I am no lady.

You find this out a few months after he and Ellie settle in down the street from you. 

He’s handsome, built like a brick shithouse, all bulky muscle from years and years of hard-fought survival. He’s also shy. Everyone else in Jackson thinks he’s aloof, rude, scary. 

But not you. 

You see the same scars on his skin, the same clenched jaw and stony gazes as everyone else. But to you, he’s just a tired, scared, sad man in need of some TLC. 

He gets it, too. 

It took a while for him to warm up to you, your timid advances, your dropped hints. But as soon as he let you in, it was like a forest fire, one single spark caught by the wind and engulfing everything in flames. 

He fucks. 

He’s been around a few decades and it shows. His stamina is incredible. He can fuck you for hours without stopping, make you come on his cock over and over again until you’re begging for him to give in to his release. 

He takes you from behind, while you’re on your knees or while you’re his little spoon. He takes you while you stare up at him on your back, a hand between your bodies to put delicious pressure on your clit. 

Once he even took you up against the wall with your legs wrapped around his waist. Only once, though, because he had to call in sick for patrol, and Tommy wouldn’t let him rest until he told him what he’d done to pull his back so badly. 

He’s incredible. A selfless lover, so focused on making you feel good, his orgasm always second (or usually third or fourth) to yours. And he’s sweet, he calls you pet names and kisses you breathless and hands out praise like it’s expiring. He cleans you up after, and fetches you water, and holds you and strokes you until your shivers are gone and your breathing is back to normal. 

You have no complaints. But. There is one tiny, silly little caveat to Joel’s insane, old man endurance. 

He cannot keep it together when you ride him. With a gun to his head, you’re pretty sure he still couldn’t last long enough to get a solid session in with you on top. 

It’s not a bad thing, per se, but you like riding him. You enjoy taking a bit of control, letting him relax and ease his back after a long day. But he just… can’t last.

-

Joel’s cock is in your mouth. You love this part. You love breathing in the mixed scent of homemade soap and Joel’s natural smell as you nuzzle the wiry hairs. You love looking up at him and seeing his aroused grin and dark eyes staring back down at you. You love the way he feels so hot and thick against your tongue. You love getting him sopping wet so it’s even easier to take his girth when he fucks you. You love the feeling of his huge hand on the back of your head, tangling in your hair.

“God damn, baby, you suck dick like an angel.” 

You love that too— the praise, the wicked shit he says that completely negates how shy and timid he is outside of the bedroom. 

You hum around his cock and take him deeper. You’re never able to take him all the way, but when he nudges the back of your throat, you make swallowing motions and feel yourself contract around the thick head of his dick. His hand tightens in your hair, almost painful but not quite. 

“Jesus, your mouth, darlin’. Criminal.”

You hum again, and arch your back like a dog in heat, aching to feel him stretch you open. 

“C’mon, give me your pussy, baby.” 

His words are grunted, and maybe it’s a little mean of you to suck the life out of him before you plan to ride him. You think you like it, though, just being a little mean. 

He makes to move when you finally pull your lips from around him, but you hold him steady with two hands on his broad, sweaty chest. 

His pretty brown eyes widen in question, and his hands grab your hips hard as you hover over his cock, but he doesn’t say anything. 

He wants to. You can tell. His jaw clenches and his eyes fog over a bit as he looks down at your soaked center. But he stays silent as you line yourself up, stroke him through your folds a few times before letting his cockhead catch on your hole and sink in. 

The deep groan he lets out sounds pained. You coo at him, remove one of your hands from his chest to run through his silver curls. 

“Fuck.”

It’s gritted through his teeth, clenched together so tight you’re afraid they’ll crack. When you’re fully seated, you wiggle your ass and clench around him. 

“Baby,” he whimpers.

“Thought you wanted my pussy? Don’t you like it, Joel?” 

You lift up until he nearly falls out of you, and then fall right back down. A sound escapes your mouth, deep from your chest as you rise and fall again, throwing your head back at just how deep he reaches at this angle. 

His fingers grip your hips even tighter now, bruising and stinging. His breath whistles violently through his nostrils, stuttered and heavy. 

“Like it too much, darlin’, please.”

You spare him for a second, grinding down in his lap, swiveling your hips to help him simmer down. You rake your nails across his scalp in what you hope is a soothing gesture, but you can’t help the way you clench around him as you watch him struggle underneath you. 

Seconds pass as your hips grind out the smallest circles against him. His breaths are loud and warm against your nose and cheeks. He looks incredible like this, at your mercy, your devilish grin reflecting in his inky, wide pupils. 

His grip loosens the tiniest bit, and you watch his jaw clench and unclench as he squeezes his eyes shut. 

“You can take it, can’t you? For me?” 

You pout and rock your hips slowly, all the way up and back down, reveling in the familiar stretch and friction that’s torturous and not quite enough. You feel his chest expand with a shuttery gasp right under your palm, broken and ragged, and it makes you just that much wetter. 

“Sweet christ, the mouth on you tonight.”

His tongue pokes out to wet his red, bitten lips. When his eyes open back up, they’re all pupil, black and glossy and shining. Your cunt flutters around him at the sight of him so far gone, undone because of you. 

You squeeze your fingers in his hair, tugging, and he winces and you love it, this proud and powerful sensation coursing through your veins. You understand, now, how Joel feels when he fucks you, when you’re completely at the mercy of the pleasure he gives you. Why his lips always seem to lilt into a smirk, why that satiated smile doesn’t leave his face for hours, and why his gaze still feels so hungry no matter how many times you’ve gotten each other off. 

It’s addictive. 

His face untwists itself as you lighten the grip on his hair, but it screws right back up as you start to bounce on his cock. He curses, and you set a quick pace at the angle that makes you clench around his prick. 

“I can’t– Darlin’, I can’t.” 

His voice sounds panicked, so you lift up, let him slip completely out of you. You peer down to watch his glistening cock jerk wildly as his hips cant up into nothing. The muscles in his thighs tense something fierce, and you’re sure his nails have broke skin on your hips. 

“You can, baby. Just let me take care of you for once. Just enjoy it,” you say. 

His breath shutters in something akin to a sob, a warm gust across your heated cheeks. You let your hand trail up to his neck and goad him to break his staring contest with his jerking, weeping cock.

“You’re evil,” he tells you. 

You smirk. Your nails scrape over his stomach, the patch of curly hair there and the skin that pulls taut as his muscles strain against your touch.

“I think you like that.” 

Your hips tilt to align yourselves once more, and this time you sink down slowly until you’re seated on his thighs. For a moment, he gets a wicked glint in his eyes, dangerous looking. It vanishes as soon as you clench your walls around him. 

“You feel so good,” you whisper.

You catch his lips in your own. Distracted, he can’t kiss you back. The tight line of his mouth is frozen as you nibble on his plush bottom lip and rock your hips up and down. His noises are muffled this way, cut-off, like he wants to keep them from escaping. The softest whines, and the most beautiful music to your ears. 

You set a rhythm to match, and for a moment you think he’s managed to gain control. His palms are warm and sweaty on your hips, and then your ass, and you’re confident as you rise and fall. You’re working yourself up, too, as his prick supplies a delicious friction to the perfect spot inside you. Like it always does.  

But as you gasp and moan with your head thrown back, the calloused palms on your skin turn into sharp nails, and Joel’s sounds falter. 

“Off— get off,” he gasps. 

You do, rising up quickly, looking down between your bodies to watch Joel’s cock strain and throb in the cool bedroom air. You wait patiently for him to calm down as a second passes, then two, then—

“God dammit—”

Your eyes widen as you watch— in shock and horror and amazement and arousal— thick, white stripes shoot up to paint Joel’s chest and stomach. His abdomen pulls taut and his hips quiver with each wave of his climax.

“Shit—”

You’re frozen in time as Joel shakes with the intensity of it. And he just keeps coming, spurt after spurt making his dick jolt and twitch, until the last of it dribbles out of him and his poor cock gives one last gasping breath. 

“Fuck you,” he pants, squeezing your hips, but there’s no heat behind it. There’s nothing at all behind it as he slumps into the mattress, boneless and defeated. 

It’s the hottest thing you’ve ever seen. Which may not be saying much, since your pre-apocalyptic life was fairly short-lived, but it’s the truth. 

This man, sturdy and hardened and full of grit, reduced to a mess of a puddle underneath you. You’re throbbing, all because of him, because of what you’ve done to him. 

“So fucking hot, fuck,” you breathe.

You give him no chance at all to recover, so overcome by your own needs. You shift your hips and trap his prick between your folds and his stomach. 

It’s slippery and perfect, and even the feeling of Joel’s cock growing softer as it presses against your clit turns you on. 

Almost as much as his noises, the nearly pained whimpers as you grind against his overstimulated dick, the way he shudders and squirms underneath you. Still, he encourages your thrusts with two sweaty and firm hands on your hips, and the way his fucked-out gaze is focused on you taking your pleasure from him. 

Riding the adrenaline high, it takes virtually no time at all for you to reach your peak. Your nails dig into the skin of his pecs and the back of his neck respectively, as you near the inevitable. Your nose finds where his shoulder and throat meet, biting, hiding your whimpers in his sweaty skin. The hiss he lets out and the accompanying jolt of his hips is more than enough to send you over the edge. 

Atta girl, that’s it, get what you need.

His voice sounds far away, gritted through his teeth, as you pant against him and ride out the last of your orgasm. 

The following silence is quite loud, just heavy breathing and the odd creak of the bed frame. 

Joel must feel when your lips fail to suppress a smile against his shoulder, because he responds with a huff almost instantly. 

“Real pleased with yourself, huh?” 

You giggle, nip at his heated skin with playful teeth. 

“I really am.”

He grunts, and you finally lift up to look him in the eyes. He creases his brow and shakes his head at you. But then that dimple you love so much rears its head as he bites back his smirk, and another giggle bubbles up out of your chest. 

“Sorry ‘bout that, Darlin’.”

He sounds quite remorseful, looking up at you with those puppy eyes, and you cradle his stubbly cheek in your palm. 

You know you're safe now. You know that, but it's not enough to convince your body or quell the ever-present tightness in your chest telling you to run, to hide. Your fears are more potent in the dark, and the shadows creeping from wall to wall have sharper edges. Teeth that threaten to tear you apart and rip away everything and everyone you've fought so hard to protect.

The walls and floorboards creak with life that shouldn't be present in an empty, two-story home—too big for a single person, and yet still yours—and quickly begin to sound like impending death.

Nowadays, more often than not, you seek out a different kind of shelter. The familiar, comforting embrace of the man who kept you warm and protected through harsh winters and from monsters prowling in the night. That's where you belong.

Crisp bedsheets rustle in the dark and then you hear Joel pat the mattress twice—an invitation to occupy the space beside him, the one he always leaves empty just in case.

"Well, c'mon then. Hurry up," he grumbles, still half-asleep. But he isn’t frustrated. He's tired, just like you, and he'll probably sleep a lot better knowing both of his girls are resting soundly under his roof.

You trudge over and waste no time burying your face in his bare chest, breathing in pine and cedar wood shavings before exhaling a heavy sigh of relief. Throwing a leg over his thighs, you mold into him, rubbing your cheek into coarse curls and marveling at the calm, steady rhythm beneath you.

It feels good to be home. You're not sure why you let Maria give you an entire house to yourself when everything you could ever want or need was right across the street. Every time you end up back here, you wonder. And every time you leave, you wish you'd stayed.

He wraps you up in his arms and tugs you into his side, murmuring your name with soft lips that tenderly caress your forehead. They're so warm, just like the rest of him, and you find yourself aching to feel them on yours. It's a line neither of you have ever crossed, but tonight's been rough.

For what felt like days, you were forced to watch as your worst nightmares came to bloody fruition. You were dragged through the most brutal outcomes of events you already survived and could do nothing more than pray you'd wake up soon. When you finally came to and checked the clock, it had only been an hour and a half since you'd passed out. The moon was still high in the sky, taunting you with the promise of more. More dread, endless brutality.

Joel can make all of that go away, if only for a few hours. He always does, but tonight...you don't want to talk about it tonight. You don't want to think about it, about anything at all. You just want him.

You'd feel selfish asking for more if there wasn't already something between you. Something nurtured and gradual that's been building for months, beginning on your travels across the country and coming to an unignorable head here in Jackson.

Back then, it was stolen glances while you bathed together in streams and fleeting touches in your shared sleeping bag under star-filled skies. It's more intimate these days. He holds your hand when you're anxious, and you kiss away the frown lines and frustrated wrinkles that mar his skin.

Every day, you skirt the line between platonic companionship and whatever's starting to simmer below the surface. You're scared to hope he feels it too, but the thought of remaining in this undefined middle ground scares you even more.

The furnace drifting in and out of consciousness next to you radiates with an addictive heat you've told yourself to ignore for a long time, but it's quickly becoming an impossible feat. Pressed into his side, you're trying and failing not to writhe against him. But he's starting to notice.

His hips jerk every time your core drags against his bare thigh, a slow, repetitive grind you really shouldn't continue, but feels so fucking good combined with the slick pooling between your legs. You should stop—really, you should—but his breathing's changing and hitching, catching in his throat every time the growing tent in his boxers meets the friction of your inner thigh.

Then, he gasps something cognizant and urgent, and you know you've been caught. His hand snakes down to your ass and traps you against his side with a grip so firm, plush skin spills between his fingers.

“Woah, hold on there," he breathes out heavily, and his gaze drops to yours curiously. His eyes are wide open and alert, shining with the faint reflection of moonlight streaming through an adjacent window. Bright and yet pitch black as his sleep-addled brain struggles to catch up with his body. "What's goin' on with you tonight?"

You worry your bottom lip between your teeth, debating whether or not to ask for his help. His expression is gentle but otherwise unreadable, and there's a chance this could go very, very badly. Maybe you'd be better off apologizing, but you don't want to. You're not sorry for needing him.

And the longer he waits for an answer, the more his body convinces you that he wants the same things you do. His hand is still on your ass, kneading as he urges you to rock into him, but he doesn't seem to realize he's doing it. Then, his thigh flexes and a rush of wetness coats your already soaked underwear. His expression falters, and you know he can feel it.

His voice is tighter when he speaks again, but that tinge of concern is still there. He wants to make it all better, but he can't unless you tell him how. Your hand tenses where it lies on his chest, and he covers it with his own.

"What can I do? Just tell me how to help you—whatever it is, I'll do it," he murmurs, brushing his thumb reassuringly across your skin. You tilt your chin up and suddenly you're close enough to breathe his air. Closer than you've ever been and yet still not close enough.

"I need you to...," Fuck me. But it sounds too crude. A quick fuck isn't what you need right now. You need to be full of him, to hold him deep inside you and keep him there for as long as this night will allow. "...make me feel safe again."

"Tell me how," he repeats as you struggle to bite back a moan. He's working you against him intentionally now, encouraging you up and down his leg, and it's making your brain go a little haywire. "What do you need, baby?"

"Joel," you whine at the endearment, an intense heat building at the apex of your thighs. That's new. You want to hear him say it again, to devour every word as he buries himself inside you over and over. You will him to understand. "I need you."

He sucks in a harsh breath through his teeth, steeling himself before nosing into the hairs at your temple. The gesture is so tender and affectionate even as he bucks into your thigh, and it's painfully obvious how hard you're making him. He nods slowly and plants a soft kiss on your forehead, his chest rising and falling more rapidly than before.

"Okay, baby. I got you," he murmurs, his lips trailing down to your eyelids, then the apple of your cheek. "I'll make it all go away, alright? M'gonna take care of you."

And you believe him. He rolls you onto your back and you gasp as his entire weight presses you into the mattress. It's more than just comforting. You feel protected. He's shielding you from this horrible, broken world, somehow managing to prove that there's still goodness to be found. And it's on top of you, broad and strong, and wanting you just as badly as you want him.

Big hands cup your cheeks and his lips meet yours, so much different than the familiar press against your forehead or the top of your head. You're in unknown territory, but he guides you carefully and moves slowly, taking the time to explore and savor. The taste of spearmint begins to overwhelm your senses as the kiss deepens, and you lick into his mouth impatiently, already craving more.

But after years of quiet observation, Joel knows better than anyone how to temper you. Ducking down to bury his face in your neck, he kisses along the underside of your jaw, regaining control of the pace with a sharp, halting suck. And while he refuses to let your urgency rush him, he still allows your hands to roam his skin and tug at his boxers, letting you take what you want—like his only goal is to make sure this lasts long enough for him to fulfill his promise.

A disgruntled groan bubbles in your throat, and you feel him chuckle. "Y'know, patience is supposed to be a virtue," he mumbles, amused, his beard scratchy and grounding against your skin. You huff in response.

Tonight doesn't feel like a night for virtues. Not when things are finally changing in your favor. After so much time, so much running, you actually have somewhere to go—and stay. You're not running away anymore. You're moving towards something that feels real, and dependable, and safe, and you're doing it together. And now that you're so close you can taste it, you're done waiting.

"You're really gonna start caring about virtues now?" you ask skeptically, slipping your hands past the waistband of his boxers to grab his ass.

He hesitates, then huffs out a quiet laugh. "Fair enough."

And with that, you both know the time for talking is over. Something shifts and you're on the same page, ready to take as much as the other is willing to give.

Joel begins to drag your shirt up to reveal more, but suddenly feeling stifled, you take over and remove it completely. The look on his face makes it more than worth it. It's not the first time he's seen you naked, but as his eyes rake over your bare curves, it feels like it could be. Reverently, he returns his lips to yours, kissing you deeply before charting a path lower.

His mouth feels hot as he laves and nips across your collarbone, and he shimmies further down the bed until he's just barely ghosting the swell of your breasts. You gasp, burying your fingers in his hair as he sucks a bruise below your nipple and soothes the sting with his tongue. Licking a wide stripe past the darkening mark, he captures the bud between his teeth, another hand sliding up your stomach to cup your other breast while he alternates between swirling and sucking.

Your entire body feels like it's on fire. The ache between your thighs worsens the longer he continues, but instead of squeezing them together for relief, you wrap your legs around his waist and tug him onto you. By now, you're so wet, there's no way you're not soaking right through your underwear and into his boxers, and you hope he can feel it. If your increasing volume isn't enough of an indication that you need him inside you, then maybe this will be.

He lets out a pained groan into your chest, and you clench in satisfaction. He immediately grinds down, thrusting into you like he's forgotten about the layers of clothing still separating you. You don't bother to remind him.

Bucking him off, you quickly wrench down your underwear then reach for his, yanking them off while he sheds his t-shirt. Your fingers close around his cock before his shirt hits the floor and he startles before melting into your grip, eyes fluttering shut and lips parting around a cross between a sigh and the neediest whine you've ever heard.

You feel that telltale whoosh between your legs again, and after pumping him a few times, you guide him toward your entrance. In the back of your mind, you know you're taking a risk without a condom. You should be safer, more responsible. But it's Joel. It's always been Joel.

His eyes shoot open once he realizes where you're leading him, but you only bite your lip and nod, your expression uncharacteristically vulnerable. An unspoken agreement passes between you, a quiet understanding cultivated through years of friendship and now something more. Then, he presses inside and your mind goes blissfully blank.

No more horrors, no more fear. Just Joel keeping his promise and doing exactly what you trusted him to do. He encompasses you entirely, pressing the length of his body flush against yours as he works himself into you. The stretch was nothing you ever could've anticipated, but it grounds you in the present moment. It's everything you told yourself not to hope for when you showed up on his doorstep tonight.

His movements are slow but powerful, and he rests his forehead on yours, eyes alert and acutely aware of every change in expression. The intensity of his gaze and the slick sound of him burying himself to the hilt should make you self-conscious—it's all you can see and hear, but that's the point, isn't it? To get lost in the way he drags so perfectly against your walls and grinds his hips into yours on every thrust, slow and steady.

He's attentive, cataloging whenever he makes you moan a little louder or your eyes roll, and repeats it again and again until you're writhing underneath him. Your nails rake down his back and scratch at his scalp, and he jerks forward whenever you're a little too rough, hitting so deep, it feels like he's grazing your cervix. But the longer he continues to give you everything you want, the more his body trembles with the effort of holding himself back.

You know Joel, and you can tell when he's resisting an urge. His biceps tense where he's propped on his forearms, bracketing your head, and there's so little space between you, you can feel his abs flexing every time he plunges back inside you. He needs more and you want to give it to him.

Lifting your head, you bridge the tiny gap to meet his lips. "Joel, c'mon. You can fuck me harder than that, I'm not gonna break," you mumble between open-mouthed kisses. That catches him off guard.

He accidentally lets himself go for a thrust or two, and you're cut off by a moan, your walls squeezing him so hard, it's painful. Somehow, you manage to recover just long enough to gasp out the rest. "It's okay if you need something from me, too. Just take it. I trust you."

For an agonizing moment, Joel pauses to observe you, waiting for something in your eyes to contradict the permission you just gave him. But when he doesn't find it, he shakily exhales the breath he'd been holding and his head drops to your shoulder. The groan that follows rumbles so deeply in his chest, it makes your stomach drop. Then, without warning, his hands are gripping your thighs and he's rutting into you like a caged animal finally set free.

There he is. The man who never hesitated to gun down anyone who threatened the safety of his loved ones and did whatever it took to bring his girls home.

Recognition washes over you and fills you with a familiar feeling of security. It's something only Joel has ever been able to give you. You wrap your arms around his neck and bury your face into his hair, hoping to return even a fraction of that feeling.

As he gives into his body, he starts to ramble, his words muffled and lost to your delicate skin. But you don't need to hear him to know what he's saying. With every thrust, the bed frame rattles and gets the message across loud and clear. Your heels dig into his back, encouraging him forward, begging him to keep going, and he obliges, quickly reduced to helpless grunts and curses.

The room gets increasingly hotter and more humid, and the cool air flowing through the window isn't nearly enough to provide relief, but neither of you seems to care. You're a little in love with the way your bodies slip together, sweat and slick intermingling seamlessly.

Everything is so wet, and it feels incredible—your skin against his, your walls pulsing around his cock. He's molding into you, so close that you can't do much more than swivel your hips into his, and it's sending you hurtling toward the edge faster than you can fully process. The coarse hair at the base of his cock rubs your clit just right, and when he adjusts the angle to fuck you deeper than before, you hit your peak.

You dissolve into a whimpering mess beneath him, desperately riding out your orgasm as he groans and abruptly bites down on your shoulder. Releasing your legs to grab your waist, he forces himself impossibly further inside you and grinds into your spasming walls until he's coming with you. He gasps his way through it, stilling while he lets you milk him dry, then collapses on top of you and gathers you in his arms.

For a while, you both struggle to catch your breath. The mattress is bare save for the fitted sheet, your clothes, pillows, and blankets having been kicked or tossed onto the floor. It feels nice like this—to savor the winter air cooling your bodies and to just be held. Without letting you go, Joel lifts his head to kiss the teeth marks he left on your shoulder apologetically and then shifts higher to press his lips against the underside of your jaw.

"You alright?" he asks gently, his voice a little gruffer than usual from the exertion.

"Mhm," you hum, nosing into his temple. "More than." He sighs and almost sounds relieved.

The thought makes your heart ache. If he's worried he crossed a line, well. He did. You both did, but it was a long time coming and you don't regret a thing. You squeeze him a little tighter as if to tell him, and he allows himself to melt into you briefly. Then, he draws back to cup your cheek and guide your lips to his.

He kisses you slowly, taking the time to appreciate the sensation of your mouth against his without any urgency. "Feel better?" he murmurs after reluctantly parting from you. You keep him close.

"I don't think we have to worry about any more nightmares tonight," you reply with a small smile. He returns it, eyes crinkling fondly, then rolls you onto your sides to settle in for a good night's sleep.

As you start to drift off, you hear him chuckle and mutter something under his breath that you don't quite catch. But it sounds a lot like, "Might be time for you to finally move in."

Smoke.

You can see it: thick and dark against the pearl white sky, snow frozen on your eyelashes. You haven’t felt your toes for a few days now; your fingers numb this morning.

Smoke means fire, and fire means warmth.

It can also mean a myriad of other things: raiders, murderers, the worst humanity has left to offer. Yet, the blood stains the ice beneath you as you drag your feet, and you know you’ll take your chances.

You don’t have any other choice.

The wound in your stomach is deep, the result of a skirmish with a raider who thought he’d try his luck with your hard-earned dinner catch. He came off worse than you: dead, in fact, but you’re pretty sure you’ll be joining him soon enough if you can’t stop the bleeding.

Your father’s voice echoes in your head, the peeling wallpaper and damp ceilings of the rotting apartment in which he took his last rattling breaths.

There’s gotta be more than this, sweetheart. This ain’t a life. You need to go find it.

You were eight when the Cordyceps outbreak unfolded. He tried to hide you, left you in your bedroom as he took a shotgun to your mother, the woman you once knew already infected, robbed from the both of you.

You’ve never forgotten the sound, though. The snarls ripping from her throat as she lunged, the thud of her body against the floor. Him scooping you up in his arms, tearing through the end of the world to get you to safety.

The QZ was safe, for twenty years. Bleak, depressing, devoid of any joy; but free from fungus and all the destruction it left in its path. You grew up quickly, earning your rations sweeping streets and shovelling shit. Your father worked himself even harder, going without so you could have more.

He trained you for this: taught you how to handle a gun, to break an arm, to hold your breath and purify water you can drink without poisoning yourself. He sharpened you, honed your skills, all whilst his body was failing him. He gripped your hand the day he died, told you he was sorry, for all of it.

And he left you alone.

You crawled under the wire fencing that night, and you’ve been on the move ever since. Six months of chewing rabbit and washing yourself in streams, hiding in trees and gutting clickers from the inside out. All in aid of searching for that idea of more, the one your father told you must be out here somewhere.

You won’t let it all be for nothing.

And yet, the blood soaks your fingertips as you apply pressure to the wound. The tip of your nose remains numb, and flurries of snow cling to you stubbornly, turning to deadly mush inside your shoes, the hood of your jacket, freezing your spine and shortening your breaths.

Smoke means fire, and fire means warmth.

///

Picking the lock of the cabin is easy.

Another skill drummed into you, and one you’re savagely glad for. You can’t feel your digits, of course, but you watch them work of their own accord, the catch springing free.

Sure enough, flames are crackling in the grate of a stone fireplace. The place makes you think of a ski lodge you’d visited when you were young: a thick rug across the floor, a table with cutlery strewn across it, a wooden balcony hung with drying linen.

“Nice,” you whistle lowly, crouched and ready to greet the inhabitants. Your precious pistol is cocked in your hand; a poignant gift from your father. You take a step forward; a droplet of blood splashing against the floorboards.

Your ears are pricked, listening for a pair of lungs, the creak of a boot — any indication that you’re not alone. You’re fighting every natural instinct you have to rush to the warmth, heart beating out of your chest.

Nothing moves. Nobody comes.

You drop your shoulders, breathe in and out, sliding your weapon into the back of your jeans. Later, you’ll picture your father’s face if he’d seen what was to come. The way he would’ve reprimanded you for letting your guard down so easily.

Goddamn gun’s no use in your pocket, sweetheart.

Then, a real voice comes from behind you, still out in the snow. It’s harsh, deep, and unforgiving.

“Hands up, turn and face me.”

You raise your palms, turn slowly on the spot. Your brain works fast: calculating your odds, trying to figure out how — if — you can get the drop on your attacker.

He doesn’t shoot, though. He just stands there, hunting rifle aimed at your head, icy drifts swirling round the both of you. Your feet teeter on the edge of what you now guess to be his home.

He’s a lot older than you, for sure.

Dark hair streaked with grey, thick moustache and slivered scruff adorning his reddened cheeks. His eyes look almost black; set beneath a strong brow with a curving nose, full lips drawn into a scowl. Tall and foreboding, but you note that you’re not scared.

You’ve been trained for this.

He makes a gesture, shaking his head, indicating you move backwards. The man corners you once you’re inside, eyes never leaving yours.

“Don’t even think about tryin’ to shoot,” he mutters, and you shrug, feigning innocence.

“I couldn’t, even if I wanted to.”

He chuckles, the noise rumbling through his chest as he tuts in disbelief. You’re envious of his thick overcoat, the layers he has on beneath it. He’s well-built: broad shoulders and the curve of a belly pushing at his flannel shirt.

That’s good. ‘Least you picked somewhere you might be able to eat a hot meal before he puts a bullet between your eyes.

You’re dizzy from the blood loss by now, the puncture in your stomach draining the fight from you. You lower your arms to your sides, and his eyebrow raises.

“Don’t remember sayin’ you could do that.”

It’s your turn to laugh then, despite your predicament, the fact death could whisper in your ear at any given moment. You’re stubborn as hell and you know it, and you have a feeling he is too.

“Take the gun out. Two fingers only. Put it outta reach.”

///

You wake up, seemingly, on a cloud — soft sheets and thick pillows, a contrast to the pallet you slept on in the QZ, the forest floor where you’ve been unceremoniously laying your head.

You feel disorientated, a searing pain across your forehead. Your eyes focus: it’s dark outside besides the sliver of moonlight, a total white-out with flakes still falling.

“What.. The fuck?”

You still have your sweater, torn apart and caked in rusted blood. But, beneath it, bandages wrap round your midriff. Panic swims in your chest, bile rising in your throat. You squirm, grasping at the sheets.

Where the fuck are you?

“Easy, easy.”

You stop thrashing. It’s him: face in the shadows of the candle that burns beside him, slouched in a chair at the foot of the bed. Watching, waiting.

“What did you do to me?!” you demand, failing to keep the tremble from your voice.

“I stitched you back up, that’s what I did.”

Swallowing, you gingerly pick at the bandages and gauze, flesh underneath pulled gruesomely tight.

The bastard saved your life. You don’t know why, or how he even had the supplies to, but he did.

“Think I managed to stop the bleedin’,” he mutters, running a hand through his hair.

“Well, I’m still here, so I guess you’re right,” you groan, pushing to sit up against the pillows.

“Try not to move so fast. You, uh, hit your head when you fell. Don’t want you passin’ out on me again.” He stands, gripping the bedpost, fingers curled round the wood. Your fingers find a lump on your forehead, a scab stretched over it, and you wince.

So much for being fucking capable.

“You didn’t need to do any of this,” you gesture around you weakly, rubbing at your temples. A glass of water sits on the dresser beside you, a shirt and a pair of jeans folded at the end of the bed.

“I know that. Not exactly sure you’d have done it for me, either,” he shrugs.

He’s not wrong. You crossed the threshold of his home, ready to murder any and every occupant if you had to. Instead, you collapsed pathetically, and woke up in the owner’s bed.

“Saw you a mile off, kiddo. Tracked you all the way here, to my place.”

You scoff, regretting it when it aggrevates the fresh threads in your belly. “I don’t fucking think so.”

The man’s eyes narrow, and he sits near your feet, glancing toward the window. You recoil slightly, still unsure of him and the sheer size of his body: wide chest, big hands, solid arms you can see tight against his flannel.

“What, you thought I’d just let you walk right in? You think I’m some kinda fool?”

“So why didn’t you just shoot me back then?” you spit, not enjoying the condescension in his tone.

“Well,” he mutters, looking at your blood-soaked clothes, “in truth, wasn’t sure I’d have to.”

You feel exhausted, even after a few minutes of confrontation. The tiredness settles itself deep into your bones: all you want to do is close your eyes, luxuriate in the simple pleasure of a warm bed.

“Look, I’ll leave you to get some rest,” he murmurs, heading for the door, and you’re nodding, eyes suddenly brimming with tears.

You’re not even sure why.

“Then what?”

He stops, moonlight seeping through the blinds, illuminating the curve of his nose.

“I’ll bring you some soup. When you’re ready, of course,” he tells you, like it’s the most normal statement in the world. The tears sting, and you let them wash over you as the door shuts quietly.

Soup, in a strange man’s bed. The abnormality of your situation is overwhelming, but even if you wanted to escape, high-tail it out the window like your father taught you, you won’t.

You’d be dead within a few days: a hole in your stomach, concussion fogging your brain, fingers and toes saved from the brink of frostbite.

No, you’ll stay. Make the most of your would-be murderer’s hospitality whilst you can.

You don’t even know his name.

///

“Rabbit? Again?”

“You got a problem with that?”

His fork stabs at the meat on his plate, knife slicing it cleanly. You chew and swallow rhythmically, unsure of why you’re complaining. It’s not like you had ever dined out on fine steak and fries, but you don’t want him to know that.

Joel.

Fifty-six, Texas native, one dead daughter and a missing brother.

Three months have passed, and you’ve grown accustomed to the quiet, robust companionship on offer. His rushed surgery may have saved your life, but you developed an infection soon after, no thanks to the raider’s rusty knife that had plunged into your stomach.

Joel found it somewhere in his heart to keep you alive: sponging you down when fever burnt through you, swaddling you in blankets when your teeth chattered through the night. You floated in and out of consciousness as he pumped penicillin into you - the vials of which you have no idea how he came across.

Still. You were indebted to him, now. Twice.

You discovered Joel hadn’t been here for long before your arrival: nine months, in fact. Setting up a home to sustain himself during a harsh winter, the previous occupants dying of old age. He wanted a base, somewhere to rest and recoup, before continuing on to find his brother, some settlement in Jackson he’s heard whispers of.

Or so he tells you. You choose to believe him, anyway.

You pulled your weight around the cabin as soon as you were able to, heading out on supply runs to the nearby ghost towns when you finally felt strong enough, compiling a mismatched wardrobe and a library for yourself. Joel hasn’t asked you to leave, and you find yourself, inexplicably, wanting to stay.

Warm showers mean scrubbed fingernails and clean hair. Three meals a day mean relaxed shoulders and a full belly. You’ve shed the skin of the girl you were in the QZ, the girl who survived six months alone in the a world that tried so hard to kill her.

You still see her, in the cracked mirror above the fireplace. You know she’ll never truly leave, but you think you like it that way.

It’s quiet, out here. Peaceful, in a way you’ve never known life to be. The snow is still lingering, but Joel tells you gruffly that spring isn’t far away: new life unfolding, all blossoming trees and baby birds. You can’t wait to see it.

If — when — Joel decides to move on, you think you’ll stay. No infected this far north, he tells you. Raiders don’t bother, either. You’d manage, but something in your heart tells you you’d miss him, even with his tightly-drawn brows, monosyllabic answers and permanent scowl.

There’s gotta be more than this, sweetheart. This ain’t a life. You need to go find it.

You hope your father, wherever he is, can see you’ve found it.

///

Joel’s gloves land on the table beside you, leather slapping against oak.

“Thought we could share some of this tonight.”

You look up from the new pile of books he’s found for you: Jane Austen and Charlotte Brontë, family recipes and guides to grow vegetables. He’s holding an old glass bottle, amber liquid sloshing inside it, label hanging on by a thread.

“Share... With me?”

He lowers himself into the chair beside you with a groan, bones creaking, overcoat discarded. “You see anyone else here?”

Your eyes roll, used to his remarks. “Nobody likes a smart ass, Joel.”

“You ain’t packed your bags just yet,” he counters, and you snap shut the novel you’d been perusing, dust climbing into the air.

“What is it, anyway?”

“This,” he smirks proudly, “is whiskey. Tastes best neat.”

You take the bottle from him, nose wrinkling at the cobwebbed decoration. “You sure it’s still any good? It’s just, you know, I’m kinda unwilling to risk my life again.”

“It’s fine,” he chuckles, eyebrows raised. “See how it’s unopened? Could be a hundred years old, and would taste just as good as the day it was made.”

“A hundred years old, huh? Means you’ve got about twenty years on it, in that case.”

Joel chews his lip, eyes narrowing at the barb. The push and pull between you both is so familiar now: biting remarks that surely would make others wince.

Not that it matters. No other witnesses exist besides faded smiles in cobwebbed photo frames, and they can’t judge you now.

Sometimes, there’s a twisted, perverse thrill to be had from seeing just how far you can push him.

“‘m takin’ a shower,” Joel mutters, swiping the bottle from your hands. The glass clinks against the chipped china sink, and you watch him rooting around in the cupboards beneath. His shoulders flex as they move beneath his shirt, and you find yourself dwelling once more on how fucking broad he is.

The thought slips away as he stands, two tumblers joining the bottle on the sideboard. Wondering again just why he wants to share it with you, you watch Joel stalk off down the hallway, the sound of the shower humming rhythmically moments later.

You collect your books, decades-old newspaper cuttings acting as place markers. You linger over a novel at the bottom of the pile; a smutty romance you keep well hidden from your makeshift roommate. You save it for after sundown; feeling the blood burn low in your belly when you’re curled in your sheets, poring over line after line of heaving chests, panting moans and torrents of passion.

You’re not sure what Joel would make of that particular title.

You pass the bathroom as you retreat with your stash of new titles, steam seeping out of the crack between the floor and wood. You’re momentarily struck by a startling visual of Joel beneath the stream of warm water, sluicing down the column of his throat, rippling off his collarbones, soaking the dark hair nestled on his sternum.

You flop onto the bed, books clattering to the floor. Stretched out on your back, you stare at the ceiling, longing for a distraction — a way to end the frustration you’re feeling, once and for all.

Where the fuck is this all coming from? Why now?

The lock to the bathroom door clicks in its hinges; you know if you turn your head just a little, you’d be able to see him. So you wait, and you watch him leave, totally oblivious to your staring.

///

For once, you don’t complain about rabbit for dinner.

Tongue seemingly stuck to the roof of your mouth, all your thoughts are occupied by the man sitting across from you. Try as you might, you can’t forget what you’ve just seen: that broad chest, dark hair threaded with silver peppered across his smooth skin, growing thicker over his soft tummy.

The thin, white towel round his narrow hips, only partway concealing a bulge of a certain size.

Come on, you tell yourself. It’s Joel. Just Joel.

Twenty-eight years your senior. Not your biggest fan.

All the self-preservation you’ve built upon, clawing your way out of a place determined to suck the life from you, surviving raiders and murders and a hole in your stomach. You’re not about to forget yourself over a glimpse of skin.

Joel collects the plates when you’re finished eating, clearing his throat loudly. “You alright to get the fire goin’ if I clear up?”

You nod, grateful for a distraction.

Soon enough, flames are crackling in the grate, socked feet folded beneath you. You chew your lip hard enough to taste blood; iron washing over your tongue as Joel takes his place beside you on the couch, whiskey in hand.

“Some people would mix water in with this, but I want your first time to be a good one.”

You know he doesn’t mean anything by the words he’s chosen. He wouldn’t have even thought about it.

Still. It’s not lost on you.

Joel fills your glass first, before tipping his head toward you, swallowing his down whole. You follow his lead, spluttering as the liquid burns your throat.

“Jesus, girl. What did ya do that for?”

He smacks lightly between your shoulder blades, helping you clear your airways. His fingers linger a little, resting at the nape of your neck, and you involuntarily shudder at the contact.

“Can’t be shown up by you, can I?” you jest croakily, regaining a modicum of composure. There’s a warm feeling spreading from your chest; you’re not sure if it’s the drink, or the sensation of his hands on you. Finally.

You nurse the next tumbler, sipping it slowly, learning to enjoy it. You don’t think you’ve ever spent this much time with Joel — unless you’re out hunting together; you shooting, him dressing, or arguing over who’s next to take the linen to the river for cleaning, or the rare few times you’ve watched a VHS with one another, mostly in silence.

“‘s Burt Reynolds. Someone told me I look a little like him,” Joel points at the screen: an extremely handsome moustachioed man swanning around in too-tight denim jeans and a cowboy hat. You snort, almost choking on your beef jerky. “Was that person your mother?”

The television remains silent tonight, though.

It’s just you and Joel, the fire hissing and spitting, and impossible darkness outside. You relax into the couch, warm to your bones. He cricks his neck, groaning in satisfaction. His hands are covered in scars, forearms much the same. You wonder how they got there; how this stoic, brooding man beside you came to be.

“Joel?”

He lifts his head, huge fingers swirling his tumbler in the low amber light. “Hm?”

“Tell me about Texas.”

///

After an hour, the fire has almost died out, the two of you talking too much to notice. Well, Joel’s talking. You’re listening intently, watching his grin grow wide and eyes shine as he tells you stories of his brother and daughter.

“We’d walked for an hour to get these ice cream cones Sarah insisted on havin’. We get back to our street, ‘n Tommy’s showin’ off for one of the new neighbours. Ends up trippin’ over a hosepipe, damn cone went all over him. God, me and Sarah didn’t stop laughin’,” he chuckles, chin resting on his glass.

You can feel it, see it: the raucous, bubbling giggles, dribbling pink splotches of strawberry ice-cream, burning hot sidewalk and the squeak of rubber sneakers.

It fills you with joy and sadness in equal measure. Your own fuzzy memories of life before were never too far away.

“Were you, uh, ever married? To Sarah’s mom?”

He exhales, carding a hand through his salt and pepper hair. “Sure was. For about a year.”

You note the way his shoulders slouch, expression unreadable. You almost wish you hadn’t even asked. Still, the liquor makes you bold, so you press a little further.

“Was she your high school sweetheart?”

Joel scoffs. “Now, what would you know about high school sweethearts?”

You move to pour another mouthful into each glass, shrugging. “Hey, I had a boyfriend once — for a few months, at least. Back in the QZ.”

“I ain’t surprised, pretty thing like you. Even if you are a pain in my ass,” he sighs, two thick fingers wrapped round his tumbler.

You’re blinking slowly, registering the fact that Joel just called you pretty. There’s no denying your attraction to him now. The pulsing sensation below your navel is proof enough.

“Okay, so, who’d you lose your virginity to?”

You’re not sure where this line of questioning has come from; all you know is that you’re enjoying yourself.

Joel’s face screws up in disbelief, but he tips the remaining liquid down his throat regardless, glass slamming against the worn wooden coffee table.

“Melissa Horton, summer of 1986. Back seat of my Chevy.”

A giggle bubbles in your chest. It’s just so Joel.

He leans back into the couch, turning to face you. “Let me guess: you lost yours to this boy back home?”

Teeth in your lip, you nod, suddenly shy. “I was eighteen, for fucks sake. Everyone around me was having sex — something to do, I guess, when you’re not shovelling shit in the sewers. A way to feel alive, you know?”

Joel nods, eyes still on you. You look away, face reflected in the blank television screen.

“But there’s been nobody since?”

You shake your head. “Nope. A whole damn decade. What about you, Mr. Big Romantic? Any more hookups in the backseat?”

“Watch it,” he mutters. “I, uh, had someone. Back in Boston.”

You stay quiet, giving him space to continue if he wants to. You’re curious; watching him pick at the loose threads on the couch, moustache quivering.

“Her name was Tess. She and I.. We were together for a long time.”

You nod at his words; some things in this world don’t need explaining. Loss comes in so many different, horrifying forms. Relationships are temporary, connections are fleeting, and nothing lasts forever.

Something you’re trying to remind yourself of right now.

“What was she like?” you ask tentatively.

“She was.. She was somethin’. Brave. Nobody fucked with her.”

You laugh, raising your glass in a toast. “Sounds like I would’ve liked her.”

“I think so too. Wasn’t half as annoyin’ as you are, though.”

You roll your eyes. “I don’t see you kicking me out.”

“Guess I kinda like the company. Even if you are a brat sometimes, baby,” he chuckles, warm and low, gaze noticeably trailing over your body.

Hot hooks of desire claw at your skin, burning inside you like you just sunk the whole bottle of liquor. You feel yourself shifting under the intensity of Joel’s stare.

Baby. That’s new, and you like it.

You let yourself wonder what would happen if you reached out to touch him: slide your fingers in his hair, your lips over his. If you climbed into his lap, tasted the whiskey you’ve shared off of his tongue, instead of from the glass?

Would he let you? Would he respond, in kind?

Would Joel Miller fuck you, if you asked him to?

“Joel, I —“

Then, his face disappears in opaque darkness.

///

The slow, distant hum of the generator is no more: all electricity gone from the cabin, rendering the lamps useless and shrouding you in gloom.

His voice comes from beside you, harsh and agitated. “What the fuck?”

You don’t move, listening as he ambles over to the matches kept above the fireplace, the dying embers below providing little light. He strikes one, and his features are illuminated, contorted with frustration.

“It was your turn to get gas for the generator,” he barks, and his gruffness throws you back in time; back to that first day, his rifle aimed at your head for trespassing into his space.

“Yeah, last week! Check the chore sheet — pretty sure you’ll see your name there instead,” you hiss, Joel moving to light the candles spread out across the room, in case of emergencies.

“Well — you didn’t think to fuckin’ remind me?!”

You get to your feet, incensed by his words. “Since when did that become my job? Don’t get shitty with me because you forgot, asshole.”

The last hour melts away like the flurries of snow across the plains in the weak spring sunshine. Tenderness replaced with fury, soft confessions forgotten, vitriol in the place of poorly-disguised lust.

Because that’s the way it should be, between you and Joel. That’s the way it works.

Right?

You stay rooted to the spot. He shrugs his coat on, muttering to himself under his breath. The fragile candlelight flickers, spidery shadows thrown over the walls.

“‘m gonna go check it. Grab the flashlights under the sink, would ya?”

You say nothing as the door closes, breeze blowing through the cabin as it does so. You peek through the shutters; moonlight sprawling across the mountain peaks, Joel bent in half as he inspects the generator.

Won’t do any good for his back, you muse.

Seeking out the flashlights as per request, you use one to check the chore sheet pinned to the faded cork board. Nothing more than a scrap of paper, jobs childishly divided under the headings of yours and his names.

“That fucker.”

Sure enough, his name is there. Just like you knew it would be.

“You talkin’ about me?”

You squeak in surprise, and he has you pinned, just like the day you arrived here. No rifle or life-threatening wound this time, but the scowl on his face is just the same. It almost makes you laugh, if you weren’t so pissed at him.

“You see anyone else here?”

You parrot Joel’s earlier words right back at him, watching his jaw tick in annoyance. He closes the space between you, your back against the kitchen cabinets.

“Just like I said,” he mutters, something about his tone turning your insides to liquid, a wetness pooling in your underwear. “Y’can be a real fuckin’ brat.”

A beat of silence follows.

A shared look of longing.

A mutual moment of insanity.

Joel tugs you towards him, your lips finding his in the dim light. Fingers scratching against the scruff along his jaw, you moan wantonly into his mouth. His hands slide against your bare skin beneath your shirt, palms so rough, and you break into goosebumps as a result.

You’re not sure if this is borne of building anger, pent-up frustration or both. All you do know is you’re putty in his hands, already so responsive to him as he continues to kiss you so deeply, your head bent back to accommodate his frame above you.

It’s been so long since you’ve been touched like this: these hands that have held you hostage once — then saved your life — are now exploring the most intimate parts of you.

“We’re really doin’ this, huh?” he murmurs, cradling your jaw. Your own fingers drift over his jeans, skating across the hardening length at the apex of his thighs. His thumb lingers on your lips; you take it into your mouth by way of an answer, watching his pupils dilate as you swirl your tongue around it.

You don’t want to beg. You’d never make Joel do something he didn’t want to do — not that the stubborn bastard would let you. You release him with a wet pop, eyes wide and imploring.

“We really are.”

Your voice is quiet, unrecognisable; thick in your throat with unbridled need for him. It’s all the permission he needs.

Joel kisses you again, pushes you gently downwards till you’re laying flat on the dining table. His tongue is still in your mouth until you break apart breathlessly, helping him tug your shirt over your head.

You’re braless beneath it, his huge, warm hands cupping your tits, rough thumbs catching on the peaks, a growl in his chest as he does so. Joel just stares at you, at your chest, eyes blown black in the muted lighting.

“Christ,” he mutters darkly. “So goddamn perfect.”

His words spur you on; back arching off the wood as he bends to smear messy kisses against your throat, leaving sticky trails across your chest and the scar he repaired on your belly as he travels lower.

His fingers wedge between your jeans and the curve of your stomach, pulling you upright. Teeth capturing your bottom lip, Joel works the button open, and you’re shuffling desperately to try and rid yourself of any remaining clothing.

“What is it, baby girl? You want me to taste her?”

“Fuck, Joel. Please — I’ve never —“

“I know, baby. I know,” he soothes, thick fingers sliding the denim over your ankles, hooking into the band of your panties, dropping them unceremoniously to the floor.

He’s taking his time, revering in the sight of you — but you need Joel’s mouth.

You need his tongue.

Soon enough, you’re laid out naked before him, still stood there with his heavy overcoat and boots on. Joel shrugs it off, moving to hold your legs apart, spreading you open for him.

“Look at that. Know you’re gonna taste so sweet for me, baby.”

He bites into your inner thighs, your fingers threaded through his hair. You’ve never heard yourself make these sounds before — not even when you’ve touched yourself in the dead of night, struggling to remember the feeling of coming undone like this.

Joel licks a broad stripe over your centre, and you’re already convulsing, trembling as he continues to lavish you with his tongue. You watch his curved nose nestled right where you need the pressure, and before long, stars are bursting behind your eyelids as you spasm against his mouth.

“Good girl.”

His voice rouses you from your euphoria, and Joel pulls you to the edge of the table, into his arms. You taste yourself on him as he kisses you; blood simmering hot in your veins. “You okay?” he asks, lips against your forehead.

“Need more.”

Joel studies you for a moment, checking in, then tugs at his own clothing, buttons and boots bouncing melodically off the stone floor. His chest is as broad as you remember, wiry dark hair peppered over his soft tummy, trailing down to —

Fuck.

He’s huge. Stiff and leaking, flat against the curls beneath his navel.

Joel notices your hesitancy, hand under your chin to reassure you. “Hey, hey. Look at me. We don’t need to do this, not if you don’t want to.”

You swallow, take him in your hand. He hisses as you squeeze him, all soft velvet and hard steel. Your voice is barely a whisper, apprehension bubbling in your throat. “It’s just — like I said, it’s been a while.”

His lips press against your temple, your thumb running across the tip of him. You bring it to your mouth, relishing the salty tang across your tastebuds.

“S’okay, baby girl. We’ll go slow, I promise,” he groans, keeping you upright with a hand on your lower back. You nod in consent: Joel wouldn’t hurt you.

You want him. You want this.

He slides inside you inch by inch, letting you feel the delicious stretch and burn, fingernails deep into his shoulder, face in his neck. Good as his word, he takes his time, peppering kisses against your shoulder blade.

His chest rises and falls in tandem with yours, both of you sharing in the euphoria. “I want you to watch, baby. Watch yourself takin’ me. See that you can do it.”

So, you do.

Joel whispers in your ear, teeth nipping your earlobe, tongue soothing it over. You’re doin’ so good baby, look so pretty spread open f’me.

You feel yourself growing slicker and sweatier at his words until, finally; he’s fully sheathed inside you.

You’re so full. He’s taken over your senses; plugging you, filling you to the brim. You don’t know where you end and Joel begins. He’s everything you’ve ever known and will do, forever.

“Move, Joel. Please.”

He’s crowding over you, fucking into you on the table he almost shot you over. It’s a heady realisation: you urge him on, and his thrusts deepen, and you’re already cresting the wave, riding the blissful sensation of him inside you.

“Baby, ‘m not gonna last long, squeezin’ me so good—“

Joel’s breathing is ragged, knives and plates falling to the floor as his pace increases. You feel him everywhere, fucking you in a way you’ve never experienced before. You’re so close, and you know he is too. “Here, Joel,” you pant, hand on your tummy, and he nods, sweat sheening across his forehead.

“Want one more from you first, darlin’. Know you can give it to me.”

His hand closes round your throat, claiming you as his own. You bite and scratch and sob in his arms, falling over the edge as your legs shake around him. You can hear Joel, vaguely, calling you his good girl, telling you he’s coming, painting your tummy with it.

Foreheads pressed together, your skin is aflame. You’re sticky with him, drenched in sweat, and sated beyond belief.

He kisses you, tenderly this time. In a way that feels more strangely intimate than anything that’s already passed between you both.

Breathing fresh air into your lungs, you press your lips to the tip of his nose. “Now what?”

He tilts you both back upright with a groan, a soft hunger in his eyes you’ve never seen before.

“I’m thinkin’ we do that all over again.”

///

Dawn bleeds through the drapes, fresh blue sky tinged with rose petal pink. Joel’s sleeping arm is banded round your middle, resting above the jagged scar he’d slid a needle through all those months before.

His breath is warm in your ear; back pressed to his chest, the same place you’d both collapsed from exhaustion a mere few hours ago. Joel fucked you twice more, here in his bed, sucking at your pulse points and moaning your name like a mantra.

You untangle yourself from him gently: dressing in one of his discarded shirts, desperately needing to pee and drink something other than whiskey. Downstairs, all remains as you left it. The half-drunk bottle, two tumblers, and hastily extinguished candles.

You stand by the window, gulping thirstily from the glass you’ve poured. The blossoms are burgeoning on the trees, birds collecting what they need for their nests. Joel was right; spring is looming, and you’re glad for it.

It’s truly a sight to behold — you don’t remember it much from your childhood. You suppose life moved too fast to stop and watch it changing right in front of you. It’s a privilege to see it now.

The bottom stair creaks over your shoulder, and soon enough, you’re engulfed in a bear-like embrace. Joel’s palms rest against your tummy, and he kisses your cheek in greeting.

“Hey, you,” you murmur shyly, turning in his arms. Dark eyes still cloudy with sleep, he raises his eyebrows at your choice of clothing, and you smack him lightly on the chest.

“‘Least you could do was let me borrow it.”

“Guess you’re right,” Joel concedes, hands finding your ass beneath the hem. You hiss a little when his fingers dig in to your skin; you’re still so sensitive from his ministrations the night before.

“Shit, ‘m sorry. Y’just — last night was really somethin’.”

Eyes rolling, you kiss him chastely, a contented hum reverberating through his bare chest as you allow yourself to be wrapped into it.

He turned you inside out last night; your toes curling, skin soaked with sweat, his name on your lips as you came. You weren’t sure what to expect of him today: whether he’d tell you it was a mistake, it shouldn’t have happened, or — worse — ask you leave.

You knew, though. As soon as you were falling asleep, the way Joel quietly asked you to stay there in his bed with him. Something had changed, had shifted so irrevocably you weren’t sure he’d ever just be simply the man who saved your life again.

He’d snagged a tiny piece of your heart, a fortress you were insistent on making impenetrable. It frightens and excites you in equal measure.

“We better head out soon, get some fuel. Get that generator up and runnin’ again,” he murmurs, squeezing your sides softly.

You blink up at him incredulously, eyebrows raised.

“We? Need I remind you of that damned list one more time?”

You’re laughing as you say it, pushing away from his chest. His hair is rumpled, crescent-moon shaped scars from your nails along his upper arms, a bruise sucked into the column of his throat.

“I’m thinkin’ we scrap the list. Place belongs to us both now, anyway. Ain’t that right?”

His eyes are wide, searching yours, thumbs stroking across your skin. You already feel your body responding to him; a sensation you cannot deny.

You wouldn’t even want to try.

“Yeah,” you tell him. “That sounds about right.”

///