow. I can feel you clenching already—you're so ready, baby." 

"Yes," you breathed.

He pushed in.

The sensation was indescribable—Joel's cock filling your cunt from the front, Jack's cock stretching your ass from behind. 

They were separated by only a thin wall of flesh, and you could feel every movement of each man through the other. Joel's thickness pressed against Jack's length, a constant, intimate pressure that made you gasp.

Joel groaned low in his chest, his forehead dropping to yours. "Fuck," he breathed. "There we go, honey. There we go. You feel so perfect around me." 

Behind you, Jack's grip tightened on your hips. "Jesus christ."

"I know," Joel said. "I know."

Joel stopped there, buried full, and let out a low breath against your neck. Then he looked down.

Your cunt was stretched wide around his shaft, the lips pulled apart, pink and slick with your own wetness. Below that, Jack's cock stuffed deep in your ass, making the whole patch of skin between your legs look swollen, used, full. 

He watched the way his own cock disappeared into you, how the flesh clung to him like it didn't want to let go. 

He then pressed a palm flat against your belly, rubbed slow circles just above where he's buried to calm you down.

They stayed still for a long moment—both of them buried inside you, your body stretched and full and trembling. Joel's breath was warm against your cheek. Jack's chest pressed against your back, his heart hammering against your shoulder blades.

"We're gonna move when you're ready. Slow and deep. Get your body to get used to it." Jack said behind you, gripping your waist. 

Joel huffed as a nod, giving your cheek a kiss before his hand touched your mound, spreading you to watch himself. 

Then they began to move. Small, shallow thrusts. 

At first, it's barely more than a pulse—a subtle shift of both cocks deep inside you, rocking in place. Your pussy flutters around the first, a gentle squeeze that welcomes the tiny motion. Your ass clenches around the second, holding him tight as he budges fractionally in and out.

You gasped, burying your head into his neck. 

"Shh, it's okey." he murmured, his voice rough with emotion. "You can take it, babygirl." 

His lips found your cheek, soft and lingering. He pulled you back just enough to meet your eyes—half-lidded, glassy, still lost in the haze of pleasure. His thumb traced over your cheekbone, wiping a smear of drool from the corner of your mouth.

"So damn beautiful, aren't you?"

Behind you, Jack's breathing was heavy, controlled. He was pumping inside you, careful not to be fast, his hands resting on your hips with a gentleness that belied the tension in his shoulders. 

Over your shoulder, his gaze met Joel's.

A silent conversation passed between them. A nod. 

A confirmation. We're good. She's good. Keep going.

"She is doing good," Jack murmured. 

Joel nodded, his hand sliding down your side, fingers tracing the dip of your waist, the swell of your hip. "Best girl," he said, low and warm. "Yeah, baby?"

A sound tore out of you then. 

Loud, ragged, utterly needy. It rose from somewhere deep in your chest—a whine that had no shape, no words, just pure, aching want. 

Jack smiled. "Is she drooling again?"

Joel pulled back just enough to look at your face. Your lips were parted, slack, a glistening string of saliva stretching from your lower lip to your chin. 

Your eyes were all hazy, unfocused, your breath coming in shuddering gasps.

"Mmhmm," Joel hummed. "Look at you, baby. All drooling to your chin. Messy thing." 

Jack couldn't help but chuckle, his cock twitching inside you. His hand came up from behind then. His finger in latex, pressed against your lips without hesitation. The touch was light though, asking permission, even now.

Your mouth opened, and you took him in.

You closed your mouth around him and sucked, hard, hollowing your cheeks, pulling him deeper. A deep, shuddering satisfaction rolled through your chest. 

Your eyes fluttered closed. This was what you needed. Something to suck on. Something to anchor you. 

Jack's hissed out. "There you go. That helps, huh?" 

Joel's hand slid down your belly, past the slick, glistening mess of your thighs, until his thumb found your clit. It was swollen, angry red, twice its normal size and pushing out from its hood like a small, desperate pearl. The barest brush of his calloused thumb made your whole body jolt, a shockwave of sensation that ripped through you.

"Easy, Joel." Jack murmurs, his voice a low. "Her clitoris is sensitive right now. If you apply too much direct pressure, she might get overwhelmed. Try lighter, circular motions, just around the hood. Let her build."

Joel nodded, his eyes analysing your face as he touched the little nub gently. Slow, deliberate circles, barely any pressure.

Your back bowed, arching into Jack's chest, your mouth clamping down on his finger, sucking for dear life. 

The orgasm that ripped through you was sudden, violent but perfect. It started in your clit, that single point of pressure and radiated outwards in hot, electric waves. Your cunt clenched around Joel's cock, your ass tightening around Jack's. 

A broken cry escaped around the latex in your mouth.

"That's it," Jack groaned, pushing his finger deeper into your mouth, feeling your throat convulse around the tip. "Just like that, sweetheart. You got it."

Joel's smile was soft, his eyes wet with something profound. He kept his thumb moving in slow, steady circles, drawing out every last tremor of your climax. 

"You're doing so good for us, baby. Flushin' all that pollen out, huh?"

You nodded as best you could, gasping, drool pooling around Jack's knuckles. 

They held still then, pausing their thrusts and letting your body catch up, letting the aftershocks of your releasre ripple through you.

Jack's free hand moved to your wrist. 

His thumb pressed into the delicate skin, feeling the rapid thrum of your pulse. He counted silently. Then he moved his hand to the side of your neck, feeling the beat there, strong and wild. He pressed his palm to your forehead, then your cheek.

"Fever's going down," he said, the doctor's cadence threading back through the ragged lust in his voice. "Pulse is still a touch elevated. One more good one should flush the last of it out of her system completely."

He pulled his wet finger from your mouth with a 

slick pop. A string of saliva connected his glove to your lower lip, stretching thin, then breaking. 

Your mouth stayed open, seeking, needy so Joel planted open mouthed kisses on the corner of your lips. 

"S'so much, Joel," you whined, the words slurred and breathless. Your voice cracked. "S'too much. Can't—can't take—"

"I know, babygirl." Joel leaned in and pressed a long, lingering kiss to your forehead. His lips stayed there, warm and steady. "I know. But you can. You're almost there. One more. Just one more for us."

"Gonna be a good girl for me?" He asked. "For Doctor Abbott, too?" 

Joel glanced over at Jack, catching the faint flush rising in his cheeks. Jack swallowed dropping his gaze, and that tiny, embarrassed gesture pulled a low chuckle out of Joel.

You whined, nodding your head quickly. Your head lulled back, dropping to Jack's neck and looking up at him. 

"Are you?" he murmured, looking at you, the words slipping out before he could stop them—quiet, direct, and meant only for you.

Joel’s brows lifted, a slow grin tugging at his mouth. 

Your eyes went wide at his question. You nodded before you even realized you were doing it, breath catching as you stayed pressed against him.

Then, before you could turn around, Joel started thrusting upwards again. Slow, deep, deliberate. 

Each stroke was a long drag against your walls, a languid exploration of the slick, hot grip of your cunt. 

Jack started matching him, finding the counterpoint rhythm—sliding deeper as Joel pulled back, filling the space Joel left. His eyes were still on you, steady, nodding against the thrusts and counting them. 

The fullness was overwhelming, the stretch a perfect pressure that occupied every empty inch inside you.

A whine broke from your mouth. Your head stayed on Jacks shoulder, while your eyes landed on Joels face again.

He grunted, speeding his hips, calloused hands on your thighs moving you to the rhythm he built. 

"Someone's close," Jack said, his voice low.

"She is," Joel agreed breathless, hair falling damp to his forehead. "My sweet girl."

You moaned—sweet, broken, the sound rising from your chest like a prayer. Your head fell still Jack's shoulder, your eyes fluttering closed. Sweat glistened on your skin, beaded on your collarbone, trickled between your breasts.

Jack's hands slid up your damp stomach then.

They were slow, exploratory, tracing the lines of your ribs, the soft swell of your belly. 

His palms cupped your breasts, lifting them slightly, feeling their weight. His thumbs found your nipples—hard pebbles against the cool latex of his gloves. He rolled them gently, watching your face for reaction.

"These are also very sensitive," he observed. The clinical observation was a thin veneer over the raw truth—he just wanted his hands on you. And he started to become bold enough to do so. 

His thumbs circled and circled, pressed and pressed while pinched ever so lightly.

You whimpered, your hips bucking upward, grinding against Joel's thrusts.

"They are," Jack repeated, more to himself. "Good. That's good."

Joel watched your face, his pace quickening. A fine sheen of sweat covered his forehead, and a vein stood out on his neck. 

"Look at me, darlin'. C'mon. Let me see those eyes." 

You forced your lids open. Joel's gaze was locked on yours—dark, tender, burning.

"There you go," He growled. "Look at my babygirl...enjoying herself on two cocks, yea?"

Your cheeks flushed red at his words, closing your eyes again. 

The slick, wet sounds of your bodies filled the room. Jack's fingers stayed on your nipples, rolling, tugging, pinching in rhythm with the thrusts.

"Hey, look at me." Jack said behind you, firm. 

You did, looking into his eyes lazily. 

"You're close. I need you to focus on us, is that clear?" He asked, eyes searching for any discomfort in your face. 

Your eyes went wide at the sudden firmness in his voice. You nodded quickly, breath catching as you tried to steady your focus on him like he asked.

Joel let out a low, hum. “Yeah,” he said, a slow grin pulling at his mouth. “Listen to him.”

The pressure was building again—impossible, overwhelming. You were close, just like Jack said. Your thighs trembled. Your belly tightened. A hot coil wound in your core, drawing tighter with every stroke.

"C'mon," Joel urged, his voice dropping to a growl. "Give it to me, sweetheart. Let go. I'll catch you."

Jack's hips slapped against your ass, faster now, deeper. "Cum for us, sweetheart." he whispered against your ear. "Release it all. One more time."

And you did.

A hot gush came out of you—not a trickle, not a spasm, but a flood. It poured from your cunt, soaking Joel's cock, your thighs, his lap, the blanket beneath you. 

A broken cry tore from your throat, raw and desperate, as you squirted hard, the release feeling like the fever finally leaving your body. 

Your vision went white.

"Fuck," Jack groaned. He pulled out in one slick motion, the condom still snug on his cock. He ripped it off, stroking himself twice, three times, and spilled into the latex with a raw, shuddering groan that seemed to come from deep in his chest. "Fuck, fuck, fuck."

Joel's arms were around you instantly. 

He dragged you flush against his sweaty chest, your weight settling on top of him as he fell back against the couch cushions. 

He was still inside you, buried deep, and he didn't stop. He thrusted up into you—four powerful, driving strokes, each one hitting that perfect, swollen spot.

"One more, sweetheart. C'mon. One more for me." He whispered into your ear. 

You squirted again—a weaker gush, a final release that flooded his belly and pooled beneath you. You cried out, burying your face into his neck. 

Joel let out a guttural grunt, his hips stuttering as he came, hot and thick, pumping into you with a desperate, possessive rhythm. His fingers dug into your hips, holding you in place.

Your body went limp, boneless, slack against Joel's chest. Your face burrowed into the hollow of his throat, into the damp, salty warmth of his skin. 

His heartbeat thudded against your cheek, strong and steady.

The world finally went soft, and your body relaxed. 

Jack on the other hand, moved with quiet efficiency besides you. His hands were gentle as he pressed two fingers to the hollow of your throat, counting the steady thrum of your pulse. 

He lifted one of your eyelids gently, checking your pupil response. A small flashlight flickered in his hand—when had he grabbed it? You had no idea. He pressed his palm to your forehead, your cheek, the side of your neck.

"She's asleep," he confirmed, his voice dropping to a whisper. "Completely out. Pulse is seventy-two. Pupils reactive. Skin temperature normal. Pollen's probably fully out. She's going to be just fine."

Joel's arm tightened around you, a possessive, protective reflex. 

He pressed a long kiss to the crown of your head, breathing you in. His hand came up to stroke your hair, smoothing the damp strands away from your face.

"God damn," he said to the ceiling, his voice a worn-out rasp. "That was wild."

He turned his head. Jack was on his feet, pulling his jeans up his hips, fastening his belt. Reaching for his flannel shirt. His movements were precise, unhurried, but there was a tremor in his hands that betrayed the cost of control.

"Thank you," Joel said. "No more bunnies for this Honeygirl." 

Jack paused mid-motion, chuckling, his hand on the collar of his shirt. He looked at Joel, then at your sleeping form, tucked into the curve of Joel's throat. Your lips were parted, your breath even and deep. 

He gave a single nod.

All that needed to be said, understood perfectly between them.

He finished buttoning his shirt and padded quietly into the kitchen. The faucet ran. A glass clinked. He was already preparing water for when you woke up, already thinking ahead.

Joel held you closer, his hand stroking your back in slow, soothing circles. 

He pressed another kiss to your hair, then let his eyes close, just for a moment, listening to the steady rhythm of your breathing, the proof that you were safe.

The way i googled the weirdest things guys...i've literally learned so much about the body LMFAO. if anybody sees my history they would think i've gone crazy. Also this is definitely not an excuse to write medical kink no no🫣

I hope this met some expectations, i'm still very very new to writing Jack abbott so please bear with me!!!

Look at them. All dolled up for the club, short dresses and long legs, bright make up and sparkling glitter on their chests and arms. In an hour or so they’ll look different — the make up will be smudged, the glitter will fade after sweating on the dance floor. They’ll lose their previous shine and leave the club in various stages of ’drunk’. This is when Joel will get them.

He doesn’t deal with too drunk ones. He’s not into it. He might help their friends to load them into a cab but nothing else.

Joel loves the tipsy ones though. Their glossy eyes, their constant giggling, their wet pussies. Of course, he still needs to work his charm, flash them a playful smile, run his big hand through his salt and pepper curls, flex his strong forearms. They don’t even know it but he’s got them the moment they stare at his bulge. He adjusts the prominent lump shamelessly, attracting their attention to it. Not that they can miss it anyway.

The only visible flaw of Joel is his age. Not every 20 or 30 year old wants to fuck a guy who’s pushing 50. That’s when the alcohol they drank at the club comes in handy.

Here’s one. She stumbles out of Paradise in her high heels like a newborn lamb, tapping on the phone, probably trying to get an Uber, and a few moments later Joel steps out of the shadows and into the pink neon light.

"Hello, miss. You seen my daughter in there? M'supposed to pick her up but she's not answerin."

The young woman blinks at him with confusion so he continues,

"Long curly hair, green dress...No?" Then he pulls his phone out and pretends to check his messages.

"Ugh... Says she's gonna be there for another hour. She always does that." He shakes his head with a deep sigh. "Woke me up in the middle of the night to get her and now..."

It works wonderfully. The hottie sings a long 'Awwww‘, cooing at the older man the same way she would at a cute kitten. He's the world's best dad in her eyes - sweet and devoted, horribly underappreciated by his ungrateful daughter. He's got his hook in and now it's time to reel her in.

"Oh! I can give you a lift. My truck's right here. Can take you to your place and then return to get Bunny."

"Oh my godddd," she squeals, melting at the cute nickname for his daughter. In reality if he called Sarah Bunny she'd probably throw something heavy at him and tease him till the end of times, but this chick instantly believes him and in a minute hops into his car.

Now it's time for the catch. Joel is confidently stirring the wheel with one hand, driving her to the address she's given, and talks her pretty ears off. Not that he needs to do a lot of talking. A few phrases are enough —

'S'not easy bein’ a single dad’

‘Yeah, it's two of us against the world.’

'She means everything to me.'

BOOM!

The girl's panties are on the car floor and she's bouncing on his cock in the back seat. Her whole tit in Joel's mouth, he's swirling his tongue over the salty skin of her erect nipple. Her pussy is tight and soft, the juices are flowing generously around his shaft, her slick is all over his balls, but it's ok — he'll ask her to clean them with her tongue later before she swallows his huge load.

Joel never plans what exactly he’s gonna do to them. He wings it, sees where the mood takes them. Nothing’s off the table but only if the girl’s into it.

Tonight he’s a little tired after managing his contracting company but still drives to Paradise to treat himself. He gets a fresh pack of condoms on the way and a bottle of water. For her. His girls are always thirsty after he’s done with them.

As soon as he sees the pink neon lights of the sign in his windshield, his cock twitches in excitement.

“Shh, calm down,” Joel grumbles, adjusting himself. “S‘too early. Haven’t found anyone yet.”

He knows he will. If not the first will say ‘yes’, then the second. He’s patient. He’s got the whole night.

Ten minutes after he’s here, a group of four women exits the club. Joel is watching them from his truck— their animated chatter rings loudly in the empty street. Joel narrows his eyes, carefully studying the women through the haze of cigarette smoke surrounding them.

He’s not religious but at this moment he prays for one of them to split up from the group. You.

They’re all hot, besides Joel doesn’t have a type, but damn you’re gorgeous. There’s something so captivating about you that even from the distance Joel feels your magnetic pull. “Fuck,” he mutters, palming himsleft, imagining what he could do to a sweet thing like you.

C’mon, ditch the others, baby. Come to daddy.

He fidgets in his seat, seeing the three women hug you, hopefully saying goodbye, and almost fist pumps when they go back into the club, leaving you outside.

You’re alone.

Here’s his chance.

You slowly walk away from the entrance, pulling out your phone out of your bag, and Joel hurries out of his truck.

Show time.

Joel strides to you, not hiding the sound of his heavy steps on the pavement, but when only a few steps separate you and him, his legs freeze. He takes you in and suddenly feels like a nervous teenager who’s about to talk to the hottest girl in school. A doubt crawls into his chest and he frowns.

Should he approach you?

No way you’ll go with him.

Probably waiting for your boyfriend to pick you up..?

”Hello.”

You address him first and Joel’s heartbeat skyrockets, when you set your beautiful eyes on him. They’re full of curiosity, and nervously shifting on his feet, Joel clears his throat and croaks a low ‘Howdy.” You give him a polite smile, waiting for him to talk, your expression calm and warm.

For a second Joel contemplates turning around and leaving, but a playful glint flashing in your gaze puts him back in the game.

He takes a step towards you and starts bullshitting you about his daughter being in the club, but your eyes throw him off immediately. They aren’t droopy or hazy like other women usually have after a night of partying. No, they’re intent and seemingly stare right into his soul. Joel doesn’t like it. A weird feeling is gnawing at his stomach, like his gut’s telling him to back off, but acting on autopilot he pulls out his phone and lies,

“Oh…got a text. She’s not leaving yet.”

His heart is pounding in his chest, sweat beads on his temples, when you tilt your head to the side, your piercing gaze fixed on him.

What the fuck is happening?

All the girls he picks up are hot, what’s so different about you, that he can’t get his shit together?

He’s not getting any usual reactions from you, not a single ‘aww’ follows his deceitful words.

“Would you like a ride?” Joel finally blurts out, not believing for a second you’ll say ‘yes’ after this failure of a performance.

You stare at Joel for a few long seconds, making him hold his breath, until you say something that completely pulls the rug out from under his feet,

“That would be great, Mr Miller.“

…….

‘Mr Miller?’

Fuck!

Fuckfuckfuckfu….

Joel feels like a mouse when kitchen lights turn on - scared, anxious, caught.

He fakes a smile, his hands curling into loose fists, and asks, feigning calmness,

“Do we know each other?”

You put your phone in your little purse, nodding and smiling,

“Yeah, Sarah and I were friends in high school.”

Shit.

“For some time,” you add and tell him your name. He doesn’t remember you but ’Sarah’s friend’ is more than enough for him to back off. You might be sexy as hell but he’s got principles. He chose Paradise specifically because it was far away from his neighbourhood, the risk of running into someone who knew him seemed minuscule, yet apparently it still existed.

“Sorry, it doesn’t ring any bells. I guess I'll get going. Nice meetin you. Have a good night.”

Joel offers you a polite smile and starts walking away. He can’t wait to drive off and forget this fuckup has ever happened.

“Mr Miller!”

His heart plummets into his stomach as he turns back to you.

“Yeah?”

“You offered me a ride.” You remind him, looking at him with those pretty eyes of yours. They lure him in but promise trouble.

“Oh!” Joel rubs his scruffy cheek and curses under his breath. “Yeah, sure.”

Your face lights up and you hurry to the truck. Joel trails after you, leering at your gorgeous ass, but then turns his eyes away with a grunt.

Of course, there was a possibility that someone would recognize him hanging around that club but he didn’t expect it to happen today. Maybe that’s why he felt so uneasy moments before talking to you — his intuition was telling him that you were bad news.

And you are bad news alright — your dress is too short not to stare at your naked legs, your neckline is too low not to ogle your tits, but Joel keeps his eyes on the road with determination, driving you to the address you’ve given.

“Thank you for the ride, Mr Miller,” you interrupt his thoughts, sitting in the passenger seat, and add, “It’s very kind of you.”

Joel shifts his jaw, his gaze piercing the darkness outside. If you talk about him being at the club, it all could end very badly. He has a good reputation in town, he doesn’t need any rumours spreading around. And if it reaches Sarah? The thought makes his stomach turn.

For a few minutes it’s completely quiet in the truck, except for the growling of the motor. Joel’s glad that you don’t wanna do small talk — driving along the empty road calms his heartbeat, taking the weight off his chest. ’It’s gonna be ok,’ he thinks, he'll drive you to your place and then go home. And no hook ups tonight. He’s too agitated.

”Mr Miller?”

He swallows hard.

“Hm?”

“Is Sarah in town?”

“No, she’s in college. Out of state,” Joel mumbles, glancing at you, and sees your brows shoot up as you ask,

“But you said she was at the club.”

Shittttttttt!

Joel kicks himself in the nuts in his mind, his knuckles whiten from how hard he’s gripping the wheel.

How is he so fucking dumb?!

“I… got confused I guess,” he mumbles, trying to dig himself out of the shit hole.

“You said she sent you a text. From the club.”

“No, yeah.. I ..”

Joel’s trying to come up with a plausible explanation, but his brain is an anthill on fire. Nothing comes to mind, his thoughts are a mess.

“You lied to me?”

Joel side eyes you — your brows pinched, lips in a pout, suspicion loud in your gaze.

“No! Why would I do it?” he gruffs but the ire in your tone burns him when you press,

“Exactly. Why would you?”

He turns his head to you and your eyes lock. He should concentrate, should come up with an excuse, but your beauty turns his brain into mush, and trying to shake off the spell, he breaks eye contact.

“I saw that you needed a lift. Wanted to help out.”

The silence that follows his words doesn’t bring him comfort now, it’s ringing loudly in his ears. You must be thinking all of it over and it can’t be good. He’s actually glad when you finally talk, yet his joy is short-lived as you conclude,

”You created that whole story to lure me into your car.”

Fucking bingo!

When you put it like that, Joel starts feeling like a giant creep. But are you wrong? You’ve just described what he’s been doing for weeks.

Your next question hits him like a punch in the gut.

“Are you a serial killer?”

“No, damn! ‘course not!” Joel raises his hand, palm to you, and searches for your eyes, fast to reassure you. “I’ll never hurt you, sweetheart.”

His heart is pounding in his ears —what if you call the police on him…? Tonight feels like a never ending nightmare, and he offers, his voice strained,

“I’ll pull over right away and get you an uber.”

All of a sudden you start laughing,

“No-no-no. I’m not afraid of you, Mr Miller.”

You continue giggling as he’s staring at you, realising that you’re fucking with him.

“I watch true crime to relax, I’m not afraid of serial killers anyway.”

“I’m not a serial killer,” he insists passionately but you continue,

“Besides, if you were” — “m’not!”— “you’re much stronger than me and if you wanted to kill me, — “Jesus, I don’t!— “I wouldn’t be able to fight you off.”

“I don’t wanna … ugh..” Joel huffs, feeling annoyed and frustrated. How the hell did the conversation get here? You’re fucking trouble. He should’ve left you on that street.

“Mind if I smoke?” he gruffs, pulling a pack out of his pocket.

“Go ahead,” you purr, and completely unaware of Joel’s inner tsunami of thoughts, get comfortable in your seat — throw off your heels, put your purse in the back and slightly turn to him, crossing your legs. Joel lights a cigarette and throws a glance at them. Ugh, he’s too irritated to appreciate your naked thighs.

”Then what was it all about?” you ask softly in the darkness of the car.

Joel doesn’t say anything, he’s already said too damn much. Instead he takes a drag in hopes of calming down.

”Did ya wanna hook up?”

Joel scoffs and glares at you.

“No. I— I just wanted you to get home safe.”

“Mmm really?” Your tone’s dripping with doubt. “So you just appeared out of nowhere and lied to me so you could give me a ride? Because you’re such a good guy? No hidden intentions?”

Joel feels that the more he talks the deeper grave he’s digging for himself, so he decides not to respond again and brings the cigarette to his lips.

You sigh.

“Mr Miller. We’re both adults. Tell me the truth.” Honey in your voice sends a shiver down his spine. Are you flirting with him? Damn minx.

”I promise I won’t tell anyone.”

Joel’s ears perk up.

“Anyone?” He repeats.

“Not a soul.”

He stops the truck at a red light, throws the half finished butt out of the window and gives you a long look. You’re fumbling with your necklace, inviting him to stare at your cleavage. Your lips are glossy and enticing, they must feel amazing, the idea of tasting them sends blood to his cock. You’re batting your lashes at him, gaze soft and intimate.

Yeah, baby, you definitely want this cock.

No! He can’t!

Joel averts his eyes and drives. He shouldn’t believe you. He should calm down and shut up. But like a magnet you pull him back with a quiet hum. His gaze involuntarily travels back to you and when he sees your brows pinched, your sparkling eyes pleading, your lips in a little pout, something flips in his brain. He wants to give you whatever the fuck you want, wants to confess all his sins to you. The words jump out of his mouth as if by themselves as he admits,

“I meet women this way.”

Joel braces himself for your reaction but hears none— for a few seconds it’s just silence. When he turns his head to you, you pang his pride with a smirk.

“I knew it,” you state, not a trace of surprise.

Joel frowns at you and grumbles,

“Good for you.”

Looking pleased with yourself you continue,

“So you give them a ride and then get their number?”

“Nah, I don’t do numbers.” He rubs the back of his neck, not saying anything else, letting you come to the understanding by yourself.

“Woahhh.” Your brows rise up as you say, “you just fuck them.”

Clever girl, you got it fast.

Joel’s head darts to you — a playful glimmer shines in your eyes. You both know you crossed a line when that word fell from your lips. And damn, he loves the way you say it.

“Yeah, we have sex.”

You’re nodding slowly and Joel might be mistaken but you look almost impressed. He feels a strange mixture of guilt and pride at your unexpected reaction.

”You take them to your place?”

“No, never. We do it in the car.”

“Ewww!!” You squeal, sitting up and lifting your arms off the seat, as if the whole car is covered in bodily fluids. “You fuck them in this truck?!”

“Jesus, relax, I clean up after.”

Joel shoots you a glare and you lean back, giggling,

“Still eww.”

For some time you don’t say anything, your eyes are sliding over the night outside the truck window. Joel runs his hand through the greying curls as fear tugs at his heart. What if you lied to him about keeping it a secret? What if you’re disgusted by him? Of course, you are. Sticky feeling nests in Joel’s stomach as he’s driving you to your place, but your next phrase makes him forget all about his gloomy thoughts.

“Tell me about the last time.”

Joel turns to you to see if you’re serious. Seems that way — a little smile curves your pretty lips but your narrowed eyes are pushing him to answer. Joel shakes his head with a chuckle.

”No way.”

“Pleaseeee, Mr Miller,” you beg. “I’m so curious. I’ll keep it to myself. Girl Scout honour!” You raise three fingers in the air, and your charming smile disarms him.

Joel rubs his scruffy chin with a sweaty palm, the other steering the wheel. For a few moments it’s just silence until he speaks,

“Promise not to tell Sarah that you saw me today.”

”Mr Miller, I’ve said it already and I'll say it again. I won’t talk to anyone about you and your… hobby. In fact, I got a cab home.”

“Good girl.” The words slip out of his mouth on accident and he curses but the damage is done. When your eyes meet, he sees fire in them. Biting your lip you tut,

“Mr Miller.”

“S’not like that,” he rushes to explain. “I meant ‘good’ that you won’t talk.”

“Rightttt,” you smirk. “So?”

Joel shifts his jaw contemplating his response. If you get what you want, maybe you’ll keep your promise. He needs you to. So he caves in.

“Saw her outside the club. Offered a ride. She agreed. We talked. Then I parked at the side of the road and ehm.. we fooled around. Then I drove her to her place.”

“Fooled around? Nah-uh! I need details.”

Joel scowls at you but your eyes bend his will in seconds. He stares at the road ahead and talks, his voice soft, as if someone could overhear him,

“She was sexy. Was wearin a short dress— kinda like yours. I told her a little about myself… this and that… she —,” Joel clears his throat and continues, “she gave me head. Bent over and sucked me off —right here — and I fingered her.”

He feels blood rushing to his cock, but not only because of the memory. The woman was hot, yeah, but telling you about it— that’s what’s turning him on to the maximum.

Your voice is breathy and barely audible as you ask,

“Did she swallow?”

Your sensual tone together with the question makes Joel’s cock throb, he’s probably leaking into his boxers already as he rasps,

“Yeah.”

“Good.”

The air in the car is now heavy and electric. Joel can’t help but throw glances at you while headlights of the passing cars light up your face, your tits, your legs — the vision sends a lustful shiver through his body. He needs to jerk off when he’s home.

You don’t give him a respite and your next question almost pulls a groan out of him,

“Did you make her come?”

He doesn’t tear his eyes off the road as he replies,

“Yeah.”

In his peripheral vision Joel notices you squirming in your seat and a corner of his lip curves up— he loves that the story’s making you horny. If only he could see you needy, begging for his cock right now.

Damnit! What’s wrong with him? You are Sarah’s friend. He mustn’t think about you this way.

“Ok. That’s enough.” He gruffs and takes a deep breath, trying to smother his own arousal.

“Do they wanna meet you again? After…” You ask, ignoring his last sentence.

“Usually, yes. I give them a random number. Don’t wanna offend..”

You gasp exaggeratingly with your hand on your chest.

“Oh my god! You’re such an asshole!”

Joel can’t help but chuckle and at the back of his mind for some strange reason he wants to impress you. Even with his depravity.

“I’m just not looking for anything serious, darlin. We have fun and never see each other again.”

“Fascinating,” you mumble, your eyes on the road.

“Hmm?”

You seem to be thinking out loud, talking more to yourself than him,

“How d’you do it? Yeah, you’re a hot dilf, but … How do you make them sleep with you so fast?”

Joel grunts but his chest expands when he hears your praise.

“I don’t make anyone do anything. It’s all consensual.”

“Well, they are drunk.”

“Not drunk. Tipsy.”

You hum again and he hates it. Hates how smug you’re looking… how hot.

“You can judge me, I ain’t stoppin you,” he throws with a shrug.

“Who said I’m judging?”

His eyebrow flies up and you shrug your shoulders mimicking him.

"No one's perfect. We all do questionable shit from time to time. Doesn’t mean we’re bad people.”

Joel doesn’t say anything. Your words make him feel warm in his chest and he glances at you, saying softly,

“You can call me Joel.”

“Yeah, I bet you’d want me to, Mr Get-into-my-truck.” You immediately shut him down with a smirk and Joel scoffs,

“S’ not like that with you.”

“Sure, Joel,“ you giggle, sitting up straight. “Can you stop over there?” You point at the corner of the street with your hand. “I’ll walk the rest of the way. Don’t want my dad to wake up and lecture me.”

Wanting to taunt you back, Joel asks, “Ain’t you a bit old to be lectured? Or is he overprotective?”

You clear your throat and nod,

“Yeah, something like that.”

He pulls over and you unfasten your seatbelt.

“I’m gonna watch you, make sure you’re home safe.“

“Yeah, right. Probably gonna stare at my ass.”

He huffs with annoyance but your giggle makes him smile, too.

“Good night, Joel,” you purr, looking him right in the eye. The way you say his name sends more blood to his stiffening cock.

”Night, sweetheart,” he gruffs and you laugh again.

Then you get out of the car and walk to your house.

Just like you predicted, Joel stares at your perky ass. Your hips are swaying so seductively, Joel palms his cock, and a groan falls from his mouth.

He’s definitely going to jerk off.

On the way home Joel’s mind is occupied by you. Your questions and his answers are swirling in his head on a loop. Why has he told you so much? He should’ve been more careful, more reserved. But damn, your eyes, your body, your soft voice… He’d like to do so much more than talking. But, you’re off limits. You know too much about him. Make him feel too much. He must forget about ever meeting you, let alone looking for a way to see you again.

Unfortunately for Joel, you give him no choice when a week later you show up at his doorstep.

Thank you for reading! Please comment and reblog if you enjoyed the chapter! Let me know if you want to be tagged in the future parts💞

MASTERLIST

Tag list: @milla-frenchy @harriedandharassed @iamasaddie @nervousmumbling @bbyanarchist @stevie75 @puduvallee @mountainsandmayhem @senoratess @flamingochick55 @theoraekenslover @schnarfer @mermaidgirl30 @staywildflowahchild @yesjazzywazzylove-blog @evolnoomym @keylimebeag @thedilfdiaries @pascaltesaye @meetmeatyourworst @callmebyyournick-name @tateypots @pedrofan

Series tag list: @pedrofan

Your lips close around the straw again, and though your vision is slightly blurred at the edges, you stay locked in on the silver-haired man in his fifties, full beard and all, leaning against the wall with a cue stick in hand as he waits for his turn. He laughs at something his buddy says, and somehow, the drink tastes sweeter while you’re watching those broad shoulders under a plain black T-shirt and those strong thighs in faded dark jeans.

His turn.

He leans over the table, lines up the shot. His biceps flex, looking even bigger as he makes that typical forward-and-back motion before striking. His eyes are fixed on the red ball, until…

Suddenly, they’re on you.

Your stomach drops like you swallowed an ice cube. Still looking your way, brows slightly furrowed, he makes the shot. You don’t even have to follow the ball to know it sank clean.

His friend says something, and just like that, he looks away.

“Oh my God, stop flirting with the geriatrics,” your friend says, placing another espresso martini in front of you. “Adam wants to take you home. You know, the skinny blond guy…”

“The twenty-seven-year-old,” you say. “He’s a baby. And I bet he’s circumcised.”

“You’re twenty-five. What’s your beef with circumcised guys?”

You skip that question because there’s no polite way to explain your preference when it comes to pool cues.

“I like my men the way I like my cheese.”

“Old and stinky?”

“Aged!” you correct. “Y’all can keep your cheddar. I want my Gruyère.”

Your table erupts in laughter.

It’s your oldest friend’s birthday tonight, and you all decided to celebrate her twenty-ninth at Miller’s Bar, run by Tommy, an old friend of your dad’s, and his wife, Maria. Luckily, your summer break from grad school lined up with her birthday, and coming back to Austin is always worth it for nights like this.

And it’s not hard to imagine the kind of attention a group of girls in short skirts, high boots, and crop tops draws inside a traditional Texas bar.

You’re halfway through your espresso martini on your next sip, and for some reason, that reminds your bladder it needs attention. You excuse yourself and get up, though no one really hears you, and head straight for the bathrooms in the back of the bar, tucked at the end of a dim, nicotine-reeking hallway, where the air clings to your skin and the walls are hung with fading paintings of bulls, cows and longhorns.

Your bathroom mission is quick, mostly because it’s way too dirty to linger. Pee, quick reflection while perched on the toilet seat (layered in toilet paper), a bit of lipstick, a quick hair touch-up.

The music from outside, a Dolly Parton classic, fills the bathroom as you open the door, and it only takes one step into the dark hallway for you to slam into a wall of concrete.

“Shit,” says the wall.

Strong hands catch your shoulders and push you back, and suddenly your face is being tilted up by firm fingers.

“You alright?”

Black T-shirt. Gray beard. You blink, looking up, and your stomach flips again. He’s even bigger up close.

“Oww,” you whisper dramatically, touching your temple. Showtime. Anything to keep his hands on you a little longer. “I think I’ve got a concussion.”

“Doubt it. Looks to me like you’ve had a few too many.”

“You sure? Here,” you grab his hand and place it on your forehead. “Do I have a fever? What if you gave me a concussion?”

“Your fault for not lookin’ where you were going.”

You squint up at him again. He pulls his hand away and only now do you realize just how big it is and how thick his fingers are.

He’s raising an eyebrow, but there’s a hint of amusement on his lips that pushes you to blurt your name, offer a handshake, and say:

“How about I buy you a drink as an apology?”

The smile dies. He ignores your hand, pats the top of your head twice, like you would a puppy, and sidesteps you, saying:

“Go find someone your age, kiddo. Plenty of boys in there’ll want you.”

“I don’t want someone my age!” you call out after his retreating back.

“Too damn bad.”

He steps into the men’s room, and you feel your shoulders slump with disappointment. Would a lower-cut top have helped?

“When you think like that, feminism goes back twenty years,” your friend says when you repeat that exact thought to her. “He’s supposed to like you for your personality.”

“I don’t want him to eat out my personality.”

He walks past your booth and heads back to the pool area, and your eyes eat him up again, but then Adam, the allegedly circumcised boy, and his crew show up, cramming into your booth and blocking your view.

It’s hard, but you resist the urge to roll your eyes and order another espresso martini instead.

At some point in the night, you get fed up with the boys and their dumb incel-tier jokes, so you decide to leave. Your friends ask if you want company walking home, but you decline, even though your legs feel a little wobbly as you stand. You pay your part of the bill, say your goodbyes and make your way to the bar’s exit.

There’s a chilly breeze outside that raises goosebumps on your arms, and you shift your weight from foot to foot, leaning slightly against the wall as you dial your dad’s number.

It rings ten times and goes to voicemail.

You try again.

Voicemail.

“I don’t sleep until you’re home,” you mutter mockingly, repeating what they always say. “Bet they’re deep in REM by now.”

You’re typing your home address into the Uber app when the bar door opens again. Your eyes meet his.

“Changed your mind?” you ask, trying to sound alluring.

He closes the door behind him and looks both ways down the empty sidewalk before turning back to you with indignation.

“What the hell are you doing out here alone? Where’re your friends?”

“They stayed.”

“And they just let you stand out here by yourself?”

You ignore him, already over this conversation, and hit enter on the app. The fare loads. Shit. Twenty bucks to get home? That’s ridiculous. And the nearest driver’s twenty minutes away.

“Where do you live?” he asks.

“I’m not telling you where I live, stalker,” you mutter, eyes still on your phone.

“Five minutes ago, you were trying to buy me a drink.”

“So? Telling you where I live is crossing a line.”

“I ain’t leaving you out here alone.”

“Hey,” you spin to face him and point a slightly shaky finger in his direction. “You’re not responsible for me. I can take care of myself.”

He stares at your red-polished finger, then at your face, then raises his hands in surrender and walks past you toward the bar’s parking lot in silence.

Fine. Gotta love a hot guy who thinks he owns the damn world. Most exhausting type.

Alone again, you refresh the app a few times, and on the third, the price jumps from twenty to twenty-five dollars.

“Noooo,” you groan, leaning your head back against the wall to stare at the stars. Could you walk home? No… way too dangerous. And your high-heeled boots were not made for that.

The bar door opens again. You don’t look up to see who it is, and you don’t need to, because ten seconds later, there’s a hand on your waist. You jerk away, startled, trying to shake off the touch, but the grip is strong.

“Hey there, baby girl,” Adam says, way too close. You can feel his booze-soaked breath. “I got your message.”

His blown pupils freak you out, but it’s the fact that you can’t break his grip that makes your heart spike. You’re trying, but your espresso martini-filled body is sluggish. His hands feel like steel clamps against your dull reflexes.

“What message?”

“You wanted me to follow you out.”

“No, I didn’t. I just wanna go home. Let go.”

You try again. He holds tighter. Now he’s pressing his hips against yours. You push him, but every one of those espresso martinis slows you down.

“No need to make this so hard, baby girl. I saw the way you were lookin’ at me.”

“Let me go!”

Bile creeps up your throat and you swallow it down just to gather enough air to scream—

“Hey, kid,” a deep voice growls to your left, and your body nearly buckles with relief when he, Mr. Difficult, steps into view. He looks pissed.

“You back off her or you’re heading back to college five teeth short.”

Adam stumbles backward immediately, fear plain on his face. Mr. Difficult gives you a short nod, and you rush to him in quick steps, heart racing, tucking yourself beneath his broad frame like it’s shelter from the storm.

“These cameras,” he says, pointing to the ones mounted on the bar’s exterior, “I’ll have those tomorrow. Sexual harassment? I hope you don’t have a scholarship.”

Adam starts to say something, probably begging not to be exposed, but you don’t hear it. You’re gripping the man’s forearm, and he’s guiding you toward a black pickup parked between the shiny little cars of the boys still inside the bar.

In silence, he opens the passenger door and waits for you to climb in: slow, one foot on the step, the other in, legs together, finally settled. Then he shuts it and walks around to the driver’s side. For a moment, you feel like Bella Swan hopping onto the back of that weird guy’s bike in New Moon.

He gets in, shuts the door, and takes a deep breath before saying so firmly you don’t even think to argue:

“Give me your address. I’m taking you home.”

Defeated, you tell him. Only then does he start the truck and pull out of the bar’s lot.

“You know that guy?”

“I know his name’s Adam, but I don’t know him. Don’t even know his last name. He’s a friend of a friend.”

“Goddamn criminal little punks,” he mutters, rolling up the windows and turning on the heat when he notices you’re trembling, even though the cold has little to do with it. “You alright?”

“I’m… yeah. I think so. Thanks for stepping in.”

He keeps driving, and you use the quiet moment to steady your breath and your hands. The streets of Austin are empty, ghostly, barely any cars out, and your mind wanders for a second. Maybe it’s time to finally sign up for that self-defense class your dad kept telling you to take back in Houston.

You wedge your hands between your thighs to warm them and settle into the seat. You pretend not to hear when Mr. Difficult’s phone rings and he answers:

“Miller,” he says flatly. Someone talks on the other end. “What the hell happened to Jesse? Tonight’s his shift, not mine.” More silence. Then Miller, his newly revealed last name, curses under his breath and snaps, “I’m on my way.”

He hangs up and makes a sudden, hard right, jostling your body and making your eyes go wide.

“Are you kidnapping me?!”

His frustrated sigh fills the cab.

“You’re way too damn annoying to be kept in captivity,” he grumbles, accelerating. “They need me at work and I can’t drop you off first. It’s urgent. You’ll wait for me.”

“I can call another Uber.”

“You ain’t calling an Uber drunk like that.”

“Why do you care?”

“Because,” Miller says through gritted teeth, eyes on the road, “it’s literally my job to protect dumbass civilians who walk themselves into danger. I swore an oath. Now zip it.”

Civilians? Swore an oath?

Five minutes later, you get your answer as the wide property of the Austin Fire Department fills your vision, the U.S. and Texas flags flapping hard in the night wind. Miller drives through the open gate and parks beside the building.

“Come with me.”

You follow, still dazed, clacking behind him in your high-heeled boots. He doesn’t check if you’re keeping up, just walks with long, fast strides, and when he reaches the covered part of the station, three mustached men in full gear look at him like he’s the second coming.

The rest of the crew is further back, checking one of the trucks. They’re all huge.

“Chief,” one of them says. Chief?

“We need you. We got a call on—”

“Where the hell is Jesse?!” Miller practically growls. The three of them look at each other, shrinking a bit despite all standing well over six feet. “He think he’s back in school? What if I’d been drinking tonight? You’d go on a call short-handed? Hell of a teammate, that one.”

You’re only noticed when Miller turns his head toward you and calls out again:

“Come on.”

You do, still quiet. The firefighters tear their eyes off him and look at you, and yep… there it is. Raised brows, head-to-toe glance, lingering a bit too long on your skirt, and an open flirt-ready expression.

Miller shuts that down real fast:

“Eyes off, punks. I’ll be down in two.”

You give them a sheepish smile, but what you really want to say is: Yeah! That’s right, punks! Eyes off!

With a little bounce in your step, like a kid who just got praised by the teacher for their stick-figure drawing, you follow Miller up the stairs, metal steps creaking beneath you both.

Upstairs, you find the firefighters’ break room: a big dining table, a flat-screen TV, leather couches, and a kitchen tucked in an attached nook. You glance away from the wall of photos just in time to catch Miller stepping into his bunker pants, still over his jeans, and pulling the suspenders over his shoulders.

Shameless, you watch the whole thing while having a revelation. Yeah, now you get why firefighters are in every cliché fantasy ever. If Miller climbed into your window wearing that gear, you’d one hundred percent say something ridiculous like, “Here to put out my fire, officer?”

Next comes the heavy coat, and you can already see the sweat forming along his hairline as he zips and buttons everything up.

“Wait here for me. There’s coffee, water…” he gestures vaguely around the room, clearly in a rush. “Bathroom, running water, all that. Won’t be long.”

Before you can say anything else, he grabs his helmet and gloves and jogs down the stairs, pulling the Nomex hood over his head as he goes.

Moments later, the siren roars through the station, and as it fades into the night, it becomes nothing more than a ghostly hum at the back of your mind.

You sit on the couch, staring at the white wall with your hands tucked between your thighs. A firefighter. The chief.

Have you accidentally wandered into one of those steamy books you secretly read before bed? Or are you still sitting on the toilet in that grimy bar bathroom, hallucinating on espresso martinis?

The TV’s on. The news is covering a convenience store fire, result of an electrical short. Flames rage against the dark Austin sky, the interior swallowed by orange heat, yellow police tape keeping the crowd away. Thankfully, the store was empty when it caught fire.

Firefighters are en route, the reporter says, visibly relieved, and you curl onto your side on the couch, hands folded beneath your cheek, watching the broadcast.

You blink a little slower this time, and then everything goes dark.

“Were you trying to flash your panties to everyone in here? Damn short skirt.”

That’s the first thing you hear when you come to, groggy, as something is gently draped over your legs. You crack one eye open to find Miller carefully placing a leather jacket that smells like men’s cologne across your thighs. Only then do you realize just how comfortable you’d been lying there, considering the length of your skirt.

He keeps adjusting the jacket until everything’s covered. There’s no judgment in it. No irritation that you passed out like that. Just care, obvious in the way he pulls and tugs at the edges without ever letting his fingers brush your skin. And that, somehow, disorients you more than if he’d called you a name or scolded you outright.

“You’re back,” you mumble.

He shoots you a sidelong glance. His cheeks are smudged with soot and ash, his hair sweaty and tousled. The jacket’s gone, his suspenders hanging loose by his hips.

“Yeah. Didn’t die.”

“Thank God,” you murmur, eyes falling shut again. “What a waste that would’ve been.”

He clicks his tongue, exasperated.

You hear footsteps moving away, and peek through one eye to see him heading toward one of the adjoining rooms, tugging off his soaked black T-shirt in the process. The sight of his broad back makes your mouth go dry, especially with the reminder of what that body does for a living. All that strength. All that control.

Before the thought can spiral, other firefighters filter into the room, looking just as worn out as Miller.

“You the chief’s new girl?” one of them asks in a low voice, clearly trying not to be heard by said chief. He looks suspiciously like Bradley Bradshaw from Top Gun.

“No. He doesn’t want me.”

That earns you a burst of chaos. Whistles and chuckles like a group of teenage boys, not grown men who just came back from a fire call. Someone at the back yells, “I do!” and you ignore it, because you don’t kiss babies. Not when there’s a fire chief with a back like that about to drive you home.

You sit up on the couch, keeping Miller’s jacket across your lap, and glance at the coffee carafe they’re passing around.

“Can I have some?” you ask, motioning toward it.

They scramble like it’s a competition: who’ll pour, who’ll carry it over, who’ll get that sweet little “thank you” you sing out.

“Alright, that’s enough,” Miller says as he reappears, now in a fresh T-shirt bearing the Austin Fire Department logo on the chest and a clean face to go with it. His silver hair is damp, slicked back. He points at you. “Up. Let’s go.”

You rush to finish your coffee, burning your tongue in the process, and set the cup down to join him, still holding his jacket.

“I don’t know who’s been in contact with Jesse, but tell him he’s off the rest of the week. Maybe a seven-day suspension will help him get his shit together.”

One of them steps forward. “Chief—”

“That’s not a request, Lieutenant, that’s a decision. You boys need to learn the weight of the oath we swore.”

Silence.

Miller’s voice sharpens. “Are we clear?”

“Yes, sir.”

Miller places a hand on your shoulder and guides you forward. You walk ahead of him, down the stairs and out to his truck in silence.

“Tell me your address again,” he says once you’re both seated, looking worn out.

“You’re the fire chief.”

“Battalion chief,” he corrects, starting the engine. “Address.”

You tell him. He starts to drive. You watch him for a few seconds, then say:

“That was hot. The way you chewed them out? Extremely hot.”

“What’s with your thing for older men?”

“I thought you’d never ask!” you exclaim, and Miller rolls his eyes. Still grinning, you explain, “It’s not a thing. I just prefer older guys because they actually know what they’re doing. It’s not a crime.”

“How old are you?”

“You gonna judge me?”

“Seriously?” Miller stops at a red light even though the streets are deserted. It’s well past three a.m. “You’ve said all kinds of crap tonight, and this is what you’re worried about being judged for?”

“Because then you won’t wanna kiss me.”

“I’m not gonna kiss you either way.”

“See? That’s discrimination.”

“You still drunk?”

You think about it. Your vision’s clear now, no blurs at the edges. That weird rush in your ears is gone. The coffee and the nap did wonders.

“I’m not,” you say, turning in your seat to face him. He glances at you from the corner of his eye, like he’s afraid to admit you’re even in the truck with him. Finally, you say, “Twenty-five.”

“I’m twenty-seven years older than you.”

The light turns green. He drives.

“That just sounds like motivation to me,” you say, watching the way his thumb tightens around the leather steering wheel for half a second, his only reaction. “Are you married? Dating? Secret vow of celibacy?”

He shakes his head. No to all.

“My women need to be at least forty. That’s my cutoff.”

“Totally fair. Women in their forties are delicious,” you say, giving him a thumbs-up. “But there’s always an exception, right?”

“No. Not with you.”

“Am I ugly?”

“You know damn well you’re not. Those boys at the station were practically undressing you with their eyes.”

A Cheshire cat smile spreads across your lips.

“You noticed? Look at you, paying attention,” you tease, but he doesn’t respond, and you know your limit. You stop pushing. “Okay. You don’t want me. Got it. I’ll stop.”

Silence. His forearms have so many veins. You bounce your leg, restless, and because you can’t shut up, you say:

“Thanks for taking care of our city, Chief.”

More silence. Then suddenly, unexpectedly, a deep laugh fills the space between you, and the sound makes you melt right into the seat.

“You’re really somethin’ else, sweetheart.”

“Oh God,” you groan. “You’re gonna make this harder if you call me sweetheart.”

“What’s the difference with older men, anyway?”

“Fishing for an ego boost?”

“Forget I asked.”

“No, no, wait, sorry,” you say quickly, folding one leg under you and straightening like you’re about to give a TED Talk. You’re not wasting this moment. “Okay, listen, I lost my virginity in college—”

Miller rubs a hand over his face. “Too much information.”

“—and it was awful!” you go on, like he didn’t interrupt. “I didn’t finish. I told him that, and he said it was normal. So I slept with another guy, and that sucked too. I tried to settle because I thought that’s just what straight-girl life was.”

Somewhere in the universal rules of womanhood, there’s probably a clause that says never trauma-dump on a man. No man is different. But now that your mouth is open, it won’t stop.

“So I went out with this guy.”

“A guy,” he repeats, leaning slightly to check the passenger-side mirror.

“I think he was forty-two at the time. Miller… was addictive.”

“I can already imagine why.”

“Mhm.”

“But that’s not a rule. Not every older guy knows how to do that.”

You resist the urge to ask if he’s talking about himself.

“Haven’t had any bad experiences yet.”

The car goes quiet for five more minutes. You recognize the avenue you’re on, which means you’re probably only ten minutes from home.

“Have you always been a battalion chief?”

“I transferred here four years ago. Before that, I was a commander in Seattle.”

“So that’s why I didn’t know you. When you came, I was still in college,” you say mostly to yourself. “Got it. You like it here?”

“I’m from here. Tommy’s my brother. I left for Seattle twenty years ago.”

“Tommy from the bar?!”

“Tommy from the bar,” he confirms.

Mouth falling open, you lean back in your seat. Makes sense. His last name is Miller.

“Wow. Tommy’s friends with my parents,” you process the information bit by bit. “You’re Joel.”

“Mhm.”

“Joel Miller.”

“Yes.”

“I remember he used to talk about you all the time when he came over,” you say, because it’s true. Everything was Joel. Apparently, Joel had been his savior when they were kids. “He must be happy you’re back… and as battalion chief, no less.”

It’s subtle, but the line between Joel’s brows eases just a little when you say that last part. Other than that, he doesn’t react much.

“Family’s family,” he replies simply.

You reach your parents’ street and direct him to the house. Joel parks in front of it, and you notice all the lights are off, the windows dark. The porch light is on, and you know the key’s tucked inside the lilac flower pot.

You unbuckle your seatbelt as you say,

“Thank you so much for the ride. I’m sorry if I pushed too much and made you uncomfortable.”

You open the door to get out. Joel says,

“Close that door.”

Your hand freezes on the latch. Joel’s pinching the bridge of his nose, eyes down. After a beat, you shut the door and sit back in your seat.

The console light dims.

You give him a moment because he looks like he’s wrestling half a dozen battles inside his own head.

“You didn’t make me uncomfortable,” he says quietly, rubbing his hands against his jeans. “I just don’t think I’m what you really want.”

“I think I’ve made it pretty damn clear you’re exactly my type.”

“Sweetheart, no offense, but this feels more like some drunk little adventure you’ll laugh about with your girlfriends tomorrow.”

If there was even a drop of alcohol left in your system, that sentence burns it out.

“Just because you’re older?” you ask, trying to keep your voice level. “Come on, Joel. That’s crap. Yeah, we’ve got a big age gap. But I told you what I like and why I like it.”

“Because you wanna be the wild friend?”

Your eyes go wide in disbelief. Your cheeks flare with anger, and you decide you’ve had enough. You reach for the door again, and the next second, a large hand covers yours and pulls it closed.

“Okay,” you murmur, still staring at his hand on top of yours, frozen. “Now I actually think you’re gonna kidnap me.”

“Shit,” he mutters, and he’s way too close. “Sorry. If you wanna get out, you can. I just… I’m sorry. Didn’t mean to offend you.”

“So what’s this whole speech for, then?” you turn your face toward him, and now you’re only inches apart, since he leaned over to shut the door. “You don’t want me. I get it. I’m a big girl. I don’t need a speech.”

Joel looks from you to your house, scanning the darkened façade, probably noting the lights all off. When his eyes return to yours, there’s a new kind of resolve etched into his face.

“It’s gotta stay secret,” he says. No wiggle room.

Your breath starts coming just a little heavier.

“I won’t tell a soul,” you promise immediately.

“Not even your friends.”

“What’s the big fear?” you ask, half-teasing, though there’s a flicker of real curiosity beneath it. “You married?”

“Hell no. I’m just the brother of the guy who’s friends with your dad, and I guarantee he wouldn’t want some fifty-year-old sniffing around his little girl.”

“I’m twenty-five,” you repeat, but your voice wavers a bit as Joel leans closer. “It’s not up to my dad who I get involved with.”

“Good for you,” he says, like he couldn’t care less, his hand coming up to cradle the side of your neck. “Still damn young.”

“And yet, I’m gonna be your exception.”

He squints, confused, until it clicks.

“Oh. Right. The first twenty in my rulebook.”

You lean in, ready to kiss him, but Joel holds you still with his hand at your neck, like he’s waiting for something.

You say what he needs to hear:

“Won’t breathe a word about what you do with a younger girl in front of her house.”

“Good. That stays between me and God.”

He pulls you in, and the second your lips meet, you’re gone, falling into that familiar place you’ve always adored with older men.

Your brain short-circuits and Joel takes the lead in everything. His hand moves from your neck to the base of your skull, tugging you deeper, and he’s the one to part his lips, the one to tilt just right so your mouths fit like it’s a damn movie scene.

Your fingers slide into his hair, thick strands slipping between them, as you sink further into the seat. He follows, body hovering over yours. The moan that escapes your throat when his tongue brushes the seam of your lips is honest. The one that comes when he finally kisses you with tongue, though just as real, is so drawn out it makes your cheeks burn with the fear he might think you’re faking.

God. That kiss.

“It’s a crime to keep that kind of kiss from me,” you whisper breathless, chest rising and falling in quick bursts. Joel kisses your bottom lip, your jaw, drags his mouth down your neck. The ceiling of the truck blurs as he finds your collarbones, and you arch into him to give him more room. “Joel—”

His tongue meets the skin of your chest and you thank every higher power that your neckline’s just deep enough for him to reach the dip between your breasts. The ache between your thighs tightens, that telltale pulse of being soaked hitting you all at once.

“More,” you whisper, tugging his hair, just enough to let him know you want another kiss.

He gives it to you. One hand on your waist, the other on your neck, he kisses you again, and this one’s filthy from the first second, now that you both know exactly how to move together. You press harder into his hands.

“You can’t be this polite,” you murmur. “Aren’t you gonna slip your hand under my skirt?”

“Boundaries,” he whispers, eyes fluttering shut when you trail kisses along his jaw, rough with beard stubble. There’s still a faint trace of sweat and smoke from the earlier call, and you should probably care about that, but you don’t.

“No way you’ve got boundaries still holding steady in that brain,” you say. You watch his face up close as you take his hand and guide it down from your waist to your thigh. He opens his eyes at the heat of your skin and keeps them on you as you lead his hand higher, higher… right to the hem of your skirt. You pause. Ask: “Can I?”

He swallows hard.

He’s the one who moves now, sliding his hand beneath your skirt, grabbing a handful of your ass and squeezing like he means it, hard enough to make you giggle. His fingers find the lace of your panties where it sits snug between your cheeks.

“No one’s out here,” you murmur. Your hand finds the thick bulge in his jeans, and you raise your brows at him. “Can I make you come?” you ask, giving just the faintest stroke, enough pressure to make the denim feel good, not rough. “Please. Want me to take my panties off while I touch you?”

Joel clenches his jaw. Moves his hand from your ass to the front of your panties, cupping your pussy fully, probably feeling the heat radiating for him. You spread your legs as much as the car seat allows, giving him space to explore, all while trying to slip your hand inside his jeans to—

“No,” he breathes, shaking his head like the effort to say it physically hurts. You pull your hand away instantly at his no, but raise an eyebrow, waiting for more. “No. Not here. I’m not about to come in my jeans like a goddamn teenager.”

He pulls his hand back from between your legs, taking a steadying breath.

“Not here,” says again.

God. You could cry.

“Okay,” you say instead because you’re an adult and you respect a no. “Alright. Okay.”

“Go on. Get inside.”

But before you do, you raise a finger.

“Can I suggest something?”

You’re not quite sure how you manage to convince him, though that alone would be something worth bragging about, but somehow, you do. You talk Joel into parking a little farther down the street, just to be safe, and into sneaking in with you through the back door, because the front one’s too damn noisy.

Your fingers wrap around his wrist as you guide him through your dark house. A stop in the kitchen for a glass of water. A pause in the living room to make sure no one’s there. Then the stairs. One step at a time, silent. His brown eyes find yours every time you glance back.

And then Joel Miller is in your bedroom and you’re locking the door.

With his hands on his hips, he looks around: at the old band posters from when you were eighteen and just starting college, at the lilac bedsheets covering your mattress. The curtains are cracked open, letting in the pale glow of the moon and the streetlights outside, casting his silhouette in silver while you kick off your boots and socks and toss them aside.

“Prove to me you’re not drunk,” he says low.

“You want me to do a four?”

He keeps staring. You roll your eyes but do it anyway, lifting your right leg and crossing it over your left thigh, making the shape of a four with your legs.

“You’re so old,” you mutter, reaching ten in the count. “I already told you I’m not drunk. You know that perfect little buzz? That’s all I’ve got.”

“Enough to not regret this in the morning?”

“Regret you? Only if I were out of my mind.”

The plush carpet cushions your sore feet as you walk toward the bed. He just watches you. Watches as you climb onto the mattress, toss the pillows to the floor, and lie back on your elbows, looking straight at him.

One raised brow. A wordless well?

Joel looks up at the ceiling, like he’s saying a silent prayer, then bends down to remove his boots.

“You think you can stay quiet?” he asks, stepping closer. He mutters, “Refuse to come in my jeans like a damn teenager, but here I am sneaking into your house like one.”

Joel stands at the foot of your bed. You smile at him, about to unbutton your skirt, but he’s faster. His hands slip under the fabric, tugging your panties down your legs and tossing them aside.

You realize what he’s about to do when he plants one knee on the bed and starts lowering his head between your legs, but you stop him with your foot against his chest.

“You don’t have to,” you say quickly. You’ve been out all night with your friends. Sure, you showered before leaving, but still… it’s been hours. “It’s okay, I don’t need—”

“I do. I want to,” he murmurs, and the way he brushes your foot aside like it weighs nothing sends a wave of heat down your spine. Now both hands are on your thighs, spreading them gently. “Unless you don’t want me to.”

He waits for a sign to stop. You don’t give it.

A smile curls his lips.

“Yeah. Stay quiet and let me enjoy it.”

The hands that were holding your thighs now push your skirt up, the leather bunching around your hips. Then Joel’s large frame lowers, and his mouth finds you.

Your head falls back as his warm tongue slips between your folds with torturous precision, the sound of his spit mixing with your slick making your stomach tighten, and you have to practically bite down on your bottom lip not to moan. He grabs your hips, pulls you toward his mouth, and my God… he really wanted this.

Joel seems to be patiently gathering every drop of your arousal with his tongue, like he’s not in any rush, not until he’s good and ready to start licking your clit, his lips closing around it and sucking, slow and steady.

A moan nearly slips out, but you manage to turn it into a shaky exhale.

Your leg gives a little and you can’t hold yourself up on your elbows anymore, so you lie all the way back, legs splayed around his broad shoulders.

You glance to the side, clutching the sheets beneath you as you start, slowly, to ride his face. The mirror on your vanity catches everything, still cluttered with makeup you’d used while getting ready, and now it reflects the way Joel’s body covers yours, one foot still on the floor, your skirt bunched up, the outline of him pressing hard inside his jeans. You lower your right leg and catch a glimpse of his jaw working as he eats you out, desperate, beard slick with your arousal.

“Good?” you ask sweetly, fingers threading through his silver-streaked hair as your eyes meet. He can’t answer with words, but his eyes speak volumes, and he definitely grips you harder when you teasingly say: “You fifty-somethings really know how to eat pussy.”

Joel’s no exception.

You only pull him up because you want to kiss him again and because you obviously want him out of that fire department t-shirt. He peels it off, revealing a broad chest covered in dark hair that radiates strength.

Joel helps you slide your skirt off, and your mouths meet as you wrap your legs around his hips.

“I probably smell like smoke,” he murmurs.

“Just a little. More like sweat. And it’s delicious.”

Another smile. He’s on a roll.

“You’re insane,” he mutters, lowering his hips. The friction of his cock, denim-rough, grinding against your clit makes you whimper. He catches it. “Feel good?”

You nod. Joel watches you, then dips his hips again, and the seam of his jeans hits just right. You nearly come undone.

“Again,” you whisper.

He listens. Joel makes sure not to hurt you with the zipper, but grinds down hard enough, at just the right angle, to knock the air from your lungs. Your clit throbs under the pressure, the rough rub of the denim, and the solid heat of his cock beneath it only makes it more intense.

He licks two fingers and drags them between your legs just to give you a little extra slick, enough to keep it from turning raw, and keeps rocking into you. You hadn’t planned to come, but you also can’t stop it, not when that feeling keeps rising, rising, until—

It bursts, a sweet sharp rush that spreads from between your legs through every inch of you, and Joel keeps it going, those slow, steady grinds that don’t overwhelm but won’t let the afterglow slip away either.

You place a hand on the waistband of his jeans, gently stopping him.

“You need to fuck me. Now.”

“Urgent?”

“Mhm. So I can come again.”

“You’re so damn direct,” he mutters, clearly amused. Then he leans over and says, “Arms up.”

You obey. He takes off your top, and it’s you who unhooks your bra, now completely naked. Joel watches as he strips off his jeans and boxers, and when he’s bare, you prop yourself up on your elbows to look.

Thank you, God. Uncut.

You look up at him.

“Come here.”

Joel climbs onto your bed, his knees sinking into the soft lilac sheets, and settles between your thighs. Together, you shift higher up the bed until your head rests on the lone pillow left on the mattress.

“Might come too fast,” he warns, and you believe him by the way his cock is rock hard as he guides it to your entrance.

“I don’t mind.”

“Sure you don’t. You’re an expert in old men.”

The head of his cock pushes in with a wet sound that shuts your mouth. You bring your fingers down between your legs, starting to touch yourself again in slow, careful circles as Joel eases into you. He’s gentle, taking his time, eating you up with his eyes, and once he’s fully inside, his body covers yours.

You feel the soft press of his belly against yours, the hair brushing your skin, the weight of him, and it’s enough to stir you back up. Joel draws his hips back and fucks you, and the sound that escapes your mouth is nearly inhuman. Your eyes fly open, meeting Joel’s startled ones, and before either of you can react, his big hand covers your mouth.

“Quiet,” he says, then thrusts again.

You grip his wrist with both hands and wrap your legs around his hips, taking the rough, perfect rhythm of his thrusts — thankfully quiet, the bed doesn’t creak — as his thick cock drives deep into you, raw and goddamn delicious. Joel presses his hand firmer against your mouth to muffle you and clenches his jaw. The trimmed hair at his groin drags over your clit with every thrust, his balls slapping against your ass, and your eyes squeeze shut. You don’t even have the strength to keep touching yourself.

Joel goes again, once, twice, three times.

“Fuck,” Joel breathes, voice rough and shocked, sweat trickling down his neck. You feel a pulse inside you and then a warm rush spreading. “Fuck, fuck… I was supposed to pull out and—”

“It’s fine. Really,” because it is. You’ve never understood the drama around guys coming too fast. To you, it’s a compliment, as long as you’re properly taken care of. You repeat it, not wanting the afterglow to turn tense for him. “It’s okay.”

You pull him close and press a soft kiss to his lips, your fingers running through the softer strands at the nape of his neck.

“I had a vasectomy,” he confesses suddenly, lips still against yours, like the thought just occurred to him and he needed to reassure you.

“Great. I’ve got an IUD. Though we probably should’ve talked about this before, huh?” your hands slide down his sweaty shoulders. “Think you can get hard again?”

“Give me a minute.”

“Okay. Pull out.”

Joel shifts back, kneeling between your legs and wrapping his hand around the base of his cock as he slips out of you. You watch his softening length, slick with both of you, and wonder for a second why the hell you like that image so much. And even more… why the feeling of him dripping out of you turns you on.

“Sit there,” you tell him, nodding toward the headboard.

Silently, like a good student, he does exactly what you asked, leaning back against the headboard, his cock now fully soft resting on his thigh.

You crawl over on your knees, slipping between his legs to straddle his right thigh that feels solid under you, the thick hair tickling the insides of your thighs.

“How sensitive are you right now?” you ask, dragging a finger slowly along his cock, the head still tucked away. Joel jerks his hips back, pulling away from the touch. You lift your hand and arch a brow. “Okay. Got it. Very. I could try sucking you hard again.”

“Suck a soft dick?”

“Why not? I wouldn’t mind.”

“Alright. But I wouldn’t feel right about it.”

You rest your arms on his shoulders and lean in. “Okay. I respect that.”

Joel gives you that look, the one older people always get when they’re a little impatient with your ideas or mouth, but you know it’s not about you. He seems like the kind of man who grumbles about everything. Besides, the impatience doesn’t match the way his hands move across your back, soft and slow, up and down.

You say, “I was gonna learn pool just so I could play with you tonight.”

“Yeah? You learn anything?”

You pull back just enough to lift your hands. With your left, you pretend to grip a cue, and with your right, your thumb and index finger make a ring.

“Now I know how to hold a pool stick.”

Joel’s lips tug into a half-smile.

“You’re left-handed,” he notes, and you lower your hands again, nodding. His grip returns to your hips. “Well done. You should’ve come, by the way. I might’ve let you win.”

“You’d never let me win.”

“I’m softer than I look. And,” he cuts himself off when he notices your smirk, “if you make a joke about my soft dick, I swear I’ll have your name on a wanted poster by tomorrow.”

“I don’t get why it bugs you so much. Come on.”

You say that just before leaning in to press your lips to the pulse at his neck. Joel tilts his head slightly, giving you space, and you pepper kisses there, then across his shoulder. You press your chest to his, and his hands grip you tighter.

“Bet the single women in this town chase you down,” you murmur, arms around his neck. “And… the married ones too?”

“No comment.”

“Austin’s most wanted bachelor.”

“The divorcé,” he corrects.

Oh? You pull your mouth away from his neck.

“How long?”

“Five years.”

“Good. Tomb’s been sealed.”

He laughs against your mouth when you kiss him, but soon cups your face to kiss you properly, exactly the way you’re asking, even if you’re not saying a word. His kisses are so addictive, it’s strange to you. There’s something about Joel that turns a kiss into full-body contact. He kisses and touches you, strokes your cheek, your back, pays attention to what you need.

And he reads you well, because his hand slips between your legs.

“Lift up a little,” he says, and you rise onto your knees, no longer sitting on his thigh. His fingers slide between your folds, gathering the slick there. Joel lets out a low grunt, and you watch the way his cock gives a tiny twitch. “Let me eat you out again.”

Ah. Yes. But actually…

“Can I try something else?” you ask.

That’s how Joel, with lips slightly parted, ends up watching as you settle back down on his thigh, right over the thickest part, your legs spread wide.

You almost feel shy the first time you grind up against his thigh with his eyes on you. Your whole body shivers, breath catching in your throat, and you steady yourself with your hands on him. You’re so wet, from yourself and from him, that the movement is easy. Heavenly. The hair on his thigh adds just the right amount of friction on your clit, and it nearly sends you reeling.

“You like that?” he asks, genuinely curious, and you, dry-mouthed, nod your head. You grind again. Whimper.

“Been neglecting this pussy, huh?”

You shake your head. Joel touches your body, running his hands along your sides, gripping your waist. The next time you grind down, he helps, his biceps flexing, guiding your rhythm. Forward. Back. The muscle of his thigh tensing under you, his skin slick with your wetness.

He watches you, sees how close you are and how hard you’re biting your lip to keep quiet. Immediately, his thumb presses to your bottom lip, freeing it from your teeth, and he slips it into your mouth. You meet his gaze as you suck it in, hands clutching his arm, hips faltering in the next few rolls.

When you come, Joel lays you back on the bed, spreads your legs, and slides back inside. He’s not fully hard, but it doesn’t matter because he fits, thick and slow, and the way he stretches you prolongs your orgasm so sweetly it nearly breaks you apart.

You feel him stiffening more with each thrust, and as he grows harder, he goes deeper.

“Fucking perfect,” he breathes into your ear, biting your neck. “You’re driving me outta my mind.”

Your smile wavers when, after a few more thrusts, he slips out and lies beside you, then shifts you onto your side and pulls you back against his chest. He drapes an arm over your chest, grips your thigh with the other, lifts it over his hip, and slides into you again. His movements pin you, keeping you from doing anything but taking it when his fingers find your clit again, even oversensitive as it is.

Your whole body shakes.

“Joel—”

“Come on, baby. I know you’ve got one more in you.”

You try to jerk your hips away from his fingers as he rubs harder, faster, but there’s nowhere to go, and Joel doesn’t relent. He holds your thigh, keeps you open for him, slowing his thrusts just enough to drag it out. You grab the arm draped over your chest, twist your hips, and it’s almost too much.

Almost.

Because right before it crosses the line, you come. And then you go limp.

“Can I keep going?” he asks. “Want me to pull out?”

“No. Just… stay off my clit.”

The kiss he presses to your damp temple sounds like an “okay.”

You reach back, fingers slipping into the sweat-damp strands of his hair, and feel his ragged breaths against your neck as he keeps moving inside you. His next orgasm takes longer, but somehow it still only lasts a few seconds, and leaves you leaking all over again.

When it’s over, your ears are ringing, his body is hot behind you, and your heart won’t stop pounding.

Goddamn.

Thanks for your service, Chief.

You can’t stop staring at the top-left corner of the peach pie.

It’s not broken, exactly. The crust in that corner just sank a little lower than the rest, and it’s driving you nuts. You rotate the pie dish so the pristine edge faces front, hiding the flaw.

“Pie?” you offer with a smile as sweet as the amarena syrup your mom made, holding out a slice to the father and two sons approaching your stand.

Today is the neighborhood charity fair where your parents live. It happens every six months in the town square and has been around for maybe a decade. The goal is to raise funds for local nonprofits. Neighbors donate pies, sandwiches, roasted meats, inflatable toys for the kids. The whole thing.

When you were fifteen and a painfully annoying teenager, you thought wearing an apron and handing out pie was humiliating. Ugh, mom. Charity is soooo lame.

Ten years later, here you are: uneasy, borderline neurotic because the crust of the pie you helped bake has a deformed corner.

The father and sons leave with their slices in little styrofoam containers and colorful forks. You glance around.

Your mom is helping out at one of the roast beef sandwich booths since someone called in sick last night. Your dad’s at his own stand, trying to sell fishing gear, though bamboo hooks don’t exactly draw crowds.

Farther down the square, you spot the fire truck. Your heart does a little skip, part nerves, part excitement. The fire department’s on site for safety, at least for the first couple hours. But you haven’t seen Joel yet.

“Any pie here sweeter than you?”

You turn toward the front of your booth and find the fireman who looks like a knockoff Bradley Bradshaw. He’s wearing an Austin Fire Department tee, aviator shades, and a grin that’s way too… youthful.

Still, you smile back.

“Definitely. I’m pretty sure the pie also knows the number for the AFD’s misconduct hotline.”

“Kidding.”

“And because of that joke,” you say, grabbing three styrofoam containers, “you’re buying three slices to support the cause.”

He doesn’t even protest. Quietly, he waits as you cut the slices and hands you the money. You thank him with a sugar-sweet smile and a blown kiss.

Once he walks away, your eyes sweep the square again. Where there’s smoke, there’s fire.

And there’s the fire, staring at you from across the plaza, arms crossed under the shade of a tree. Joel’s in the same black Austin Fire Department tee, and you see his eyes dip briefly to read the name stitched onto your pink apron.

The Sweetest Bite.

That barely-there smile curves his lips.

You grab a styrofoam plate, cut a generous slice of pie, and pull five bucks from the back pocket of your denim shorts, dropping the bill into the flower-covered tip jar your mom set up.

Then you toss the apron onto the counter and ask your dad to watch the stand for a few minutes.

Joel doesn’t even see you approaching. He’s surrounded by three women asking what it’s like “to be responsible for a city like Austin.”

“Such a hard-working man,” you say, slipping in between two of them to hold out the pie. “Fresh, warm cream pie. A little thank-you for protecting the city.”

Joel looks from the pie to you. Your smile grows even sweeter. When he takes it, the women scatter.

“You got an endless supply of short shorts like that?” he asks, not even pretending to start eating. His eyes stay on the pie. “Cream pie.”

“My favorite,” you reply. And, about the shorts: “It’s summer in Texas.”

“Right,” he says to both.

You glance around. No one’s near. One of the other firefighters is tossing rings at a carnival booth.

“You should come to the barbecue at my place after the fair. Tommy’s going and I can ask him to invite you.”

“I’m not going’ to your house.”

“Why not?”

“I’m not buddying up to your parents. You’re out of your mind?”

“I don’t want you to be friends with them. I want you to sneak up to my room when no one’s looking.”

“No,” he says flatly, like the conversation’s over.

A few hours later, that victorious little grin creeps across your lips as you see Tommy walk through the back gate of your house.

You can tell he’s close. His gasps are strangled like he’s restraining himself and his thrusts, shallow and gentle, are becoming sloppier by the second. The first time you fucked, he begged you to look in his eyes while he came. You obliged because why wouldn’t you? It’s no secret that you like being told what to do. 

Tugging on his hair, you pull his face from your neck and make him look at you. His eyebrows are furrowed and his lips are parted, tongue peeking out to swipe his bottom lip. You hold eye contact, knowing it’ll set him over the edge, and you just want him to come. By the time you and Adam returned from your run, it was 7 AM and then you spent hours fixing shit around Susan’s apartment. It’s been a long day. 

“Come for me,” you whisper. 

He nods. 

“But pull out.” 

He nods again. 

Pressing his forehead to yours, you hold eye contact with him as he lets out a final, shaky breath before pulling out. Warm spend coats the hair on your mound and he rests his twitching cock there, letting his own cum smear all over his shaft. You stroke the nape of his neck as he stares into your eyes. It’s intense. It always is with him afterwards. As always, he leans in and tries to kiss you, but you turn your head so his lips land on your cheek. Tapping his chest, you signal him to get off of you and he does. 

“I’m going to take a shower,” you say, hoisting yourself out of bed. “Just make sure the door fully shuts behind you.” 

He sits up and stares at you as you walk towards the bathroom. “Wait,” he begins, “I just…don’t you want me to stay?” 

You stop dead in your tracks, your back to him, and drop the hand that was so close to the bathroom doorknob. Annoyance surges through you and you make yourself count to ten to calm down. You feel like a bitch, like a total and complete bitch. Spinning on your heels, you face him with his cum dripping down your legs. 

“If I wanted you to stay, I would ask you to stay.” Your voice is steady, low. Almost flat. When you see his face fall, you sigh. You add, “I slept like shit last night. I think I just need to be alone.” 

“Yeah, yeah. I get it,” he says, painting a smile on his face. Always so understanding. So patient. He stands up and puts his clothes on hastily while you lean against the doorframe, sticky and sleepy. “You were fucking amazing, by the way. You always are, but—”

“Goodnight, Miles,” you interject. 

Miles nods and gives you a meek smile, cheeks perfectly pink from his orgasm and maybe a hint of embarrassment. By the urgency in which he leaves your bedroom, you’d think he was being chased with a knife. Part of you feels bad, but mainly you’re just relieved to be alone. Alone by any means necessary. 

You wait to hear the front door slam shut before you get in the shower. Goosebumps erupt on your skin immediately from the frigid water. The shock to your system is a nice reset even though you feel like you’re torturing yourself for a few minutes. All you can manage is to stay in just long enough to wash away his touch and cum. You need to be a blank slate again. 

After toweling off, you head back into your bedroom. The streetlight outside of your window has been flickering for months. You’ve been hoping it’ll just fully go out, but it doesn’t. It doesn’t seem like you have any other option but to play the waiting game. It’ll go out eventually. It has to. 

Padding over to your dresser, you open the top drawer and reach for a black t-shirt. It’s worn, stretched out. Just how you like it. You pull it on, but you don’t even bother with underwear before you crawl into bed. Lying on your side, you curl into a ball and bunch up the fabric of the t-shirt, pressing it to your face. You inhale deeply and close your eyes. 

It’s been months. There’s no way his scent still lingers, but you swear you can smell his sweat, his soap, and that hint of cedar. Sometimes, even when you’re not wearing his shirt, you think you catch a trace of his aroma in your apartment. It’s like he’s a phantom, haunting you. It sure feels like it at night when you try to go to sleep. You see his graying curls, the lines by his eyes, and his brown jacket. You can hear him calling you sweetheart or baby or darlin’.

Mentally cursing yourself, you whine and let one of your hands slide between your thighs. The one thing you really try not to do is imagine his voice, that syrupy Southern accent that brings you to your knees—sometimes literally. When you make contact with your clit, you’re already wet. Just from imagining him. 

Pathetic, you hear him say. So fuckin’ embarrassing, baby. You soaked from just that?

Fervently, you start to draw small circles on your clit with your index and middle finger. Two fingers make it easier to imagine it’s him. That’s one thing you miss about him. The sheer size of him, from his broad shoulders to his thick thighs. And his cock, fuck. Maybe that’s what you miss the most. No, it’s the feeling of his arms around you. It could also be the feeling of his lips on yours or the way his rough hands feel on your soft cheek.

You groan, frustrated with the way you’re distracting yourself from the task at hand. This isn’t working. There’s an emptiness that you can’t fill. In your chest, in your cunt. It aches and you need to get rid of it. You have to be full in some way. 

Sliding down, you stuff three fingers into your soaked pussy. It’s not him, but it’ll do. You try to remember his pace, the way he curled his fingers just so. It comes back to you and before you know it, you’re gasping and moaning softly. 

I know this pussy. Know what she likes, what she needs.

I think she was fuckin’ made for me. What d’ya think, darlin’?

The hand that’s not working your cunt snakes up to your neck. You wrap your fingers around the column of your throat and squeeze. The pressure is divine, just what you need. A few more seconds of choking and fucking yourself and then you’re coming. It’s not an overwhelming orgasm by any means, but it’s your first one of the day. As your pussy spasms and you coat your own fingers, his name falls from your lips like a prayer, or maybe like you’re trying to summon a ghost, begging him to materialize in front of you.

Joel, Joel, Joel.

“You just fucked me,” you say incredulously. “You motherfucker.”

“What can I say? I got a good poker face.” Adam laughs as he brings his glass to his lips. He takes a sip and you roll your eyes. “Don’t be a sore loser.”

Staring down at the Royal Flush, you shake your head. Adam kicks your ass every time you play poker, so this shouldn’t be a surprise, but you’ve been practicing with Susan when she’s feeling well enough; she usually wipes the floor with you, too. Her health has been getting worse, so you’ve been spending more time with her, helping out around the apartment. You can tell she feels guilty, always insisting on “paying you back” and “compensating you for your time.” Of course, you don’t allow it. After everything she’s done for you, particularly after your dad died, it’s the least you can do. To make her feel better, you tell her that playing a game of poker with you is payment enough. You’re determined to beat Adam one of these days.

Adam shakes his glass and breaks you out of your trance. “Time to go fetch my prize,” he says with a smirk. “My glass is empty.”

“Fine,” you groan. You start to stand up when you see Miles at the bar. Immediately, you sit your ass back down. “I’ll go in a minute.” 

With a raised brow, Adam turns his head to follow your line of sight. He scoffs. “Are you serious?” 

“What?” You shrug your shoulders. “I just don’t feel like talking to him tonight.”

“Trouble in paradise?” he teases, grabbing your glass and finishing it. 

This earns a laugh from you. “I’m not even close to being in paradise with him,” you say. Sighing, you lean your head back against the booth. “He likes me way more than I like him and it kind of makes me feel like an asshole.”

“You are kind of an asshole,” Adam declares with a smile. He’s tipsy for sure, all smiley and snarky. It’s endearing to you. Over the last few months, Adam’s become a genuine friend. “But if you’re not into him, then stop fucking him.”

“That’s the thing, I don’t want to.” You sigh. “And it’s weird because I don’t even get off. Like, he’s never made me come—”

“Okay, alright. Just gonna stop you right there.” Adam shakes his head, holding up a hand. “We should know less about each other.” 

“Okay,” you say, holding back a smile. As you think about Miles’ sitting on your bed, wondering why he can’t stay, you start to feel stomach bile rise in your throat. “What do you think, though? Am I a horrible cunt for fucking him when I know I don’t like him?” 

“Okay, you might be a little bit of an asshole, but you’re not a horrible cunt.” He smirks, but then he shrugs, looking much more serious than he did only a moment ago. “I do kinda feel bad for the kid.”

“Kid?” you ask with your eyebrows pulled tight. “He’s like…forty. He’s older than you are.”

“Yeah, but compared to Joel? He’s a kid.”

“Fuck you,” you hiss, trying to sound angry, but you start laughing. 

Adam joins in and soon enough, you both are cackling like hyenas. It hits you then how buzzed you are because though Adam’s funny, he’s not that funny. You take a deep breath, managing to pull it together. Your eyes scan the bar for Miles, but he’s nowhere to be seen, so you finally get up. You order two shots of vodka that you know are going to taste like battery acid and two glasses of whiskey. The deal was that you buy one drink for Adam if you lose, but you’re feeling loose. A little nicer than normal.

When you turn around to head back to the booth, balancing two tiny shot glasses in one hand and pinching the whiskey glasses in the other, you see Miles sitting with Adam. You let out a dramatic sigh and close your eyes. Just be nice, you think to yourself. You know you’ve been kind of a dick to him—cold, detached. You know he doesn’t deserve to solely be a distraction, but that’s what he is to you. Deep down, he probably knows it. Miles smiles at you when you approach the table, his eyes lighting up like you’re made of magic. God, you are an asshole.

You place the drinks down and slide in next to Miles whose hand finds your thigh, giving you a gentle squeeze. Instinctively, your hand flinches, ready to push him off of you, but you let it linger and give him a tight smile. Although your eyes are locked on Miles, you can feel Adam staring at you. You think you might know what his face looks like. Amused with a hint of what-the-fuck-is-wrong-with- you, if you had to guess. 

There’s this nagging feeling that another set of eyes is on you, too. For whatever reason, you lean into Miles’ touch, placing your hand on his over the table.

Joel knows you frequent the speakeasy, blowing off steam after a stressful run or a drink with Adam and some of the other smugglers you know. He’s not sure why he ended up here tonight, but he’s here, far enough away from you that it wouldn’t seem weird if you saw him, but close enough where he can watch you. Does he feel like a total creep? For sure. Absolutely. Joel can’t help himself, though. 

The last few months of avoiding you have been torturous. It’s not like he hasn’t seen you. Actually, he’s seen you quite a bit. You just don’t know it. Joel’s been in and out of your building. Abe, the radio operator, works out of his apartment on the floor above you. Since it’s been a while, a long while, without hearing from Tommy, Joel’s been going daily to see if there’s been any word from his brother on the radio. So far, nothing. The only thing that eases his disappointment and anxiety after another fruitless visit with Abe is the chance that he might see you in the hallway. You always look tired, bags under your eyes and your shoulders slumped. Have you been sleeping at all? Do you need help carrying that toolbox into your neighbor’s apartment? It looks heavy and your hands seem full. One time, he saw you crying or at least he thought you were crying. Your eyes were puffy and you were sniffly. Did someone hurt you? Are you okay?

It takes everything in him not to talk to you, not to touch you. Every time he thinks he might give in, he hears your voice crack as you say, It’s not good for me.

Tonight, you’re smiling and laughing with Adam. At one point, it looked like you were laughing so hard that you might cry. If it didn’t make his chest ache so much, Joel maybe would’ve smiled. Now that some guy has taken a seat at your table, Joe will definitely not be smiling. No, he’s sporting his usual scowl, fisting his glass so tight that his knuckles turn white. When you lean into whoever the fuck this guy is, he thinks he’s going to shatter the glass in his hand. 

Joel’s jaw starts to throb from the pressure of clenching it. He doesn’t know how long he sits there watching you flirt and casually touch a man that’s not him. A man that you clearly feel comfortable with. It feels like it’s been hours, but at most it’s been thirty minutes. Thirty agonizing minutes. Eyes trained on you, hundreds of questions float around Joel’s head, all making him angrier by the second.

The thought spiral slows before stopping altogether when you stand up, swaying a bit. The man who Joel wants to snap in half shoots up to steady you, hand low on your back, nearly touching your perfectly rounded ass. You lean down, whispering something to Adam before ruffling his hair. Then, you take Adam’s drink and finish the rest of it, just like Joel watched Adam do to yours earlier. This stranger shakes Adam’s hand before following you out of the bar like a lost puppy, hand snaking around your waist. When he kisses the top of your head as you exit, Joel shoots out of his seat.

Much to his dismay, he makes eye contact with Adam who raises his empty glass to Joel. He nods in response, patting Adam’s shoulder as he walks by. There’s not a thought in his head as he leaves the speakeasy. Not one single voice in his head tells him to stop when he starts walking towards your apartment. If anything, he’s justifying it. This guy could be taking advantage of you. Joel’s just going to check on you. He’s just making sure you’re okay. It’s fine. It’s fine that he’s following you home. 

When he gets to your front door, he hears it. Those sweet sounds you make. The whimpers, the gasps, the soft moans. He could make you louder. He knows it. Joel grabs the knob, but you locked the door. Of course you did. It’s fine, though. He takes his keys out of his pocket and finds the one marked with your initials. Carefully, he steps inside once he unlocks the door. You haven’t stopped making noise, so you must not have heard him. Joel’s going to check on you. Just to make sure you’re okay.

Miles’ lips are wrapped around your hard nipple as you sit on his lap, grinding on his bulge. One of his arms is wrapped around you, holding you tenderly with a light hand on your hip. In contrast, your movements are fast. You’re grinding on him hard. With your hands on his shoulders to steady yourself, you look down at where he’s connected to you. You could suck harder, maybe bite me, you think, but you don’t say anything. There’s no need to critique him when it’s good enough. 

A floorboard creaks behind you. Miles doesn’t seem to notice, but you do. You notice immediately and turn your head to look behind you. Are you seeing correctly? Yeah, you had a good bit to drink, but you’re not wasted. Is that Joel? That’s definitely Joel. Joel is standing in the doorway to your bedroom, arms crossed and sporting his typical grimace. In one swift motion, you fly out of Miles’ lap, landing on your ass next to him on the bed. 

“What the fuck, Joel?!” you shout, eyes wild and full of fire. When Joel’s eyes trail down from your face to your breasts, you cross your arms to cover yourself as if he hasn’t seen you naked before. “Why are you—”

“You ain’t doin’ it right,” Joel says. You furrow your brows, confused as to what the fuck he’s talking about. When you realize he’s not addressing you, your lips part. He’s talking to Miles who looks like he’s frozen. “If y’want to get her wet, you’re not doin’ it right.”

“Excuse me?” Miles asks, standing up. His once erect cock has gone completely soft. You, on the other hand, are finally getting as wet as you should be by now. Just from hearing Joel’s delicious drawl.

Joel takes a step forward like he’s sizing him up. Miles is taller than him by an inch or two maybe, but Joel’s definitely wider than him. Face to face like this, they look like two animals ready to compete. Who has the brighter feathers? Or, rather, who has the bigger dick? Your body vibrates with excitement and uncertainty. 

“You gonna let me help you or d’ya wanna keep fumblin’ like a teenage boy?” Joel’s voice is flat, controlled, when he asks this. If you weren’t so turned on, you’d probably laugh. Good one, Joel, you think. 

Miles’ eyes dart to you, flickering to your covered cunt like he’s trying to see if Joel’s right. It’s not like you aren’t wet, but you’re not soaked. Not the way Joel gets you. Your face gets hot and you have a hard time looking at Miles, but you manage to. His blue eyes are locked on yours now, pleading almost. He’s asking you what to do and frankly, you have no idea what you should do, but you know what you want to do. You want Joel to help. You want Joel to fix it.

“She in control? Is that why you’re lookin’ at her?” Joel teases Miles. Finally, he turns to address you. “That’s a first, huh, baby?”

Baby. Fuck. You’re fucked. You know it.

That cruel edge to his voice, the one that makes you melt, is back. You’re not the only one that seems affected by it. When you glance down, to your surprise, Miles’ cock is hard again. If Joel’s noticed, and you suspect he has because he notices everything, he hasn’t said anything. No, he’s just staring at you like he’s seeing each facial feature of yours for the first time. The intensity of his stare is heavy, almost impossible to take, so you drop your arms and expose your nipples which harden immediately from the draft in the room. This works, of course. Joel turns his attention to your tits. Figures.

“Offer’s gonna expire soon,” Joel says, looking between the two of you. Both of you are topless, clad in only your underwear, and there’s indecision painted on your faces. “Gonna take me up on it or—”

“Yes,” you blurt out. Miles looks at you with wide eyes before slowly nodding. Okay. Game on. “Yeah. Let’s play. Show us how good of a teacher you are, Joel.” 

Joel’s jaw shifts and the darkness that you’ve missed so much flashes in his eyes. He takes a slow, daunting step forward, only inches from Miles’ face now. It’s nothing short of a miracle that Miles can actually hold Joel’s intense eye contact. If you were him, you’d be scared, but you know what to expect from Joel. Besides, even when he scares you, you fucking like it. You’ve got to be sick in the head. 

“First lesson: don’t let her call the shots,” Joel says. “You’re the boss. Act like it.” 

You raise an eyebrow and scoff. Is that what Joel thinks? Of course that’s what he thinks. It all starts flooding back to you—how he told Tess that you were his in what was practically their divorce, how you seemingly fold every time he wants you. Anger starts to bubble in your belly when Miles’ voice cuts through to you. 

“Lie on the bed,” he commands. It’s less steady than Joel’s, not quite a bark. You raise an eyebrow when Joel whispers something to him, but you don’t move. “I told you to lie down. Now.”

Admittedly, this is hard for you to take seriously. Miles doesn’t sound remotely confident and all you can think about is how you’d rather hear it from Joel. Still, you go along with it. Raising your hands in fake surrender, you walk towards the bed and lie down. The men follow behind you. Miles sits in front of you, resting a hand on your thigh. It’s gentle. What else is new? 

“How long did it take for her to open those pretty legs for you?” Joel asks, eyes taking you in. He looks downright hungry. 

“Uh, I don’t know. A week or so?” Miles answers. 

Was it that soon after you met? Well, you know what they say, gotta get under one guy to get over another. 

“Hm, surprised it didn’t take longer since you’re touchin’ her like you’re scared of her,” Joel grumbles. “Then again, she is a desperate slut.”

This gets to you. You sit up on your elbows and clench your thighs together, nearly wiggling forwards. Joel crouches down next to the bed and his knees crack as he does so. You don’t let yourself look at him. It’ll be too much, so you focus on Miles instead. He still seems nervous, but his pupils are blown with lust, cock twitching under his boxers. 

“See that squirming? Bet she’s gettin’ real wet just from me talkin’,” Joel rasps. “Go ahead. Spread her open. Enough’a that gentle shit.”

Miles takes this seriously, gripping your thighs and wrenching your legs open. Joel was right, a dark stripe has formed where your slick has gathered. Heat creeps up your neck and settles on your cheeks. Miles’ eyes widen and he swipes his thumb down from your clothed clit to your entrance. You push your hips into his touch and watch a smile tug on his lips. You can feel Joel’s eyes on you. 

“You gotta talk to her,” Joel instructs. 

Nodding, Miles loops his fingers under the waistband of your panties and pulls them off with urgency. Pussy exposed to both Miles and Joel, you feel dirty. Downright filthy and fucked up. You’re enjoying this too much. 

“Oh my god,” Miles says, breathy and awestruck. His thumb rubs on the hair that covers your mound before grazing over your clit, making you twitch. “You’re so fucking wet. Is this all for me?”

No, you think. All for Joel.

Of course, you don’t say that. Instead, you nod and pull your bottom lip between your teeth. For a second, you think you hear Joel scoff and you glance over at him. He’s staring at you with a lecherous intensity, making your pussy clench. A smirk toys on his lips as he stands up, nodding at Miles. 

“Let’s see how you eat that cunt,” he says. “Move over.”

Miles follows Joel’s instructions, scooting over and settling between your legs on his stomach. Joel sits next to him. Torturously close to you but not quite touching. You’re staring at Joel’s hands when Miles’ tongue flicks against your clit. It feels good, but it’s not quite enough. Joel purses his lips and sighs like Miles is a failing student. 

“Not like that,” he critiques. “Never gonna make her come like that. More pressure. Faster.”

A moan is drawn out of you when Miles takes Joel’s suggestion. Faster. More pressure. Miles is looking up at you with pride filled eyes. Maybe you’re thinking with your clit—which feels fucking good—but you actually find him sexy right now. You thread your fingers in his dusty blonde hair, grinding your cunt against his face. 

“Better, sweetheart?” Joel asks, leaning forward into your line of sight. You can feel his breath against your thigh as he observes the way Miles’ tongue works your clit. Nodding, you whimper some sort of affirmation. “C’mon now. Words. Know he’s not making you feel that good.”

“Yeah,” you whisper. “It’s better. Good.”

You can feel Miles smile against you, satisfied with just making you feel good. It’s endearing. Almost. It’d be better if you were getting any closer to orgasming, but you’re not. 

“Not good enough.” Joel scoffs. You’re certain of it this time. “He ever even make you come before?”

Miles pulls back, lips swollen and wet from your juices. He’s waiting for you to answer. If you’re honest, you’re going to break his heart. If you lie, Joel’s going to call you out on it. A rock and a hard place. 

“Fuck off, Joel,” you hiss, mentally kicking yourself. Is that the best you could come up with? 

“Seriously?” Miles asks, brows pulled tight. “Never?”

You open your mouth to soothe him, but you squeak as Miles shoves two fingers into your cunt without warning. The sudden pressure and roughness of it makes your head fall back as you moan. He sets a quick pace and you start to fuck yourself on his fingers, finally getting what you want. A firm hand squeezed your thigh, digging into your soft flesh. For a moment, you think it’s Joel’s. Your cunt gushing around Miles’ fingers at the thought of Joel’s touch. 

“There ya go,” Joel says. “All she had to do was piss you off. She’s real good at that.” 

“Maybe that’s all she’s good at.” Miles’ voice wavers. 

When he finishes his sentence, he buries his fingers deep inside of you, pushing past where he should. It fucking burns, and you love it. You let out a cry, leaning forward and fisting the sheets. Finally, you let yourself look at Joel. It’s a mistake. Immediately, you realize it’s a mistake. His stare with those blown out pupils makes you feel lightheaded. It’s his fingers you want inside of you. It’s his chest you want to see so badly that you consider ripping off his flannel, letting all of the buttons fly haphazardly across the room. You have to look away, so you do, your eyes falling back on Miles as you bounce on his fingers. 

It comes to you slowly, but the pressure does build in your lower tummy and you’re clamping around Miles’ fingers. A low groan comes out of him as he realizes that he might actually make you come. You shut your eyes tight, unable to look at either of the men. 

“Stop,” Joel commands. Miles does. Of course he does. You whine, opening your pleading eyes to look at him. “You’re gonna wanna feel her around your cock. Trust me.” 

“Fuck you, Joel,” you say, exasperated. 

“I’m not fucking you. He is.” Joel nods at Miles before moving to settle next to you, leaning back against your pillows and resting a hand on the soft pudge of his tummy. “Let’s see if you can do this right.” 

Miles’ jaw shifts, clearly irked by Joel’s condescension, while he fumbles to get his boxers off. You shoot Joel an amused look. It’s subtle, but you think Joel returns it, the corner of his mouth twitching slightly. Once his boxers are off, Miles positions his hard cock at your entrance, looking up at you for consent. You nod and he eases into you slowly, your walls fluttering around him. It’s already difficult not to think about Joel while Miles is fucking you, but having Joel inches away from you makes it damn near impossible. 

Bottoming out, Miles just sits there, letting you feel him deep. You’re frustrated, just needing to get fucked. With a whine, you goad him on, “Miles, you’re not going to make me come like that. Fuck me.” 

As soon as the words come out of your mouth, Miles looks hurt. Then, the hurt turns into something dark. Not anger, but determination. You stare back at him, raising an eyebrow. You almost forget Joel’s in the room until he chuckles. 

“You gonna let her talk to you like that?” Joel asks. 

“No,” Miles says, glancing at Joel before looking back down at you, dick still throbbing inside of you. 

“Then maybe you should do somethin’ about it,” Joel says, laying on his side to face you. “Smack her around. Teach ‘er how to be a good girl.”

Miles furrows his eyebrows, cocking his head to the side. “I’m not gonna hit her, man.” 

“No, no,” you say desperately, clawing at Miles’ back and pulling him down to you. Pressing your forehead to his, just inches from his lips, you look him in the eyes. You know this will make him melt. “We’re playing a game,” you whisper, trying to be quiet enough that Joel can’t hear, “and I’m being bad. So punish me.” 

Eyes softening, he nods and leans in to kiss you. As always, you turn your away, letting Miles’ lips land on your cheek. He kisses your cheek and makes his way down your neck. You’re facing Joel whose jaw is tight as he stares at you. The feeling Miles’ lips on the column of your throat fades away as you focus on Joel, on how you want his lips on your neck instead. Miles’ cock suddenly pistoning in and out of you breaks your trance, snatching a gasp out of your throat. You turn to face him and as you do, a sharp blow lands on your cheek, eliciting a yelp from you that eventually melts into a moan. It’s hard. Much more so than you expected, but it makes you clench around him. 

“Harder,” Joel encourages him. “Slut like her can take it.” 

Obliging, Miles hits you harder and picks up the pace, fucking deep into you. Your eyes roll back a bit, settling into the pleasure that you’ve been craving. It comes out shaky, but you manage to say, “Finally, just like that. Keep fucking me like that.” 

“I’m kind of tired of hearing you talk,” Miles growls. 

“Shut her up then,” Joel says.

You laugh between moans. “Yeah, shut me up then,” you taunt. “I’d like to see tha—”

Miles’ hand around your throat cuts you off, making you gag. He’s still thrusting into you, deep and fast, while your tongue sticks out pathetically. Looking down, his eyes are glued to where his cock is sliding in and out of you. Maybe he doesn’t notice it, but Miles puts more of his weight on his arm, crushing your windpipe. Panic hits you and your eyes widen, genuinely unable to breathe. Reaching out, you smack Joel’s arm and grab onto his hand, but he’s already yanking Miles off of you by his wrist. Why did you reach for Joel? You could’ve easily tapped Miles on the arm. He would’ve stopped. But no, you sought out Joel. 

“Jesus Christ, Blondie,” Joel snaps, “are you trying to crush her throat? You’re gonna kill her, you dumb ass.” 

You sit up on your elbows to catch your breath, and Miles stills inside of you, burying his cock in your pussy. He rubs his thumb on your cheek tenderly and begins to apologize profusely. You’re, more or less, ignoring him because all you can think about is Joel’s hand still holding yours. When you look over at him, it’s like he realizes it, too. Joel pulls away gruffly. 

“I’m so sorry, honey,” Miles says sincerely, pressing a kiss to your forehead. 

“She doesn’t like that,” Joel grumbles. “Hates being called honey.” 

That wasn’t something you told Joel. On a run, you told Adam that you hate being called honey unless it’s by a woman over the age of seventy. You guess Joel was listening, and it makes your stomach flutter that he remembers. God, you hate the way he can always get to you.

“It’s fine,” you say, rubbing up and down Miles’ bicep. “Lie down. I want to be on top.” 

Without hesitation, Miles switches positions with you. You don’t have to look to know Miles’ eagerness and obedience made Joel roll his eyes. Taking Miles’ cock in your hand, you run it over your dripping slit as you straddle him. This earns a low groan from him and you bite your lip, satisfied with the teasing.

“Down,” Miles commands. When you don’t move, he grabs you by your hips, digging his nails into your plush flesh, and drags you down onto his cock with force. “Are you fucking listening or are you just incapable of following instructions? I told you down.” 

It’s like the words were coming straight out of Joel’s mouth, making you whimper. Yeah, it would sound better if he had said it, but Miles is trying. You can appreciate that. You press your hands to Miles’ chest and grind down on his cock. Joel sucks in a deep breath.

“Look who’s finally catching on,” Joel says to Miles who glances over at him, almost smiling. He looks like a teenage boy getting his father’s approval for the first time. “But c’mon, you gotta be meaner than that or she won’t come.”

Miles’ eyes scan Joel, from the pinch of his graying brows to his covered bulge, tightly concealed by his jeans. You catch the way he’s looking at Joel like he’s something to eat. After he’s done gawking, which has gone unnoticed by Joel since he’s too preoccupied with staring at your tits, Miles licks his lips and nods. Then, with a smack to your ass, he starts fucking up into you. The new angle is just what you need to hit that sweet spot deep inside of your cunt. Shameless moans tumble from your lips as Miles reaches a hand up to play with your hard nipples, pinching and tugging in a way he never has before. You suck in a sharp breath with your teeth grit, overwhelmed with pleasure and a twinge of pain. 

“You see how he’s looking at you?” Miles asks, grabbing your jaw and forcing you to look at Joel. With heavy eyelids and a hand resting over his clothed, erect cock, Joel looks like he’s bursting with desire. Yet he is entirely still. “A slut like you likes being watched, don’t you?” 

“Mhm,” you affirm with a whimper, eyes still locked on Joel. “F-Fuck, I like it. I really fucking like it.”

Clenching around Miles, you’re approaching the edge, closer and closer to your orgasm with each thrust. When Joel curses under his breath while he watches your tits bounce, you think you’re going to come right there. It’s confusing to you that he’s not playing with himself. He’s just letting his hand rest on his erection. It’s not like he’s trying to hide it, not that he could, but like he needs some sort of pressure on his cock or he’ll lose his mind. He’s holding back.

“Fuck, Joel,” Miles rasps. “She’s really fucking—shit—tight. Squeezing me really tight.”

“You wanna be a good girl and come for me—him?” You catch Joel’s slip up and it only sends you closer to your orgasm. All you can manage is a nod as expletives fall from your lips. “Then stop fuckin’ lookin’ at me and focus.”

“Or what?” you shoot back. 

“Or I’ll walk out right now. You want me to leave?” Joel threatens and you shake your head rapidly. “Didn’t think so. Fuck her harder, kid.” 

“Yes, sir,” Miles mumbles. 

At first you think he’s being sarcastic, maybe there’s a hint of annoyance, but you saw how he was looking at Joel earlier. Thinking about it makes you throb. Miles feels this and groans, kneading a handful of your ass. Your eyes meet Miles’ and you can see the sweat shine on his forehead, dampening his hair. Despite his inability to fuck you like Joel, he isn’t Joel after all, he’s a good enough lay and a nice guy. You decide you should probably stop seeing him after this. For his own sake. 

Maybe he can sense that you’re going to cut things off, or maybe it’s just that he can feel your cunt spasming around him, but Miles slams into you with such force you fall forward. His arm snakes around you to keep you close to him. The way he’s holding you stops you from glancing over at Joel which is probably a good thing. It’ll make it easier to avoid saying his name as you come. 

“You look good like this,” Miles all but whispers. “Being a dirty whore, being my good girl.” 

Miles says the right thing, hits the right spot, and you sit back, pressing your palms flat against his chest. “Maybe not yours,” you say as your orgasm hits you. Mouth hanging open, you make a strangled sound, somewhere between a cry and a moan. You rock back and forth to ride out your climax as you spasm around him, eyes tightly shut. Beneath you, you feel Miles’ hips stutter and he moans your name. 

“Pull out,” Joel demands. “Not your cunt to come in.”

Warm, sticky cum shoots onto Miles’ toned abs. He pulled out just in time and a good thing he did. Considering Joel’s tone, he probably would’ve killed him if he came inside of you. You roll off of him, flopping between Miles and Joel. Sweaty and tired, you throw your arms over your eyes to block out the light filtering in from the streetlight. It’s stopped flickering.

“You should head out,” you say to no one in particular. “It’s late. Busy day tomorrow.”

That’s bullshit. 

“Yeah, of course,” Miles says softly, still catching his breath. He leans over and kisses your shoulder before getting up. 

Joel doesn’t move. 

Eyes still covered, you listen to Miles get dressed. Shucking on his pants. Closing his zipper. Putting his shoes on. Eventually, the front door shuts. 

“Guy’s a fucking moron,” Joel grumbles. 

Uncovering your eyes, you turn your head to look at him. He’s flat on his back, staring at the ceiling, and his arms are behind his head. Joel’s jaw is clenched. Everything about him is stiff, uncomfortable. It must rub off on you because you tense up. Maybe you’re mirroring him, or maybe you’re just realizing how humiliating it is that he’s completely clothed and you’re still naked 

“He’s nice,” you say. 

“He doesn’t know how to fuck you.”

“Well,” you inhale, “you just taught him. So.”

“Okay,” Joel exhales, “but he doesn’t just know what you want.”

“And you do?” Your voice is suddenly small, meek. 

Joel turns his head and holds eye contact with you. Time begins to slow down as the two of you stare. Suddenly, you’re in the motel, covered in blood and sitting on the floor. There’s that same hint of longing behind his otherwise dark eyes. You don’t dare to move, don’t dare to ruin whatever’s happening. 

“I…” Joel begins, then he snaps his mouth shut. The room would be silent if it weren’t for the blood thundering in your ears. Finally, Joel’s voice cuts through. “I miss you.”

“I miss you, too.” 

It’s the easiest thing to say.

It’s been a week.

Seven full days since Dina’s bachelorette party. Since the storm. Since Joel’s mouth was on your throat, his hands on your hips, and his voice in your ear telling you to come for him. A week since his weight pressed you into the worn leather of his truck’s bench seat like he was trying to carve himself into your skin.

And then he drove you home.

The ride was quiet. Awkward. Joel tried to make it normal. Failed.

“Storm cleared up nice,” he said as he turned into your neighborhood. It might’ve sounded casual—if not for the fact that you’d had your hands all over each other less than ten minutes earlier. If not for the way his come was still warm between your thighs.

You didn’t respond. Just gave a tight-lipped nod, even though Joel hadn’t looked at you since he merged back onto the highway, not even to check for oncoming traffic when it was time to pull off it. He didn’t say anything else until the truck rolled to a stop in the middle of the street—parked between your dad’s house and his, the engine ticking in the quiet.

“That was—” he started, then broke off, scrubbing a hand over his face with a ragged sigh. “We shouldn’t have… Sorry. That was—”

You cut in before he could unravel it further. “It’s fine. Really.” Then, with a strained chuckle: “You never had a one-night stand before?”

He finally looked at you. Briefly. He’d had his fair share. Wanted this thing between you two to be just that—just two people getting their fix and moving on.

He nodded slowly. Hit unlock on the door.

“Right,” he said. “See you around, kid.”

Kid.

Not darlin', like in the truck when his voice sank as low as his hands on your body. Not your name. Just kid. 

The moniker hit hard. Lodged behind your ribs painfully. You smiled halfheartedly like it was fine—just like you’d told him. Like you hadn’t been waiting, stupidly, for something. A look. A word. Anything that hinted at him knowing this wasn’t as simple as a one night stand.

But he just watched you go, shoulders tense, hands still on the wheel like they had nowhere else to be—no apology. No wait. No darlin’.

The morning after, Dina called. Too early, too chipper considering her state when she left The Rusty Antler—wanting to know every messy detail.

“So, you fucked him, right? Please tell me you fucked him,” she probed down the line.

You lied to her. Maybe for the first time in your whole friendship. Said Joel just dropped you off. That nothing happened.

“He’s my dad’s best friend,” you reiterated. “That would be…weird.”

She bought it. Or let you have it, at least. And still, through everything else—through final bridesmaid dress fittings, venue walkthroughs, and seating chart hell—you’ve been spiraling quietly, secretly. 

You’ve tried to shove it down. But your body still remembers, more than you’d like. Your thoughts keep circling back to him without permission at the most inconvenient of moments—at the checkout at the grocery store, when you’re sitting down for breakfast with your dad, while you’re showering. When you see the bruises on your thigh when he hooked you around him as he pummelled into you. The marks are fading now, from dark purple fingerprints to yellow smudges you keep hidden under jeans or sports leggings. You can’t help but relive the rasp of his voice, the look on his face when you came apart in his hands. The guilt and wonder that warred behind his eyes like you were something he never should’ve toyed with.

Maybe that’s why you haven’t seen him since. No appearance for Sunday football. No midweek drop-ins for an after-work beer. Just…nothing. You’d half expected your father to be suspicious—he and Joel are each other’s lifelines, even more so since Sarah headed off to college—but he didn’t seem phased. Passed it off as Joel being busy with construction jobs or seeing Tess. The latter made your gut churn.

***

Joel’s been keeping to himself.

Outside of work—which, as the director of a contracting business, keeps his days full enough—he doesn’t usually do much but hang out with your dad, drink a couple beers, shoot the shit. But now he’s avoiding that routine like it’s laced with tripwires. Avoiding your dad’s calls, replying only by text. Busy this week. Catch you soon. Which isn’t a total lie. Work’s been steady, there’s a leaky pipe in the basement he’s been meaning to fix. But mostly, he’s been doing everything he can to stay out of sight, to keep temptation at arm’s length.

He’s been heating up microwave dinners he barely tastes. Spoke on the phone with his younger brother Tommy longer than he usually would, pretending the catch-up wasn’t just a way to fill the silence. One night he even rearranged the den furniture, despite the fact he almost never goes in there—always prefers the kitchen counter for his paperwork, within reach of the fridge and the back door light.

He tells himself it’s temporary. Just until Dina’s wedding is over. Just until you pack up and head back to Charlotte. Then he can go back to being your dad’s best friend, the guy who’s always around, always reliable. Not the guy who had you spread out in his truck with your panties shoved halfway down your thighs. He keeps hearing your voice telling him that you don’t care.

Want you.Your legs bracketing his hips. Your breath in his ear. And God help him—he wants more. Which is exactly why he’s staying away.

He almost gets away with it, too. But then your dad calls again. A longer ring this time. Joel lets it go to voicemail, but the message that pings through a minute later hits harder than it should.

Hey, jackass. Don’t wanna hang out with me anymore? You find yourself a new best buddy or somethin’? 

The message is left with a chuckle, but Joel knows him too well. There’s a note of something else underneath. Hurt, maybe. Confusion. That unspoken what did I do wrong?.

Joel swears under his breath. Guilt rises like bile, up his chest, stings at the back of his throat.

So he gives in. Which is why he’s standing at your dad’s front door—your front door—on a Friday night, two six-packs in one hand, sweat prickling at the back of his neck even though there’s a crisp breeze rifling through the fallen leaves along the street.

His heart thunders. Rakes a hand through his hair, trying to steel himself. This isn’t just dinner. Not really.

Not when all he can think about is how you looked half-naked in his truck, tits illuminated by sporadic cracks of lightning.

Not when all he wants to see if that fire’s still burning.

Not when he’s terrified that it is.

Joel pitches a hand up and raps his knuckles on the sage green wood, sucking in a shaky breath. You’re probably not even in. Probably out with your friends. Maybe back at The Rusty Antler. Or perhaps holed up at Dina’s while you help out with final wedding preparations.

But then the door swings open—and you’re standing there. Barefoot, hair tied up in a messy knot, wearing an oversized Volunteers t-shirt and black leggings. He hates that he thinks you look just as good entirely covered up as you did with your skirt around your waist and your tank pulled down.

You freeze when you see him. Thought it was the delivery driver bringing over the Thai food your dad had ordered. Joel shifts his weight, muttering a hey while holding up the six-packs like they’re peace offering. 

You almost laugh. Yeah, alcohol would be good right about now.

“Your dad—he invited me for dinner.”

“Right,” you say, blinking. “I just... I didn’t think—”

“Since when do you knock?” your dad interrupts, voice teasing as he appears behind you. Then, to you: “You gonna stand there and let all the heat out, or you gonna let the man in?”

You step aside, shrinking away from the threshold to give Joel the room to enter. His large frame fills out the doorway, broad shoulders nearly brushing the frame as he passes you, almost sheepish. He's in his Carhartt jacket again. The one he loaned to you that night outside the bar. The one you left in the footwell of his truck. The sight of it has your body wracking with a shiver, one your dad catches as he takes the beers from Joel, sliding two bottles out for the pair of them.

"You cold, sweetheart?"

You shake your head and hold your hand out to him. "Nope, all good. Let me put those in the fridge." Anything to put some space between you and Joel—let your nervous system calm down after the shock of his arrival. You can't seem to shake him though, feeling his gaze hot through the material of your t-shirt while him and your dad trail you to the kitchen, his boots heavy against the floorboards.

"So, where the hell have you been?" your dad wants to know as the three of you walk into the open-plan living area—a renovation Joel and your dad had carried out a few years back.

Joel gives a noncommittal grunt, scratches as his beard. “Like I said, busy week. Spent half the week waitin’ on drywall that never showed, and the other half explainin’ to a twenty-year-old apprentice why you don’t use a nail gun like a damn paintbrush. Y’know it is.”

He sounds normal—too normal—and it grates. The easy rhythm of his voice, the way he jokes with your dad. It’s infuriating, even though you’re doing the exact same thing—plastering on a smile, acting like nothing happened. But the more effortless he makes it seem, the more it needles under your skin. Because if he can brush it off that easily, what does that say about you? That you’re festering in the details—replaying every sound, every touch—while he probably went home, took a shower, and let the night rinse off him without a second thought. Didn’t even look back as it all sluiced down the drain.

You stay quiet as you slide the packs of Bud into the fridge, trying to keep your face neutral. When you turn back, your brow furrows at the number of settings your dad’s placed on the table.

“Four bowls?” You cock your head. “I know you’re getting older but you’re still a few years short of going senile.”

“Ha-a. You think you’re so clever,” he replies, reaching over to pinch the back of your neck like he used to when you were ten. “No, we’ve got another one joining us.”

You narrow your eyes. “You invite yourself a date over?”

“Not a date for me—a date for Joel.”

That stopped everything cold.

“What?” you and Joel say at the same time.

Your dad grins, oblivious, takes a sip of his drink. “I invited Tess. Figured it was time she came by for a proper family dinner.”

You blink, hard, like maybe you misheard him. “Tess?” you repeat. “As in Tess Tess?”

Your dad nods like it’s nothing. You run your tongue along the inside of your lower lip.

Tess. A proper family dinner. 

That didn’t sound casual. That sounded like a step. A step well on the way to relationship territory.

Your stomach flips. Was that all you’d been? Something Joel needed to get out of his system before going all in with Tess? Maybe it was never about you at all. Maybe it was just because you were there.

Was he lying when he said it wasn’t serious? Was he lying when he kissed you like that?

The doorbell echoes through the house and you feel Joel’s eyes on you as your dad ambles towards the front door, whistling like he didn’t just drop a bomb. When you dare to glance his way, his mouth is parted like he wants to say something. To object. To explain.

But you shake your head, once—firm. Don’t.

Then you’re turning your back, focusing on the fridge as if it’s the most interesting thing in the house. A breath shudders out of you just as the front door swings open and Tess’s voice floats in as she tells your dad she intercepted the delivery driver at the letterbox. Her voice is bright, familiar. Like she belongs here.

And so, you steel your spine and paste on a smile that feels like splinters.

***

Dinner is…dinner.

Your dad and Tess hold up most of the conversation: chit-chatting about work—Tess owned the florist beside the local grocer—rehashing some rumour that was doing the rounds among the neighbours. You add your two cents when necessary—try not to roll your eyes when your dad compliments Tess’s blouse and she tells him she chose it because green’s Joel’s favourite colour—but mainly stick to sipping your drink and picking at your food. Joel isn’t much better. He gives the occasional grunt or dry one-liner. Sometimes he goes all in with a chuckle that doesn’t quite sink into the lines at the corners of his eyes.

Tess, in all honesty, is perfectly lovely. You haven’t spent much time with her outside the occasional neighbourhood barbecue over the years, but she’s easygoing, certainly not hard to get along with. The kind of woman who laughs with her whole chest and doesn’t take herself too seriously. You can see why your dad likes her for Joel. Why Joel might like her for Joel.

She fills the silence naturally, poking fun at Joel’s quietness with a nudge of her elbow. “This one,” Tess grins, eyes sparkly as she peers up at him. “Man of few words. So very Joel.” 

You observe quietly as she leans in a little too close when she laughs, and rests her hand on Joel’s forearm whenever she made a point. You notice that Joel doesn’t respond, not really. No touches returned. No lingering looks to match her’s.

But then again, that was just Joel. A little rigid. Not touchy-feely. Except for—

“So, anyone special back in Charlotte?” Tess is asking you now, smiling over her wine glass.

You blink, caught off guard. “I just got out of a relationship, actually.”

“Oh,” she says, her voice soft with sympathy. She means it, too. “Well, I’m sure you’ll be back on the horse in no time. Gorgeous thing like you. Right, Joel?”

Joel looks up from his empty plate like he wasn’t listening. “Hm, what’s that?”

Tess lets out a small laugh, rolling her eyes with endearment before nudging her chin towards you. “I’m just saying she won’t have any trouble dating again.”

Joel’s eyes flick to yours for the first time since you all sat down. The glance licks fire at the base of your belly. He shifts in his seat, scratches his thick fingers behind his ear. “Oh, right. Yeah.”

And you take that as your cure.

You slide your chair back with a soft scrape on the timber floors. “I think I’m going to head up to my room. Lie down. Headache’s starting to kick in.

“That’s not good,” Tess says. “You know what I swear by? Peppermint oil, right at the base of your neck. Should clear it right up!”

You nod, already moving away from the table. “Yeah, I’ll, uh… give it a try.”

As if I just have peppermint oil just laying about, you think as you walk out of the room, but you stop under the archway that leads to the stairs when Tess trills, light and airy, “See you tomorrow!”

You turn back to face your guests. “What’s tomorrow?”

“The barbeque, sweetheart,” your dad clarifies. “Remember? Like old times. Sarah’s even coming down from UT to see you.”

Shit.

You’d totally forgotten. Your dad had mentioned it when you first got in from Charlotte, but with everything going on—with Joel—it had completely slipped your mind.

Your stomach twists. One look at Joel, eyes now back on his plate, and you know it’s going to be one fucking long weekend.

***

The dinner at your dad’s hung over Joel’s head like a bad hangover—pressing, hard to shake. Not to mention, it made him feel a little sick—you sitting across from him with a tight smile. Tess, beside him, chatting like she knew him better than she did, filling in the silences he was more than comfortable sharing with just your dad. The air between you both felt like a live wire as soon  as Tess was drawn into the situation, and he hadn’t known what the hell to say.

He still didn’t.

Now, he pulls his front door closed with a soft click and steps out onto the porch, ready—well, not ready, but willing—to head across the street. Afternoon sun illuminates his face, a warm welcome among the crisp fall air. Wind chimes clink lazily in the distance, oak leaves swirl by on a breeze that carries the smoke already curling from your dad’s backyard grill. It was a perfect October day for a barbecue.

He trudges down his front steps, six-pack swinging in one hand, the other shoved deep in the pocket of his Carhartt. 

It’s gonna be fine, he repeats to himself like a mantra, as if churning it over will somehow make it true. 

Then came the “Hey, Joel!” Tess. “Good timing.”

She’s walking up from the end of the block, a grin breaking across her face so fiercely her eyes devolve into slits. Joel hesitates for half a second, then nods with a smile a fraction of the size of her’s.

“I brought dessert,” she says cheerfully, holding up a paper bag adorned with the logo of a local bakery. “You boys always have the meat sorted but never anything to satisfy a sweet tooth.”

“Great,” Joel mumbles, then stiffens, when Tess loops her arm through his like it’s the most natural thing in the world. His heart lurches when he realises what this looks like.

Something. 

He felt a cold prickle at the base of his neck as he and Tess crossed the street, her wound around his bicep like it was nothing out of the ordinary. He wanted to pull away when he approached your dad’s side gate. Didn’t know how without offending Tess.

Shit. What if you saw? Hopefully you were inside. Hopefully you didn’t see. But gate’s rusted hinge screeched loud and sharp like it always did, announcing their arrival like a fucking parade float to the already bustling party.

Joel winced.

You were already outside, standing near the cooler, mid-laugh with Sarah who’d headed over about an hour earlier. Your head snapped around at the noise, but you didn’t feel like you had whiplash until your eyes locked straight on Joel, then Tess, hanging off him like an accessory.

Your smile faded, and Joel felt the loss of it like a blow to the chest. He dropped Tess’s arm as casually as he could manage, stepping a few feet ahead like that might somehow make it clear that they’re not together. Didn’t matter though. Not when you’d turned back to Sarah a bit too quickly, telling her something that’s swallowed by the music pumping through your dad’s old stereo setup. Then you’re off, crossing the yard to the house, green sundress swaying at your thighs, hair catching in the breeze that was nearing on being too chilly for you to be in such an outfit.

Joel’s gaze locks on you, on the dress that has no business clinging to you like that. Soft cotton stretches across your back, dipping low enough to show off the fading tan line from a summer bikini, the bow of it cinched tight at your waist, accentuating your curves. Every step you take has the hem flicking higher over the back of your thighs, just enough to make his mouth dry. And those legs—Christ. They’d been locked around his hips just over a week ago.

Fucking hell, he thinks, shaking his head like that might unlodge the image from his head. It doesn’t. Not even close. Which might be why he’s suddenly possessed to go after you, before the sense seeps back into his bones.

“Joel,” Tess calls before he’s stepped too far away, drifting over from where she’d been greeting some friends to press the bakery bag into his chest. “Can you pop this in the fridge? Don’t want the cream to melt.”

He misses the sickly smile she tosses up at him when he mutters back a distracted yeah, eyes still locked on the screen door you’d just slipped through. Then, bag in hand, heart somewhere near his throat, he followed you like gravity made the rules.

You’re in the kitchen, back to the party with your hands pitched against the lip of the farm-style sink, telling yourself to get your shit together after the sight of Joel and Tess walking into your yard like a long-term couple drained the colour out of your face. Sarah didn’t notice your sudden change in demeanour, thankfully, too engrossed in a story about a messy love triangle that’s unfolding on the floor of her dorm. Behind you, the screen door shuddered quietly before the floorboards groaned under the weight of someone—him—the static of his presence like a current riding just under your skin.

“Bit cool out for a dress like that, don’t you think?”

You don’t turn around, but Joel can see your shoulders wrack with a huff. “Bit out of your jurisdiction, telling me what I should or shouldn’t be wearing, don’t you think?” You pause, then: “Y’know… especially since you’re here with your girlfriend.”

“Tess ain’t my girlfriend.”

“That’s not what it looks like.” “I know what it looks like. I’m telling you it’s not that.”

“Could’ve fooled me,” you mutter, yanking the fridge door open with more force than it’s made for, the seal breaking with a loud hiss. Bottles rattle on the shelves from the impact, a carton of juice sloshing from left to right.

Joel exhales, the sound harsh, tired—partially frustration at you, part at himself. Because your bratiness, your sharp tongue and narrowed eyes, have a way of stirring something up in him that makes his pulse gallop just that little bit faster. Makes him feel wired and restless in a way he hasn’t felt in a long fucking time.

So he bites. “You always get this pissed off after a one night stand?”

You freeze, knuckles whitening around the necks of two beers—one for you, one for Sarah. One night stand. He throws it back at you like a weapon. It stings. Maybe because you’d said it first when you were trying to play it cool. Now it just feels like a slap.

You straighten, shut the drudge with your hip and finally come to face Joel with your chin tipped high. “Nope. But I usually don’t have to sit across from my one night stands at the dinner table with their—” your eyes slice to Tess in the backyard, laughing with your dad while he flips burgers on the grill, “—whatever-you-want-to-call-her, and play happy families.”

Joel crosses the room until you’re both standing behind the kitchen counter, his voice low, urgent, when he tells you, “I didn’t know she was gonna be there. I swear.”

“Yeah, well.” You stare up at him, already feeling a little weak at the knees when the haze of his cologne hits you. “You sure know how to pick your surprises.”

His eyes dip slow, shamelessly, taking in the swell of your breasts where they rise over the fitted cups of your sundress. He doesn’t even try to disguise it. Just looks, jaw fluttering faintly under his scruff of facial hair before reaching past you for the bottle opener. Joel takes the two beers from your hands and pops them open with an effortless flick. Slides one of them onto the counter and takes a long pull from the other like you’d got it out for him.

You don’t say anything, just watch as he licks a drop of Bud from his bottom lip, leaning a hip against the counter, gaze sweeping lazily over you again.

“”S a nice dress, though,” he tells you, voice low. “I like the colour.”

You’d like to say it wasn’t intentional, that it was just the first thing you’d grabbed out of your wardrobe and thrown on, but it wouldn’t be the truth. You’d sat on your bed that morning in a towel, freshly-washed hair dropping onto your shoulders, starting at your open wardrobe. The doors were ajar, only just, enough to see the familiar chaos of reds and blacks, a hint of soft blue. But no green. Nothing in Joel’s favourite colour. Your stomach coiled. Out of nowhere came this pathetic, sharp urge to donate everything you owned. Burn it all down and start again. Build your closet back up in nothing but shades of moss and sage and pine. 

It was stupid. You knew it was stupid, but the memory had surfaced anyway—Tess at the dinner table, laughing, casually mentioning how she’d started wearing more green because it was his favourite. 

And now here you were, doing the same damn thing. Or wanting to. You never felt like that with Jesse. Never once thought about buying out the denim aisle to appease him, to drown yourself in blue to match him like some second skin.

You look down at your dress, the one you’d yanked out of donation bags that sat in your dad’s spare room, the garment just a smidge too tight on you compared to when you last wore it, probably back in high school.

I like the colour, Joel had said.

I know you do, you think—at least, you think you think it—but the words form aloud. The space between Joel’s eyebrows pinch and a shadow of a smile is gone before he reaches its full potential. The silence in the room sucks the walls inward, so instead of a kitchen, it feels like the pair of you have been shoved into a cardboard box. You watch as he drains the beer until there’s barely two mouthfuls left, throat working in quick swallows like whatever he’s about to do next needs a lick of liquid courage, his other hand hooking a thumb through the loop on his jeans. He takes one last swig, the weight of his arm tugging the faded blue waist down a notch so it exposes the waistband of his grey underwear.

Your quiet confession was like silk and barbed wire all at once. He shouldn’t want this. Not here, not like this, not ever, really. But fuck, if the idea didn’t sink its teeth in: you choosing that dress. That fit. That neckline. All of it with him in mind. It lights a slow burn in his chest that works its way lower, heat pooling behind his belt.

The muscles in Joel’s arm flex like an elastic band as he twists to put the empty bottle next to the sink, and your eyes train all the way up his neck to where the tendons pinch there, too.

“Did you wear that dress for me?” His tone dips with the question, thick with something you can’t quite put your finger on.

Your response rouses as a scoff at the back of your throat—yeah right—but it comes out as a strangled sort of whine, giving away that whatever excuse it was preceding would’ve been a blatant lie. “Get over yourself,” you tell him anyway, shoving back towards the fridge to grab a beer to replace the one he’d stolen from you. Joel follows suit to retrieve another, too, rivers of condensation running down its sides. He doesn’t move to clean the droplets that plummet to the floor. The galley in your dad’s kitchen isn’t that wide, so you and Joel are just about flush against each other when he turns back to face you. He doesn’t attempt to dissect your response to his question, just lilts the hem of your sundress with the bottom of his bottle.

A sharp breath shoots past your lips when it hits the inside of your thigh, the path of skin beside your knee igniting despite the bottle’s icy exterior.

“Don’t react. People are watching,” he tells you, eyes catching something over your shoulder. The kitchen counter is high enough to hide anything below the waist, so anyone looking on from the backyard would just see Joel and you in what would appear to be a casual conversation.

The idea that this is casual splits your nerves.

“When I ask you something, I want a simple answer.” He’s slow. Precise. The kind of voice that leaves no room for argument. “Yes or no, got it?”

You nod, your attention stuck on the rivulet of condensation tracking a glistening line down your calf. The room is suffocating, all the walls pressing inward under the weight of his stare.

Joel doesn’t let your silence slide. He lifts the cold bottle just a fraction, pressing it higher on your thigh, and the jolt of sensation is instant—your hips flinch, back hitting the edge of the counter as the bottle skims closer to heat. His voice slices through the static buzzing in your head.

“Yes or no?” It’s not a question anymore. It’s a command.

“I…Yes.” The word breaks out after several aching beats. And like a switch flipped, the tension in his shoulders unwinds. You watch the muscles above his collarbones loosen, the sharp edge of his jaw unclench.

“Good girl.”

The praise slams into you, pumps your chest with something dangerously close to pride, and you’re filled with the urge to please him, succumb to him, whatever him, so long as he’s this close.

Good girl.

His good girl.

A sudden laugh explodes from outside, a burst of normalcy that cuts through the fog. The reminder that you’re mere feet from the gathering—your dad, Tess, Sarah—has you instinctively pulling back, but Joel’s hand is already there, his fingers locking firm around your friend, calloused and warm and unyielding.

“I said,” he growls, voice molten and ragged, “Don’t. Move.”

The barrel of his bottle lands again—harder this time on your opposite thigh with a wet clink. Your legs almost betray you at the shock of the cold glass, but it’s the suggestion of what could come next that undoes you. The backyard fades into background noise again, muffled like you’re submerged underwater. Your heart pounds frantically, the only thing anchoring you now is Joel’s body on yours.

His stare on you like a weight, and the sear of his hand where he holds you.

“I’m going to ask you again,” he says, more frayed this time. “Did you wear this dress for me?” 

You both know you did. It’d be easy to admit. But the way his pupils have swallowed the colour from his eyes—wide, dark, hungry—tells you you’ve got him. And you’re not giving that up so easily.

A smirk threatens to crack across your face but you wrangle it down before telling Joel: “Not everything I put on is for your benefit, you know.” The sass has his dick kicking against his thigh, and you catch the flare of his nostrils just before he takes your wrist and guides your hand down, pressing your palm to the heat straining behind his zipper. “That benefit, you mean?”

Your breathing stutters and you swallow thickly at the weight of him, the barely-restrained hardness, how he feels hot and solid and real beneath your fingers. A flush shoots through you, fast and unrelenting, before Joel peels your hand away. The loss of him under your palm feels like a punishment, but for Joel, it’s his only line of defense against blowing his load in his pants like some touch-starved teenager. 

A light sweat pricks at your heaving chest and you cast your sight down, inviting Joel to follow. If he does, you don’t notice, because the beat blocking his next movement is almost non-existent as he jerks his beer upwards so it’s pressing against your centre, the thin material of your panties the only thing keeping your last shed of control in.

You both know how wrong this is—family feet away, a house full of noise—but neither of you moves to stop it. The thrill is the point. The push and pull, the control, the loss of it.

Joel dips close, his mouth nearly brushing your cheek. And then, he whispers his trump card, soft and lethal.

“Darlin’. Come on, you can tell me. You wore this dress just for me, hm?”

You press your tongue to the inside of your cheek. Each second that ticks by without a response earns you a fresh surge of pressure between your thighs. The icy bottle finally catches the swollen nub of your clit. You buck your hips forward, chasing the feeling. If Joel were to peel your dress up now, you’re certain he wouldn’t be able to tell where the condensation ended and your arousal began. Your breaths are jagged, fingers curling tight against the edge of the counter to keep you from melting into a heap at his feet. The kitchen stretches quiet and thick with tension as your gazes remained locked, challenging each other.

He wants submission.

You offer defiance. 

And he gets off on it.

Joel nudges the bottle up again, insistent. Daring. You dig your heels in, refusing to let up. Until—

“God, I was wondering where you went,” Sarah says from behind you, her voice slicing the moment in half. Joel yanks the bottle back so fast it tinkers against the counter, backing away from you like he’s been shot. Annoyance at Sarah’s interruption flares through you for a brief moment, then it’s chased by shame as you avoid looking at her out of fear that you have your dad just hand his hands up my dress written on your forehead in red ink.

She snags the original beer off the counter and sucks down a sip. 

You and Joel don’t speak. Just exchange a tight glance. Relief. Guilt. Something worse.

“Shit, this stuff’s good,” Sarah says with a dramatic lip smack, none the wiser.

A beat passes. Two.

Then she glances at her father with a raised brow. “Hey, what’s going on with you and Tess, anyway? Are you like… together now?”

The words hit you square in the gut. You blink, the haze of heat and touch and Joel’s voice still echoing inside you—Darlin’. But it fades fast. Like a splash of cold water, Sarah’s question brings it all back. The way Tess had walked in with her arm looped through Joel’s. The way she’d touched him like she had every right. Laughed at things only a couple could laugh about. The way you’d let yourself forget. You grind your teeth together.

What the hell are you doing? He’s not yours. And you’re not some girl who loses her sense over a little touching and a good girl. You’re smarter than this. You’ve got better boundaries than this. Or at least, you used to. Now, all you feel is a hot flush of shame—not just at Joel, but at yourself. 

For giving him the power. For liking how it felt.

You reach for your own beer with a forced smile and take a long, bracing sip. Joel still hasn’t answered his daughter’s question, so she looks to you, like you have some sort of in on the situation.

“No idea,” you tell her, voice clipped. “Not my business.”

But it is. It was. It shouldn’t be.

***

The fire pit crackles in the dark, casting long shadows across the yard, flames snapping at the logs like hungry mouths. Joel sits in a camping chair, one ankle hooked over his knee, a half-finished beer in hand. Tommy had rocked up a little while ago and dropped into the seat beside him, laughing about something Joel didn’t entirely hear. His thoughts kept drifting.

You.

He hasn’t looked your way since the kitchen. Not properly. Not when Sarah reappeared beside you, not when everyone lined up to serve themselves up for dinner, not even now, when you’re stretched out on a blanket across the yard, head tilted back as you talk quietly with his daughter. Joel’s still half-hard in his jeans. Still feels like a fucking idiot. 

“Someone forgot to put these in the fridge,” Tess’s voice chimes from behind him before appearing at his side, holding up the bakery bag he’d completely forgotten on the kitchen counter earlier.

Joel stands automatically, rubs the back of his neck. “Shit. Sorry, Tess.”

“You’re lucky you’re so handsome,” she jokes, nudging his arm lightly, but Joel doesn’t laugh. He stiffens instead, setting his beer in the mesh cup holder in his chair. “Hey,” he says quietly, jerking his chin towards the edge of the yard. “Mind if we talk for a sec?”

Tess studies him, something flashes behind her eyes. Then she nods. “Sure.” 

His hands are in his pockets, shoulders set tight by the time they’re standing by the oak tree by the fence. “Look, I ain’t good at this kinda thing,” he tells her. “So, I’ll just say it plain.”

Tess waits, arms crossed. Her brow’s already lifted when Joel tells her, “I think we’re better off as friends.”

You clock it all from across the yard. Joel and Tess are locked in a quiet conversation, voices swallowed by the rest of the noise rousing from the party. Tess isn’t touching him, for a change. She’s touched him in some way every moment she’s been near him tonight. A hand on his arm. A shoulder pressed too close. A whisper with a hand curling around his elbow.

Not that you’d been paying that keen attention. No.

Now Tess is still. Arms folded. Her posture shifts slightly before she lets out an awkward laugh, the kind people use to save face. She reaches out, pulls Joel into a hug. It’s brief. Polite, measured, and when she pulls back, Joel doesn’t follow. You watch him track her retreating figure back into the throng of guests, to where she sits down gingerly to join a conversation with Tommy’s wife, Maria, and a couple of other neighbours. Meanwhile, Joel is unmoving under that tree, like its roots have grown right over his feet, keeping him stuck in the shadows beside the tyre swing.

Then his eyes find you. 

Half-lit by the flicker of the fire. Blanket pulled over your legs. Your face giving nothing away while you watch him suck in a deep breath. There’s a slight tilt of his head, the damn furrow in his brow that he gets when he’s working something out. You expect him to look away. But he doesn’t.

For the first time all night, Joel doesn’t look away. And neither do you, until your dad shouts your name from where he’s sat beside Tommy, hand pitched in the air to grab your attention.

“Mind getting some more wood for the fire, sweetheart?” he asks. “We’re gettin’ a little low over ‘ere.”

You throw him a thumbs up back, message received. You flip the blanket off your lap and head around the side of the house, firelight fading behind you.

The shed waits at the back fence line, its grey tin frame pretty much black in the shadows. You make your way down the gravel path, cold nipping at where your bare skin meets the air. 

Fucking stupid outfit for this weather, you decide, chastising yourself.

You’re reaching for the she’d latch when you hear the slow crunch of boots behind you. You don’t turn. Don’t need to.

“Fuck off, Joel.”

There’s a pause. Then his voice, that same rough rasp that somehow always manages to find the softest part of your spine. “Just seein’ if you need a hand.”

“Don’t need anything from you.”

You yank the shed door open and pull the dangling chain connected to the old bulb that flickers then hums to life, casting everything in a jaundiced yellow. You step inside and crouch by the woodpile, blowing a sheet of cobwebs off it. Joel lingers in the doorway, one shoulder leaned into the frame. The night breathes between you as you reach for a small shaft of timber at the top of the pile. 

“Told Tess we’re better off as friends,” he says. It makes you pause, even though you’d gauged as much from the awkward interaction you’d witnessed just minutes ago. 

“Congratulations,” you mutter, grabbing at the log harder than necessary. A sharp sting punches into your forefinger. You his through your teeth and yank your hand back, sucking at the blood already welling around a splinter lodged into the supple skin there.

Joel is on you in two strides.

“Let me see.”

“No.

“Darlin’—”

“I said I’m fine.”

But then his hand wraps around your wrist in a maddingly gentle way, the heat from his palm warm, sure. You try to shake free from his grip but it’s a half-hearted attempt that Joel clocks, but doesn’t make a deal of. “Just gimme a look.” There’s less grit in his voice now. More gravity, and you don’t fight it again.

Joel steps into the shed fully now, easing the door half-closed behind him, shutting out the party, the noise. It’s just you two now, with the hum of the lightbulb and the thud of your heart trilling at your ribcage. He brings your hand up under the light, turning your finger delicately between his own as he inspects the wound. Then—without warning—he brings it to his lips. Your lungs blaze somewhere high in your chest.

Joel’s mouth parts around your fingertip, warm, wet, and he sucks. It’s methodical. Deliberate. A few pulls of his lips and the splinter unlodges from your finger, tongue brushing your skin with a softness that doesn’t match the hungry way he looks at you.

You’re frozen. Breaths shallow. Joel picks the miniscule shard of timber off his tongue, which then darts out to flick the taste of your blood from his lips, eyes steady on yours. He hasn’t let go of your hand. Not yet. Just allow his thumb to drag slowly over the pad of your finger for a moment until he says, just as gravelly as the stones stuck in the tread of his boots: “You gotta do a favour for me now.” You cock your head, suspicious. “Yeah?”

His eyes, looking more amber than brown in the dingy light, stay fixed on yours, voice thick with whatever the result is of defeat and desire combined. “Tell me you wore that dress for me.”

You let his words hang there, let him stew, before your defiant side claws up in a soft whisper. “And what if I did?”

“Then, darlin’—” he shakes his head, jaw flexing in that incredulous way. “Then I’m fucked.” He steps in closer, crowding your space like he had back in the kitchen, your bodies nearly touching. The shed should feel cold, but the air is hot and heavy around you. “You’re drivin’ me outta my damn mind,” Joel mutters. His fingers graze your hip now, fingers trilling the tie at your waist. “Can’t stop thinkin’ about you. Hate how much I want you. It—it feels sick, needin’ you like this. Can’t shake it.”

The confession slops out like it’s been waiting in his throat for days. You don’t even have the time to answer before his mouth is on yours, starved while he pulls you to him like he’s afraid you’ll vanish. The shed door groans on its hinges as Joel reaches back and slams it shut behind him, muting the party completely. You taste blood—yours, from the splinter—and beer, cold and bitter on his tongue, and it makes your knees give out.

Joel doesn’t let you fall.

His hands are everywhere—palming your hips, sliding between your thighs, pawing at your tits—and in one clean, hungry movement, he lifts you up. Your legs wind around his waist like a habit as he carries you to the other side of the shed, never breaking the kiss. Joel sets you down on your dad’s workbench with a thud, and guides himself between your thighs as they hang off the edge. His large hands splay across the tops of your legs as he pulls back just enough to drink you in, pupils blown wide, lips red and raw, the makeup under your nose scrubbed clean off thanks to his facial hair.

“Say it,” he rasps, chest heaving. “Tell me you wore that dress for me.” You nod before the words even form, of course I did, slipping out on a sigh. It’s barely a whisper, barely a confession. But it’s all Joel needs to start kissing you again, rougher now, deeper. One hand buries in your hair, the other grips your thigh where it’s hooked around his waist, fingers digging in like his grounding himself in the feel of you.

“Christ,” he moans into your mouth. “Knew it. Knew it the second I saw you.” Your head tips back as he licks down your throat, beard scraping against the sensitive skin just right, just enough to make you whimper. The bench creaks under your weight, shifting with every movement. 

“Joel,” you breathe, hands tangling in his dusty waves as he trails brandishing kisses to your breasts, yanking the cups of your dress down. Free in the air, your nipples draw to impossibly hard peaks, flushed and aching to be taken into Joel’s mouth. Like he can read your mind, he licks at one, then the other, tongue working in circles over the pebbled flesh. His fingers pay attention to whatever one he’s not suckling at, twisting and tugging at them like it’s his expertise. And with the way a strangled moan yanks from your throat, it just might be.

Your fingers tighten in his hair, hips rolling forward for more friction. Joel hums in approval, the buzz of his lips on your breast zipping under your skin there. His mouth trails lower, kissing over the thin material of your dress on your stomach, hands swiping up your thighs to push the fabric of the skirt to your hips as he sinks to his knees in front of you like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

Your breath catches as his fingers hook into your white panties—lace with a floral pattern—dragging them away from your centre achingly slow. His dark eyes stay locked to yours the entire time like he’s daring you to look away. You don’t.

And then his gaze dips, a growl wracking his body when he finally sees you bare. “Jesus Christ.”

You’re already so wet, slick and aching, residual arousal lingering from the encounter in the kitchen. Your thighs instinctively spread for Joel, allowing him to lean in and press a kiss just above your clit. Then another, lower. His breath is hot. You twitch under it, again when his tongue parts you, slowly, sinful. You press a palm into the benchtop, steading yourself while a strangled moan escapes you. “Fuck.” Joel licks into you with a flat tongue and rapid pace, groaning deep when your thighs clamp around his head. He’s quick to correct that though, gripping your knees without losing tempo, shoving them wide so your calves dangle over his shoulders, your sneakers leaving damp dirt on the back of his jacket. He continues working you open with his mouth, broad strokes turning precise as he zeroes in on your clit. You writhe on the bench, every nerve ending alight, skin flushed, jaw slack.

“Tase so fuckin’ good,” Joel groans into your cunt. “So sweet. Could stay right here all night.

You believe him, and God help you, you want him to.

You sink your teeth into your bottom lip, eyes squeezing shut as you try to keep quiet—but then Joel sucks your clit into his mouth and the cry that leaves you in anything but subtle. 

He doesn’t stop. Doesn’t even pause, just grins against you and keeps going while sliding a thick finger into your hot, aching center. The stretch makes you jolt, eyes rolling as he curls it just right—then another joins it, pumping in tandem with the slow, deliberate strokes of his tongue over your clit.

“Oh, God,” you whine, holding Joel’s head to you as his tongue drags messy patterns over your swollen bundle of nerves. Very swipe, every thrust, every graze of his scruff against your inner thighs sends sparks licking up your spine. Your breath comes in broken gasps, the heat curling tighter and tighter. Joel pulls back for just a second, lips glistening, to drink in the sight of you—chest heaving, tits bouncing slightly with each sharp pump of his hand, back arched, head tipped back in abandon. But when he doesn’t return his mouth to you right away, you blink down at him all wide-eyed and wrecked, a painful ache in your voice as you grit, “Joel—please—I’m gonna come.”

Your thighs quake around his shoulders while he stares at you a beat longer, eyes burning with hunger and something just shy of worship. “Yeah?” he murmurs, thumb brushing featherlight over your clit. “Then give it to me, darlin’. Show me how much you wanna come on my tongue.”

And just like that, he dives back in with feverish speed, trilling over your clit relentlessly, fingers pulsing deep into your cunt in perfect rhythm—again, again—until you shatter into a million pieces, pleasure crashing through you as you yelp Joel’s name, the sound bouncing off the tin walls of the shed while you come hard against his mouth. Your body trembles uncontrollably, but Joel doesn’t let up, just keeps working at you until the aftershocks roll through you like thunder and your hand pushes lazily through his hair with something between desperation and praise.

Eventually, Joel pushes up from the dusty floor, his middle-aged knees screaming in protest, but he doesn’t care—not when his mouth is still wet with you. The glow of the low-hanging bulb glints off the slick coating his lips and chin. He doesn’t wipe it away. Just leans in and kisses you, your taste between your tongues making you mean into his mouth. Hips shifting like they’re already searching for him again.

You suck in a shaky inhale. You don’t know how long you’ve been gone from the party. Minutes? Longer? The crackle of fire feels a hundred miles away now. You pray it’s still burning, that your dad hasn’t sent Sarah or anyone else to find you. That no one’s wandered down the side of the house, curious or looking to help. There’s a pang in your chest where heat blooms.

The thought of being caught tangled up with Joel Miller should terrify you. But it doesn’t. The idea sends a fresh, dangerous thrill through your body. 

He’s all you can think about. All you can feel.

His hands find your waist, grip tight enough to bruise. Fuck, you hope it does.

“That wasn’t enough,” he rasps against your lips. His buckle rattles as he wrestles with it between your bodies. “Need more. Need to fill your hot cunt with my cock again. Been thinkin’ about it every damn day. How tight you are. How good you take me.” 

You’re still trying to breathe properly when he hooks his arm around you and lifts you down from the bench like you weigh nothing at all. You hardly have time to find your balance before he turns you, palms heavy at your hips. Then your back. One hand anchors itself at the nape of your neck, folding you down until your bare chest meets the cold, splintered surface of the workbench. You gasp at the sudden change in temperature, in texture—soft skin against worn wood. Blink as your eyes fall in line with scattered tools. A screwdriver. A roll of duct tape. Cracked plastic box of nails. All of it blurs as Joel steps in behind you, and your body flexes to meet him. Rising on your tiptoes, arching, pressing yourself back, desperate and unthinking.

Joel groans low in his chest, the sound almost feral as he watches the bare bulbs of your ass keen towards him. With his jeans and underwear shoved down to his knees, his veiny cock stands flat against his stomach, rock hard and begging to sink inside you. He skims one hand over your ass and down to your thigh, hitching it higher so you slot against him just right while the other hand drags his weeping head through your folds. And you—body flushed, mouth open against the bench, can’t find words anymore. Just want. Just him.

“I know, baby,” he mutters when his tip meets your entrance, already pulsating, trying to grip onto him, onto anything to chase what you’re needing. “Don’t know if I can go slow this time,” he says, hoarse, near your ear. “Need t’ feel you. That okay?”

You nod frantically, offering a choked sound that barely resembles anything but Joel understands. Takes it for what it is: permission.

He hands slaps against your ass once, the sharp sting left in its place already forgotten when Joel pushes into you with such force that your knees nearly buckle. You gasp, half a sob, reaching your arms backwards to anchor yourself at his thighs. But he quickly gathers your hands in one of his own and holds them there at the base of your back, locking you there. The rhythm he sets is punishing and relentless—like he’s making up for every second he couldn’t have you. The shed trembles around you. At least, it feels like it does, the world narrowing to the scrape of wood, the faint swing of a chain overhead, the shudder of breath between you and—

Shouting. Your dad. Distant, but approaching. Joel stills for only a beat, working fast to reach up and yank the light’s chain. The bulb flickers out, plunging you both into darkness.

“Be quiet f’me,” Joel breathes, barely audible even though his lips brush the shell of your ear. You nod again, frozen in place. He doesn’t pull out, try and shove his cock back into his pants. No, he doesn’t even slow, just shifts his grip to your waist, his pace so deep, so steady. All you can hear now is the thud of your heartbeat and the near-silent rasp of Joel’s breath on your cheek.

Your dad’s voice rings out again, closer this time, Gravel crunches under boots on the other side of the tin wall. You bristle. So does Joel. But you still clench around him, unable to help it. 

A quiet laugh puffs against your skin. “My filthy girl,” he whispers, affection and wickedness blurring together in his words. “You like the risk, don’t you? Like the idea of bein’ caught.” Your eyes roll back, mouth slack with a soundless plea. 

Footsteps pause just outside the shed. You brace for the rattle of the door. For the blinding flood of light and the horror of being caught with his best friend buried deep inside you. But the moment never comes. You hear him mutter something you don’t catch under his breath before the sound of retreating steps. Back down the gravel. Back towards the fire pit.

You’re not sure why he doesn’t open the shed. Why he doesn’t grab the firewood he’d asked for. Maybe he forgot. Maybe he got distracted. But you don’t let yourself question it too much. You’re just thankful. Grateful for the silence. For the reprieve. And Joel, his body pressed against yours, his breath at your neck, takes that silence and fills it with the slap of skin on skin. Continues hammering into you, worshipping you with every motion, like he couldn’t stop now if he tried. 

Your hands are back bracing against the bench, palms damp with sweat when Joel leans forward, clothed chest warm at your back when he tells you he’s getting close. “You gonna come with me, darlin’?”

You nod, helpless, leaning into the pressure curling tight inside your belly. Every movement he makes coils it tighter. You gasp his name again, and Joel moans like it wrecks him. Like his name on your tongue undoes him the most. Legs shaking, you’re right there on the edge. The sound of Joel’s breath, the feel of his hands, his body completely too much and not enough at once.

“Almost there, baby,” he whispers, teeth nipping at your skin. “Just give it to me. Let go.”

And you do. The orgasm tears through you in waves, silent at first before a sharp gasp as your body tightens around him. Joel follows, groaning one long low sound, surrendering as he falls apart with you. Hips stuttering, arms wrapped around your waist as he buries himself to the hilt at stills.

For a long moment, there’s only breathing. Your own, sharp and uneven. His, rasping against your skin. Joel’s the first to move. He presses a line of slow, reverent kisses down your spine, gently pulling out with his hands holding your hips steady. Wordlessly, he tugs the light back on and you turn to face him, taking in the lax look on his face, the way sweat gleans in the aging divots of his face. You watch him while he repositions your dress on your torso with care, smoothing the fabric down over your legs. It’s more tender than you were expecting, especially when you consider the cold and distant aftermath when you’d finished up that time in his truck. You’re still catching your breath when Joel bends to retrieve the small scrap of fabric that had been discarded earlier. 

Your panties.

He holds them up between two fingers, eyes glimmer in the low light as he meets your gaze.

“Here,” you say, reaching for them, but Joel just shakes his head. Smirks.

“Nah. These are mine now.”

“Is that right?” “Mmhmm,” he hums. Tucks them into his back pocket. “Means you’ll have to come find me if you want ‘em back.”

You shake your head with a snort as you smooth down your hair. “You’re such an asshole.”

Joel grins, grabs your hand before you can push past him, presses a soft kiss to your knuckles like he’s sealing some kind of deal. “Yeah, but I guess that makes me your asshole, right?”

The words hang there—teasing, sweet if you squint—but his eyes are serious when they meet yours. They dance with a promise. A question. A start.

And this time, he doesn’t turn away.

***

a/n: okayyyy so i'm sweatinggggg after writing this one!! it's the last planned part for this fic, but I'm not opposed to jumping in at a later date with a drabble or two for this duo. as always, let me know what you think!!!!!!

It’s nearly nine and The Rusty Antler is buzzing, content chatter battling with the speakers blasting a mix of pub classics and country hits. It’s unsurprising for a Friday night. The dive has always been the perfect place for locals to drink away the stresses of the week and get geared up for the weekend, everyone from tradesmen straight off the job to moms gone wild and newly twenty-one-year-olds filling up the high tops and dance floor. There’s smoke filtering in from the front deck where patrons have slipped out for a cigarette, the smog creating a haze through the bar that’s backlit but the neon beer signs hooked up on the walls. The antique Shiner sign hanging above your booth table casts a green hue over Dina, making her white Bride sash appear minty under the light.

You’d flown into Austin barely twenty-four hours ago, ready to celebrate your high school best friend’s bachelorette party, along with a couple other childhood friends and two women from Dina’s job at City Hall. You spent the bulk of the day at the local spa, getting pampered with everything from massages to manis and pedis, blowouts, the works. Dina didn’t want anything fancy for her send-off into married life.

“Just wanna do what I love, with the people I love,” she’d told you when preliminary plans were being discussed a few months back. And what Dina wants, Dina gets, which is how the six of you ended up at The Rusty Antler, the one bar that had always been your favourite since you were old enough to drink — and maybe for a few years beforehand, when you’d been able to distract the bouncer from the dodgy, fifty buck fake IDs Dina had bought from some stoner under the school bleachers. There was nothing like a night out with your girlfriends at a cosy dive with drinks and music — something you’d missed whenever you returned to Charlotte, where you’ve lived the past three years since graduating on scholarship from Duke.

You readjust the pink Bridesmaid sash that’s slung across your body, surveying the crowd.

“You got your eye on anyone special?” Molly, one of your high school friends, asks, jostling your shoulder.

“Nope,” you say, popping the p when you turn back to face the table. “That’s not what tonight’s about. I’m happy hanging with my girls and our bride-to-be.”

Dina flutters her eyelashes while she sips on her margarita. “You know, you hooking up with someone tonight would be the best wedding present you could get me.” “Your wedding’s still not for another two weeks,” you remind her. “Plus, I don’t think I’m ready for that yet.”

Dina rolls her eyes. “Babe, I know what Jesse did was God-awful. I fucking hate him for doing that to you. But you know what they say: the best way to get over someone is to get under someone else.” A chorus of totally and you’re so right rouses from the rest of the group. You shake your head, heart clenching like someone has a fist around it at the mention of Jesse. Sure, it’d been a couple months since he’d confessed to sleeping with a colleague, since you’d kicked him out of your apartment, since you’d broken up, but it wasn’t that easy to just move on. It’d been a four-year relationship. You’d seen each other through your Junior and Senior years at college and into navigating the real world together. You couldn’t just turn that part of your life off. 

“Hey,” Dina’s co-worker Reese says, interrupting whatever conversation had taken over from your love life. “Do any of you know that guy? He keeps looking over here.” You follow the manicured finger she’s pointing across the room, to where a man sits at one of the bar stools, attention currently on the bartender who’s pouring him a drink. Dark, wavy hair. Carhartt jacket fighting the wide breadth of his shoulders, green flannel poking out from underneath. Worn boots rest on the foot rail that runs along the length of the rickety bar, living up to its name.

Yeah, you know him.

“Hold this for a minute.” 

You palm off your tequila soda to Molly before pushing out of the black vinyl booth, just as Dina asks, “Wait, isn’t that Joel Miller?”

Your dad’s best friend. He moved in across the street the summer you returned sixteen, after his divorce and with a bubbly, curly-haired eleven-year-old daughter in two. He and your father bonded quickly over single fatherhood and sports. They were always at one or the other’s houses, cheering on game days, grilling up regular barbecues for the neighbours, drinking beers. Now that you were well into your twenties and living interstate, you couldn’t visit home as much as you’d liked, but it gave you peace of mind knowing your dad had Joel to keep him company. It’s been a couple years since you’ve seen him, and God — what’s that saying about aging and fine wine? He must be in his early forties now, at least, about a decade younger than your dad. Time has been nothing but kind to the contractor, whose skin glows with a tan from years of working on sites in the sun. 

As you cross the bar towards him, you notice the silvery strands in his hair, almost metallic under the low lights, that sprout at his temples and weave their way through the waves he’s running a bearish hand over.  The colours match the coarse scruff that hugs his jaw and chin, patchy in places, but not unkempt.

You slip between Joel’s barstool and the next one before saying, “You spying on me, Miller?” 

He doesn’t startle, just rolls his eyes up to meet yours like he was expecting you. “Define spyin’,” he responds flatly, but you don’t miss the tilt at the corner of his mouth. “You use a fake ID to get in ‘ere tonight?”

You try to quell a grin by pushing your tongue to your cheek. It was a couple of weeks before your eighteenth birthday, your dad was out of town and you and Dina thought you’d try your luck at The Rusty Antler. The IDs had worked. You just hadn’t factored in the possibility that your dad’s best buddy would be there, too. He hadn’t ratted on you though, not in the time since, and for that you were grateful. “That was one time.”

“Mmhmm,” Joel tuts, unbelieving.

You glance at his glass. “Drinking alone?”

“Just finished up with a couple of guys from the crew. Might stay for one more,” he says as his eyes rake over you, gaze stalling at the sash draped over the swell of your breasts in a low-cut, blank tank. “S’who’s getting married?”

“Dina,” you tell him, chin jutting in the direction of where your friend is using a penis-shaped straw as a microphone while she sings along to Mr Brightside. “From high school. Don’t know if you remember her or—”

“I remember,” he cuts you off. “She babysat Sarah with you a coupl’a times.” Joel shakes his head, a stray curl falling onto his forehead. “God, can’t believe y’all are at the age where you’re getting married.”

“Well, some of us.” Jesse flashes across your mind.

“Your dad mentioned you and your fella broke up. Sorry to hear.”

You shrug. “It is what it is. Wasn’t meant to be.”

“Is anything?” Joel scoffs.

Your dimple dips into your cheek at his cynicism. “You’re telling me.” A few beats pass as you watch Joel take a languid sip of the amber liquid in his glass before he clears his throat, focusing on the scratched timber countertop. You lean backwards, elbows resting on the bar, hoping to appear nonchalant despite the weird shift you immediately felt in his presence. “And what about you?”

He looks at you sidelong. “What about me?”

“You seeing anyone?” It’s none of your business, but you’re not ready to cut the conversation short just yet.

“Don’t have time for that, darlin’.”

Darlin’. Your body tingles at the nickname.

“That’s not what I heard.”

He quirks an eyebrow. “And what did ya hear?” “Dad said you’ve been out a few times with Tess from down the street.”

“Did he now?” Joel chuckles to himself. You feel the rumble of it in your own chest. “It’s nothing serious.” “Nothing serious,” you regurgitate. Then, egged on by the alcohol in your system: “So, you’re just fucking each other, then?”

He splutters over his glass, hissing your name with a reprimanding lilt. 

“What?” you ask, voice laced with innocence.

“Just never heard you talk like that. Swearin’ and all.”

“Then you ain’t spent enough time with me. I’m all grown up now, you know.”

“I noticed,” he grits, voice so low you don’t hear what he says over the whump of the music.

“What’s that?”

“Nothin’.” He glances over your shoulder, nodding in the direction of your group. “I think your friends are looking for you.” He’s not wrong. Dina and the other girls are waving you over as Brooks and Dunn’s Neon Moon begins to filter out over the speakers. 

You should want to join your friends. You should want to celebrate Dina’s last official night out before she becomes a wife. But your feet are lead, keeping you stationary on the sticky barroom floor next to Joel—your dad’s best friend, you have to remind yourself, though the title feels redundant with the way his molten eyes pour over you when he thinks you’re not paying attention. But you feel it, every lick of his gaze over your bare skin branding you under the neon bleating on the wall.

“Okay, well,” you straighten up, push your chest out proudly in a way that pulls Joel’s attention to your breasts again. “It was nice to see you, Joel. Might see you around at my dad’s. I’m down for a couple of weeks, ‘til after the wedding.”

“Yeah, sure,” Joel nods curtly. “Have fun. Don’t get into too much trouble tonight.”

A light laugh bubbles from you. “Of course,” you tell him, resting a palm on his shoulder. “I always behave myself.” You push away from the bar without a second glance, but Joel’s focus is on you as you fight through the crowd that occupies the dance floor stretching between him and your friends. His eyes remain trained on the way your body swings with each step, your hips straining against your impossibly short leather skirt, the muscles in your legs rippling as your red Tecovas carry you across the room. Joel shifts on his stool. Drains his glass. Tries to ignore the fact that his faded Wranglers feel like they’ve tightened across his crotch, before flagging down the bartender for another drink. God knows he needs it.

Ten minutes later, a server appears and plants a tray of shots on the table. Dina immediately reaches for a glass of the clear liquid while one of the other girls tells the worker that you didn’t order them.

The server shakes his head. “It’s on that guy at the bar. He says congratulations.”

He’s gesturing to where Joel is perched on the peeling leather barstool. He smiles, only just, holding his neat glass of whiskey in the air with a cheers, his eyes locked on yours. You return a tight-lipped smile, holding his gaze as you throw the shot backwards, acidic heat trailing down your throat. Vodka. A shiver wracks your body before fire burns at the pit of your stomach, but whether it’s from the straight alcohol or the feeling of Joel’s eyes on you as you swallow it down is anyone’s guess. 

“Thank you, Mr Miller!” Dina screeches over the music, to which he responds with a two-fingered wave. Then she turns to you, head ducked as she says, “God, I haven’t seen him in years. When did he get so hot?”

No shit, you think, then suck down the rest of your lukewarm tequila soda and push Joel Miller to the back of your mind.

***

The night quickly progresses from slamming shots at your table in the corner to dirty dance moves on the tacky floor in the middle of the dive. The bar must be at capacity, with the way that you can barely sway your hips without bumping into another patron and how the line for drinks is four people deep the whole way along the counter. Right now, Dina is at your back, an arm slung around your middle as you jump in tandem to Luke Bryan’s Country Girl (Shake It For Me). Your heart thumps to the beat of the song, cheeks aching from smiling and the joy of spending time with your best friends after so long. You’re not thinking about much aside from making sure Dina has the night she deserves, your whole body feeling featherlight under the haze of alcohol, but there’s a niggling at the back of your mind, and a heat that sears your skin like you’re being watched. A heat that has your eyes darting around the room, searching for dark eyes and a square-set jaw that belongs to a man you have no business worrying about, let alone thinking about. 

Joel fucking Miller. 

And there he is, on that same barstool—though his back is to the bar now so he has full sight of the room—watching you through the ever-changing gaps in the crowd. 

Even from where he’s sitting, Joel notices the way your breathing hitches when you spot him, how sweat prickles just that little bit extra across your chest, his own breath catching when the light hits the bead that slips into the valley between your breasts. He knows he should look away. Hell, he should’ve walked out of here the minute he saw you barrel into the bar with your girlfriends, bridesmaid sash slung across your pert, young body—far more womanly than he remembered, or cared to notice, the previous times you’d visited home. But your dad is his best buddy. Joel owes it to him to keep an eye on his daughter, make sure she doesn’t run into any trouble. At least, that’s what he’s telling himself as your earlier declaration that you always behave toys on his conscience. Still, the angelic look that accompanied that confession is long gone as Joel watches you grind against your best friend in time to the music. A smirk tugs at your glossy, full lips, and the devious undertone of it sends a hot strike through his body, stirring his cock in its already half-hard state. Joel drops his free hand over himself, hoping to hide his arousal while the other fists his whiskey glass. With a quick glance around the room, he quickly realises he’s not the only one enjoying the show. Almost every man in the bar has his attention turned on you and Dina, watching keenly as the pair of you drop your bodies low, asses gyrating to the beat. 

The song crossfades into another upbeat country hit that has the crowd hollering in approval and dividing itself into rows for line dancing. The corresponding combination begins facing away from Joel, and you lose yourself in the side steps and heel taps, clapping along to the rhythm when the routine calls for it. When the song hits its second chorus, you swing your body around to face the bar, restarting the combination, but your feet falter when you notice the loss of Joel’s attention. Now, it’s turned on a pair of men a couple of feet away from him, tension thick as the taller of the two puffs his chest. He says something to Joel that’s completely intelligible to you, but whatever it is has Joel straightening up and his eyebrows drawing together until a divot forms between them. He’s pissed—and your stomach knots. It’s no secret that Joel Miller has a short fuse, and you’ve heard the stories of him getting into bar fights back when he and your dad were young. A few when they were older, too. It’s when Joel stands from his stool, knuckles white around his glass, that you break out of your line, maneuvering around people as they hit the moves to the Big & Rich tune. Your palm hits Joel’s chest—more muscular than you were expecting for a man of his age—just as he begins to move towards the men he was talking to. Confusion crosses his dark features as he peers down at you, eyes flickering from your face to the hand on him.

He growls your name. “Move.” 

You shake your head, press the butt of your palm into him even harder. “Joel, don’t. They’re not worth it.”

“Ah, so the sexy little bridesmaid belongs to you, hey, old man?” a gruff voice pipes up from behind. The comment fills in the gaps that they’ve been talking about you, and it curls Joel’s lips into a snarl. He fights against you, one of his arms shooting over your shoulder. 

“I told you to watch your fuckin’ mouth.” The gravelled edge to his voice shouldn’t make your thighs press together, but it does. Your eyes drop from his face to his other hand, and you can’t stop imagining how it would feel on you instead of clenched at his side. Keeping your palm on him, pressure hard with warning, you shift so you can face the other men. 

“I think we’re done here.”

The bald one sluices his eyes down your body and it makes you want to shed your skin. It’s slimy, disgusting—nothing like the way it felt when Joel did the same thing. “Depends. What’s in it for me?” You narrow your gaze. "Not bleeding, if you're smart."

A lax smirk crops up on his pudgy face. “Oh, she’s got a mouth on her. I like that.”

You can feel Joel stiffen against your hand. He’s practically vibrating, like a raging bull waiting to be let out of his pen. You stick a finger in the guy’s face, voice steady when you tell him to fuck off, aware that one of the bar’s security guards is circling close by in case the situation gets out of hand. The bald man’s friend seems to have noticed him too, because he nudges his head in the guard’s direction and suggests they move along. And they do, thankfully, but not without another snide comment under the bald guy’s breath. Whatever.

Joel’s chest heaves, your hand rising and falling with his breath as his eyes stay stuck over your head. His heart thunders through his flannel and pulses against your palm. This is the closest the pair of you have ever been. You’ve never even hugged, in all the years you’ve known each other. Not on birthdays. Not during goodbyes. A cedar scent imbued with cinnamon radiates from Joel, and for a brief second you're compelled to shove your face into his chest and inhale. To commit his smell to memory, maybe feel what it's like for him to wrap his corded arms around you and hold you to him.

Are you good?, you call yourself out, blinking yourself back to reality, the one where Joel is still rattling with anger.

“Earth to Joel.” You take your hand and click twice in front of his face. “You good?”

Eventually, his dark eyes fall to yours, and he wills himself to not let them stray further down your body. You’re all too close. “I’m fine. I had it handled.”

“Did you?” you laugh incredulously. “Because from where I’m standing, you looked about three-quarters of the way to giving that guy a knuckle sandwich.”

Joel raises a thick eyebrow with a chuckle. “Thought you said you were all grown up. Grown ups don’t call it a knuckle sandwich.”

“Grown ups also don’t try to start bar fights.”

“Touché,” Joel mumbles, and you give him a playful shove that dissipates the last of the tension in the air. You spin on a heel to face the shelves full of liquor, just as Joel offers you a drink. 

“Tequila soda, right?”

“Someone’s paying attention,” you tease with a wink that goes straight to Joel’s cock. Again. Not to mention what it does to him when you lean forward on the countertop, tits pushed up to the high heavens when your arms cross over your front. 

Snap out of it, Miller, he scolds himself. 

“But no,” you continue, glancing down at his glass. “I want what you’re having.”

“You want a whiskey?”

“What, you don’t think I can handle it?” Your eyes sparkle with a challenge. 

“Go on, then.” Joel tilts his glass towards you, inviting you to a sip of his drink. Goosebumps nip at your skin when your fingers graze when you take the whisky from him, a shock travelling from your fingertips to a heavy place at the pit of your stomach. You could blame the booze, but the way your body reacts to him feels far too real to be just a buzz.

His features are soft while you take a sip and let the whiskey coat your tongue. It’s sharp, smoky. A tinge of sweetness as it sweeps to your throat and burns its way down. The warmth of the liquor seems to flood through your veins, heating your entire body from top to toe, but your face remains unreadable to Joel when you put the glass back on its cardboard coaster. You’re unaffected, like the whiskey had no taste at all. He focuses on the golden sheen of liquid coating your full bottom lip, and he can’t help but imagine what it’d be like to take it into his mouth, to tug it with his teeth. What noise you’d make when he did—would you moan, whine? Hiss his name so he’d be forced to swallow it with a kiss? His breath catches again—fool, he thinks—when your tongue darts out and licks your lip clean, and somehow that tiny gesture is better than any intimate act he’s ever had any part of in his entire life.

“It’s good,” you confirm. Joel gives a barely-there smile and nods. “Best on the shelf.”

“I’ll take your word for it.”

“So, are you—“ Having fun, was his question, but a wall of orange appears beside you in the form of a younger guy in a Longhorns tee and backwards cap. 

“Can I buy you a drink?” he beams down at you, all perfectly straight white teeth and confidence. You return the smile but falter on the response, your eyes quickly flitting to Joel. You’re not sure why. For permission? Maybe. But there’s a dull tug in your chest, willing him to butt in, to tell the stranger that you’re busy and to get gone.

But Joel doesn’t even move. He’s not even looking at you, for Christ’s sake, just rolls his glass around in his palm, checks his watch like he’s got somewhere to be.

Fuck it. Your smile stretches into an inviting grin in spite of the sullen mood that’s taken over the man next to you. “I’m all good for a drink but I’ll take a dance!” you tell the stranger, who introduces himself as Drew when you start leading him back towards the dancefloor. Dina and Molly hoot and holler when they notice your new addition, your best friend patting you on the butt in encouragement as you begin swaying to a half-played out Miranda Lambert track. A couple more songs pass in a blur of casual dancing and half-shouted small talk with Drew, the kind that won’t matter tomorrow when you’re both long gone, a blip on each other’s radar. You’re laughing, swaying, letting his hands find polite places to land—but the whole time, you feel it. Joel. Watching. Seething. And you don’t know why, but it irks you—that scowl he wears like it’s his birthright, the way his eyes darken as they track your every move from across the bar. So you spin around, lips curled into something just shy of a dare, and press closer to your stranger, winding an arm over your head to loop around his neck. You lean in, slow and deliberate, hips swaying in time with the music, letting yourself laugh too easily when he dips to whisper something in your ear. Joel’s jaw ticks. Blood thrums in his ears, a low roar, drowning out everything but the sight of you wrapped around someone who isn’t him—someone who can touch you without consequence.  His fingers curl tighter around his glass, the strain in his hand matching the heat rising in his chest. 

Are you doing this on purpose? he wonders. Trying to torture him?

Then the kid that stole you away from Joel flips you around, hands bold on your hips, ducking his head like he’s about to claim your mouth right there on the dance floor. 

That’s enough. 

Joel shoves his stool back and it screeches against the timber flooring. He doesn’t wait to see what happens next—can’t. He’s done, stalking through the crowd and pushing through the front door before he says or does something he can’t take back.

He doesn’t see you pull away. Doesn’t hear you mutter not tonight to Drew as you edge out of his grip, turning back toward your friends, now dancing together in a tight, giggly circle. That’s when you see him—Joel—out of the corner of your eye, disappearing into the night, shoulders drawn tight. The tension in your chest eases, but in its place comes something heavier.

Not relief. Not really. Just the hollow ache of missing the burn of his attention—like standing in the cold after stepping out of the sun.

***

Time slips by in flashes—more drinks, more music, the bass thudding through your chest as you jump and sway with your friends. Laughter comes easier, limbs looser, heat blooming beneath your skin from the mix of liquor and motion. Eventually, it’s too much—the press of bodies, the stifling air, a light dizziness creeping behind your eyes. You slip away from the noise, pushing through the door and out onto The Rusty Antler’s redwood deck, chasing the cool air as your hot breath forms in a cloud in front of your face. You gather your hair at the nape of your neck and hold it away from your skin, letting the cool air pacify the sweat sticking there as you sidestep a drunk couple filtering out of the bar behind you. You watch them cross the parking lot, zigzagging, before they disappear past a beat-up Bronco. The low whine of a heavy weight on wood snaps your head to the right and your heart leaps when you see the shadowed figure looming at the other end of the building. 

He’s still here.

Your boots on the timber echo into the night as you cross the deck to where Joel stands by the railing, surveying the lot with a hand deep in the front pocket of his jeans. His other hand busies itself at his mouth, and it’s only when a plume of smoke stretches in front of him that you realise he’s got a cigarette at his lips.

Joel smokes? 

"I thought you left," you say, falling into step beside him. The charred smell of burnt paper fills your nose.

"Thought you were busy," Joel bites back on an exhale. A flicker of irritation sparks under your skin at his words, but you brush it off with a shrug. 

“Needed some air. I didn’t know you smoked.”

“Don’t so much anymore. Just when I need to take the edge off. Usually try’n hide it from the kids, though.”

You grit your teeth. “Don’t see any kids around here.”

Joel glances sideways at you, eyes darkening for a heartbeat, then quickly clearing as if chasing away a thought. “S’pose not. You’re someone’s kid, though.” 

“My dad’s kid, you mean?” You’ve always been proud of being your father’s daughter. Wore it like a badge of honour. But right now, as you watch Joel swallow thickly, you’re not sure you want the title.

“He’s a good man. A real good friend.” The words linger, heavy in the air. You can see the quiet conflict etched across his face—the tug between loyalty and this crackling, unsaid thing between you. Joel takes another drag of his cigarette, then nods toward the parking lot. “You still got that old Jeep you used to peel around town in?”

The tension loosens slightly as you glance into the night. “Only just. I’m probably due for a new one. The thing’s a fucking relic.”

He lets out a humorless chuckle, the corner of his mouth twitching. “Like me, huh?”

You almost smile back, but the moment splinters as loud laughter filters into the night, followed by your friends barrelling onto the deck in a flurry of heels and half-shouted inside jokes. Molly and Reese are struggling to hold up Dina, who’s draped between them like a ragdoll, giggling uncontrollably.

“She needs fries and a bed—now,” Tana, Dina’s other colleague says.

“You coming?” Molly wants to know, attention flicking to where Joel hangs a few feet back, your own gaze following suit before returning to your friend.

"I might hang out here a little longer,” you tell her. “I’ll grab a ride with Joel.”

His heart stalls when he overhears this, logic grinding against the heat crawling up the back of his neck. He should say he’s leaving too, tell you not to wait, to go home with your friends. But the words don’t come. They falter, thick on his tongue, swallowed down with the acrid burn of smoke.

A drunken laugh bubbles out of Dina, lazy eyes sweeping over you and Joel. "You know when I said you need to get over that asshole Jesse by getting under someone else?” she whisper-shouts. “I wasn’t talking about your dad's DILF-y neighbour.”

"Dina!" you hiss, red creeping up your neck. You're not sure what embarrasses you more—Dina calling Joel a DILF right in front of him, or the fact that the thought of getting under him had crossed your mind a few too many times tonight for your sober self’s liking.

“I’m just saying,” she slurs, hiking a thumb over her shoulder, “that cute guy you were dancing with is still in there.”

“Not gonna happen,” you shut her down, before planting a kiss on her cheek. “Call me tomorrow, okay?”

“Yeah, yeah,” she waves you off before addressing Joel. “I know who you are, Miller, so if my best friend turns up missing tomorrow, I'm telling the cops to come for you, handsome."

Joel barks out a genuine laugh at this, cropping his fingers in the air in salute. "You got it, Dina. See you around, girls."

Girls. It lands like a warning. You hate how it brands you, how it tries to shrink you back into something smaller, younger. But maybe it’s not for you at all—maybe it’s for him. A last-ditch effort to redraw the line he’s toeing in his head.

You watch your friends climb into a taxi at the curb before joining Joel again.

“You don’t mind, do you?” It’s too late to ask, but you do anyway.

“Not at all,” Joel lies on an inhale. He tilts his head back, blowing smoke to the ceiling of the verandah, watching until it fans out in a thin cloud against the tin roof.

“You got another one of those?” You gesture to his cigarette. He looks from you to the burning nub, trying to piece together when the hell you picked up the habit. You expect him to pull another out of the packet that’s sat beside his wallet on the railing. Instead, he doesn’t hesitate to hold out the one he’s already got lit in the small space between you. The air’s already so charged, you’re surprised the burning cigarette doesn’t set the night alight in an explosion of flames, taking you and Joel with it. You pinch it between your thumb and forefinger, conscious not to touch Joel again after the bolt of heat you felt when he handed over his whisky back inside. His eyes track your movements as you bring the cigarette to your mouth and take a long drag. As your pale pink lips fit around it naturally, your cheeks hollowing out just slightly. The thought of putting something else in its place causes Joel to shift from one booted foot to the other. You pull it back to reveal lipstick stained on the foot of the cigarette before handing it back to the man next to you.

“I didn’t know you smoked.” Your question from earlier sounds different in Joel’s gruff drawl. And honestly, you’re not really one for the habit, but after a few drinks, you don’t mind pretending for a while.

You don’t tell Joel this, though, just throwing out: “I’m an adult now, remember? I do a lot of things I didn’t used to.”

“Guy in the Longhorns tee included in that?” Joel throws back. He knows he shouldn’t have said it but fuck, if it didn’t make him see red, that kid’s hands on you, only chasing his own high. He wouldn’t have looked after you. Not like Joel wants to. Not like he could… Like he shouldn’t.

You don’t answer right away. Not when you can see it written all over him—the bite in his voice, the flash across his eyes. He’s jealous. And trying like hell not to be. And God help you, but you like it. The electric charge, the crack in his armor. It’s raw, unguarded, and only fair that you return the candor.

“I’m kind of over the whole dating thing at the moment,” you confess, taking another drag. “Don’t know if Dad mentioned, but Jesse cheated on me. Some woman from work.”

Joel’s hand flexes at his side. “He didn’t tell me that. Sorry you had to go through that, darlin’.”

“It’s… fine,” you settle on, handing the cigarette back to him.

“‘S not fine. You don’t deserve that. He doesn’t deserve you. If he couldn’t see how good he had it, how beautiful you are…” Joel trails off, takes a puff. Meanwhile, your stomach flips at the compliment, and you’re pretty sure your cheeks are blazing as bright as the pink sash still adorning your body.

“Anyway, that whole situation put me off. Made me realise most guys my age are idiots. So, no, I’m not jumping into bed with the guy in the Longhorns tee,” you tell him, a hint of jest in your voice.

Joel lets out a ragged laugh. “All men are idiots. Doesn’t matter how old.”

You glance at him, taking in his side profile—all harsh lines and facial hair you’d kill to feel brush against your skin. “I don’t think you’re an idiot.”

Flicking ash over the railing, Joel turns his head, just slightly, so his eyes meet yours. “Then you don’t know me very well.”

The conversation ends there, and you both fall into a comfortable silence, passing the cigarette back and forth between unhurried drags for several minutes, set to the sound of the wind in the woods at the side of the bar, and the patrons inside singing along to Closing Time, despite The Rusty Antler still being an hour or so off shutting down for the night. The fall breeze picks and it tugs at your bridesmaid sash, lifting it away from your skin like a restless ghost. A shiver ripples through you, the cool night air pulling at the hair on your bare arms. Thunder rumbles in the distance, and Joel swipes his wallet and cigarette pack from the railing and shoves them into his back pocket before shrugging off his jacket, smoke pitched between his teeth. 

“Put this on, ‘s cold,” he tells you, holding the Carhartt out for you.

“Joel, I’m fine, really—”

“Not an option. Your dad’ll kill me if I bring you home with pneumonia.” You bristle at the mention of your father again, but still slide into the jacket. The sleeves are far too long, the hem falling to your mid-thigh, but it’s warm and smells of Joel.

“We better get goin’. Don’t wanna get caught in whatever storm’s headed our way,” he says around his cigarette, already leading you into the parking lot towards the old half-ton he’s driven for as long as you’ve known him. He holds the door open for you, stamps the butt out in the gravel while you climb in. Then he reaches into the cab without thinking, giving the seatbelt across your chest a firm tug to make sure it’s latched. It’s automatic, protective, and you’re hit with the memory of him doing the exact same thing to Sarah, back when her feet barely reached the floor mats. You watch Joel’s eyes drop, following the path of his own fingers as they flex slightly, knuckles grazing the soft curve of your breast through you top.

Then his eyes lift—slowly—and land on yours. He freezes. 

What the fuck is he doing?

Not just the seatbelt. This. You.

Something raw flickers across his face—guilt, regret, want—all tangled up in one tight breath. “Shit,” he mutters, yanking his hand back like it burns. “Sorry. Force of habit, I just—” He hesitates. “You good? Comfortable?”

You nod, too quickly. “Yeah. I’m good,” you say, but your voice is thinner than you mean it to be. Joel lingers a second longer, Then, without a word, he pulls the door shut with a dull thunk.

***

Any hope of getting home before the storm hits fades fast. Barely five minutes down the road, the sky splits open with a white-hot flash of lightning. Then the rain comes, lashing against the windshield in heavy sheets that blur everything beyond the glass. The wipers on Joel’s truck beat furiously, but it’s like driving underwater. The tail lights ahead of you become smears of red in a pit of black. Joel leans forward with tight knuckles around the wheel, a newly lit cigarette between his lips. “Gotta pull over. Can’t see shit,” he grinds, flinging the wheel to the right until the truck rests in an embankment off the highway. It seems other drivers have had the same idea, because you see the glow of more tail lights a few car-lengths ahead. The radio crackles with John Denver—Take Me Home, Country Roads coming out all staticy no thanks to the signal being interfered with by the weather. 

The window’s cracked on Joel’s side, the rain tapping a quiet rhythm against it. He cranes his neck slightly to blow smoke out into the downpour, careful not to let it drift your way. A few rogue droplets slip in anyway, dotting the fabric of his flannelette sleeve. The cab smells like rain and smoke and him, and the clock on the dash blinks 12:06 AM in soft neon, casting faint shadows over the lines of his face. You unclick your seatbelt and shift in your seat, pitching one foot up on the edge of the bench, knee bent, jacket coming away from your body just enough to expose the smooth line of your thigh. It’s nothing—careless, comfortable but Joel sees it. Feels it. That small flash of skin tightens something low in his gut. The Carhartt swallows you whole, your tiny skirt and tank top disappearing underneath, making it look like there’s nothing beneath it at all. Like you’re naked under there, curled up in his passenger seat like you belong.

He turns his head, molars pressed together when he forces his eyes back to the windshield as the cigarette burns down in his hand. The rain’s still coming down in blinding sheets, hammering the hood, masking the way his breath falters. He stares through it, jaw ticking, and starts praying—quiet, fierce—that the storm lets up. Just enough to get you home. Out of his truck. Out of his jacket. Before he does something real fucking stupid.

“Sooo,” you start after a few minutes, when it becomes obvious that the storm isn’t passing over any time soon. “Tess, huh?”

Joel groans. “Can we talk about something else, please?”

You duck your head, trying to meet his gaze as you tease, "Why? The thought of her getting you all hot 'n bothered there, Miller?"

There’s a whine of leather under his single-handed grip on the wheel, then comes the glare. 

It’s lethal.

There’s nothing going on with him and Tess. Not really. A couple of lowkey dinners. They fooled around once, only barely, because he struggled to get it up. It’d been a while, and in all honesty, the fling—if you could even call it that—was born out of boredom and a little coaxing from your father. Absolutely nothing to get all hot ‘n bothered about.

You pitch your hands up in mock surrender, sitting back against the seat. “No Tess talk. Got it,” you agree before letting out a contemplative hum. You could ask him about Sarah, but you two keep in touch enough for you to know she’s top of her class at UT, killing it on the first-string soccer team and has a boyfriend Joel isn’t privy to just yet. 

"Dad said you caught a nail a few months back," you settle on.

Joel shifts in his seat, taps ash out the cracked window. The truck rocks with the wind.

“Is there anything your old man don’t tell you?” he asks.

You shrug. “Not really. If he’s not talkin’ to you, he’s talkin’ to me.”

He nods, slow. “Yeah. He misses you. Talks about you all the damn time.”

Another gust rattles the truck. You press your knee tighter to your chest for warmth, cheek now resting against it while you egg Joel on. “So, the nail?”

Joel huffs. “You don’t quit, huh?” You don’t dignify it with a response.. “Freak accident. Not as bad as it sounds. Ricocheted off a piece of sheet metal and wedged itself between my bottom two ribs. Just missed my lung."

You sit upright, turning your whole body to face him. “Jesus, Joel. That's what you call not as bad as it sounds?" No wonder your dad hadn’t mentioned the full extent of it. The idea of a nail sticking out of flesh makes your stomach turn over the swell of alcohol still sitting in it.

"It's fine. Had worse injuries."

Your heart thumps once, then—

"Can I see?"

Joel turns the full weight of his attention on you now, flinging the last of his cigarette into the storm, startled. "What?"

"You've got a scar, right? I wanna see it."

He arches a thick brown. "Bit morbid, don't ya think?"

"Please?" you push, dragging the word out with a look that’s all wide eyes and pouts.

Those fucking lips. How could he refuse?

Still, he makes a show of rolling his eyes while he reaches for the hem of his flannel, two fingers crooking under the fabric that he pulls up with the white t-shirt underneath. He moves slowly—intentional. Like he’s giving you time to change your mind.

You don’t.

Inch by inch, Joel reveals skin that’s warm and tan, the flash of abs dusted with a smattering of hair. The muscles there aren't tight like a younger man’s, but sturdy—strong with age and history and years of hard labor. When Joel stops, he’s hovering just above an uneven scar that’s still tinged pink at its edges. While it’s obvious against his bronzed skin, it’s small, so you shift closer for a better view, too honed in on the injury to notice the space closing between you. Joel tenses at your proximity though, every muscle in his body drawing taut like a wire being stretched to its limits.

You reach for him, for the scar, without thinking, your fingers brushing the raised crescent of his skin. It’s ragged and warm beneath your touch—tender in a way that feels too intimate for the cab of an old truck in a thunderstorm. 

For a man and his best friend’s daughter.

Joel hisses at the contact, a sharp sound swiped straight from his chest like you’ve just pressed a hot iron to his ribs. His torso spasms under your fingertips and you recoil, eyes immediately searching for reassurance that he’s okay,

“Does that hurt?” 

He doesn’t answer right away, jaw clenched so tight the muscle flicks. After a beat, his hand comes up to catch your wrist, to stop you. For purchase, maybe. Whatever it is, he just needs a second to collect himself, to steady the tremble running down his spine.

“No,” Joel finally says, voice rough as gravel. “Doesn’t hurt.”

But his face says otherwise. His gaze stays fixed straight ahead, unseeing. Joel knows if he looks at you, it’ll undo him completely. Whole body still, brow furrowed. You can sense it, feel it, the way he breathes through his nose like he’s barely keeping control. His thumb lingers on the inside of your wrist, heat blooming there. It stretches all the way up your arm and burrows under your collarbone, into your skin, until every bit of blood in your body is pumping fiercely, almost like your pulse is chanting Joel’s name until it falls off your lips in a whisper. 

His eyes are turned on you now—dark, torn, hungry. You just stare back at him, held hostage by the way his gaze flicks from your eyes to your mouth and back again, his Adam’s apple jumping with a swallow. The storm still raging outside the truck is nothing compared to what’s building in the silence between you. Still, you can hear your heartbeat louder than the rain, louder than the thoughts telling you this is a bad idea.

“Joel,” you say again, but it’s strangled. Desperate. There’s a second—maybe less—where neither of you move, both of you frozen in the middle of it, on the edge of something irreversible. You know this is a bad idea. The kind of bad idea that doesn’t just unravel nights, but lives.

You don’t know who leans in first. 

Maybe it’s both of you. Maybe it doesn’t matter. 

Joel’s mouth crashes into yours like it’s the last thing keeping him alive. It’s messy, all teeth and tongues, need and no patience. There’s no slow build, no give, just him take, take, taking. His stubble scrapes against the skin of your top lip, his left hand knotted in the hair at the back of your neck like he’s trying to anchor himself to you. He tastes like the culmination of his vices: smokes and whiskey, together creating a flavour that clings to your tongue and makes you dizzy. And underneath it, something else that you can’t pinpoint. It’s warm and wild and so Joel. Not sweet. Definitely not soft, but it’s addictive in a way that makes you lean in harder, mouth open wider, like if you kiss him deep enough, you might finally figure out what it is. With another thrash of thunder, you push up from the seat, hiking a leg over Joel’s body so you’re straddling him behind the wheel, pressing your rapidly dampening core against his growing bulge. He grunts into your mouth at the movement, his tongue circling yours while your hands find the muscular planes of his jaw. You carry on like this for a few moments, grinding and groaning, ignoring the niggle at the back of your mind that tells you this is reckless—wrong, until Joel rears back, tearing his mouth from yours with a sharp inhale. He clamps his eyes shut, panting and shaking his head, like it might rattle loose the want clawing at his ribs.

“Darlin’,” he grits, and the nickname sends a hot strike of lightning through your veins. “We gotta stop. I can’t—We can’t—Your daddy’ll put me in the ground.”

The words come low, strained—like he’s dragging them out from somewhere deep where he’s still trying to do the right thing. And yet, his palm slides up your thigh like he’s already made peace with the consequences, thick fingers curling into the flesh of your ass.

“Don’t care,” you barely get out, peppering light kisses over the swell of his cheeks, trying to draw him back into the moment.

“You should. It’ll kill him,” he mutters, but doesn’t move away. Doesn’t let go. Doesn’t stop you when you shed his Carhartt jacket and let it slip into the footwell. The air filtering in through the cracked window bites at your bare skin but you don’t flinch, just press the weight of your body into Joel’s lap, your legs stretched wide across his on the bench seat. Joel’s eyes drop, and you feel the burden of his stare like a blowtorch—dragging over the curve of your collarbone, the swell of your chest, the stretch of thigh your skirt doesn’t quite cover.

“Christ,” he whispers, then his mouth is back on you, on your neck this time, licking at the pulse beneath your ear. His wiry facial hair chafes the sensitive skin there, like steel wool, before he bites at the dip behind your earlobe. Hard, yanking a high pitched gasp from you. But before the pain sets in he’s sucking the sting away with a kiss, lapping up the salty but sweet residue left over from the sweat that had wicked your skin earlier in the night.

“Do that again,” you plead, rotating your hips to gain friction where you need it most. Joel chuckles at the request, lolling his head sideways to repeat the process at your other ear.

The storm outside intensifies, rain hammering the roof like a warning neither of you heed. Instead, one of Joel’s hands slides one of your tank straps off your shoulder, dropping a quick kiss there, while the other slides from the outside of your thigh to where your panties are sticking to your throbbing core. He presses a thumb down, feeling your warm arousal seep through the thin material. An involuntary whine slips out of you at the gesture, and another flare of lightning illuminates his face just enough for you to see the self-satisfied smirk yank at Joel’s lips.

“Look at you,” he says, his hot breath summoning goosebumps across your chest. “You’re fucking soaked. How long you been like this?”

The motion of your hips is instinctive, need bleeding into your voice. “Since the bar,” you breathe. “When you tried to fight assholes.”

Joel’s jaw clenches, his fingers still slick and patient between your thighs, circling with maddening control. “That why you went after that kid?” he grits. “Needed to let off some steam, huh?” He leans in, nose brushing your jaw. “You have no idea how bad I wanted to lay into him for puttin’ his fuckin’ hands on you.”

You buck your hips forward, silently begging for more. It’s almost sick—talking about another man while this one has you trembling with every swipe of his fingers over your clothed clit—but it only heightens the need, makes the heat lick up your spine like wildfire.

“He kiss you like I do?” he growls.

Your eyes snap to his, almost black in the dark truck, but still you feel the force of them working over every inch of your face.

“Didn’t kiss him,” you pant. “Don’t want him. Only want you.”

The confession frays Joel’s composure, and he’s yanking your panties to the side and sinking his thick middle finger inside you—fuck, darlin’ barely comprehensible around a growl when he feels you flutter hotly around him. 

“Yeah? Show me then,” he seethes, the pad of his finger already gently stroking that spongy wall deep in your core. “Show me how much you want me.” Your forehead drops to meet his, his free hand anchoring your hip. “Think you can come for me right here?”

Your cunt clamps down hard like your body’s answering him before your mouth can. Your breath stutters, thighs already beginning to tremble where they straddle his lap, the tension coiled so tight inside you that it feels like you could snap with just one more word, one more groan, one more look from him. “More,” you plead, eyes half-lidded, fingers finding the mess of curls at the base of his skull. “J-Joel, please.”

He complies by sliding a second finger into you slowly while his thumb meets your bare clit in unhurried circles. 

“Like that, baby?”

You nod incessantly, chasing his rhythm with a circle of your hips. Your head rolls backwards, exposing the column of your throat to Joel, and he wastes no time in latching his mouth, licking hot stripes up the length of it while his fingers pick up speed. He can feel your pussy tightening, your breathing becoming ragged and movements frantic. His voice comes low against your throat, lips only just dusting your skin when he tells you, “That’s it, darlin’. You’re right there. I can feel it. Keep goin’.”

“I’m so close,” you whimper, the roll of your hips faltering when Joel tugs down on your earlobe with his teeth.

“Come on, let got for me,” he spurs you on. “Show me how good I make you feel. ‘S okay, baby, I got you.”

Your body winds tighter, trembling—right on the edge, waiting for that last push. Then, Joel jams his fingers into you that tiny bit deeper, and you seize around him with a sharp cry. Pleasure snaps through you like a rubber band on release—sudden, sharp, and overwhelming. And just as you come undone in Joel’s lap, the sky splits open above you, thunder cracking louder than it has all night, lightning flashing so bright you can still see it, even with your eyes screwed shut. It’s as if the storm had been waiting for you to fall apart, building with you, breaking with you.

Loud. Wild. Merciless.

The large hand that was previously as your hip now rests at the small of your back, Joel stroking over your tank top gently while you come down from your high, murmuring something that resembles good girl under his breath. When you finally blink your eyes open, Joel’s looking at you like he’s never seen anything quite like it. There’s a rawness in his expression—like he’s in awe, like you’ve just undone something in him he’ll never be able to put back together.

“You look so fuckin’ pretty when you come,” he tells you reverently as he slips out of you. You immediately miss the pressure of him there, but their absence is quickly forgotten when his fingers, slick with your release, disappear into his mouth with a satisfied hum. “Taste fuckin’ pretty, too.” And that’s when you feel it, him, thick and straining beneath you, his own arousal hot and urgent even through the thick denim of his jeans.

Joel shifts under you like a man possessed, one arm snaking around your waist, the other bracing the back of your head with a tenderness that steals what little air is in your lungs. One swift motion, and he lifts you off his lap and lays you down across the the worn bench seat, your back meeting the cool leather. His burly body follows, covering yours, and you hear the metallic clank of his belt buckle under the rain still pelting hard against the roof. The air inside the truck is thick now—humid with your breath, his breath, the leftover heat of your oragsm. Even with the crack in the driver side window, the glass is completely fogged, streaked with condensation. There’s a beat of hesitation in his eyes as he hovers above you, while your cunt still pulses with need despite your release just moments earlier.

“I need to feel you,” he rasps, followed by your name, voice tattered and needy. “Need to be inside you, darlin’, but—fuck, you gotta tell me. You want this?”

Your hands find his face again so your eyes are locked, and you nod—once, certain—and that’s all it takes. His hand drops between your bodies. You feel the rough scrape of denim, the tension of his zipper giving way, and then the low sound he makes when he finally frees himself. Another hand finds your underwear, dragging them down just enough to bare you to him, just enough for him to slot himself between your upper thighs, skin to skin, his body shaking with restraint as he lines himself up at your entry.

He goes slow, nudging his swollen head inside you, the stretch of him already greater compared to his thick fingers. He must feel you stiffen at the sensation, because he stalls, eyes darting from where you’re connected to your face, searching for any sign you want him to stop.

“Keep going, Joel,” you breath—beg—ghosting your thumb over his bottom lip. I’m okay, the tiny gesture tells him, and Joel continues to press into you, excruciatingly slow, pleasure chasing away the sting of his girth as he edges closer to where you need him most. He bottoms out with a depraved groan that vibrates through your chest, his hips flush against yours, the full weight of him settling deep inside. Your moan tangles with his in another hungry, messy kiss, mouths moving like you’re starved for each other—like this might be the only time you get. Joel stays there for a beat, buried to the hilt, breathing heavy against your lips before dragging his mouth lower, tracing your jaw, your throat, until his lips find your chest. One hand fumbles with your top, dragging it down just enough to free your breast, his tongue immediately swirling hot and wet around your nipple. The sensation makes you arch beneath him, breath catching as he sucks greedily, the other hand braced under your back like he’s trying to memorise the way your body bends for him.

“Joel,” you whine with your fingers knotted at the crown of his head. Another quick lick of your nipple and he’s peering up at you hungrily.

“What is it, baby?”

You rock your hips as much as you can under his weight. “Need you to move,” you say. Then, more definitely: “Need you to fuck me.”

“Jesus, woman.” The words are aggressive, just like the way his hips snap back before driving into you. Hard. Deep enough to punch the air from your lungs. His fingers press bruises into your thigh as he anchors it high around his waist, and it’s then that Joel becomes a savage—his thrusts relentless and rocking the whole damn truck with every grind of his hips.

“God, you feel perfect. Like you were made ‘f’me,” he grits. “Not gonna last long with your pretty pussy squeezin’ me like that.” Your breathy whimpers, your pleas of yes, right there, Joel, fuck puncutate each collision of your bodies, the base of his cock nudging your clit just so when he bottoms out. That familiar pressure is already building again, your second climax clawing its way from the pit of your stomach, and Joel’s lips slide into a lax smile just before your eyes sink shut.

“Yeah, darlin’, you’re gonna come for me again.” It’s not a question—Joel just knows, and pants at your ear, egging you on. “That’s it, come on.”

You seize beneath him and flutter tightly around his cock like a vise as your orgasm washes over you with a shameleslly load moan. Joel buries his face in the crook of your neck with a grunt, his hips faltering as he fucks you through the tightness around him.

“Fuck, that’s it—just like that, baby,” he rasps against your skin, breath hot and uneven. “Stay with me. Not far behind you.” His mouth finds yours again, hungry and open, as he pistons into you faster now, chasing his own edge. “Wanna fill you up. Will y’let me come in you?” Your answer comes in a breathless moan, a frantic nod against his mouth. “Yes—inside. Please.”

It’s all the coaxing Joel needs, burying himself to to the hilt with a strangled groan, movement stuttering as thick heat floods you. You hold him there with your legs, Joel twitching as he empties every last drop of himself inside you. The pair of you freeze there for a beat, panting into each other’s shoulders before he finally pulls out of you with a low, satisfied grunt. You’re sensitive now after your two shell-shock orgasms, the air cool against the mess he’s left behind. Your skirt’s bunched high around your waist, panties stretched to their limits just above your knees until Joel tugs them back into place. The rough drag of denim on your thighs makes you flinch as he redresses, his belt clinking softly in the quiet aftermath. It’s only when you peel yourself up from the bench do you realise that the storm has rolled on. Rain no longer assaults the truck. The windows are fogged but quiet now, aside from the whoosh of passing cars as headlights begin to reappear on the highway in the dead of night. It’s nearly one in the morning, according to the neon clock, and you follow suit after watching Joel click his seatbelt back over his body. He doesn’t look at you, just fishes a fresh cigarette from the crumpled packet abandoned on the dash. It ignites with a flick of a lighter, and he inhales deeply, the glow burning amber across his face.

The truck chugs to life beneath you, engine grumbling as smoke curls into the stale cab air.

“Let’s get you home,” he mutters quickly, like if he says it fast enough, he might outrun the guilt. And then he pulls back onto the highway—into the night, into whatever comes next.

***

pt. II here

You're sinking down onto Tommy's dick, settling your hands on his shoulders to balance yourself. Then as you start to move, Joel steps up behind you, grips your hips and takes control. He rolls them in his strong grip, fucking you down onto Tommy's dick slowly and tortuously until you're both desperate and begging to come.

Better still, than being alone with your thoughts, where there’s nothing to drown out the hollow ache of missing him.

It’s been three days.

Seventy-two hours since you last saw Joel, felt his touch, heard the heat in his voice brushing against your lips as his fingers stroked deep inside you.

The bar is far too busy for the middle of the week, filled with the kind of rush that should keep your mind too occupied to wander.

The rowdy patrons should be enough to keep you running on autopilot, pouring drinks, cracking jokes, throwing forced smiles at customers who get a little too comfortable when they’re three drinks deep, should leave no room for thinking.

But no matter how hard you try to push it away, no matter how much you attempt to put your focus elsewhere, your mind keeps circling back to the same thing.

Him.

You haven’t even heard from him since the morning you all left the cabin - unless of course, you count a measly thumbs up emoji over text, two days ago.

You’d been sitting in the back of the bar on your break, scrolling absently through your notifications, sipping a lukewarm can of lemonade.

Not expecting anything important, maybe some reminder from your dad about taking the trash out, or a picture of this week's job site.

But then you saw it.

A new message from your dad in the group chat, attached with a picture.

You’d opened it without thinking, completely unprepared for the sight that greeted you.

The picture from the hike.

The one your dad had insisted on taking of the two of you in front of the view, standing far too close, Joel’s arm draped around your form like it belonged there.

Seeing it took you right back to the ridge, remembering his warmth, his touch, the apprehensive tension before you knew what it was like to really feel each other.

Before you truly crossed the line.

Your dad’s caption had been simple, oblivious.

“Damn good view.”

And Joel’s reply?

A fucking thumbs up emoji.

Your fingers had hovered over your screen for too long, your chest tightening as you tried to make sense of the hollow feeling settling inside you.

Because the Joel you knew wasn’t impersonal like that.

The Joel you knew, who never hesitated to make some snarky comment, could never resist teasing you about anything, would’ve made a joke, at the very least.

Something about how ridiculous you looked, squinting because the sun was in your eyes, or the fact you look absolutely exhausted, that you clearly couldn’t handle the hike.

But instead, a thumbs up.

It shouldn’t sting as much as it does that this is the only contact you’ve had with him since the cabin.

He’s not even been to the house, the porch where he’d usually sit, beer in hand, joking with your dad after a long day's work suddenly feeling incomplete without his presence.

He feels absent from all the spaces he’s always occupied, the ones you took for granted, the ones you never thought about until they were suddenly empty.

It hurts, the way your stomach knots when you picture him.

The way your chest aches when you wonder if he’s just as tormented as you are, if he’s been haunted by the thought of you, the same way you’ve been entirely consumed by thoughts of him.

Maybe, you shouldn’t care, shouldn’t want him to reach out.

And yet, you do.

Because you’d felt the way he wanted you, needed you.

Felt the desperation in the way he’d touched you, the way he kissed you like he’d been holding back for too long.

You hate that it’s lingering, weighing on you like this, can’t stand that he has this kind of power over you.

More so, you can’t believe that you’re standing here, stewing over a man who hasn’t even had the decency to look you in the eye since he buried his hands between your thighs, moaning warm against your ear how much he wanted you.

But most of all, you hate how badly you still want him.

Click.

A sharp snap cuts through your spiralling thoughts.

Your head jerks to the side just as your coworker, Ethan, clicks his fingers in front of your face again, his expression half amused, half exasperated.

“Hey, trouble. You in there?”

You blink rapidly, pulling yourself back to the present, shaking your head like it’ll clear the mess still tangled in your thoughts.

“Jesus,” Ethan mutters, leaning against the counter. “Been calling your name for like, a full minute. Thought you were about to astral project or some shit.”

You exhale, rolling your shoulders back, pasting a smile onto your face. “Yeah, well. Maybe I was trying to escape.”

Ethan smirks, crossing his arms over his all black uniform. “Wherever you went must’ve sucked, because you looked pissed.”

You scoff, grabbing a glass, reaching for the tap, focusing on the steady pour of amber liquid instead of the way your chest still feels too tight. “Just tired.”

It’s a lie, but it’s an easy one.

One Ethan accepts with a small shrug, because he knows just as well as you do that this job will run you into the ground if you let it.

The bar is in full swing, surprisingly crowded with a middle of the week rush that always takes you by surprise, setting a pace that keeps you on your toes.

Ethan slides past you, his shoulder brushing yours as he grabs two shot glasses, setting them on a tray before spinning effortlessly back around.

“You better wake up, loser,” he teases, nudging your foot with his own before grabbing a bottle from the top shelf. “We’re barely getting started.”

He’s right.

You envy these people for having so little to care about for them to be on some midweek, drunken push to get them through to the weekend, their biggest worry being a call to their boss, lying about a hangover in the morning.

It’s loud, voices overlapping, glasses clinking, the bass of whatever song is playing thrumming beneath your feet.

You try to lose yourself in the mundane rhythm of it, grateful for the constant motion, something to keep your thoughts focused anywhere but on the man who has occupied them for the last three days.

So you do what you do best. Pour, pass, fake a laugh.

You and Ethan work in sync, dodging around each other with ease.

“You’re slacking,” he calls over his shoulder as he hands off another round of drinks across the counter, folding a tip into his back pocket.

You scoff dramatically, tossing your dishcloth at him. “You’re so full of shit.”

He catches it easily, tucking it into his apron. “Hey, ain’t my fault I’m the faster server,” he shrugs with a grin.

You huff, shaking your head, the tightness in your chest loosening just slightly beneath Ethan’s familiar teasing.

You take a step back towards the bar, ready to serve the next customer as you hurl another insult over your shoulder.

“You’re lucky you’re funny, Ethan, ‘cause you sure as hell - ”

“Whiskey, neat.”

The rest of your sentence dies abruptly on your lips as a new voice cuts through, low, rough, and entirely too familiar.

You stiffen, feet stuck to the floor like glue, heart stuttering painfully in your chest. It’s a voice you’ve longed to hear all week, but right now, it knocks you completely off kilter.

You turn slowly, your eyes landing on Joel, sitting far too casually at the bar.

Your mouth goes dry.

He looks back at you, expression unreadable - calm, composed, maddeningly steady, as if the past three days of radio silence were all in your imagination.

He’s leaning forwards, forearms resting against the bar, fingers idly tracing the rim of a beer coaster.

You swallow hard, the shock of his presence genuinely rendering you speechless.

He’s here.

After three days of nothing, no messages, no calls, not even a glimpse of him - he’s right in front of you like nothing ever happened.

Ethan’s voice pulls you back, the sound barely audible through the roaring pulse in your ears.

“Hey, you good?”

You blink quickly, nodding as you force yourself back into motion, reaching mechanically for the whiskey bottle behind you.

Your hands shake slightly as you pour, enough that you have to tighten your grip on the bottle, before sliding the glass towards Joel with a little too much force.

Joel catches it smoothly, eyes never leaving yours.

“Thanks, darlin’.”

You nod stiffly, grabbing a dishrag and wiping down the bar with a little more force than necessary before you glance up to him with a neutral expression.

Joel takes a slow sip of whiskey, eyes holding the heavy weight of everything neither of you is willing to voice.

Your pulse is a frantic rhythm beneath your skin, your chest tight and uncomfortable as you fight the urge to demand answers.

Where the hell have you been, why haven’t you called, do you regret it?

The questions nearly burst free, but you bite them back, swallowing hard as you deliberately turn your attention elsewhere, grabbing an empty glass off the counter just for something to occupy your hands.

The moment stretches uncomfortably, tension hanging thick between you and Joel until you step away, forced to busy yourself with another customer.

Even still, you feel Joel’s eyes burning into you, heat crawling up the back of your neck as you fulfil another order, willing yourself to not be distracted by his persistent attention as you count out the change for the guy you just served.

A sudden presence at your side makes you jump slightly, Ethan leaning in just enough so only you can hear him.

“Who’s the guy?”

“Friend of my dad’s,” you mumble, too aware of how weak the explanation sounds. “They uh, work together.”

Ethan’s eyebrows lift slightly, clearly sensing something you’re not saying, but he doesn’t press.

Instead, his lips curl into a knowing smile, amused, perceptive. “Got it.”

You shoot him a look that warns him not to pry, turning back to glance at Joel just as another man's voice cuts across the bar, slurred and overly confident.

“Hey, sweetheart, how ‘bout you bring that pretty ass down here and pour me another? Got a tip with your name on it.”

Your stomach knots instantly, dread creeping down your spine.

Irritation prickles under your skin, the familiar kind that comes with working in a place like this, where a forced smile is often mistaken for an invitation.

Before you can tell him exactly where to shove his ‘tip’, Joel beats you to it.

He moves, fast, body angling protectively as he pins the man with a sharp, heated glare, his forearm flexing against the counter as he cages him in.

“Think you better watch your goddamn mouth,” Joel warns, his voice low but dangerously calm.

The man scoffs, his bleary eyes flicking drunkenly over Joel’s form, sizing him up.

“Who the fuck are you, her daddy?”

A sudden heat crawls up your neck.

Joel’s jaw tightens visibly, his expression clouded with a barely restrained anger. “Somebody who thinks you better show her a little respect.”

The customer doesn’t take the hint.

Instead, he snickers, eyes darting from you back to Joel, clearly amused. “Oh, relax, old timer. Just havin’ a little fun.”

Joel huffs a humourless laugh, his head tilting slightly, a warning.

“Didn’t look like she was laughin’.”

The man scoffs, clearly emboldened now, leaning onto the bar with a smirk.

“What, she yours or somethin’?” he points a dirty finger between the two of you. “’Cause from where I’m sitting, she don’t look like she needs protectin’.”

There’s a dangerous beat of silence.

Your blood pumps erratic and uneven in your veins, your body betraying you with the way it reacts to the claim buried beneath the man’s presumptuous words.

Joel’s jaw clenches, his knuckles turning white around his whiskey glass.

Thankfully, before it can escalate any further, Ethan is at the other side of the bar, stepping between the two men.

“Alright buddy,” he says lightly, but there’s heat beneath it, a firm hand clamping down on the guy’s shoulder. “Think you better go have your fun someplace else.”

The man waits a beat, lingering just long enough to make a half-assed show of standing his ground, staring Joel down, whose eyes remain unwaveringly locked on his.

Joel takes a step forwards, his broad chest commanding the space, almost daring the man to challenge him with a tilt of his jaw.

Eventually, with a final sneer, he shoves off the barstool, knocking against Ethan’s shoulder as he makes for the exit, cursing the three of you under his breath.

Joel watches him leave, eyes stuck to his form, not breathing until the door finally falls closed on his sleazy ass.

He turns back to you, eyes still burning, a protective edge radiating from every tense muscle in his body.

You feel it in the air between you, the quiet anger still simmering beneath his skin.

“You alright?” he asks quietly, the softness of his voice at complete odds with the storm still raging behind his eyes.

You nod slowly, heart hammering violently in your chest. “Yeah,” you whisper. “I’m okay.”

Joel’s nostrils flare slightly as he takes a steadying breath, giving you a sharp nod, his jaw still tight.

You step away again, somewhat reluctantly this time, busying yourself with drying the glasses fresh from the small dishwasher tucked beneath the bar.

A sudden, low whistle beside you breaks through the rigid air.

Ethan lets out a slow, impressed exhale, shaking his head slightly as he steps in line beside you, grabbing a towel to help you dry up as he watches Joel from across the bar.

“Damn,” he mutters under his breath. “Seems a little intense for just a friend of your dad’s, huh?”

You tense, your stomach flipping uncomfortably at the way he says it, not really a question, just an observation.

You shove your elbow into his ribs, maybe a little a little harder than necessary.

“Shut up,” you laugh, pointing a warning finger at him with an uncontained smirk. “I mean it. I’ll cancel that shift I said I’d cover for you.”

Ethan howls, doubling over slightly, rubbing his ribs with an exaggerated wince.

Despite yourself, you fall into a quiet fit of laughter too, the strained atmosphere somewhat slackening.

The night drags on, but your mind stays stuck in that moment.

Stuck on the way Joel moved without hesitation, stepping between you and that idiot at the bar.

The prouder side of you wants to be pissed, to tell him he had no right to show up acting like he cares now, that you can handle yourself.

But honestly?

It felt fucking good seeing him be protective of you.

Possessive.

For the rest of the evening, you keep your hands busy refilling glasses, wiping surfaces, tossing casual smiles at customers that don’t quite reach your eyes.

But none of it matters, because Joel is still here, sitting at the bar nursing his whiskey like he’s got nowhere else to be.

And maybe he doesn’t, maybe, he’s just waiting.

It takes you longer than you’d like to admit to finally turn around and face him again, but when you do, he’s still watching you intently.

You approach slowly, the air growing heavier with every step you take towards him, fingers tightened around a cloth as you lean into the counter to keep yourself steady.

When you stop just short of him, you swallow hard.

“You didn’t have to do that,” you say softly, voice low enough that no one else can hear. “I deal with assholes like that every night.”

Joel’s jaw tightens, tension rippling down his neck.

“Yeah. I did.”

The answer is instant, firm with a tone of finality, like there was never another option.

He downs the last of his whiskey, sliding the empty glass towards you, his fingers brushing against the wooden bar as he retrieves his hand slowly.

You bite the inside of your cheek, toying with the glass between your fingers, your thumb sliding absently along its rim.

“You closin’ tonight?” he asks, his voice deceptively casual.

You can read between the lines of what he’s asking, but still, you nod slowly. “Yeah. Why?”

Joel pauses, eyes flicking to the bar, his fingers tapping against the wood once, twice, as he comes to some kind of decision.

“I’ll wait outside. Drive you home.”

You soften, shaking your head instinctively. “Joel, you don’t have to - ”

“Wasn’t askin’.” he cuts in.

His voice isn’t harsh, but it’s firm, leaving no room for argument.

It silences you, your lips pressing into a tight line as a faint, familiar lick of heat finds its way back to the pit of your stomach.

Before you can respond, he slides off his stool, dropping the payment for his drink onto the bar, and heads towards the door.

You reach out to grab the notes laying scattered on the counter, your stomach dropping as you mull over exactly what this means.

Tonight, neither of you are getting away without finally confronting what happened between you.

The rest of your shift passes at a painfully slow crawl.

It feels like an eternity before the last customer finally clears out, leaving the bar quiet and eerily still, an almost suffocating contrast to the chaos earlier.

You sigh, leaning against the bar, eyes fluttering closed as you drag your palms down your face, exhaustion slowly catching up.

Your fingers tremble slightly as you turn the key in the register, locking it up for the night.

You try to push away the nervous energy curling tightly in your stomach, but it proves useless, knowing what’s waiting for you outside.

But despite everything, the silence, avoidance, the hurt still festering beneath your ribs, you want it.

You need to see him.

You stack the last few glasses away behind the bar before shutting off the main lights, plunging the bar into darkness, save for the glow of the neon sign still humming softly above the entrance.

Ethan is lingering near the back door, slipping off his apron, stretching with a deep groan.

“Need a ride?” he asks casually, rolling his shoulders.

You glance at him, hesitating for a second too long.

For a moment, you consider it - almost say yes, almost take the easy way out.

Instead, you force a tight, practiced smile. “I’m good. Already got one.”

Ethan pauses, brows raising suggestively. “Yeah? Anyone special?”

You swallow hard, shaking your head quickly, hauling your bag over your shoulder like the weight of the conversation hasn’t just doubled.

“Knock it off,” you say with a laugh, an attempt to keep your voice level. “It’s just a ride.”

Ethan hums, unconvinced.

“Alright,” he grins, stepping towards the door. “See you tomorrow, then.”

You nod, watching him disappear into his car, waiting until the engine stutters to life and he slowly pulls away with an obnoxious honk of his horn.

You step outside, pulling the door closed, keys quickly finding the lock before your fingers punch in the code for the alarm.

Your palms feel too warm, the apprehension in your stomach making you feel a sickly kind of unease.

With a steadying breath, you push away from the door and head towards the parking lot.

Your eyes find Joel instantly, standing by his truck, arms crossed, head tilted slightly, watching you like he’s been waiting for this moment all night.

The air feels charged, thick with something more than just the summer heat as you slowly approach the truck.

He watches you carefully, his eyes darker than usual beneath the shadows cast by the dim parking lot lights.

“Hey,” he murmurs quietly, tense but gentle.

You swallow hard. “Hey.”

The word comes out smaller than you mean it to, like the air is too thick for your voice to travel properly.

Joel pushes off the side of his truck and opens the passenger door, waiting silently.

You climb inside, sliding onto the worn leather seat as he shuts the door firmly behind you, the sound reverberating through your chest.

He rounds the hood slowly, like he’s buying time.

Your hands rest in your lap, fingers twisting together as he finally settles in beside you.

Joel doesn’t speak.

Just shifts into drive, guiding the truck smoothly onto the road, the low hum of the engine filling the silence.

But it’s not enough to drown out the weight between you.

The weight of three days of silence.

Three days of questions, frustration, longing, not knowing where you both stand.

“You gonna say something?” you blurt, voice tighter than you want it to be. “Or are we just gonna go on actin’ like nothing happened?”

Joel’s fingers flex around the steering wheel, his jaw tight as he forces out a tired breath, his eyes remaining fixed on the road.

Avoidance.

Your stomach knots, irritation flaring hot beneath your skin. “You’re unbelievable.” you bite.

He scoffs, shaking his head. “What the hell do you want me to say, kid?”

You bite back a humourless laugh. “How about why the hell you’ve avoided me for three days?” you demand, frustration and hurt mingling in your voice.

“I wasn’t - ” he cuts himself off, rubbing a hand over his beard in exasperation, his voice tight with restraint. “I was tryin’ to stay away.”

The words hit you like a slap to the face.

“Trying to stay away.” you repeat, your voice entirely hollow. “And that’s supposed to make me feel better?”

“Ain’t about makin’ you feel better,” he sighs. “It’s about doin’ the right thing.” He punctuates the last two words by rhythmically tapping a stiff hand against the steering wheel.

A bitter laugh escapes before you can stop it.

“The right thing? That’s bullshit, Joel. You can’t just put your hands on me, kiss me like that, say the things you did - then disappear, like it didn’t happen.”

His eyes flick to you for a split second, his expression tight, pained.

“It happened,” he says, nodding slowly. “Ain’t sayin’ it didn’t.”

“Then what?” you demand. “Why shut me out? You’ve not even stopped by the house.”

“You think I didn’t want to?” he raises his voice.

You frown, faltering slightly, not expecting the edge in his tone.

He lets out a deep sigh. “You don’t get it.”

You let out a sharp scoff. “Then make me get it, Joel.”

Joel glances at you, rolls his eyes when he’s met with the disbelieving look on your face.

“Every day, I’m workin’ side by side with your dad, listenin’ to him talk, laughin’ with him, actin’ like - ” he trails off, shaking his head. “Like I didn’t have my hands all over his daughter three nights ago.”

His words land heavily, sinking into the space between you, wrapping around your ribs like a vice.

“Joel - ”

“I see him every damn day,” he interrupts, his grip on the wheel turning his knuckles white. “And all I can think about is you. About how wrong it all is.”

The words come out strained, like the guilt has been eating him alive, the weight crushing him.

All you can do is look at him.

You try to find the right words, ones that tell him you’re sorry he’s been feeling this way, but your own anger gets in the way.

You stare at him, watching his side profile, the furrow of his brow, the tight set of his jaw.

Your eyes burn. It feels fucking stupid.

“Three days, Joel.”

That's all you can say.

“It wasn’t easy for me either.” he says with a quiet exasperation.

“Then why the fuck did you do it?” you push, voice rising.

His control finally shatters.

“Because I thought it’d be fuckin’ easier for the both of us." Joel snaps, his voice sharp, heated.

The words are spat through gritted teeth, his frustration bleeding into every syllable.

Before you can fire back, he yanks the steering wheel, veering to pull up on the side of the road, tires kicking up gravel as the truck rocks slightly before lurching to a stop.

His chest is heaving, his breath hot and uneven, hands gripping the wheel like he’s holding himself back from reaching out for you.

“I thought if I gave us space, if I stayed away, maybe this,” he gestures between you both, “would all go back to normal.”

The words hang between you, heavy and hopeless.

You stare at him, anger curling tight around the longing you’ve been trying so damn hard to fight.

“And did it?”

Joel huffs a dry laugh, running a rough hand over his face, eyes burning when they meet yours again.

“No,” he sighs. “Not one damn bit.”

The admission softens your anger slightly, takes away the sting of rejection you’d been feeling.

You nod, the air between you shifting.

“So what now?” you whisper, your eyes dropping to your lap.

Joel doesn’t answer right away.

Instead, he moves.

Leans closer, reaches a hesitant hand out towards you, waiting for you to pull away, to tell him where the hell to go.

When you don’t flinch, don’t pull back, his rough hand curls gently around your jaw, tilting your face up until you have no choice but to look at him.

His thumb drags slowly along your bottom lip, like he’s mapping you out, committing you to memory.

“I’m done stayin’ away.”

Your brows knit together, not out of anger, but fear.

“Don’t fucking say that if you don’t mean it.” you plead.

He tilts his head, the look on his face imploring you to relent, to stop reading into everything so much.

The truck is too quiet, filled only with the sound of your shallow, apprehensive breathing, your heart pounding mercilessly against your ribs.

You know exactly where this is headed.

Yet, even now, after everything, a defiant part of you still pushes back, still fights to keep control.

“Maybe it would’ve been easier if you’d actually talked to me, instead of just making decisions for the both of us.”

Joel’s eyes flash dangerously, the muscle of his jaw tightening as he stares you down. “Don’t start.” he warns.

But you can’t help yourself, the past three days of hurt forcing you down a path of reckless defiance.

“Or what? You’ll just disappear again? Keep ignoring me until - ”

Joel’s thumb presses hard against your lips, silencing you instantly, your protest dissolving into a shaky exhale through your nose.

Your pulse jumps.

You should pull away, but you can’t.

His touch is firm, possessive - dominant in a way that makes your entire body burn.

“You never fuckin’ stop, do you?” he growls. “Always got somethin’ to say.”

You jerk your chin away from his grip, glaring back at him, even as your body leans towards his touch.

“Maybe you’re just an asshole who doesn’t like hearing the truth.”

Joel sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose between thick fingers. “Goddamn it kid, you got such smart mouth, you know that?”

You cross your arms over your chest with a sickly sweet smile.

“Didn’t have any complaints about my mouth when you were sliding your tongue into it the other night.” you shoot back, ignoring how your blood thrums with heat, how badly you want him.

Joel’s eyes drop to your mouth, eyes narrowing slightly.

He drags his thumb slowly along your chin, pressing gently until your lips part under his touch.

“You wanna keep talkin’ back?” he murmurs. “Or you gonna shut the hell up?”

Your body tightens as he slides his thumb into your mouth, pressing firm against your tongue.

You close your lips around him instinctively, your tongue dragging along the rough pad of his thumb, obedient in a way that makes his nostrils flare.

Your eyes flick up to his, watching for his reaction as you suck slowly, hollowing your cheeks around his thumb.

Then, you release him with a soft, gentle pop.

“You gonna make me?”

Something dark flickers in Joel’s eyes, a low growl rumbling deep in his chest.

“Be a good girl,” he grits through his teeth, unbuckling his belt with one hand, eyes locked onto yours. “And show me you know how to behave.”

Oh.

Heat surges between your thighs, the need you feel to please him as instinctual as the air you breathe into your lungs.

You don’t even hesitate before pulling your knees up onto the passenger seat, slipping your legs beneath you.

His eyes darken, his breath rough and uneven as you reach out towards his lap, hands shaking.

“That’s it,” he encourages, his voice straining as your fingers brush against him, freeing him fully.

You pause briefly at the size of him, looking up at him with wide eyes.

“Joel - ”

He strokes his thumb over your cheek, the gesture unexpectedly tender given the intensity of the situation.

“You can take it, darlin’,” he says, gentler now, reassuring.

You nod, biting your lip as you lean further over the centre console towards him.

His hand moves slowly, tangling firmly into your hair, gripping tight enough to tilt your head back, exposing your throat to him.

“Open.”

You part your lips and he groans at the sight of you so pliant and willing to obey.

You let him guide you to his lap, edging his hard cock slowly past your mouth, feeling the hot, heavy weight of him on your tongue.

Joel moans above you, your cunt clenching around nothing just at the sound. He’s slow and careful at first, a shuddering breath escaping him as you get used to him, work yourself up to take him all the way.

His grip tightens on your hair as your tongue slides along the underside of his length, earning a low growl that vibrates through every nerve ending in your body.

“Fuck,” Joel hisses through gritted teeth. “That’s it baby, keep goin’.”

His praise sends heat flooding through you, fueling your determination, your head bobbing up and down like it’s your only purpose to make him feel good.

You’re wet and needy, desperate for more, to hear and feel the way his body responds to you.

Joel shifts his hips upwards, careful as he slides deeper, testing your limits, knowing exactly how far to push.

His cock presses hard against the back of your throat, and you accept it greedily.

“Look at me,” Joel chokes. “Lemme see you, darlin’.”

You lift your eyes as you continue to take him, watching his control shatter.

“Jesus,” he breathes, eyes dark with an unrelenting desire. “So pretty on my cock, huh?”

His fingers cradle your scalp, guiding you, working you slowly along his cock, your mouth stretching around him warm and tight.

You can still sense his restraint, feel the way he’s holding himself back, muscles trembling, trying not to push too hard.

And you don’t want that.

You press forwards, hollowing your cheeks, letting the tip of his cock pass the back of your throat. You groan softly, his hold loosening on your hair, but you diminish his worries with a defiant hum around his length, forcing him deep again.

Spit drips from the side of your mouth, your hand reaching to wrap around the base of his cock, stroking the slick over the parts of him you can’t reach.

The sound that rips from his chest is guttural.

His head tips back against the seat, one hand tangling back into your hair, the other gripping the steering wheel so tight his knuckles go white.

“Attagirl - fuck - just like that,” he groans, grunting as his jerks his hips upwards. “Knew you’d be good for me.”

His words send a lick of heat racing down your spine, pooling low in your belly, your own arousal growing unbearable. You let out a muffled sound of frustration, wanting more, needing more.

Joel chuckles breathlessly, noticing it instantly.

“Oh, baby,” he drawls, his tone teasing. “Ain’t enough for you, is that it?”

You whimper around him, the vibration making him hiss sharply through his teeth as you grind your hips pathetically against nothing.

”Goddamn it,” he pants, dragging your mouth down faster along his cock. “Wanna fuckin’ ruin you, you know that?”

That does it.

You press your thighs together, but it’s not enough.

You pull your hand back, slipping your fingers beneath your skirt, pressing gentle fingertips against your clit to relieve the impossible ache there.

“Oh, you like that, huh?” he chuckles through a dark, teasing rasp. “Like knowin’ how bad I wanna fuck you?”

You moan softly around him, your breathing pulling through your nose in quick, desperate inhales.

You can’t stop yourself, slipping your fingers deep into your cunt like it will fill the empty ache, like it will ever match up to how you need to feel his cock stretch you open.

He knocks your hand away, his palm falling flat over your thigh, firm and possessive. “That ain’t for you to do.”

Your sobs are muffled again, your frustration and desperation making you tremble.

Joel shifts, his hand sliding between your thighs, cupping you through your clothes, fingers pressing exactly where you need him.

“You wanna touch yourself, huh? While I’m here to do it for you?” he scolds, his fingers rubbing slow, torturous circles over your underwear, just barely giving you relief.

“You that fuckin’ pent up?”

He pulls you from his cock, saliva dripping over your chin as you suck in a sharp breath, his hold on your hair forcing you to sit upright.

His eyes lock onto the swell of your lips, rubbing a gentle thumb over your mouth, using it to wipe the spit away from your chin before pressing the digit into his mouth, sucking it clean.

“Words baby. You want me to touch you?” he murmurs, kissing the corner of your mouth.

You nod your head desperately. “Please, Joel, need to feel you,” you mewl, lips trembling with need.

He hums thoughtfully, pressing his thumb hard against your clit. You grind your hips forwards with a sharp gasp, your hands reaching to grip his shirt tight between your fists.

His thick fingers bypass your underwear, not even attempting to get you used to him before he pushes into your cunt, curling to meet the desperate knot of desire wound tight in your abdomen.

“Should’ve known you’d be this wet, just from havin’ me in your mouth,” he drawls against your ear. “Such a dirty girl.”

Before you can react, before you can even moan his name, he's pushing you back down onto his cock, guiding your mouth back along his length, matching the rhythm of his fingers curling into you.

“You gonna come just from this, baby?” he murmurs, slipping in a third finger, stretching you open for him. “From my fuckin’ fingers? Suckin’ on my cock?”

“Mhmm,” you manage, your body burning, so close to release already that you can’t even think.

Your hands grip at his thighs, nails digging into the denim of his jeans as you continue to work your mouth along his length.

His breath is laboured, muscles tense, holding onto his resolve just enough to keep himself from falling apart completely.

He’s waiting for you to get there too, you can feel the way he’s barely holding on in the way he’s bucking his hips upwards involuntarily, any kind of rhythm lost.

The idea of him coming undone for you is enough to make you roll your hips against him, coaxing his fingers deeper, harder into your cunt.

“Look at you,” Joel laughs, voice dripping with satisfaction. “So fuckin’ needy for me, ain’t ya?”

The words alone nearly send you over the edge.

You nod as well as you can with his cock lodged in your mouth, swirling your tongue around him to pull him closer too.

Joel watches you intently, voice lowering to a deep, ruined rasp.

“Go on, baby,” he urges, his fingers curling just right, his other hand pressing against the back of your head, still guiding you over his cock. “Come for me.”

And just like that, you fall apart in his hands, thighs pressing together around his wrist, riding the wave of sharp, blinding heat that wrecks through your limbs as he keeps his fingers moving, letting you take everything he’s got to give.

“That’s my girl,” he breathes, his body straining beneath you.

The sounds you make are barely audible, but still, they’re enough to have him cursing under his breath, pushing him over the edge.

“Fuck,” Joel grunts, his hips bucking, thighs flexing beneath your palms. “Goddamn - baby, I’m gonna come, you can - shit, you can pull off.”

You tighten a hand around the base of his cock, unwilling to let a single drop of him go to waste, head moving up and down in defiance, a silent plea for him to give in to you.

He grunts, hands reaching to grip the steering wheel, his entire body going tense as he finally gives in, finally lets himself fall apart.

He pulses hard on your tongue, spilling himself into your mouth with a strangled, breathless groan, your name tumbling from his lips, head tipping back against the seat.

You swallow instinctively, warmth flooding your throat as you ease off him slowly, carefully, your body still humming with need.

Joel’s hands immediately cup your face, tilting your chin upwards, his thumb wiping the slick from your swollen bottom lip.

“Jesus fuckin’ Christ,” he breathes, chest rising and falling fast beneath the hand you rest against him.

His eyes search your face, still warm with desire but softened by something else, something tender. “You alright?”

You nod weakly, leaning into his touch, your breaths shaky. “Yeah,” you whisper.

Joel leans his forehead against yours, his nose nudging yours gently as his fingers stroke carefully through your hair as you both come down.

Eventually, he leans back, looks out of the window at the deserted road, running his hand over his bearded chin like he’s trying to force himself back to reality.

“C’mon, sweetheart,” he murmurs softly, adjusting his jeans with a faint, tired smirk. “Let’s get you home, before your dad starts wonderin’ where the hell you are.”

You hum in response, smiling faintly as you sit back into the passenger seat.

Joel puts the truck into gear, pulling back onto the road as he fastens his seatbelt.

He glances at you from the corner of his eye, expression softening when he notices your quiet stillness.

“We’re gonna talk more about this,” he says, voice firm but reassuring. “But not tonight.”

You nod slowly, resting your head back against the seat, exhaustion threatening to pull your eyes closed.

“Okay.”

He reaches over the centre console, his palm gently covering the hand resting on your lap.

His warmth comforts you in a way that makes those worries fade into the background.

For now, this is enough.

Not a single snide remark aimed your way when you played a few rounds of cards, despite the amount of times you lost that provided him with plenty of opportunity to tease you the way he usually would.

Even when your dad sleepily slumped back against the sofa, the warm haze of alcohol having softened his edges just enough for him to announce he was heading to bed, he didn’t say a word.

Joel just carried on like nothing had happened.

Like his hands hadn’t lingered on your skin only hours earlier.

Acted like he hadn’t purposely lured you into the kitchen alone, leaned in too close and let his words wrap around you like a slow pull of heat - hadn’t left your body restless, wanting.

Maybe, you should be grateful.

Perhaps, you should have found some relief in the fact that he’d kept it casual, never let his gaze linger too long, never let his smirk give him away.

And yet, you were somewhat disappointed.

Confused.

Because you felt it still, that pull between you both.

Felt it in the subtle brush of his fingers when he passed you another drink, fresh from the cooler, the cold glass against your skin still doing little to curb the heat running through your veins.

You’d felt it in the shift of his knee beneath the table, just barely brushing against yours, but still enough for you to have to hide the catch of your breath behind a cough, taking long swigs of your drink to numb the conflict between your head, and your body's reactions to his touch.

There were a few times you’d caught him looking at you when he’d clearly thought you weren’t watching.

Times when your dad was mid sentence of some story you’d both heard a hundred times, laughing with his head thrown back, eyes half-lidded from too much beer.

There’d be a flicker of something in his expression, something a little tortured, reserved, before he dragged his gaze away again.

Almost as if, maybe, he hadn’t been quite as unaffected as he wanted to let on.

Now, in the stillness of the morning, it’s all you can think about.

The porch steps are warm beneath your legs as you sit basking in the morning sunshine, fingers curled tightly around the mug in your hands. The coffee inside is strong and slightly bitter, with just a hint of the cinnamon creamer you always insist on bringing for trips like this.

The world outside the cabin is already thick with warmth, the sticky edge of an Austin summer lingering even in the shade, though the morning still holds a hint of last night’s cooler breeze.

To say you’re tired is an understatement - it’s far more than that.

It’s the kind of exhaustion that comes from too much overthinking.

A night spent staring at the ceiling with your pulse skipping every time you’d allowed your mind to drift back to the way Joel’s words had stirred something deep inside you, the memory only more intense in the dark.

You sigh, stretching your legs out, your muscles still stiff from twisting and turning all night on such an uncomfortable mattress.

To your dismay, the door creaks open behind you, interrupting your escape into the quiet stillness outside.

You tense slightly but don’t turn. You don’t have to.

You can feel that it’s him - can hear it in the hesitant step he takes forwards, his weight creaking the wooden floor beneath his boots.

Your eyes flicker closed briefly, an attempt to steady yourself before you acknowledge his presence.

His steps continue forwards, closer, closer until he’s lowering himself onto the wooden step beside you, holding a steaming cup of coffee in one hand.

“Didn’t realize you were out here.”

His voice is deep, rough in a way that makes something flutter deep in your belly.

You hate how much you notice it.

The way the sound rumbles through his chest, the faint rasp in his drawl, like he hasn’t fully shaken off sleep yet.

Your fingers tighten around your mug. “Got sick of your snoring.” you smirk, nudging his side with your elbow.

“That’d be your dad.” he knocks your knee with his own in retaliation, your coffee almost spilling over the rim of your mug. “Ain’t slept a goddamn wink” he laughs with a shake of his head.

Your mouth pulls up into an involuntary smile, the unexpected ease between you providing you with a sense of comfort. It’s enough for you to let your shoulders drop, the tension in your posture subsiding for now.

A comfortable, unrushed silence settles between you both, a quiet kind of peace you only find in mornings in the wilderness, the distant rustling of leaves in the warm breeze, birds singing their morning song somewhere far off.

Annoyingly, it leaves little room for you to think about anything else but the man sitting right beside you. Suddenly, you’re far too aware of yourself, how you must look after little to no sleep.

You reach up without thinking, fingers smoothing through your hair, trying to tame the wild mess it must be, seeing as you’d not even thought to drag a brush through it yet. You even rub the sleep from your eyes, just in case he’s looking at you in any kind of detail.

Which is dumb.

So dumb.

Because this is Joel. A man who’s seen you in far worse states, too many times to count.

He’s picked you up from the bar at ungodly hours, your dad blissfully unaware, long into the depths of sleep at the time of your drunken calls.

Dealt with your slurred rambles after one too many drinks, listened to incoherent stories interrupted by tipsy laughter as your head falls back against the passenger seat of his truck.

Not to mention the times he’s pulled over on the side of the road while you hang your head between your knees, trying not to throw up, his hand solid between your shoulder blades as you mumble complaints about how you’d never drink again, all while he just shook his head, amused.

And yet, here you are, suddenly self-conscious about how you look to him now.

Joel sips his coffee slowly, before his eyes drop to you, his brow raising.

“How’d you sleep?”

There’s something about the way he says it, the knowing edge to his voice, like he’s already well aware of the answer.

Like he knows damn well you spent half of the night turning over the memory of his voice in your head, the way it felt when he crossed this invisible line between you both.

You bring your coffee to your lips, buying yourself a second before answering.

“Fine.”

Joel hums softly, a sound that shouldn’t make your stomach flip the way it does.

“That so?”

You swallow, your gaze still locked on the trees straight ahead.

“Yep.”

Joel chuckles knowingly, the sound sliding down your spine like warm honey. His hand lifts to rest against your knee, lingering longer than it should.

“Figured you might’a been out here so early ’cause you couldn’t sleep.”

You turn to face him, your eyes narrowing. “Any particular reason I should be losin’ sleep?”

His gaze lifts from his hand on your knee to meet your eyes. “You tell me, darlin’?”

The solid warmth of his fingers still presses against your skin, your eyes flitting between each of his own.

You try to form a coherent sentence, to shrug off his comments with a witty comeback.

But you don’t move, don’t say anything. You sit there, coffee slowly cooling in your hands, pliant and willing as Joel pushes further, testing the waters as he trails his fingers absentmindedly down your leg.

Your eyes stay firmly fixed on each other as you fight to keep your breath inside your chest.

“Joel - ” you breathe, the noise barely making its way through the tightness of your throat.

As smoothly as he’d first touched you, he pulls his hand back. There’s a brief moment that his eyes wash over with a faint trace of concern, perhaps wondering if he’s pushing too far.

But the pace of your breathing, the way your eyes fall to his lips, the tight grip of your fingers around your mug - it’s almost as if he can see the way your stomach drops at the loss of his warmth on your skin.

He hums thoughtfully, stretching his legs out lazily before he stands. He turns to head back inside, your eyes stuck to his form, the loss of his presence next to you leaving you cold despite the sun glaring down at your feet.

As he reaches the door of the cabin, his hand hesitates on the handle. He turns to look at you, his lips curving when he catches you watching him, a lost look painting your features.

“Be a good girl and keep those eyes to yourself,” he murmurs, something dark flickering in his eyes as he nods towards the cabin door.

“Your daddy’s watchin’.”

And then, he’s gone.

The cabin door creaks shut behind him, leaving you sitting alone, heart hammering, coffee long forgotten thanks to the swirling heat in your abdomen.

Joel might be gone, but his words linger, yet again.

They maybe shouldn’t hit as hard after everything that happened last night, but there’s still a huge part of you that’s struggling to catch up with this change between you.

This feels different though, even from last night's antics. It’s more obvious, maybe less of a test and more of a confirmation.

A silent exchange that tells you he’s done holding back, knows you are too.

You let out a slow exhale, forcing yourself to relax.

You need to pull yourself together.

Joel is just seeing how far he can push you, that’s all this is.

If you let him get in your head, let him know just how much he’s affecting you, then you lose.

And you really, really don’t want to lose.

You stand, rolling your shoulders, setting your still full mug of cold coffee down on the porch railing before heading inside.

The cool darkness inside the cabin provides a bit of relief from the already humid air outside, also serving as a distraction from the needy heat still prickling at your skin.

Your dad is already up.

He’s standing by the small kitchen counter, pouring himself a cup of coffee, still in his old t-shirt and sleep trousers looking as relaxed as you’ve ever seen him.

He glances up when you step inside. “Mornin’, kiddo.”

You force yourself to shake off the strange weight in your chest, offering a small smile. “Hey.”

He lifts his mug towards you slightly. “Joel up?”

Your stomach tightens. Why is he asking you?

You nod, hoping your face doesn’t give anything away. “Yeah. Just saw him outside.”

Your dad grunts in approval, taking a slow sip of coffee. “Good. Thought maybe I’d rope him into goin’ on a hike with us.”

You blink. “A hike?”

Your dad raises an eyebrow. “Yeah. Somethin’ wrong with that?”

Nothing’s wrong with it.

Except that you’re going to have to spend the entire morning pretending that Joel fucking Miller didn’t just wreck your entire nervous system with a single sentence.

You shake your head quickly. “No, that’s fine.”

Your dad gives you a knowing look. “You sure? Thought you might be too tired after stayin’ up all night drinkin’ with us old men.”

You scoff. “I had like, three beers. You’re the one who was downing it like water.”

“Birthday privilege.” he grins.

You roll your eyes, moving past him to grab a bottle of water from the fridge, just as the door to the kitchen pushes open again.

Joel steps inside and your body reacts before your brain can intervene, your pulse skipping.

“Good, you’re up,” your dad says, turning towards him. “Thinkin’ we head out for a hike. You in?”

Joel doesn’t hesitate. “Yeah. Sounds good.”

Of course it does.

You exhale slowly, bracing yourself.

This is fine. It’s just a hike. Just a morning in the woods.

Just you, Joel, and your dad.

Nothing to worry about, right?

The three of you move around the cabin, readying yourselves for what should be a relaxed, unrushed day in the warm sun, resetting and de-stressing before you head back to reality tomorrow.

You move like you’re on autopilot, grabbing an extra water bottle from the fridge for your dad before pulling on your hiking boots near the door.

All the while, you’re trying to act like your thoughts aren’t still tangled up in Joel, all consuming.

He’s acting far too normal again as he pulls on his own boots, adjusts his watch, rolls up the sleeves of his shirt.

You look despite knowing better, eyes trailing over his arms - tanned, strong, the faintest sheen of sweat already forming in the warm air.

Your dad claps his hands together, pulling your attention away from Joel. “Alright, you two ready?”

You nod, clearing your throat. “Yeah.”

Joel hums, standing as he reaches for his bottle of water before his eyes flick to yours.

You push past him towards the door before he can see how much he's affecting you.

The door slams lightly behind you, the warmth outside hitting you instantly, thick air pressing against your skin the second you step onto the porch. It’s not unbearable, but it’s the kind of heat that sticks, clings to the back of your neck, warms the skin behind your knees.

You take a slow breath, willing it to steady you.

The cabin door swings open again behind you, the sound of boots against the wooden floor making you turn.

Joel steps out, adjusting the strap of a small backpack over his shoulder. You don’t look at him, don’t acknowledge him as he steps down onto the dirt.

Your dad is close behind him, locking the door before shoving the keys into the pocket of his cargo shorts.

“Alright, let’s get movin’. Sun’s only gettin’ higher.”

The three of you set off down the narrow dirt path leading from the cabin to the main trail. The trees press in around you as you walk, the forest thick and full of life, the occasional flicker of movement in the brush.

You focus on the rhythmic crunch of your boots against the sunbaked earth as you walk, Joel just a step behind you, ignoring the way his shadow stretches beside yours as the sun filters through the trees.

The trail winds deeper into the woods, your dad confidently taking over the lead, his voice carrying over his shoulder as he recalls stories of past hikes, mis-remembered adventures that seem to change slightly every time he tells them.

You find yourself nodding along, humming quietly, but your thoughts aren’t entirely focused on the conversation.

Not when Joel’s presence feels so close behind you, heavy in every step, every sound he makes as you move further down the trail.

You know you shouldn’t be this aware of him. Shouldn’t feel your pulse quicken every time the path narrows or the terrain grows uneven, forcing him close.

The trail ahead pinches tightly between a cluster of trees and a steep incline, your pace slowing as you edge along it.

“Careful,” Joel murmurs softly, his hand settling firmly at your waist. His touch is warm, steadying, fingers pressing gently into your side.

You swallow hard, eyes darting ahead cautiously, but your dad doesn’t even glance back. To him, it’s nothing. Just Joel being careful, looking out for you, like always.

“Thanks.” you mumble quietly.

His palm remains at your waist even after the trail widens again, fingers sliding slowly, almost reluctantly away.

Joel nods. “Don’t mention it.”

You exhale shakily, forcing your focus ahead as you lift your foot to step over a tree root jutting from the ground. Of course, you fucking stumble.

Joel laughs quietly behind you.

“You always this bad at watchin’ your step?” Joel says, hiding his chuckle behind a hand that swipes over his bearded chin, arms crossed over his chest.

You scoff, rolling your eyes. “It’s an uneven trail, Miller. It’s not like I’m tripping over my own feet.”

Joel hums, unconvinced. “Could’a fooled me.”

You shoot him a glare. “You gonna keep hovering over me, or you gonna let me walk in peace?”

He grins. “Now, what kinda friend would I be if I let you roll your ankle out here?” he asks, his tone mocking, playful.

You narrow your eyes at him, tilting your chin upwards as you size him up. “Sure you’re not just looking for an excuse to put your hands on me?”

It’s meant to be a joke - kind of. A small push back, a way to throw his teasing right back at him.

But for the first time, you’ve got him.

Can see he’s at a loss for words in the way his jaw tenses, the way his fingers twitch like he’s resisting the urge to do exactly what you’ve just accused him of.

For a small moment his expression is unreadable.

Then, just as smooth as ever, his smirk returns, his voice a low, slow drawl as he steps past you, brushing close enough that his shoulder touches yours.

“Keep your eyes on the trail, sweetheart,” he murmurs before pushing ahead. “Wouldn’t want you to trip.”

Joel glances back just once, meeting your eyes briefly before he turns forwards again, his steady stride slowly catching up with your dad.

You bite the inside of your cheek, silently smug at your ability to clearly get under his skin too, before quickening your steps to join them.

“Almost there,” your dad shouts over his shoulder as he notices you approach, excitement in his voice as the trees begin to thin out. “Just over this ridge. Hell of a view.”

You squint, catching glimpses of bright blue sky between the branches, the promise of an open view stretching beyond the dense woodland.

Joel moves easily beside you again, his steps sure and steady, meanwhile you’re feeling sweaty, flustered, your legs aching, heat prickling your skin in a way that has little to do with the blazing sun.

The three of you eventually crest the ridge, and your dad lets out a satisfied sigh, stopping at the edge where the trees break open, revealing the valley below.

“Here,” your dad says, stepping up onto a flat, rocky overlook. “Take a look at this. Breathtakin’ view.”

You climb up after him, boots scraping against the stone as you reach the top - and you have to admit, he’s right.

For the first time all morning, your thoughts go quiet.

The ridge stretches open wide, the landscape unfolding beneath you. A thick sprawl of trees leading into rolling hills, the shimmering ribbon of a creek cutting its way through the valley below.

The wind moves warm across your skin, carrying the scent of sun-warmed grass and water, cutting through the heat just enough to make it bearable.

For just a moment, you actually stop thinking about Joel.

“Worth the walk, huh?” your dad asks, glancing at you with an easy smile.

You nod, a genuine smile of your own tugging at your lips. “Yeah. It really is.”

Joel steps up beside you, exhaling a quiet breath.

“Not bad,” he murmurs.

You glance at him, catching the way he squints slightly in the sunlight, his fingers resting on his belt, chest rising slow and steady with his breath. The sweat at the base of his neck glistens faintly, dark strands of hair curling from the humidity.

Fuck, he looks good - too good.

You tear your eyes away, unscrewing the cap of your water bottle before taking a long sip. The water is lukewarm, but refreshing, the taste sharp against your tongue.

Your dad stretches his arms above his head, before rolling his shoulders. “Well, I ain’t movin’ for a while. My knees need a damn break.”

Joel smirks, shaking his head. “Guess that new decade is catchin’ up on you.”

Your dad waves him off, already lowering himself onto a large boulder. “Nah, it just means I know how to pace myself.”

Joel snorts, tipping his head towards you. “What about you, sweetheart? Feelin’ alright?”

His voice is casual to the likes of your dad, but you can read the edge that’s laced with something smug, like he knows exactly what kind of heat has been building between you both all morning.

“I’m fine,” you say, keeping your tone even. “But if you need a break, old man, don’t let me stop you.”

“Less of that damn cheek.” your dad cuts in.

Joel huffs a quiet laugh, unscrewing his own water bottle, tilting his head back slightly as he takes a long drink.

You watch him without thinking, eyes glued to the flex of his throat, the slow drag of his thumb over his lower lip as he wipes away a stray drop of water.

That goddamn prickle of heat beneath your skin is back, forcing you to look away.

You jump at the sound of your dad clapping his hands together, before urgently patting his pockets. “Hang on a sec, I almost forgot.”

You watch as he pulls his phone out, unlocking it, squinting as he taps carefully at the screen.

Joel raises an eyebrow. “You losin’ signal again?”

“Nah, just want a damn picture of y’all before we head back,” your dad says, already standing and stepping back to frame the view behind you. “Can’t come all the way up here and not get at least one.”

“Dad - ” you hesitate, glancing at Joel, but he’s already pinching the bridge of his nose, clearly resigned to obeying your dad’s request.

Your dad gestures impatiently towards the overlook. “C’mon, ain’t got all day, kiddo.”

Joel moves first, stepping into frame.

“You gonna make me pose all alone, darlin’?”

You force yourself to move, to ignore the heat curling in your stomach at the sound of his voice, at the casual way he stands, waiting.

You step up next to him, standing stiffly at first, planting a little space between you both. Your dad waves his hand at you both exasperatedly. “For Christ’s sake, get closer. Y’look like strangers.”

Joel steps closer, his presence solid at your side. The weight of his arm settles around your shoulders, warm and heavy, pulling you against him gently.

He’s done it a hundred times. But it’s never been like this, fingertips brushing against your bare arm, heat flaring across your skin, slipping down your spine.

“Smile, you two,” your dad calls, utterly oblivious to your inner turmoil.

You force a smile, the corners of your lips trembling slightly as Joel’s thumb shifts subtly against your shoulder, a purposeful gesture hidden beneath a seemingly innocent touch.

“Relax,” Joel murmurs, lips barely moving. “Ain’t gonna bite.”

Your dad counts down from three, but you hardly hear him, focused on the silent tension rolling between you. The camera clicks once, twice, before he inspects his handiwork.

He grins, shoving his phone back into his pocket. “Damn, that’s a good one. Gonna send it to you both later.”

Joel clears his throat lightly, nodding. “Appreciate it.”

He releases you slowly, his arm sliding from your shoulders, leaving behind a strange emptiness.

Your dad shifts his weight from foot to foot, gearing up to get moving again. “Y’all ready to head back soon?”

Joel glances towards your dad, eyebrow raised. “Tired already?”

Your dad scoffs. “You already made it clear I ain’t as young as I used to be. ’Sides, I got beers back at the cabin callin’ my name.”

Joel chuckles, nodding. “Now that, I can get behind.”

You roll your eyes, taking another sip of water, grateful for the distraction.

“Gimme a minute,” your dad mutters, stretching his back out. “Nature calls.”

He steps away, disappearing into the trees, leaving you and Joel alone again on the ridge. The sudden absence of your dad’s presence leaves room to notice the tension between you, too loud, too thick.

You turn slowly to face Joel, biting your lip, trying to think of something safe to say, but Joel beats you to it.

“You’ve been awful quiet,” he murmurs, eyes narrowing just slightly, studying you. “Somethin’ wrong?”

You exhale, shaking your head softly. “No. Just thinking.”

“Dangerous habit,” he teases gently, mouth twitching into a faint smirk. “Care to share?”

Your eyes flicker to the thicket of trees, ensuring your dad isn’t coming back just yet, before you dare meet Joel’s eyes again.

“Just wondering if this is how it’s gonna be now.”

Joel tilts his head, considering your words carefully. “How’s that?”

You swallow the lump in your throat, heart pounding. “Pretending.”

Something shifts in Joel’s expression, the teasing slipping away, replaced with something more serious, more intense.

He leans closer, his words rough with honesty. “You think I’m pretendin’, darlin’?”

Your pulse stutters, mouth suddenly dry. “Aren’t you?”

He’s quiet for a beat, exhaling slowly, his eyes holding yours intensely.

“You know damn well I ain’t.”

Before you can respond, your dad’s footsteps crunch back up the trail, breaking through the charged air.

Joel pulls back as soon as he reappears.

“Y’all ready?” he asks brightly, clearly unaware of what he interrupted.

“Yeah,” Joel answers, his eyes lingering unwaveringly on you. “Think it’s about time we head back.”

The walk back passes in a blur, the promise of cold beer seemingly leaving your dad’s aching knees long forgotten as the two men set a pace that you struggle to keep up with.

By the time you step inside the cabin, the late afternoon sun is low in the sky, the temperature much more tolerable.

Your dad immediately heads to the fridge, pulling out a handful of beers, passing one to you and Joel before stepping back outside to fire up the grill.

“Gonna get dinner started,” he calls back through the open door. “Y’all stay outta trouble.”

Joel smirks, twisting off the cap from his beer. “No promises.”

You shoot Joel a sideways glance, a small smile curling your lips despite your better judgment. You take a sip of your beer, savouring the cold bitterness.

“You wanna play?” Joel asks, nodding towards the deck of cards laying discarded on the small coffee table beside the fire.

You shrug, feigning indifference, though your heart quickens at the thought of sitting alone with him. “Sure.”

Joel settles into the worn leather couch, shuffling the cards with practiced skill. You join him, pulling your knees up beneath you as he deals two cards each.

“Texas hold ‘em?” you guess.

Joel nods, eyes glinting with amusement as he lifts his cards, studying you thoughtfully. “Unless you wanna play somethin’ else”

You raise an eyebrow. “Think I can handle it.”

He chuckles quietly as he sets the first three cards face-up on the table.

You study your cards with furrowed brows, willing it to be a good hand. Losing to Joel is the last thing you need right now.

He clears his throat after a few seconds.

“You gonna raise, fold? Or just stare at your damn cards all day?”

You look at the table dumbly, eyes flicking back up to him. “We don’t even have any chips.” you complain.

He chuckles, grabbing the discarded cap from your beer and flicking it to you with his thumb. You catch it, hissing at the sharp scratch it leaves on your finger.

You grin, raising a brow. “Oh, real high stakes.” you scoff.

“Figured I’d give you a chance” he smirks. “Of course, we could play for somethin’ else?”

You roll your eyes, ignoring his comment. “I’ll raise.” you mumble, throwing the cap into the middle of the table. “Happy now?”

“Thrilled,” he replies dryly, matching your bet without hesitation, his own bottle cap making its way onto the table.

The first round is spent testing each other. You know how Joel usually plays - steady, patient, always watching.

But Joel knows you too, knows when you bluff, when you’re trying to outthink him.

You play cautiously, watching him out of the corner of your eye, studying the way he handles his cards, the way his fingers tap absently against the table when he’s thinking.

Joel plays like he always knows something you don’t. Like he’s waiting for you to make a mistake, and you refuse to give him that satisfaction.

“You always this quiet when you play?” he muses.

You hum, considering. “Only when I’m winnin’.”

Joel chuckles, shaking his head. “Hate to break it to you, darlin’, but you ain’t winnin’ yet.”

You arch an eyebrow. “Yet.”

Joel grins, tipping his bottle towards you in silent challenge.

The second round is tighter, slower.

Joel leans forwards, elbows resting on his knees, his attention fixed on you.

You try not to squirm under his scrutiny, try not to pay mind to the way his fingers absently drag across the rim of his beer bottle, how his shirt stretches across his forearms when he moves.

Like he’s playing dirty on purpose.

“Sure you don’t wanna fold?” Joel asks.

“Why? You nervous?”

Joel’s lips twitch, like he’s fighting a smirk. “Not even a little.”

You hold his stare a second longer, before laying your cards down.

Joel’s eyes drop briefly to your cards, then back to you.

He exhales through his nose, shaking his head, throwing his cards onto the table.

“Shit.”

You pout, dragging the bottle caps towards you. “Huh. Looks like I’m winnin’ now.”

Joel sighs, sinking back into the couch, beer resting on his knee. “Don’t get used to it.”

You open your mouth to tease him further, but you’re interrupted by the swing of the cabin door opening.

You tense slightly as your dad steps inside, carrying a plate piled high with food.

“Alright team,” he says. “Hope y’all are hungry.”

Joel clears his throat, his expression smoothing into something neutral.

Your dad eyes the game setup, setting the plate down before grabbing his own beer.

“Poker?” he asks, already moving towards the table.

Joel nods, perfectly at ease.

“Kid was just about to lose everything,” he announces with a smirk.

You glare at him. “What the fu- I was not.”

Your dad chuckles, reaching for the deck of cards. “Well, guess I’ll have to put both of you to shame, then.”

You huff, shaking your head as the game resets, your dad dealing a fresh hand.

The night stretches on, the rounds only getting more heated when there’s three of you involved.

Your dad drinks beer after beer, throwing in his bottle caps like he’s got nothing to lose.

And Joel?

He’s relaxed as ever, settled against the couch, one arm stretched across the backrest, his fingers absently toying with the bottle cap between his fingers.

Your dad sighs, rubbing a hand over his face. “You two are ruthless.”

You laugh softly, dragging the pile of bottle caps towards yourself again. “Don’t hate the player.”

Joel chuckles, lifting his beer to his lips, eyes flicking towards you over the rim of the bottle.

“You just hate that you’re losin’, pal.” Joel mumbles, tossing in his bottle cap for another round.

Your dad groans, shaking his head. “Damn. Maybe I really am gettin’ old.”

“Nah. You were just never that good.” Joel bites back, lips stretching into a smirk.

Your dad barks out a laugh, kicking Joel’s foot under the table. “Y’know, I should’ve known you’d get cocky, Miller. Ain’t never been able to shut your mouth for long.”

Joel just grins, settling back against the couch again.

You throw in another cap. “C’mon, old man, don’t give up now.”

Your dad groans, rubbing at his eyes. “Hell, I dunno, kiddo. Feelin’ my age tonight.”

“Yeah, yeah. Excuses.” you laugh.

Your dad shakes his head, chuckling, before stretching his arms wide, a deep yawn escaping his chest. “Think I’m callin’ it a night. Y’all go easy on each other though.”

You shouldn’t feel your stomach flip at that.

Shouldn’t feel your breath catch slightly as your dad pushes back from the table, standing, rubbing a tired hand over his jaw.

It was always going to happen, him turning in eventually.

But now, it’s actually happening, the last piece falling into place, the final barrier between you and Joel sliding away.

Joel shifts beside you, fingers tapping idly against his knee.

You don’t dare to look at him, because if you do, if you see that same knowing look in his eye, you’ll fold.

Completely.

Your dad pauses at the bedroom door, glancing back. “Don’t stay up too late now. And don’t go cleanin’ up without me. We’ll sort it in the mornin’.”

You nod tightly. “Yep, got it.”

Joel lifts his beer lazily. “G’night.”

Your dad mumbles his goodnights before disappearing into his and Joel’s shared room, the door swinging shut with a quiet click.

And then, it’s just you and Joel, alone again.

The silence that follows is thick, suffocating. So heavy that it feels as though it wraps around your ribs, makes it so much harder to breathe.

Joel clears his throat softly.

“You tired yet?” he asks quietly.

You shake your head slowly, not trusting yourself to look at him.

“You?” you finally manage, breathless in a way you hope he doesn’t notice.

Joel shifts closer, his voice low. “Nope.”

The silence settles again and it’s agonising.

“Joel, I -” you breathe softly, finally turning your head towards him, your heart racing.

He’s watching you carefully, expression unreadable, save for the dark glint in his eyes, something that promises trouble, steals the words from your throat.

You’re slowly realising that, fuck, you want all sorts of trouble if it’s with him.

“Ain’t supposed to want this,” he murmurs, his eyes dropping to your lips. “But I do.”

You swallow hard, lips parting to say something - anything - but your words are lost the moment his hand moves.

It’s deliberate, a slow slide of his hand against your thigh, his touch gentle, but filled with intent.

Your throat feels dry, heart hammering wildly as his thumb drags slowly across the inside of your thigh, just enough to steal the air from your lungs.

He leans closer as he watches you, his focus unwavering, drinking in every little reaction you give him.

“Tell me you want me to stop.”

He’s so close, his face just inches from yours, so close that you can see the tension in his jaw, the barely restrained control he’s holding onto.

“I don’t,” you whisper, shaking your head. “Don’t want you to stop.”

Any last shred of restraint, any lingering hesitation, all of it vanishes the second Joel’s mouth presses against yours.

The kiss is urgent, nothing soft or tentative about it, your whole world narrowing only to him, how he feels, how he tastes.

His tongue slides against yours and you melt helplessly into him, your fingers tightening in his shirt as you lean in even closer.

Joel breaks away just enough to press his forehead against yours, his breathing uneven.

“Been wantin’ this,” he rasps. “You don’t even fuckin’ know.” His voice is rough, edged with a hunger you’ve never heard from him before.

You whimper softly, body thrumming with heat, with want, an undeniable need for more.

“I’ve got some idea.” you whisper, lips brushing against his.

Joel groans softly, his mouth capturing yours again, rougher this time, strong hands sliding down your sides, brushing over your hips, gripping your waist and pulling you closer until you’re in his lap.

You gasp against his lips, warmth prickling your skin, your heart racing so fast you feel it pounding in your ears.

He kisses along your jawline, his mouth finding your neck, his beard scraping lightly against your skin.

“Joel,” you whimper softly, tilting your head to give him better access. “Fuck, please - don’t stop.”

His breath is hot against your ear. “Ain’t plannin’ to, darlin’.” he murmurs.

He drags his lips lower, pressing heated kisses along your collarbone, his hands sliding under your shirt to settle at your waist, fingers warm and calloused against your bare skin. You arch towards him instinctively, your breath hitching.

“Been drivin’ me crazy,” Joel growls. “Knowin’ you felt it too.”

You nod breathlessly, fingers threading into his hair, tugging gently, drawing a soft, deep groan from him.

The sound is fucking heaven.

“Couldn’t stop thinking about you,” you confess, your voice trembling. “Shit, Joel, been thinking about you like this - ”

The admission feels like a release, like you’ve finally let yourself breathe again after holding your breath for too long.

Joel responds instantly, his kisses more intense, more possessive, as though your words have ignited something even deeper in him.

His hands slide boldly over your ribs, thumbs brushing just beneath your breasts, making you shiver beneath his touch. He pulls back just enough to meet your eyes, his own filled with a heat that sends desire pulsing straight between your legs.

“Tell me you want this,” he demands softly, his voice strained, chest rising and falling rapidly. “Need to hear it from you.”

You cup his face in your hands, your thumb tracing over his jaw, your eyes locked on his. “I want you,” you breathe softly. “So damn bad, Joel.”

That’s all it takes.

Joel captures your mouth again, kissing you hard, his hands sliding over your hips to pull you tighter against him.

You gasp as you feel his own desire pressed firmly against you, your body instinctively rocking into him, needing more.

Your thighs shift, parting just enough, and Joel notices instantly.

His hand slides up your bare thigh, fingertips teasing just beneath the hem of your shorts.

Your breath stutters, a soft moan slipping past your lips.

“Gotta keep quiet, baby,”

Baby. Oh, you’re so fucked.

“Your daddy’s only down the hall.”

Your nails dig into his shoulders, trying to ground yourself, trying not to fall apart completely.

His fingers slide beneath the fabric of your shorts, teasing over the thin lace of your underwear, just barely pressing where you need him most.

You tremble, biting back a moan, burying your face against his neck as your hips shift, rocking into his touch without thinking.

Joel hisses, his breath uneven, his body tensing beneath you as his fingers move your underwear to the side, slipping to rub gently through your folds.

“So goddamn wet,” he mutters, breath catching. “Shit. Bad fuckin’ girl.”

You whimper, back arching, your nails dragging over the skin at the back of his neck. “Joel - ”

He shushes you gently, kissing the corner of your mouth, lips dragging across your jaw, down the slope of your throat.

“I got you, baby. Let go. Trust me.”

His fingers press higher, sliding against your clit, his breath warm and heavy in your ear.

You bite your lip, struggling to hold in the sounds building in your throat.

You can’t be loud. Can’t get caught. Can’t make any kind of noise that risks your dad interrupting, just in case you never get to feel Joel this way again.

But fuck, you want him, and Joel wants you just as bad.

His fingers move in slow, deliberate circles, hot pleasure coiling tight in your belly, your hips grinding instinctively, desperate for more friction, more pressure.

Joel presses a kiss to your throat, voice low and demanding. “Tell me what you need.”

“More,” you gasp, your voice needy, desperate. “Need you to touch me, need - fuck - need you inside me.”

He groans against your neck, the sound enough to cause the desire twisting in your abdomen to simmer even further.

“Yeah? Gonna be a good girl and fuck my fingers while your daddy’s sleepin’?”

Joel's hand slips further down, teasing two thick fingers at your hole before he pushes in, curling into your heat with no hesitation.

“Fuck,” he grunts, his thumb reaching to circle at your clit, your hips jerking as a quiet gasp spills over your lips.

Joel hushes you, his free hand sliding up your back, pulling you closer.

“Shh, baby,” he breathes, his mouth brushing against yours. “Gotta be quiet, yeah? Gotta be good for me.”

You bite your lip so hard it almost hurts, your body aching, trembling, but you nod, letting yourself fall against him, letting yourself drown in the way he touches you.

Joel curses softly, his fingers stroking deep inside you with slow, agonising precision, his eyes locked onto your face, drinking in every reaction you give him.

“Goddamn it darlin’. You’re so fuckin’ perfect like this.”

You whimper, your breath catching as your body shakes against him. It’s all too much, the feeling of his fingers inside you, his strong hand against your back, his scent, warm, woodsy, a hint of sweat - Joel.

Your cunt flutters, your thighs tightening around his hips as your lips part on a silent cry. Joel takes it as an opportunity to kiss you again, swallowing down every sound you make.

“Shit, Joel,” you grind your hips against his hand. “I’m - fuck - I’m close,” you pant against his lips.

“That's it. Lemme feel you, baby. Let me take care of you.” he moans against your lips, his fingers still pressing inside you, stretching you open.

Joel groans, watching you fall apart, watching the way you react to him, the way you give yourself over to him so completely.

“Good girl,” he whispers, “That’s my good fuckin‘ girl.”

Your head falls down against his shoulder, muffling the quiet, desperate noises you make, your whole body shaking as his fingers work you open, filling you, pushing you higher, higher -

And then, you break.

It crashes over you suddenly, violently, pleasure ripping through you in sharp, shuddering waves.

Your muscles tense, your fingers digging into Joel’s arms, the sound of his name spilling from your lips silenced against the strong muscle of his shoulder.

Joel curses softly, holding you through it, his lips pressing against your temple, fingers stroking you through your pleasure with moans of your name, drawing it out, letting you ride it for as long as possible.

And when it finally ebbs, when you slump forwards, boneless and shaking, his arms wrap around you, holding you steady.

For a long moment, neither of you moves, you don’t speak.

Because there’s nothing to say that could change what just happened.

Joel’s hands are still on you, still firm against your waist, grounding you, breath still warm against your skin, lips close enough that you can feel every slow, uneven exhale.

Your fingers stay curled in his shirt, like if you let go, this will all slip away.

But it won’t, it can’t - there’s no coming back from this.

Not when you can still feel the press of his fingers inside you, still hear the tortured way he whispered your name, still taste him on your lips.

The urgency is gone now. Not the heat, not the ache still pulsing low in your stomach.

But reality, the here and now, it’s slowly setting in.

You can feel it in the way his body tenses, in the way his fingers twitch against your waist like he’s fighting the instinct to pull away.

When you finally find your voice, it’s barely a whisper.

“Joel, we - what just - ”

His hands tighten against your sides, his thumbs brushing small, absent circles against your skin, like he can’t stop touching you, even now.

It should feel wrong, hell, maybe it does.

Maybe that’s what’s twisting in your stomach now, a different kind of heat, the first creeping licks of something like regret, guilt.

Not for this, not for him, but for what it means.

The fact that your dad is just down the hall, the fact that Joel is his best friend - the fact that there is no undoing this.

You don’t voice it, and neither does he, but it’s there, thick in the space between you.

Joel draws in a long breath, like he’s trying to steady himself, trying to convince himself that this isn’t as big as it feels.

You reach out, fingers brushing his jaw, trailing down the side of his neck.

Joel tilts his head slightly, leaning into your touch for just a second before his eyes flick up to yours.

They’re dark, searching, and fuck, you think you see it there too, that same confusing mix of want and fear, lust laced with something dangerously close to guilt.

Joel sighs, dragging his knuckles across your arm.

“Ain’t no takin’ it back now.”

And yet, even as that quiet dread settles in your chest, Joel draws you closer, his embrace protective, almost defiant.

He doesn’t say another word. Neither do you.

But you both know, there really is no coming back from this.

And deep down, despite everything, you can’t help but wonder if either of you truly wants to.