pascalissmoked

The road narrows into a path swallowed by tall pines and broken fences. You walk until the weight in your legs becomes unbearable, until your breath rasps thin in your chest, until you stop caring if the next step is your last.

Then there’s the lake. Wide, still, dark enough to reflect the clouds in bruised streaks. Cattails sway along the banks, their edges furred with damp rot. The air is thick with the scent of moss and water that doesn’t move. Joel drops his pack beside yours and exhales like something inside him’s been pressing down too long. He rolls his shoulders, the joints popping quiet like old wood warping in the heat.

You sit. Not near him. But not far, either.

He watches the lake, jaw tight, expression unreadable. Then, without warning, he bends and picks up a rock—flat, smooth like it’s been waiting here for this moment—and holds it out to you.

“Ever skip one?” he asks.

You look at the stone, not him. Don’t speak. But you reach out, take it. The tips of your fingers brush his.

It shouldn’t matter. But it does.

The first throw hits the water like a mistake. A single plop, graceless. You don’t look to see if he’s watching.

But he is.

He crouches beside you with a grunt, joints protesting. His presence sinks into the air around you, heavy as wet wool. He doesn’t speak for a moment. Then. “Wrist, not arm. It’s in the angle.”

He adjusts your grip. Gently. Not guiding—just offering. His knuckles skim yours again, dry and rough, the skin there textured like paper that’s been crumpled and straightened too many times. You hate how warm he feels.

You hate how you don’t flinch.

This time, the rock skips. Once. Twice. Then vanishes.

Joel makes a sound in his throat. Not quite approval. Not pride. Just... something. A human noise you haven’t heard from him before. Something less guarded.

You say nothing. But your body leans a little closer to the fire of him, unthinking.

The lake stills again. The ripples fade.

Something has shifted between you, subtle as a hairline fracture beneath the surface of glass. He doesn’t reach for you. Doesn’t touch you again. But he stays close. And you don’t move away.

The silence is no longer oppressive. It stretches now like a bridge, spanning the space between two people who have survived something bloody together. Who’ve seen each other covered in death.

You remember the gore. The sound of the machete. The way he moved like an animal in defense of you. You shouldn’t feel safer for it.

But you do.

You turn your head. Watch the side of his face—shadowed, weathered, exhausted. His hands resting on his knees. No weapon drawn.

For the first time, you wonder what his hands would feel like if they weren’t killing.

The thought sickens you. And still—you let it sit.

Because the part of you that still fights is quieter now. And the part of you that watches him—sees him—is louder than it used to be.

The water goes still. The sky sinks low. And the two of you sit there on the edge of something too large to name.

You hike again.

The land shifts beneath your feet—less wild now, less teeth and bark and blood. The trees thin out like they’re giving up, like they know they’ve lost the right to keep the world hidden. Civilization—or whatever's left of it—bleeds through in splinters. A road emerges, cracked and silver with frost. A rusted sign groans in the wind: Welcome to Auburn, Star Valley.

The town doesn’t look alive, but it’s not dead either. Just… holding its breath. Waiting.

Snow’s collected in the sunken roofs, draped over broken mailboxes, curled around the edges of old cars abandoned like bones. You walk past a swing set crusted with ice, a child’s shoe filled with dirt. The silence is too complete, like even the ghosts got tired and left.

Then Joel says something that knocks the rhythm out of your step.

“Pick one.”

You blink at him, not understanding.

“A house,” he says, nodding toward the street. “Whichever feels right.”

It takes a second for the words to make sense. You stare at him like he’s offered you a gun or a prayer—something too dangerous to trust.

But he just stands there, watching. Waiting.

You drift away from him without answering. Move like something weightless down the broken pavement, your fingers trailing along the splinters of doorframes and torn siding. The windows you pass are all shattered or clouded. You peer inside each one like they might tell you who you were, or who you’re supposed to be now.

You pick the house on the edge of town. Two stories. A porch leaning like it’s too tired to stand straight. Green paint curled into gray. The steps groan under your weight, but it feels solid. Alone. Removed from the center.

Joel nods when you point it out. That’s all.

Next, you ask him to visit the music store. Its front is half-collapsed, but the inside still smells like varnish and mildew and dust-heavy silence. There’s something about it—sacred and forgotten.

You walk the aisles slow. Run your fingers over empty guitar racks and shattered keyboards. He waits near the back, hands in his coat pockets, watching but not pushing. You find one guitar that isn’t completely destroyed. Strings warped, neck cracked, but it feels warm in your hands. Familiar.

He says nothing when you take it. Just holds the door open as you walk back into the cold.

You don’t know why it matters. The guitar. The house. But it does.

Inside, the bedroom has one bed that hasn’t collapsed under mold or time. The sheets are musty, but not shredded. Joel says he’ll fix it up, clear the rest of the place. You nod, too tired to question him, too numb to wonder what the catch is.

“I’ll be in the other room,” he says. “Just rest.”

You don’t argue. Don’t look him in the eye.

The bathroom is small, cracked tiles veined with old mildew. But it’s warm enough. And there—on the edge of the sink—is the soap.

That soap.

The one you’d grabbed when you tried to crawl out that window. The one he let you keep, like it meant something. He must've put your stuff in its place already.

You pick it up. Your hands are shaking and you don’t know why.

You wash.

The lather is weak but fragrant. Something floral, faded. Not quite roses. Not quite lavender. Just soft. Gentle. Something that doesn’t belong in a world this ruined.

You press your palms together beneath the water and close your eyes. Breathe it in.

It lingers.

And you realize, suddenly, how quiet the house is. How still. No wind. No voices. Just you. Alone.

The silence creeps in. Wraps around your ribs.

You step back into the hallway, the floorboards whispering under your feet. Joel’s down the hall, dragging something heavy, adjusting a doorframe, muttering to himself low under his breath. You don’t mean to walk toward him, but you do.

The house isn’t that big. You find him in what used to be a study, hammer in hand, patching something with leftover boards. His coat’s off, shirt sleeves rolled to the elbows, forearms corded with tension. He looks up when you enter but says nothing.

You don’t speak either. Just… sit. On the edge of a chair with stuffing leaking from one side. Watch him work.

And he lets you.

He doesn’t ask if you’re okay. Doesn’t ask why you’re not resting. Maybe he knows better. Maybe he understands that rest is a lie when your mind’s still pacing in circles.

You stay like that a while. Just watching.

And then he does something that twists your stomach.

He dissapears into the house and returns with dinner. On a real plate.

Rabbit, again. Cooked over the fire he made in the fireplace. He sets it in front of you like it’s normal. Like this—him feeding you, making beds, fixing the broken corners of this dead place—isn’t the most unnatural thing in the world.

You eat. Slowly. Carefully. Like your body remembers the rhythm of being cared for before your mind can protest.

And when he tells you to go lie down, you don’t resist. The words come out quiet, gruff. “Go on. Get some sleep. I’ll finish up.”

You go.

The bedroom is warmer than before. Blankets spread over the mattress. One bed, cleanest in the house. You sit on the edge and let the softness catch your weight. The guitar leans against the wall. The soap still clings to your skin.

You don’t think about your friends. About Jackson. About escape.

You think about him. Still in the other room.

Hammering.

Fixing things.

And for a moment—just one flickering moment—you wonder what it would feel like if he lay beside you again.

Not because he made you.

But because you asked.

Joel worked in the dark, the last light gone from the sky, the moon just a sliver over the pine trees. The air was sharp, the cold creeping up through his boots and into his bones, but his hands stayed steady. Always did when it mattered.

Wire strung low across the yard. Tin bells, rust-bitten but still able to sing. A trip line hidden just beneath the snowpack—enough to jingle if someone, or something, got too close.

Just in case.

Always just in case.

He made the rounds after, like muscle memory. Locked every window. Shoved what was left of an old dresser in front of the back door. Front door too. Checked them twice. And then once more after that.

Then, finally—finally—he went back upstairs.

The house was quiet. Too quiet. His boots felt too loud, so he left them at the door. The hallway groaned under his steps anyway. The kind of house that made you feel like you were being watched, even when you weren’t.

He eased open the door to the bedroom and saw you there—already under the blankets. Turned away, your breathing steady. Not deep enough for sleep, but close. You didn’t move when he entered.

You didn’t flinch.

He stood there for a moment. Let himself look.

The room smelled like firewood and soap. That soap. Faint and floral, clinging to the air like a ghost. You’d used it again. He knew the second you passed him in the hall earlier, something warm and clean brushing his skin like a trick of memory.

The same scent from the cabin. When you ran. When you bled.

Now you lay quiet. Pliant.

He lay down beside you slow, careful. The mattress dipped beneath his weight. One bed. Just the one that wasn’t crawling with rot. That was all it took, sometimes.

You didn’t move. Didn’t inch away. He was close enough to feel the warmth coming off your back, the heat of your skin through the blanket. Not touching. Not quite.

He stared at the ceiling.

The dark pressed in, heavy and thick, but his thoughts were louder than anything outside.

You didn’t fight anymore. Didn’t spit. Didn’t look at him like he was the monster. Not tonight. Not when he cooked for you. Not when he told you to rest, and you listened.

He didn’t know what it meant yet. What it would become.

But it was something.

Something dangerous.

Joel felt it like a bruise in his chest, pulsing with a heat that had nothing to do with anger. Nothing to do with guilt. He told himself it was relief. That you were safe. That he’d done his part.

But that wasn’t it.

What he felt now—that thing crawling up under his ribs, scraping his throat like a hunger—wasn’t pride. Wasn’t anything clean.

It was want.

The way you’d stood next to him in the music shop, fingers curled around that busted old guitar. How your voice caught in your throat when you picked the house. Like it mattered. Like home still meant something to you.

The way your eyes hadn’t narrowed when he fixed the bed.

The way you didn’t pull away when his hand brushed yours handing over that plate.

And maybe, maybe, you didn’t hate him now. Not fully.

Not openly.

That was enough. It had to be enough.

Joel swallowed hard, the ache in his jaw tight and constant from clenching all day. He stared into the dark. Felt your breath soften. Heard the wind shift outside, the faint rattle of a branch across the roof.

And still—still—he didn’t move.

Didn’t dare.

Because the truth was brutal. Ugly.

He liked having you close.

He liked that you’d let yourself be close.

And if you ever looked at him with softness—if you ever leaned in instead of away—he didn’t know what he’d do with himself. What would be left of him.

Joel closed his eyes.

Told himself he was tired.

Told himself this was fine.

But as sleep dragged at the edges of his mind, pulling him under, he could still smell the soap in your hair.

And for the first time in decades, he dreamed.

Your eyes blinked open, confused, groggy—until you felt it: warm breath ghosting over your thighs. The blanket had been pulled up. Your sleep shorts tugged down.

You gasped, tried to sit up—but his hand was already on your stomach, firm, grounding you.

“Shhh. Don’t,” Joel whispered. Low. Raspy. “Just—lemme have this. Been good too long.”

His mouth was on you before you could form a protest. One long, slow drag of his tongue that made your hips buck and your thoughts shatter. You should’ve stopped him. Said something. Pushed him off.

But you didn’t.

Because your body betrayed you.

Because his tongue moved like he knew you. Like he’d imagined this a thousand times, memorized how you’d taste, sound, twitch. And fuck—he had.

He’d thought about it for months.

Every time you laughed at Ellie’s jokes. Every time you bent over to tie your boots. Every time he caught the scent of your shampoo on a borrowed hoodie. Joel knew he was too old, too broken, too everything—but none of it mattered when he closed his eyes and pictured himself between your legs.

The first taste unhinged him. You were soft and soaked and perfect. He growled into you, a low, guttural sound like he was finally getting what he was owed. It wasn’t just eating you out—it was claiming you. His mouth worked in slow circles, tongue slipping deep, lips wrapped around your clit like it was the only thing keeping him alive.

And you came for him. Loud. Shaking. Your hand in his hair before you even knew what you were doing.

And when you finally whispered, “Joel—what the fuck—” he didn’t apologize.

Didn’t speak.

Just looked up at you, lips shiny, eyes blown black with obsession, and said:

“Don’t pretend you didn’t want it.”

That was weeks ago.

You never told Ellie. Never confronted Joel. But you came back.

One excuse, then another. More sleepovers. More moments alone. And now, he’s unhinged.

Joel doesn’t care where you are—bed, couch, kitchen counter—he finds you. Kneels for you like it’s worship. Some days he barely lets you speak. Just shoves his face between your thighs and moans like he’s starved.

“You don’t know what you do to me,” he pants into you, beard slick, voice wrecked. “Can’t stop thinkin’ ‘bout how you taste, how you shake on my tongue. You were made for this. For me.”

He doesn’t even fuck you most nights.

Just mouths at you until you’re crying. Until your legs won’t stop shaking and you beg him to stop—and he doesn’t. Says he needs it. That he’d die without it.

And maybe you believe him.

Because somewhere along the line, you stopped knowing where the limits were. When it turned from a one-time mistake into something more. Something twisted. Something daily.

You're not sure when the line stopped existing.

Maybe it was never there in the first place.

At first, it was just those nights—quiet, secret, drenched in sweat and guilt. Joel on his knees, tongue desperate, greedy—like your cunt was the only thing tethering him to the earth. He didn’t touch you anywhere else. Didn’t kiss you. Didn’t hold you after.

Just left you ruined, wet, shaking.

And always, always came back for more.

He got used to getting what he wanted and leaving you ruined and aching.

But now it’s bleeding into everything.

He starts watching you in front of Ellie.

When you laugh too hard at one of her jokes, Joel’s jaw twitches. When you wear shorts to dinner, his eyes linger too long. He starts asking you weird questions—who you’re seeing, what you wear to bed, whether you’ve ever thought about moving in somewhere closer.

And then it happens.

You go on patrol with Ellie. A dumb run. Nothing dangerous. You’re riding back in the dark, joking, when Ellie smirks and says:

“Dude, Joel is obsessed with you.”

You freeze.

She doesn’t notice.

“He always asks when you’re coming over. Offered to fix your watch for free. I caught him staring at your ass once, swear to God.”

You laugh it off—awkward, cold—but your stomach is ice. Because you know. He’s not even hiding it anymore.

And the thought of your best friend knowing what you're up to with him turns your gut sour.

Yet, that night, you show up at his door.

He doesn’t say a word. Just yanks you inside, locks it behind you, and backs you against the wall.

“You tell her?” he growls.

“No.” Ellie must've teased him too if he was already this pent up.

“You gonna?”

You stare up at him. His chest is heaving. Eyes wild. And he’s hard—already—just from the thought of you being close.

“I should,” you whisper. “This is fucked.”

Joel’s hand grabs your jaw, not rough but not gentle either. He leans down, breath hot against your mouth, and says:

“You think I give a single fuck?”

His mouth crashes into yours.

It’s the first time he’s ever kissed you.

It’s not sweet.

It’s ownership.

And you let him.

Ten minutes later, you’re on the floor. Shirt bunched under your back, legs hanging over his shoulder. Joel’s got your thighs pushed open like he’s dissecting you—like he’s studying the way you fall apart under his tongue.

He eats like a starving man. Big, messy licks. Grunting against your cunt while he jerks himself with his free hand. He’s obsessed. Animal. Moaning like he’s getting off just from how wet you are.

“You don’t get it,” he pants between sucks. “Nothin’ ever felt this good. Not once in my goddamn life.”

You cum once. Then again.

Then he pins your thighs to the floor and keeps going.

You’re sobbing. Begging. Twisting your fingers in his hair to pull him off—but he won’t budge.

“You’re mine,” he says into you, almost slurring it. “Mine now. Don’t care what she thinks. Don’t care if you say stop—I know what you fuckin’ need.”

Your body’s a wreck. Dripping. Oversensitive. You cum a third time, legs locking around his head, crying out something that’s not even words.

And Joel smiles.

Because that’s all he’s ever wanted.

To make you break.

To taste it.

You knew that look. He was chewing on something he wouldn’t spit out.

So you decided to make it worse.

You walked right up to him in the quiet of his living room, hands cold from the snow, cheeks flushed from the wind. He didn’t even look at you when you walked in. Just kept staring at the fire like it had offended him somehow. You kicked the door shut behind you, boots thudding on the floor, and leaned against the wall, watching him.

“Long day?” you asked lightly.

No answer.

You moved closer, slow. He didn’t flinch, didn’t blink, didn’t move. Just clenched his jaw tighter. You’d seen him like this before — wound up so tight he could snap steel in half. The only difference was now… he wasn’t pushing you away.

So you pushed first.

You stepped between his legs, palms on his thighs, and leaned down until your mouth brushed his ear. “You gonna keep sulking like a damn ghost, or are you gonna do something about the way you’ve been looking at me all week?”

That got his attention.

Joel’s hand shot up, gripping your hip like it was instinct. Not rough, but final — like now that he had you, he wasn’t letting go.

“You got a mouth on you,” he muttered, voice low and gritty.

You smiled against his jaw. “You’ve been ignoring me for three days. Figured I’d give it something to talk about.”

He finally looked at you — really looked. And the heat in that gaze made your stomach flip. His pupils were blown, breathing shallow, hands twitching like he was holding back something brutal.

“You don’t know what you’re askin’ for,” he said, more warning than protest.

You straddled his lap in one smooth motion, letting your weight sink into him. You felt the shift in his body — his breath hitch, his thigh tense under you, the sharp exhale against your neck. “Yeah, I do.”

Joel’s hands slid up your thighs, rough palms dragging slow, deliberate. “You come in here, wearin’ that little smirk... sittin’ on me like you fuckin’ own me…”

“Maybe I do,” you whispered, grinding against him. “Maybe you’ve been mine since the first time I caught you starin’ when I bent over that fence.”

He growled — an actual, low growl that rumbled in his chest. His hand tangled in your hair and yanked your head back, just enough to make your breath catch.

“You don’t get to talk like that and walk away.”

“Then stop me,” you dared.

Joel surged up, mouth crashing into yours — all teeth and heat and frustration finally breaking through. He kissed you like a punishment, like a promise, like he’d been starving for it and hated himself for wanting it.

You ground down harder, and he groaned — deep, almost pained.

Your hips moved on instinct now, chasing every ounce of pressure, every twitch of his thigh, every time his grip shifted to hold you down tighter, rougher.

“That’s it,” he growled. “Fuckin’ take it.”

You were so close it hurt. And Joel knew it — knew every breath that caught in your throat, every tremble in your thighs. His voice dropped to a low, dangerous whisper.

“C’mon, baby. Make a fuckin’ mess.”

That was all it took.

You came with a shudder and a whimper, fingers fisting the front of his shirt. Joel held you through it, breathing hard, eyes locked on you like he was watching something sacred — or maybe something sinful.

“You needy little thing,” he muttered, pulling your hips harder against his. “Could’ve had this days ago if you’d just said the word.”

You bit his lip. “Where’s the fun in that?”

His grip on you tightened. “You got five seconds to decide if you want this soft or if you want it the way I’ve been thinkin’ about since you showed up in this town.”

You didn’t hesitate.

“Ruin me.”

Joel’s eyes darkened — like something inside him snapped free. And just before he dragged you down again, before his hands shoved under your shirt like he couldn’t stand another second of distance, he said—

“You fuckin’ asked for it, sweetheart.”

So you escaped to the only place with the illusion of relief: your old man’s rust-bitten Ford truck. The air conditioning groaned like an old man with bad knees, struggling to push out even a whisper of cold. Mostly, it just wheezed in competition with the faint melody of Avril Lavigne’s Complicated playing from a scratched-up CD.

That CD had been a gift from Sarah—the wild-hearted twelve-year-old next door with a halo of curls and a grin full of mischief. She’d handed it to you like it was treasure, wrapped in a scrap of pink paper with your name spelled in glitter pen. Babysitting her had started off as a favor, a quick yes when your father mentioned that Joel Miller—Sarah’s dad—needed someone to help out now and then. You’d barely met Joel, only knew that he worked with his hands, often gone at odd hours, and that he carried the kind of quiet sadness you didn’t ask questions about.

You were a high school senior back then, just counting days until freedom. But somehow, that little girl made you want to stay.

Your evenings slowly stitched themselves into a patchwork of Disney marathons, popcorn burned in the microwave, Sarah’s giggles echoing through the halls of the Miller house. She’d curl up beside you, head resting on your shoulder like a sleepy kitten, cookies half-eaten and forgotten on the table. She became something sacred—a bond, a heartbeat, the closest thing to a sister you’d ever have.

Even after you left for college, you kept coming back. Not out of duty, but because her tiny arms still wrapped around your waist when you walked through the door. Because her eyes still lit up like fireworks when you pressed play on The Little Mermaid. Because somehow, she had become your person.

You leaned back in the cracked leather seat, your legs sticking to it, the AC making a sad attempt at survival. You shut your eyes and let Avril’s voice carry you, half-lost in memory and heat-induced haze, until a sharp knock on the passenger window startled you.

Sarah.

She was grinning, as usual—her curls pulled into a wild ponytail, a Popsicle in one hand, and a look that said she was up to something.

You rolled the window down. “What’s up, bug?”

She climbed in before you could stop her, dragging a wave of hot air in with her. “Dad said we could go get ice cream if you’re up for driving.”

“Did he now?”

“Okay, I might’ve said you were bored and needed to get out. Same thing.”

You shook your head, biting back a smile. She shoved the melting Popsicle into your hand and snapped on her seatbelt with dramatic flair. “Let’s go. Before it gets hotter. I think I saw a squirrel burst into flames on the sidewalk.”

You laughed and turned the key in the ignition. The engine coughed to life, the truck rumbling beneath you like an old beast waking from a nap. You caught sight of Joel on the porch as you pulled away—arms crossed, watching with that unreadable expression he always wore. You gave him a two-fingered wave. He nodded once, and that was enough.

Sarah chattered all the way to the ice cream place, asking about college, about whether you had a boyfriend yet (she asked this every time), and whether she’d be tall enough to ride the big coasters at the state fair this year. You let her talk, let her words fill the space like music.

When you finally parked in front of the ice cream shop, the sun had started dipping low, turning the sky into a hazy peach-orange watercolor.

Inside, the cool air hit like salvation. Sarah ran to the counter, already debating between cotton candy and cookie dough. You trailed behind more slowly, letting the change in temperature settle over your skin like a blessing.

As you waited, your phone buzzed in your pocket. A message from your dad:

“Joel asked if you’ll be home later. Said he could use help with something at the house.”

You stared at the screen for a second longer than you needed to. Joel didn’t ask for help. Not unless he meant it.

“What’s wrong?” Sarah looked up from her ice cream conquest.

You smiled. “Nothing. Just your dad being mysterious.”

She rolled her eyes. “He’s always mysterious. He builds things all day and listens to music no one understands.”

“Sounds like someone I know,” you teased.

“I’m not mysterious,” she said, scooping her choice—cookie dough, of course—into a bowl. “I’m an open book.”

You paid for the treats and led her outside to a metal bench half in the shade. The breeze had picked up slightly. It carried the scent of pavement, crepe myrtles, and something else—something you couldn’t quite name. Something shifting.

The sun was beginning to slip behind the rooftops by the time you and Sarah returned to the Miller house, both of you sticky from melted ice cream and heat. The air had that golden hue of a Texas evening—dust motes glowing in the sunlight, cicadas beginning their slow song. The drive back from the ice cream shop had been quiet, but not in a bad way. Sarah had rolled the window down and was humming absently to herself between licks of her cone. You stole glances at her in the rearview mirror. She looked tired but content, her face a little flushed, her curls sticking to her temples.

You knew something had shifted. She’d been quieter than usual on the ride back, a little distracted. Not sad, just somewhere far off in her head. You didn’t push it. You’d learned a long time ago that Sarah always circled back in her own time.

When you pulled into the driveway, Joel was out front, leaning against the porch rail with his arms folded, like he’d been waiting. He looked up as the truck came to a stop, one brow lifting slightly in a kind of wordless check-in. You gave him a nod, just enough to say she’s okay.

Sarah climbed out of the truck slowly and stretched. “I’m gonna shower,” she mumbled, already heading toward the front door.

“You eat dinner?” Joel called after her.

“Ice cream counts!” she shouted back, disappearing into the house.

Joel huffed something like a laugh, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. He scratched the back of his neck, eyes still on the screen door even after it swung shut behind her.

You shut the truck door and walked over to him. “Everything alright?”

He looked at you then, really looked. Not with panic, exactly, but something close. Hesitation. Worry. Maybe a little guilt.

“You got a minute?” he asked. “Need to run something by you.”

You nodded. “Yeah, sure.”

Joel gestured toward the backyard with a jerk of his chin. The porch boards creaked beneath his boots as you followed him through the kitchen and out the back door, into the thick, humid air. The sun was low now, bleeding orange across the fence line. Crickets had started up in the grass, and you could hear a neighbor’s sprinkler ticking faintly in the distance.

Joel didn’t speak for a while. He stood with his hands on his hips, staring out across the yard like it might offer him a script to read from. When he finally spoke, his voice was low and a little rough around the edges.

“Found somethin’ earlier,” he said. “In the bathroom. A, uh… towel. One of hers. Had blood on it…”

“Oh,” you said, gently. “Her period.”

He nodded, cheeks reddening, clearly trying to keep his voice level. “Yeah. That. She didn’t say a damn word to me. Just shoved a towel in the laundry like nothin’ happened and then asked if she could go out for ice cream. And I remembered… her mom used to—well, she always wanted something sweet on her bad days, so…”

You felt your chest warm. Not from the heat. From him. From this big, quiet man who looked like he could wrestle a bear but stood there now like a deer in headlights, wringing his hands over his little girl.

“She’s twelve,” he added, like that somehow made it more tragic. “I don’t… I didn’t grow up with sisters. Only Tommy. We were a disaster even on good days. I don’t know what to say, or how to—hell, I don’t even know what kind of… supplies she’s supposed to use.”

He fell quiet again, then sighed, long and slow. “I didn’t know who to call. I almost called Tommy, but you know, he’s as useless as I am when it comes to this kinda thing. So… I figured, maybe you’d know.”

There was something in the way he said it—maybe you’d know—that felt less like a request and more like a quiet surrender. Like this was his way of admitting he was scared, and he didn’t know how to say it out loud.

You stepped closer, your voice soft. “You did the right thing, Joel. Giving her space, getting her out of the house. That was smart.”

“She didn’t even tell me,” he muttered. “That’s what kills me. She used to come to me for everything. Now she’s just—dealing with it by herself. Like she had to.”

“She’s twelve,” you said gently. “She’s embarrassed. Doesn’t know how to talk about it. Maybe she’s scared you’ll think she’s different now.”

Joel blinked at that. “Why the hell would I think that?”

“Because that’s what girls worry about when they start this. That people will treat them differently. That their body’s changing and it makes things weird.”

He didn’t answer right away. His eyes were on the fence again. “Her mom used to say stuff like that. About how she hated how people treated her like she was fragile just ’cause she was bleeding.”

There was a rawness in his voice that hadn’t been there before. Not just nervousness—grief, too. That quiet, familiar ache of someone trying to parent without the other half of the puzzle.

“I’ll take her to the store tomorrow,” you said. “We’ll get her what she needs—pads, whatever she’s comfortable with. Maybe some tea. And chocolate. That always helps.”

Joel nodded slowly, like each word you said was another burden taken off his shoulders. “Thank you.”

You hesitated, then placed your hand lightly on his arm. “She’s not trying to shut you out. She’s just figuring it out in the only way she knows how.”

He looked at you then, really looked—tired, grateful, full of a quiet kind of worry that had nowhere to go.

“I feel like I’m messin’ it all up,” he admitted, so low you barely heard it.

“You’re not.”

“You sure?”

“I’ve never been more sure.”

A long silence settled between you. The kind that wasn’t awkward, just full. Full of the things left unsaid, of the weight of love and responsibility and the kind of fear that comes with being someone’s whole world.

Joel rubbed a hand over his face and huffed a short laugh. “You must think I’m pathetic.”

“I think you’re doing your best,” you said. “And that’s more than a lot of kids get.”

He let out a breath, slow and steady. Then, after a pause: “You’re good with her.”

“I love her,” you said. “She’s like a little sister to me.”

Joel looked at you again—something unreadable in his expression. Maybe surprise. Maybe something else.

“I’m real glad you’re still around,” he said quietly.

You smiled. “Me too.”

From inside the house, Sarah called out, “Are we watching a movie or what?”

Joel didn’t take his eyes off you, but there was something softer in them now. Something unguarded.

“I guess we’d better get in there,” he said.

“Yeah,” you said, letting your hand fall from his arm. “Before she starts without us.”

It was the first time you'd stayed this late at the Miller house. Usually, your evenings with Sarah ended around sunset—movie paused, cookies half-eaten, Joel pulling into the driveway with dust on his jeans and tired thanks in his eyes. But this time, things were different.

Sarah had asked you to stay. She’d clung to your arm, eyes wide and wheedling, and Joel, surprisingly, had said yes.

“I mean… if it’s no trouble,” he’d added, rubbing the back of his neck, trying not to meet your eyes.

You’d said it wasn’t. And you meant it.

Now, the three of you were gathered in the living room. The lights were dimmed, the TV humming with the opening credits of Holes. Sarah had insisted on it—“It’s a classic, don’t even argue”—and had spread every pillow and blanket she could find across the floor like a DIY fort.

She was nestled into the middle of it, legs tucked under her, one of Joel’s flannels hanging off her shoulders. You sat on the edge of the couch, nursing a soda, while Joel took the armchair, one ankle propped lazily over his knee.

The movie started, and for a while, it was all popcorn rustles and Sarah quoting her favorite lines before they even happened. Joel chuckled at her enthusiasm, and you found yourself watching them more than the movie—how Joel’s eyes softened every time Sarah laughed, how she leaned toward you like this was the most natural thing in the world.

Somewhere around the third lizard sighting, Sarah moved to sit on the couch between you and the armrest, leaning against your side like a sleepy cat. You didn’t even notice when her breathing evened out and her head rested on your arm.

Joel noticed though.

His voice came low, amused. “She out?”

You glanced down. “Dead to the world.”

“She’s like her mom that way. Could sleep through a tornado.”

It was the second time he’d mentioned her. His voice was gentle, a little distant, but not painful. Just remembering.

You both sat quietly for a while after that. The soft flicker of the movie lit his face in blues and golds. He looked… peaceful. More relaxed than you’d seen him at those neighborhood barbecues, where he always kept a beer in his hand and one eye on Sarah like he didn’t trust the world not to fall apart.

Now, she was here, asleep beside you. And you were here, beside her.

When the credits finally rolled, Joel stood up slowly, stretching with a soft groan.

“I’ll carry her,” he said, and you nodded.

He moved carefully, gently scooping her up in his arms. She stirred just enough to murmur your name and Joel’s, then went limp again against his chest.

You watched them disappear down the hallway, the quiet creak of her bedroom door closing like the final note in a lullaby.

When he returned, he found you curled up on the couch, clearly half-asleep yourself.

Joel stood there for a moment, just watching you.

He thought about waking you. He really did.

But then he sighed, rubbed a hand over his jaw, and muttered, “Alright then.”

A few minutes later, he was spreading a clean blanket over you in his room and stacking an extra pillow beside your head. He lingered there, eyes soft, before turning off the light and closing the door behind him.

The smell of coffee nudged you awake before sunlight did. For a few seconds, you lay still, half-dreaming, until the stiff cotton sheets and unfamiliar quiet reminded you—this wasn’t your bed. It was Joel's.

You blinked at the wooden beams above you, the smell of frying bacon drifting in through a barely-cracked door. Joel's room was neat but lived-in. The flannel shirt hanging off the bedpost, the guitar case by the closet, the worn boots by the door—it all felt very him.

You sat up slowly, pushing hair out of your face, squinting toward the hallway. It felt intimate in here. Like you were somewhere you weren't quite supposed to be. And yet, the warmth in your chest told a different story.

The floorboards creaked softly as you padded toward the kitchen, feet bare and cautious. Joel stood at the stove, t-shirt wrinkled, hair a little messier than usual. He was flipping bacon, one hand holding a spatula, the other nursing a coffee cup.

He turned when he heard you, and for just a second, there was something caught in his expression. Not surprise. Something softer.

"Mornin'," he said, voice low and a little scratchy.

"You gave me your bed?"

Joel shrugged, turning back to the stove. "You were out cold. Didn’t wanna wake you. Couch ain’t so bad."

You glanced over at the couch, then back at him. "That couch is shaped like a capital 'L'. No way your back's okay."

He smirked, sliding bacon onto a paper towel. "I'm tougher than I look."

You raised an eyebrow, settling onto a stool by the counter. "You mean grumpier."

Before Joel could reply, Sarah wandered in like a hurricane with the battery drained. She wore a hoodie zipped halfway and socks slipping down her heels. Her face was twisted in dramatic agony.

"It feels like a war zone in my gut," she moaned.

Joel tensed. "You need Tylenol? Heating pad?"

"I need ice cream," Sarah said. Then her eyes landed on you. "You're still here?"

You smiled. "Yep. Joel gave me his bed."

Sarah blinked. Then grinned like she’d just won a prize at the fair. "Ooooh."

Joel, behind her, quietly muttered, "Sarah."

She leaned in close to you like you were co-conspirators. "Did you sleep in, like, his bed? Like with the plaid sheets and the pillow that smells like sawdust and... man soap?"

You tried not to laugh. "That very one."

Sarah's eyes glittered. "I knew it! Dad always acts weird around you."

Joel nearly choked on his coffee. "Alright, that's enough. Go sit down."

Sarah plopped onto the couch, cradling a heating pad Joel must have already warmed up for her. Despite her cramps, she looked content. Radiant, even. You noticed her eyes drifting shut, the tiniest smile playing at her lips.

"We should probably go grab her a few things," you murmured to Joel.

He gave a quiet nod. "She said she used the last pad yesterday. I just... didn’t wanna get the wrong thing. Didn’t know there were fifty types."

You touched his arm lightly. "We’ll take care of it."

Just then, the back door creaked open with that familiar screech that only old hinges and a Miller brother could make.

"Hope I’m not too late for bacon," Tommy called, strolling in like he owned the place. He wore his Sunday-best version of casual: jeans, a button-up rolled to the elbows, and a grin that could get him out of any ticket.

Sarah brightened at the sound. "Uncle Tommy!"

"Hey, sweetheart," he beamed, ruffling her curls gently. "Heard you had a bit of a rough morning."

She held up a thumbs-up from under her blanket. "I’m surviving. Thanks to the ice cream and the guest star who stayed overnight."

Tommy's eyebrows shot up, and he turned to look at you, then Joel. "Guest star, huh?"

Joel stiffened where he stood. "She crashed after the movie. I gave her the bed."

Tommy leaned on the counter, eyes twinkling. "Your bed?"

Sarah giggled. "With the plaid sheets and the soap smell and everything!"

Joel let out a breath like he was trying not to combust. "Can y’all stop announcin' that to the whole neighborhood?"

Tommy laughed, clearly enjoying himself. "I’m just sayin’—breakfast smells like affection, and you’ve got your flannel lookin’ a little less grumpy today."

"She’s good with Sarah," Joel said gruffly, pouring another cup of coffee. "That’s all."

"Sure," Tommy said, nodding slowly. "And the way you’re hovering near her like a guard dog in flannel, that’s also ‘just good with Sarah’?" he whispered.

Joel shot him a warning glance, but Tommy only grinned wider.

"Uncle Tommy," Sarah said sweetly, suddenly conspiratorial, "do you think Dad has a crush?"

Joel nearly dropped his mug. You buried your face in your hands, laughing helplessly.

Tommy gasped theatrically. "Sarah! I think you might be right. Look at that blush—he’s turning redder than my truck!"

Joel groaned. "Jesus Christ, I should’ve stayed in bed."

"Too bad someone else was in it," Tommy teased.

Joel turned to you, his voice dry. "You wanna take her to the store now? Might be safer."

You, still laughing, nodded. "Before Sarah starts handing out wedding invitations."

Sarah waved a hand from the couch. "Too late, I already made a vision board."

Tommy threw his head back, howling. Joel just stared at the ceiling like it might open up and swallow him whole.

You grabbed your bag, still chuckling, and gestured to Sarah. "C’mon, let’s get you the fancy kind of pain relief. Maybe even a heating pad shaped like a llama."

Sarah sprang up with unexpected energy. "This is why you’re my favorite."

Joel muttered, "You weren’t sayin’ that when I was up at 2 a.m. gettin’ you ice water."

She kissed his cheek and skipped toward the door.

As the two of you left, you heard Tommy say behind you, "You know, I really am happy for you, big brother. But I’m gonna keep messin’ with you just the same."

Joel replied with a grunt, but his voice, softer now, said more than his words ever could.

He was grateful.

And he was in trouble.

The store's fluorescent lights buzzed faintly overhead as you and Sarah wandered down the aisle lined with shelves full of period products. The “feminine care” section was a riot of pastel colors, cryptic labels, and brands that somehow managed to sound both comforting and clinical.

Sarah stared up at them, arms crossed, mouth slightly open. "Okay, so... what's the difference between ultra-thin and ultra-thin with wings? Is it, like, flying powers?"

You snorted. "No flying powers, sadly. The wings just help keep things in place."

"Disappointing," she said with a sigh. "I was hoping for at least a little magic."

You crouched to scan the lower shelves. "Do you want the same kind you had last time, or do you wanna try something different?"

Sarah shrugged. "Whatever you think’s best. I trust your judgment. You’re clearly a seasoned professional."

You tossed a box into the basket. "The seasoned-est."

Sarah peeked up at you, slyly. "So... speaking of judgment."

You raised an eyebrow. "Uh-huh?"

"Do you like older guys?"

You blinked. "That’s... a jump."

She grinned, clearly proud of herself. "No it’s not. It’s an investigative segue."

You tried to stifle a laugh. "Sarah."

"What? I’m curious! You’re, like, a woman. With... grown-up tastes."

"You’re twelve."

"Exactly! I need mentorship."

You paused, holding a box of heating patches. "Is this about your dad again?"

"I mean, not entirely. But also: yes."

You gave her a look.

"I just think you two would be cute. You both make weirdly good pancakes. And when you were sleeping in his bed, I swear he was, like, standing in the hallway checking if you were still breathing. Like some kind of lumberjack angel."

You put the patches in the basket. "Lumberjack angel?"

"Don’t mock the poetry."

You walked toward the checkout, and she practically skipped after you despite the heating pad she clutched like a teddy bear.

"Okay but seriously—" she continued, lowering her voice dramatically, "—do you think he’s cute? Like, if he didn’t have the whole ‘dad’ thing going on?"

You sighed, amused. "Sarah, I’m not talking about your dad like that."

She smirked. "That means yes."

You gave her a mock glare as the cashier started scanning your items. Sarah, never missing a beat, leaned on the counter like she was discussing secret spy business.

"Also, Uncle Tommy said you could do better. I told him to hush. I think my dad is the best you’re gonna get."

"Wow. Brutal."

"I'm in pain. Let me live."

As you bagged everything up and started walking toward the exit, Sarah looped her arm through yours and leaned against you.

"Thanks for coming with me. It’s way less awkward with you. Dad would’ve had an existential crisis in the tampon aisle."

"I believe it."

"And also... thanks for not making this whole thing a big weird deal. I was really freaked out yesterday. Thought I was dying. You were cool about it."

You softened. "That’s what I’m here for."

She looked up at you, a little more serious now. "And I really hope you end up my stepmom. But, like, the hot kind."

You blinked. "SARAH."

She cackled. "What? Just planting seeds."

Outside, the sun was warm on your face. You shook your head, laughing as you loaded the bags into Joel’s truck.

And somewhere inside that little gremlin of a girl was the biggest heart you’d ever met. Even on her worst day, she was matchmaking and joking and holding your hand.

God help Joel.

He didn’t stand a chance.

The sun was angling low by the time you pulled back into the driveway, the kind of orange Texas glow that made everything look a little too golden and a little too unreal. Sarah was humming to herself in the passenger seat, clutching the drugstore bag like it held state secrets.

You climbed out of the truck, stretching, only to freeze halfway through.

Joel was out front, shirt sticking to his back in the heat, kneeling beside a crooked section of the fence. A small toolbox sat next to him, half-open, nails scattered in neat little rows. His shirt—dark blue and worn—was clinging to his frame in all the right places. Sleeves rolled up past his elbows. Forearms dusted in sawdust.

He looked up as you shut the car door, and for a moment, all you could do was blink.

“Hey,” he called, wiping the back of his hand across his forehead. “Y’all make it okay?”

Sarah jumped out of the truck and held up the bag. “We conquered the period aisle!” she declared, marching proudly inside.

Joel chuckled. “That so?” Then his eyes flicked to you, and something in them softened. “Thanks. For takin’ her.”

You nodded, but your voice caught somewhere in your throat. “Of course.”

He bent back down, hammer in hand, and you stood there a beat too long watching the muscles in his arm flex with each nail he drove in.

It’s just because of what Sarah said, you told yourself. That’s all. She put it in your head.

But that wasn’t entirely true. The man looked like a Calvin Klein ad shot in a lumber yard.

You forced yourself to turn toward the house before your brain made it worse.

Inside, Sarah was already curled up on the couch, heating pad in place, water bottle in hand, victorious and slightly smug.

Joel followed you in not long after, wiping his hands on a rag. He glanced at the clock, then at you.

“You hungry?” he asked. “I was gonna grill a few things for dinner. Nothin’ fancy.”

“Stay!” Sarah added immediately, perking up. “You helped today and you’re, like, family. Dad even makes real food when you’re here. It’s a rare event.”

Joel gave her a look but didn’t argue. His eyes landed on you again. “You’re welcome to. Honestly.”

You smiled. “Yeah. I’d like that.”

Joel grilled something—probably out of guilt for the frozen waffles breakfast. It smelled amazing. Burgers, seasoned fries, sliced watermelon, the works. You sat across from Sarah while Joel set everything out. Just as he was bringing over a dish of pickles, the back door swung open.

“Smells like a cookout for three, but I count four plates,” Tommy drawled, letting himself in like he always did. His jeans were too tight, shirt a little too fitted, like he was contractually obligated to flirt with the universe.

Joel gave him a side glance. “Don’t you have a house?”

“Sure do. But yours has food. And company.”

Tommy’s eyes slid to you, and his grin grew. “Well hey there.”

You smiled. “Hi, Tommy.”

Sarah rolled her eyes dramatically. “Don’t even, Uncle Tommy. She’s my best friend.”

Joel muttered, “God help me,” under his breath and passed you the ketchup.

Halfway through dinner, Tommy was in rare form. He elbowed Joel mid-bite. “So. When’s the last time you cooked like this for anyone?”

Joel didn’t look up. “Don’t start.”

“I’m just sayin’. I visit and get leftover chili. She visits and it’s gourmet.”

You were trying to hide your grin behind your water glass.

Tommy pointed his fork at you. “He always gets like this when you’re around. All tense and upright like he’s bein’ evaluated by the food network. You got the man sweating over burger seasoning.”

Joel groaned. “I swear to God, Tommy.”

Sarah giggled. “He did check the grill temp like, five times.”

You caught Joel’s eye. He looked exasperated, but his ears were red. Very red.

Tommy wasn’t done. “You know, Sarah’s got a good eye. She’s not wrong. This whole thing”—he gestured vaguely between you and Joel—“feels domestic.”

“Tommy,” Joel warned.

Sarah added, “We’re basically a sitcom now. One where the hot dad doesn’t know he’s in love.”

Joel dropped his head into his hands.

Tommy raised his glass. “To sitcoms. And slow burns.”

You didn’t know whether to laugh or run.

Joel caught your eye again. And this time, he didn’t look away.

It wasn’t a big party. That had never been your dad’s style. But the backyard looked sweet under the string lights he’d looped between trees, casting a soft gold hue over the old lawn chairs and the fold-out table covered in mismatched paper plates and bowls of chips. A CD player in the corner hummed the tunes of old country and early 2000s radio hits, the kind your dad thought “young people liked.”

You’d just turned 22. Most of your college friends were scattered across the state—too far to make it for a casual Sunday night cookout. So it was just a few neighbors, your dad manning the grill, and a soft breeze that hinted at the edge of summer’s peak.

Joel showed up just as your dad was tending to the barbeque, Sarah at his side, her curls bouncing in a way that made her look like she was floating toward you. She held out a card like it was a trophy.

“Happy birthday!” she beamed. “I made you a masterpiece.”

You laughed and took it carefully. The card was covered in glitter and tiny doodles: a birthday cake, a sparkly dinosaur wearing sunglasses, and a poorly drawn but heartfelt portrait of you, her, and Joel standing under a rainbow.

“I love it,” you said, genuinely. “I’m framing it.”

“Good,” she grinned. “It took me forty-five minutes and three glitter glue explosions.”

Behind her, Joel gave you a small smile. He was in a dark gray button-down rolled to the elbows and jeans that didn’t look new, but still somehow looked good. Really good. You’d never seen him dressed like this—like he tried, just a little. He was holding a six-pack of Shiner Bock and a small rectangular gift wrapped in brown paper and string.

"Happy birthday," he said, voice quieter. “Didn’t know what to get, so…”

He handed you the gift and scratched at the back of his neck.

You gave him a curious smile as you took it. “Should I open it now?”

He shrugged. “Up to you.”

You peeled back the paper. Inside was a well-worn copy of To Kill a Mockingbird. The corners were softened from age, and the inside cover had a note in Joel’s neat, deliberate handwriting:

“You mentioned this was your favorite once. Figured you should have a version that’s seen a few years too. —J”

For a moment, the backyard went quiet around you—music, chatter, all of it faded. You looked up and met his eyes. Warm. Kind. Embarrassed, maybe. But also something else. Like he saw you in a way that you hadn’t let yourself imagine too much.

“Thank you,” you said, and meant it more than he probably realized.

Sarah was watching the two of you with her arms crossed, smirking. “You two are so obvious.”

Joel cleared his throat and turned toward the food table. “Burgers should be ready soon.”

You followed, your cheeks flushed.

Later, after burgers and sides and Sarah’s overenthusiastic attempts to pin the tail on the inflatable donkey, which your dad found hilarious, the grill was cooling and the sky was a bruised violet. You were inside the kitchen, trying to find a knife that wasn’t dull to slice the birthday cake. Your dad had disappeared, muttering something about “checking the propane line,” which you were 99% sure was code for “giving you space.”

Joel came in behind you with a tray of empty cups. “Need a hand?”

You turned, knife in one hand, cake staring back at you. “Yeah. Unless you wanna watch me murder this thing.”

He smirked, stepping beside you. Close. His shoulder brushed yours as he reached for a stack of plates.

“What kind of cake is this, anyway?” he asked, leaning just enough to read the label on the box.

“Chocolate with strawberry filling. Sarah picked it out. Said it was ‘romantic birthday vibes.’”

Joel laughed softly. “That girl’s gonna run a matchmaking business one day.”

“She already is. We’re just her test subjects.”

You looked up to find him looking down, his eyes flicking to your mouth just for a second. Just a second—but it was enough to knock the air sideways in your lungs.

You turned back to the cake, hoping your hands weren’t shaking. You started to cut, and Joel leaned closer, one hand resting on the counter beside you.

“Need me to steady the plate?” he asked.

Your hands were a little clumsy, distracted by the warmth of him next to you. “Maybe. It’s a two-person job.”

He chuckled, and you could feel the laugh more than hear it—like it buzzed through the space between your arm and his.

Then—

“You guys are standing really close,” Sarah’s voice rang out behind you, making you jump. She was leaning on the doorframe with a smug little grin.

Joel jerked his hand away like he’d been caught stealing.

“I was helping,” he muttered.

“With cake?” Sarah raised an eyebrow.

“Cutting’s an art,” Joel said, deadpan, making her giggle.

You just shook your head and passed her a plate. She skipped off with her prize, leaving you and Joel blinking in the soft hum of the kitchen.

“Thanks,” you said after a beat. “For everything today.”

Joel nodded, still a little red around the ears. “Wasn’t much.”

“It was,” you said. “And the book… I mean it.”

He smiled, shy but genuine. “Glad you liked it.”

And then neither of you moved. The air hung between you like a stretched-out string.

Until Sarah called from outside, “We need cake now!”

Joel exhaled. “Duty calls.”

You followed him out, but something lingered behind in the kitchen—the warmth of him, the nearness, the feeling that this thing between you wasn’t just in your head anymore.

The backyard had emptied. The last of the neighbors had waved their goodbyes. The string lights were still glowing, bugs dancing lazily in their warmth. Your dad had gone to bed after mumbling something about “too many burgers, not enough bourbon,” and the house was quiet now — quiet in a way that left too much room for your thoughts.

You were in the kitchen rinsing out plates, the hem of your party dress damp from leaning too close to the sink, your hands wrinkled and smelling like lemon soap. There was half a chocolate-strawberry cake left, the one Sarah had insisted on, and somehow you couldn’t just toss it.

She would’ve protested. Loudly.

You dried your hands, boxed the leftover slices neatly, and stared at the little pink-and-brown cake box for longer than you needed to.

Your feet moved before you could talk yourself out of it.

It was pushing 10:30, but Joel’s porch light was still on, casting a dim halo around the faded welcome mat. You knocked lightly, the box balanced on your hip.

A few seconds passed. Then the door creaked open.

Joel stood there barefoot in gray sweatpants and a black T-shirt, looking tired in the way only dads could be — soft around the edges but still solid, still present. His hair was tousled, and he looked like he’d only just sat down for the night.

“Hey,” he said, surprised but not unhappy. “Everything alright?”

You held up the cake box like a peace offering. “Didn’t feel right keeping it. Sarah picked it. Thought she might want it.”

He stepped aside, motioning you in. “She would’ve. She’s at Tommy’s tonight, though. Asked to sleep over.”

You paused on the threshold, your heart thudding a little louder. “Oh.”

“Come on in,” Joel said gently. “You sure you’re okay?”

You nodded, stepping inside. The house smelled like clean laundry and cedar. Familiar and warm. Lived-in. You followed him into the kitchen and set the cake down on the counter.

Joel leaned against the doorway, arms crossed. “Long day?”

You smiled faintly. “Fun day. Weird, too. Turning twenty-two in your childhood backyard while your babysitting kid gives you love advice.”

Joel chuckled, eyes crinkling. “Yeah. She’s... somethin’.”

You leaned back on your elbows against the counter. The room was dim — just the small lamp over the sink on — and the silence was comfortable at first. But then it turned charged. He hadn’t moved. Neither had you.

Your gaze drifted. His jaw was stubbled, his hair slightly damp, like maybe he’d just taken a shower. He looked... good. More than good.

You caught him watching you back, just a second too long.

The moment thickened.

“I, uh,” you started, voice catching slightly. “I meant what I said earlier. About the book. It was... really thoughtful.”

Joel looked at you then — really looked — and whatever wall he’d been holding onto, the one made of age difference and neighborly boundaries and the awkwardness of being Sarah’s dad... it cracked.

He pushed off the doorway slowly, walked toward you, stopping just close enough to make your breath hitch.

“I’m glad you liked it,” he said softly.

The space between you was a livewire.

“I keep trying not to think about you like this,” you whispered, voice barely audible.

His jaw tightened — not in anger, but in restraint.

“Me too.”

You didn’t move. Neither did he.

Then — softly, carefully — Joel reached up and tucked a strand of hair behind your ear. His fingers brushed your cheek, lingered.

“You’re too young for me,” Joel said, the words barely more than a gravel-edged whisper.

You looked up at him, your chest tight, heart thudding in your throat. “I’m not a kid.”

His eyes darkened, like you’d struck a match in the middle of a dry field. He swallowed hard. “I know.”

The silence between you turned into something electric, something living. The only sound was the quiet hum of the fridge and your own uneven breathing.

Joel took a small step forward, just enough to close the last of the space. He stood so close you could see the flecks of gold in his eyes, the faint crease between his brows like he was warring with himself. His hand came up—slow, hesitant—and hovered near your face before he finally gave in and touched you. His thumb skimmed along your jaw, rough fingertips brushing the soft edge of your cheek.

“Been tryin’ real damn hard not to want this,” he said, voice ragged.

Your breath hitched. “Then stop trying.”

That was all it took.

He kissed you.

But it wasn’t soft. It wasn’t tentative. It was weeks, maybe even months of unspoken glances, quiet admiration, long nights with Sarah between you, laughter over coffee, shared space, and now, finally, just the two of you.

His mouth found yours like he’d already dreamed it. His hands were sure now, cupping your face, sliding into your hair, then down—down to your waist, your hips—pulling you flush against him. You made a quiet sound against his mouth and that undid something in him. He groaned, low in his throat, and kissed you deeper, lips parting, tongue brushing yours, slow and deliberate.

You didn’t realize you’d moved until your back hit the counter behind you. His hands braced on either side of you, caging you in but never pressing too hard. Just close. Just real.

You slid your fingers into his hair, damp from a shower or maybe just the heat of the night, tugging lightly. He leaned into your touch, one hand sliding beneath the hem of your shirt at your back—his palm hot against your skin, callused but careful. The contrast made your knees weaken.

When he finally pulled back, he didn’t move far. His forehead rested against yours, his breathing fast, uneven. You could feel his heart pounding through his chest, matching yours like a drumbeat in sync.

“I shouldn’t have done that,” he said again, but this time it sounded like a confession. A regret that wasn’t real.

“But you did,” you whispered, lips still tingling, hand still curled into his shirt like you couldn’t let him go just yet.

Joel’s eyes searched yours, something stormy flickering in their depths. “If you stay... if we do this... it ain’t casual for me. You understand that?”

You nodded slowly.

A beat passed. Then another.

His hand slid to your cheek again, and he kissed you once more—slower this time, a kind of reverence in it. His lips pressed to yours like he was trying to memorize the feel of you. Like he didn’t quite believe it was real.

When he pulled back again, there was a trace of a smile at the corner of his mouth. Tired. Hopeful. Hungry.

“You wanna stay?” he asked softly.

You looked at him, really looked. His bare feet on the kitchen floor. His hair mussed. That tiny crease between his brows. The way his eyes had gone soft, all guarded affection and barely restrained want.

“Yeah,” you said. “I do.”

Joel’s breath was still shallow when he stepped back just enough to look at you, like he was double-checking that you were still there, still real. You didn’t let go of him. Your fingers were still hooked into the front of his shirt, still pressing against the solid warmth of him.

His voice was quiet, low and careful. “If we go upstairs…”

“I know what I’m saying yes to,” you interrupted softly.

He hesitated, studying you like you were a question he’d never been brave enough to answer until now. But something in your face, in your voice, seemed to break whatever final restraint he was holding onto.

Joel nodded once.

Wordless, he took your hand.

The walk through the house was quiet, heavy with tension—not the awkward kind, but the kind that hummed in the air like a string pulled taut. Each step up the stairs felt like it carried weight. Anticipation. Choice.

His bedroom door creaked softly as he pushed it open.

In the dim lighting, it felt intimate. Lived-in but not messy. Clean but unpretentious. The scent of him lingered in the space—cedar soap and sawdust, fabric softener and something deeper, something unmistakably Joel.

He turned to face you in the doorway, fingers still twined with yours.

“You still okay?” he asked, voice rough, eyes searching yours like he was afraid to blink and miss something.

“Yes,” you whispered, breathless. “More than okay.”

Joel looked at you for a long moment. Then he leaned in and kissed you again — deeper this time, with more certainty, like the last of his resistance had slipped loose.

Your fingers slid into his hair, tugging gently, and he groaned softly against your mouth. He tasted like something rich and dark and slow. His hands roamed, reverent and careful, touching you like he was trying to learn you by feel — every curve, every sound you made under his fingertips.

When you gasped as his hand skimmed lower, he paused. “Tell me if you need me to stop,” he murmured into your skin.

You shook your head. “Don’t stop. Please, Joel.”

He kissed down your throat, down your chest, leaving a trail of warmth wherever his lips touched. Your back arched instinctively, your body aching to be closer. There was nothing rushed in the way he undressed you — every movement was measured, like he was unwrapping something he’d wanted for a long, long time but never thought he’d be allowed to have.

And when you were bare beneath him, laid out in the soft hush of his bedroom, you felt more seen — more wanted — than you ever had before.

“You’re so goddamn beautiful,” Joel murmured, his hand brushing along your waist, your hip, your thigh. “Don’t even know what you’re doin’ to me.”

You reached for him, found the hem of his shirt, and he let you lift it up and over his head. He was solid and warm and real beneath your palms, and when you kissed down his chest, he hissed through his teeth — a sound that made heat curl deep in your stomach.

The rest came off piece by piece — not rushed, but not slow either. Just… inevitable.

And then he was over you again, skin to skin, his weight pressing you into the mattress, grounding you. His nose brushed yours, like a silent request.

You cupped his cheek. “I want this. I want you.”

He kissed you again — not soft this time, but sure, open, claiming. His hand slipped under your thigh, lifted you to him, and you felt him press against you, heavy and warm.

You both gasped as your bodies joined — not all at once, but slowly, carefully, like you were fitting puzzle pieces together. Like your bodies already knew the rhythm even if the rest of you hadn’t caught up yet.

Joel’s breath stuttered as he sank fully into you, and for a moment, he just held there — his forehead against yours, both of you trembling, trying to hold on.

“Jesus,” he whispered. “You feel like heaven.”

You didn’t have the words to answer. Just the way your hands clung to him, the way your body opened for him, welcomed him in.

He moved slowly, deliberately — not just fucking you, but feeling you, like this meant something. Like he was afraid to miss it.

And you met him, movement for movement, every breath shared, every sound caught in the dark like a secret.

There was something tender in the way he whispered your name when you cried out his — something reverent, like he couldn’t believe he was allowed to have you like this. And when your body tightened around him, shuddered beneath him, he caught you through it, kissed your cheek, your mouth, your neck — whispered that you were perfect, that you were his.

He followed soon after, his voice breaking into a groan as he pressed as deep as he could, shaking with the force of it, with everything he’d been holding back.

When it was over, he didn’t move far. Just enough to roll you gently to your side and pull you close, your bodies still tangled together, still warm and slick with each other.

You felt him kiss your shoulder, then your neck. “You okay?” he asked again, voice softer than ever.

“Yeah,” you murmured. “Joel…”

He pulled you tighter. “I got you, baby. I got you.”

You tucked your face into the space between his neck and shoulder, listened to his heartbeat.

And that’s how you stayed — wrapped in warmth, in quiet, in something neither of you were ready to name, but both of you felt all the same.

Inside the small room, the air is stale. The kind of stillness that clings to corners after something’s died there. You don’t breathe too deep.

It’s there that you make your first real mistake.

The mirror is fractured—cracked like old teeth—and your reflection spills out in pieces. You catch yourself only in shards: the bloom of a bruise beneath your jaw, blood dried in a trail from temple to cheek, and your eyes—

Too wide. Too dark. Too gone.

Not your eyes. Not anymore.

What stares back is something emptied out. Hollowed. A marionette with the strings torn loose and her face still painted sweet. A shell in a girl’s shape.

And then the cabinet.

The shelves inside are lined. Careful. Clean. Toothbrushes still in their packaging. A razor. Pads and tampons sealed tight in Ziploc. As if waiting.

As if meant.

Joel hadn’t found these here. You know that.

He’d brought them.

He'd stolen them. From Jackson. From Maria, likely.

Your gut turns, sharp and sour. You sink down onto the toilet seat, hands trembling on your knees. You want to throw up. Or scream. Or claw at something until it breaks.

And that’s when you see it.

The window.

Not quite sealed. Nailed, yes—but loose in the frame. One corner shifts if you push just right. It’s small. But you’ll fit. You'd make it work.

You don’t think. You move.

As you walk up to it, you shove your shoulders against the frame, slowly trying to open it. It was small, but not impossible to think you could fit through and escape this place.

Hands wedge against the frame, arms braced. The cold hits your face and it tastes like freedom, bitter and thin. You grunt, push, drag yourself through—but the wood groans beneath your weight, and before you can even lift your legs—

He’s behind you.

No sound. No warning. Just there.

One arm catches your waist, the other braces your wrist, too tight. You twist, push, shove—but the world tilts and suddenly you’re on the floor, gasping.

Pain lashes through you—sharp, twisting. The bandages tear open, and blood slithers out slow, curling across the gauze like a snake waking in the cold. It coils red against the white, deliberate and mean.

Your scream is ragged. Pain and rage and shame braided into one torn sound.

Joel kneels. Not over you. Beside you. Quiet.

“I told you it was safer here,” he says. Not shouting. Not angry. Just… tired.

Resigned.

He doesn’t touch you now.

Just looks at the blood.

“Look what you did.”

He says it like you did it to yourself.

He takes you back into the main room. Shirt gone, chest half-wrapped in a bloodstained towel. Your arms tremble from the cold—or maybe something colder. Joel crouches in front of you, dragging the first aid tin open with reverent fingers, like he’s handling the last relic from a ruined chapel. He pulls gauze from its curled ribbon like it means something.

Like it’ll fix what’s already rotting.

He pours moonshine into the bowl, the harsh scent thick and bitter in your throat. The fabric soaks in it, limp and heavy between the rough pads of his fingers.

Then—he just sits there.

Staring at the wound like it’s mocking him. Like it speaks for you.

You want to scream. You want to claw at his face, rip into his quiet like it might bleed. You want to make him look at what he did.

But your body won’t obey.

When he touches you, it’s with unnatural care. Like he’s afraid you’ll shatter under him. Like you already have.

The burn hits slow, then sears deep. You flinch, hiss through your teeth. Joel’s hand clamps gently but firmly over your shoulder. “I ain’t gonna hurt you more,” he mutters.

It sounds like a lie he’s told before.

You hate how delicate he is. How his hands, capable of breaking bones and splitting skulls, move like he’s threading a needle. How he won’t meet your eyes, as if you’re too bright or too ruined.

It’s worse than cruelty.

It’s pity.

You’re frozen. Hollow.

"You did this to me," you whisper, voice raw with pain. I lose a shaky breath, fingers digging into the dusty couch cushions.

"You say you care—but how do you hurt someone you care about? Do you get off on shooting those you care about? Does it make you feel righteous?"

It doesn’t land the way you hope. The pain drains your voice, leeches the venom. The sting in your side steals your breath and with it, your rage.

I look down to his kneeling form. Watch how his face twitches and his eyes become troubled. Something bothers him. His grip on my arms became more rigid, fixed.

“We're heading to Idaho,” he says finally, voice low, gravel thick with something that might be regret or just memory. “Small town there, Swan Valley. ’Bout sixty-five miles west. Empty. Safe.”

He shifts his weight, knees creaking like old timber, but doesn’t stand. Doesn’t leave.

You listen to the sounds around you instead. The low creak of his boots against the floor. The scrape of fabric. His breath.

“We walk fifteen miles today,” he continues, quieter now. “Snake River Canyon. We’ll rest near the ridge.”

"...Why are you telling me?" you murmur. "I could run."

He looks at you for this time.

"You can try." His voice flattens. “But you won’t last long. You’re safer with me. You're better off with me. That’s just the truth.”

His voice has an edge to it, like the burden of his choices is being grounded into the rumble of his voice. His grip stays tight—just tight enough to remind you he could make it worse. Just tight enough to remind himself he hasn’t let go.

Still, when he’s done, you’re bandaged tighter. Cleaner. Warmer.

You can feel your blood staying where it’s supposed to.

He stands, back turned. Like that means anything.

“Put your shirt on,” Joel mutters.

And you do.

Slowly. Fingers stiff. Mind numb.

Like a dog trained to heel.

The road west is bone-white with dust. Asphalt cracked and buckled, like the earth itself has been trying to tear free of what humanity left behind.

Fifteen miles. That’s what he told you. What he promised.

A day’s hike, he said.

What he meant was suffering.

Joel watches you limp across broken gravel, one arm still wrapped tight against your ribs. He keeps close, too close—his shadow swallowing yours up whole. Your boots are too big, a pair he scavenged from a dead man’s truck. The laces flap like tongues. You haven’t spoken since the shed.

But you haven’t tried to run, either.

That’s something.

He thinks about this morning. The quiet way your eyes didn’t meet his as you buttoned your shirt. The way your skin flinched under his hands while he cleaned the wound again. So careful. Too careful.

There was a moment—brief, ridiculous—where Joel thought you might have looked at him like he was human.

He tells himself it was guilt. That’s all. Remorse twisting his gut into something like love.

But the truth is meaner: it’s because your skin felt warm under his fingers. Because when you hissed in pain, he felt something ancient rise in his throat. Not pity. Not even shame.

Possession.

He pushes the thought away like smoke in his eyes.

By midafternoon, the road curves through the corpse of a collapsed gas station. Highway 26 stretches long ahead, a line of sun-bleached cars and rust-choked semis. Joel glances at the horizon—nothing. Still.

Too still.

He carves a path ahead of you like he’s done it a hundred times—through the rustbone skeletons of cars, the ivy-strangled bones of the old world. Every step he takes is certain, deliberate. He moves like a man made for this ending. Like he was waiting for it all along.

You trail behind him in silence, eyes tracing the loaded stillness in his shoulders, the way his boots land without hesitation. He doesn’t speak, doesn’t look back to see if you’re following. He doesn’t need to.

This is his domain. Ruin. Collapse. The death of things.

You move like a ghost behind him, quieter now. Watching.

And then, abruptly, he halts. One foot on a crushed bumper, body gone still as stone. He tilts his head—not to listen, but to scent. Chin raised like a hound in thick woods.

He confuses you. Everything about him is contradiction: brute and caretaker, executioner and guide.

Then it hits.

The stench.

Sour. Metallic. Copper under the tongue. And something else—something sweeter, wronger. Like fruit left too long in the heat.

Rot blooming open.

He doesn’t turn to you, but you already know. They’re near.

And something in him is waking up to meet them.

Not a second later, you hear it shriek. Something between a scream and a howl, bone-dry and furious. You don’t even have time to speak. They're already coming.

They pour from the ruins of the diner across the street—four, six, nine of them. One missing half a jaw. One dragging its entrails like a wedding veil. One with a child’s shirt stretched over its bloated, man-shaped form.

You freeze. He sees it in your eyes.

Joel doesn’t.

Then chaos swallows you.

He moves first. Quicker than you’ve ever seen. Not like a man—like something torn loose from restraint, all sharp edge and intention. One shot cracks through the air, and the first infected drops like a puppet with its strings cut.

But the others keep coming.

You stumble back instinctively, ribs screaming with every jolt of movement. The pain knocks the air from your lungs, but you don’t get time to cry out. Joel’s already dropped the rifle. The machete flashes in his grip, gleaming wet.

He doesn’t fight clean.

He doesn’t fight like someone trying to survive.

He fights like someone trying to erase the world.

You watch the blade bury in one skull, then rip free with a wet snap. The body folds. Another infected lunges from the side—you don’t even see it until it’s too close. You flinch, too slow, but Joel’s there. His boot shatters its knee backwards and the machete takes its jaw clean off.

Blood hits your face.

You gasp. Choke. Stumble. The cars around you blur—windows flashing sun and shadow, broken glass underfoot.

Something grabs your arm.

You scream, flailing weakly, but your body won’t hold you up. You hit the ground hard, head swimming. Another infected barrels toward you, shrieking, face split by fungal rot.

Then Joel is there again—behind it, not in front.

He grabs a handful of its hair and slams its face into the fender of an old truck.

Once.

Twice.

Three times.

Until there’s nothing left but wet noise.

You can’t move. Can’t breathe.

Everything rings.

Joel stands over what used to be a man, panting, the machete dripping gore like it’s crying. His shirt clings to him with blood and sweat. His jaw is clenched, eyes scanning, wild, animal.

He turns toward you, panting, chest rising like a man possessed.

Not rushing—just watching.

Like checking if you're still real. Still breathing.

The sun glints off the wet edge of the blade.

He looks like something made for this. Not a protector. A punishment.

And yet—

You don’t back away.

You look at him. Really look at him. His eyes are blown wide, but not wild. His hands twitch, but they’re not reaching for you.

Something shifts. In you. In him.

Not safety.

Something worse.

You’re not as afraid now.

Joel sees it. Feels it like a heat in his ribs.

You’re watching him not like prey anymore—but something else. Something new. Something confused and dark and dangerous.

You stand still as he wipes blood from his face with a trembling hand.

He doesn’t speak. Doesn’t say what he’s thinking.

But the thought is there.

Whatever’s left of you, it’s his now. And whatever’s left of him— He’ll give it.

Even the rot. Especially the rot.

The Snake river murmurs beside you like it’s trying to forget something.

It’s late. You reached your destination for today without any other suprises after the previous infected attack.

The trees lean in overhead, black silhouettes with fingers for branches, and the moon cuts its way through the dark like a knife. Smoke curls from the fire Joel built, thick and fragrant, clinging to your clothes like grief. The rabbit he caught hisses in the pan, skin crisping, flesh pale and steaming. He doesn’t speak as he cooks—just watches the flames. Always watching something.

You sit across from him, legs curled under you, your bandaged side aching with every shift. The ache reminds you you’re still here. That you're still his.

He offers you the first bite. You take it.

Warmth spreads in your belly. It feels strange, to be fed like this. Not just handed food. Fed. Looked after. It unsettles more than it soothes.

You swallow, then ask, quiet, “That thing you did. Back on the road.”

He doesn’t lift his head.

“The way you… fought.”

Joel chews, slow. He doesn’t answer right away. His eyes are on the fire, reflecting back red.

You keep going. You don’t know why. Maybe it’s the firelight, maybe it’s the fatigue. Maybe it’s the twisted thread tightening between you, pulled taut since that first shot. “I’ve never seen someone kill like that.”

He finally looks at you, and it’s like being seen through. Like you’re a pane of glass and he’s measuring the cracks.

“I’ve had practice,” he says.

“That’s not what I meant.” You shift closer, slowly. Testing the heat of him. “You weren’t scared.”

Joel doesn’t blink. “Didn’t have time to be.”

“Is that who you are?” you whisper. “The man with the machete?”

He’s silent.

But his hand flexes near his boot, where the weapon lies clean now, wiped and resheathed. Reverent, almost. Like it’s earned a rest.

“No one in Jackson knew anything about you,” you murmur. “Not really. Tommy talked like you were a shadow. Even he didn’t know where you’d been.”

Joel lifts his eyes again. “And now you want to?”

“I don’t know what I want.”

That’s true. You don’t. But you know you’re colder when he’s not near. You know his violence didn’t frighten you—not really. Not after he stood between you and those things like it meant something.

He thinks you’re bending.

That the blood softened you. Cracked you just enough for something else to leak in. He watches you differently now, like he’s waiting for the moment your mouth stops curling in defiance. Waiting for the shift. Like it’s inevitable.

Maybe it is.

Maybe it’s already happened.

You stare at him across the fire, and for one sick second, you can’t remember what it felt like to hate him without question. That fury—bright and raw and righteous—now sits dulled in your chest, like a weapon you no longer remember how to wield.

He shifts, just barely. A small thing. But it makes your stomach turn.

His voice is sandpaper when he speaks. “Thought if I kept quiet long enough, you’d never ask.”

Your throat tightens. “Ask what?”

He doesn’t meet your eyes. His gaze drips down to the fire, where the flames chew on a blackened log. “Because if you knew who I was, you wouldn’t be here.”

Something in your chest twists.

You should scream at him. You should run. You should throw the half-eaten rabbit into the dirt and claw your way back to Jackson with your bare goddamn hands. But your legs won’t move. Your arms are dead weight. And the words just… don’t come.

You look at him—really look—and he seems smaller. Not physically. Something else. Like a man hollowed out from the inside and walking around wearing his own skin like a disguise.

You should be afraid. And you are.

But not of him.

Of you.

“I am here,” you whisper, slow. “You brought me here.”

His head tips just slightly, like he heard something in your voice he didn’t expect. Like a crack spreading through ice. His face doesn’t change, but something flickers underneath it. Something old. Something rotten.

He doesn’t smile. Doesn’t reach for you.

He doesn’t have to.

Because you’re still sitting there. You haven’t moved.

And that silence between you—it isn’t peace. It’s surrender, dressed up in stillness.

You chew slowly. Taste nothing.

The rabbit goes down like ash.

When he lays out the blankets later, he places them closer. The gap is smaller now. Measured in inches, not feet.

And when you lie down, facing the wall of trees, you don’t move away.

You tell yourself it’s to stay warm.

You tell yourself it’s survival.

But when your eyes close, it’s his voice that you hear in the dark— low, steady, and too close to the place where your hatred used to live.

A/N: I love these two freaks aaahhhhhh

Which, maybe, he did.

She’s sleeping now. Still breathing. He counted—forty-two times in the last minute. Shallow but steady. That’s good. That’s real good.

The cot creaks when he moves. He sits in the corner of the shed, back pressed against the wall, rifle across his lap. He hasn’t blinked in what feels like hours. Doesn’t trust the dark to stay still. Doesn’t trust his hands not to tremble. One of them is still stained—just a little—with her blood.

Not the way he wanted this.

Not the way it was supposed to go.

He hadn’t planned to hurt her. Hell, he wanted to protect her. She reminded him too much of—

Don’t say her name. Don’t you say it.

He rubs at his temple, skin already raw from doing that too often. Tries to slow his breathing.

It wasn’t supposed to go like that. She was smart. She would’ve understood, eventually. Jackson wasn’t safe. Not for people like them. Not with Tommy poking around, always asking questions, always needing things to be neat, fair, moral.

Tommy didn’t get it. None of them did.

She looked at him like he wasn’t a monster. Not at first. She saw something else. He was sure of it. And when she spoke to him, it was like he was human again.

But then she started pulling back. Asking too many questions. Watching him with that same suspicion he saw in her friends. Like he was gonna snap any minute. Like he didn’t know what he was doing.

And then he heard them. In town.

Dina whispering. Jesse’s voice too close.

“She might talk to Maria.”

“She might go to Tommy.”

“She’s afraid.”

He saw it playing out before it happened. Always does. Like some goddamn filmstrip rolling behind his eyes.

Tommy would drag her in. Maria would pull her aside. Then what? They’d take her from him. Lock him up. Kick him out. Make him leave again.

And he doesn’t do that.

Not anymore.

So he acted. Before they could.

A mistake. A misfire. He meant to scare her. Meant to stop her from leaving.

Instead he nearly—

No.

Doesn’t matter now.

He cleaned the wound. Stitched it. Held her hand through the fever. Even sang a little under his breath that first night, like he used to. She didn’t wake. Didn’t move.

But she stayed.

That’s what matters.

He looks over at her now, curled under the quilt, face pale but calm. Her brow furrows like she’s dreaming something hard. He hopes it’s about him.

Tomorrow, they’ll leave this shed. It’s too close to Jackson. Too close to Tommy.

They’ll hike upriver. Over the ridge. He knows a spot—a cabin, half-rotted but standing. No one goes that way anymore. He’ll fix it up. Make it safe. Cozy, even.

She’ll heal better out there. And in time—well. She’ll understand. She’ll come to see it.

He’ll treat her right. He already has. Cleaned her wounds. Kept her warm. Kept her safe.

That’s what love is, isn’t it?

She just don’t know it yet.

The boys her age wouldn’t know how to keep her alive in a storm, let alone in this world. All soft hands and loud mouths, eyes always looking for the next thing. She needs something real.

Needs him.

Eventually, she’ll come around. He can feel it, deep in his chest like a promise.

You treat a girl right, keep her safe, hold her when the nights get long—what else is there?

She won’t want to leave.

She won’t need anyone else.

And if someone ever comes?

If some man so much as looks at her?

Joel shifts his grip on the rifle.

No one will.

Because he’s gonna take her somewhere they’ll never find.

And this time, he won’t lose her.

Not like her.

Never again.

You wake to the sound of riverwater running nearby.

And birds. Distant, mournful. Like they know something you don’t.

Everything hurts. Your side throbs like a slow drumbeat, and your throat feels scraped out. For a moment, you think you’re still in the woods—that the pain, the blood, the heat in your gut—it was all some nightmare you got lost in.

But then you feel the bandages. Tucked tight. Clean.

You blink hard, and the world comes into focus in thin, brutal slices. Wood beams above you. Rust on nails. A single lantern, flickering in the corner. Dust motes hang like little ghosts in the air. The cot you’re on groans when you shift, and then it hits you—sharp, slicing pain tearing through your middle like something fresh and alive.

You gasp. A half-formed scream chokes in your throat. Your hand flies to your side and lands on fabric—your jacket’s gone. You’re in someone’s shirt. Too big. Smells like oil and old leather.

His.

You sit up too fast. The world swims. Your vision tunnels and goes black at the edges. The pain nearly folds you in half.

“Easy.”

The voice is slow, low.

You look toward the sound—and there he is.

Joel.

Sitting on an overturned crate in the doorway, like he’s been there for hours. Elbows on knees, hands loose between them. Not moving. Not blinking. Like a stone pretending to be a man.

“Where the fuck—” Your voice is hoarse, dry. It burns. “Where the fuck am I?”

He doesn’t answer right away. Just watches. His eyes drift across your face like he’s checking for something, some crack or signal.

You push yourself back against the wall behind the cot, your breath coming short. “You shot me, you sick bastard!”

“I patched you up.” His voice is flat. Like it’s just another fact, like he’s explaining a weather report.

You throw the blanket off—instinct, panic—and immediately regret it. The wound howls. You scream, raw and involuntary, but you’re still trying to get up, to stand, to run if you can, even if it means crawling with broken ribs.

He rises slowly.

“Don’t,” you say, voice splintering. “Don’t come near me. Don’t you fucking touch me.”

Joel stops. Two feet away, maybe less. A shadow, a wall. You feel small and shaking and ruined.

“You need to rest,” he says.

“I need to get the fuck away from you,” You whispered.

You hate how your voice wavers, how weak it sounds. You wish you were stronger, louder, someone else.

He doesn’t move. Doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t even look angry. Just quiet. Watching you like a puzzle he’s still working out.

“I couldn’t let you go,” he says after a while, like that explains it. Like that fixes anything.

“You shot me, Joel.”

“I aimed low.”

The tears come fast, hot, stupid. You’re not crying because you’re weak. You’re crying because you’re furious. Because this is hell and he’s standing in the middle of it like he belongs.

“You don’t get to do this,” you whisper. “You don’t get to decide for me. You have to let me go.”

He says nothing. Just studies you with that dead stare that used to pass for concern. You try to read him—to find guilt, regret, anything, but it’s like staring into stone.

You realize then: he feels something. He must. But it’s buried. Twisted. Mangled into a shape that looks nothing like love, but thinks it is.

“I hate you,” you spit. “I hate you more than anything.”

Joel’s jaw twitches. Barely.

Then, calm as ever: “You’ll feel different, soon.”

He turns away. Picks up a tin cup from the table. Pours water.

“You’re gonna eat. Rest. Then we move. You need to heal up first.”

“Move where?” you snap. “What the fuck does that mean?”

But he doesn’t answer.

He just sets the cup down on a crate beside your cot and walks to the doorway again. Sits. Rifle in his lap. Back to watching.

As if that’s all he has to do.

As if this is normal.

As if you're already his.

He never meant to hurt her.

That lie scratches in Joel’s skull like a rusted nail as he feeds dry bark into the wood-burning stove. The flame catches slow, reluctant—then blooms too fast, too hot, like it’s hungry for something it shouldn't have. Like it knows what he’s done. What he’s still doing.

He told you it would be warm here. Safer. A sanctuary, pulled from the bones of an old world rotting beneath the trees.

A lie, too.

The flame flutters. He closes the stove door soft, as if gentleness could erase the wound under your ribs. You’re in the back room now. Sleeping, he hopes.

Though he knows better than to hope.

He checks the bolt on the door again. The steel clicks loud in the hush.

Not to keep you in.

That’s what he tells himself, again and again.

It’s for the wolves. The raiders. The rot of this world.

Not for you.

Not because you’d run if you could.

Because of course you would.

He sits on the porch with his rifle across his knees, watching the trees. The pines loom tall and skeletal in the moonlight, all ribs and shadows and crooked limbs. The river hums a low dirge just out of sight, its voice cracked and endless.

His hands twitch. They were made for building, once. For holding. Now they shake when they’re empty. And all that’s left to hold is memory—and that’s heavier than any steel or stock.

He hears you through the wall.

Crying.

A thin, broken sound. Not loud. Not wild. Just worn. Like something unraveling.

Like something giving up.

He doesn’t go to you. Doesn’t speak. He listens. Soaks it in like penance. Like letting your grief wash over him might baptize what’s left.

I aimed low, he’d told you. Like that absolved him.

Like mercy and madness were just a matter of angle.

When the crying stops, the silence howls.

He waits an hour before going back inside. Long enough for your grief to dry on your face. Long enough for his to settle into bone again.

The lantern’s still lit, trembling against the walls. The lock on the door groans into place with a finality that sounds like coffin-lid. He tells himself it’s precaution.

But the truth hisses in the back of his mind like a wound that won’t clot.

It ain’t the world he doesn’t trust.

It’s you.

You, with your sharp eyes and younger bones and all the chances he never had.

You, with your voice that’s still yours.

And you will stay. You have to.

He glances toward the bed. You’re curled against the wall, thin and pale and stubborn even in sleep. Like something that still believes in doors opening.

Your fingers are tight against the bandage. Like you might reach inside and tear it out yourself.

Joel stares too long.

He hates the blood. Not just yours—his, too. The part he poured into you without meaning to. Like a curse handed down, generation to generation.

He lays down on the couch. Stiff. Cold. Not too close. Never too close.

The fire moans low in its iron cage.

He watches the ceiling. Counts the knots again.

One for every sin. One for every time he blinked and lost someone.

You’ll learn.

He’ll teach you to take, to shoot, to endure. He’ll give you what the world won’t.

One day, maybe, you’ll look at him with something that isn’t hate.

Something like need.

Like love, if there’s still such a thing.

You’ll see what he’s done for you. You’ll thank him.

He has to believe that.

Because if you don’t—if you spit his name like poison, if you look at him the way Sarah did when the light left her eyes—

He’s already halfway dead.

And if you leave, what’s left will follow.

Because you’re breathing in that room. And that’s the only thing keeping him human. The only thing left to burn.

You wake too still.

The air’s close—thick with the scent of smoke, damp wood, and coffee boiled down to tar in an old tin pot. It clings to your skin. Crawls into your lungs. Smells like rot and something older than fire.

You don’t move at first. Just breathe. Slow. Listening.

The river’s still out there, a low murmur past the wall. The stove ticks behind you—metal shrinking back into itself, full from a long night of burn. And under all of it, you hear the sound that unthreads your spine:

Humming.

Low. Tuneless. A man’s voice, just above a whisper. Not cheerful. Not anything like that.

Just steady.

You open your eyes.

The shed is small. Smaller than you remember from the night before. Wood warped from years of rain. One window, nailed halfway shut with rust-bitten hinges. A cot under you. Quilt tucked to your chin like a child’s, and that makes your stomach twist. Someone did that.

He did that.

Your eyes cut sideways to the couch across the room. Blankets there. Rumpled.

He slept right there.

Right by the door. Right by you.

Every part of you tenses. Blood under the bandages surges like it remembers who put it there. You’re aching deep—ribs, shoulder, jaw—but none of it hurts as much as the thought of being watched while you slept.

Your mouth tastes like copper and bile. You swallow it back.

And then you see him again.

Bent over the pan near the stove, sleeves rolled up, one hand steadying the cast iron while the other stirs. There’s something wrong with the sight of it—something warped. A man like that shouldn’t move gently. Shouldn’t cook. Shouldn’t hum.

But he does.

Not soft. No, never soft. Just… deliberate. Every motion carved from stone.

He doesn’t turn when he speaks.

“You're up.”

Flat. Not warm. Not cold. Just there. Like a wall.

You don’t answer.

He doesn’t ask again.

You sit up, slow. Pain lances through your side and back, but you don’t let it show. You don’t let him see it.

He plates the food. Eggs—powdered maybe, or stolen. Half a tomato. A heel of hard bread. Meat you don’t recognize. A lot of it. Too much. All for you. He makes a second plate—smaller. Sparse.

He slides yours across the table, closer. Doesn’t speak.

“Eat.”

That one word hits like a slap.

You don’t move.

He leans against the far wall, arms crossed. Watching you like you’re a wire stretched too tight. Waiting to see where it snaps. His face is carved in quiet judgment. Not cruel. Just worn. Like he’s already seen the worst and is just waiting for you to realize it too.

The plate steams.

Your stomach twists. Not from hunger—something else. Something meaner. More primal. Like defiance. Like grief.

But your hand still reaches for the fork.

Stupid.

It clinks against the tin plate.

Joel doesn’t speak. Doesn’t move. Just watches.

And for one flicker of a second—just one—his face shifts. Not a smile. Not a frown. Something in between. Something lonely.

Then it’s gone again.

Like it never happened.

You felt it run down your hands, thick and slow, red like the pulp of summer cherries.

The Jackson summer heat had gotten to your head and melted what little joy the cherry preserve on your biscuit had left. You let the sticky mess drip down your fingers, past your wrists, down to the elbow. A small red puddle formed on the old wooden picnic table. It looked like a heart. A mangled, beat-up one. Fitting.

Someone was playing an old record of Linda Ronstadt through the loudspeakers. The kind of music that stuck to your ribs like warm soup. The clinking of plates and the chatter of the crowd at the community kitchen blended into a comforting hum. Dina, never one to run out of things to say, was deep into her third story about a fight that broke out during patrol rotations.

“Whole damn thing started over a pair of boots,” she huffed.

It was the first week after final assessments for new recruits. Dina had insisted you celebrate at the mess hall’s picnic area. Jesse and Ellie had argued you should go out on a longer patrol near the lookout tower—make it a camping trip. But Dina wouldn’t budge.

“I didn’t survive clickers and math evaluations to eat jerky on a log,” she’d said.

You couldn’t even be mad. The shade was kind, the food was warm, and Dina’s ranting was familiar comfort.

“I heard the Tipsy Bison’s got live music tonight,” Ellie said, strumming lightly on a half-strung guitar. She wasn’t even trying to be subtle about tuning it for attention.

“Didn’t peg you for a bar kind of girl, Ellie.” Jesse raised a brow, teasing.

“She’s not,” Dina grinned. “But she heard about the new guy.”

That caught your attention.

“What new guy?” You asked

“You know Maria’s husband, Tommy?” Dina leaned forward like a coiled spring ready to explode gossip. “Apparently, Tommy's older brother showed up some time ago. Just wandered in from one of the outer settlements. Lookin’ to trade work for a roof. Tommy offered up his spare room behind the saloon.”

Joel had shown up three weeks ago, no fanfare, just a duffel bag slung over his shoulder and a gaze that didn’t belong in a place like Jackson. It was too still, too unreadable. Like something terrible had settled in behind it and decided to stay.

"I've seen the guy around a few times, but I didn't know he was Tommy's brother." You whispered.

He didn’t talk much, but when he did, it was low and deliberate. Like every word had been sifted through a meat grinder before coming out his mouth. And though he kept to himself mostly, helping Tommy with patrol schedules, tending bar, fixing up gear in the garage—his eyes always found you. Watching. Weighing.

"You know he was a contractor before all this?" Dina chimed in, biting into a melting popsicle that painted her lips the color of bruised plums. "A builder. Said he used to make homes for people. Now he tears 'em apart."

Jesse snorted. "What, he tell you that over dinner and a bottle of moonshine? He hasn’t said more than five words to any of us."

That wasn’t true. Not for you. Not after the next day.

It had started with a cut on your palm. A stupid slip of the knife while cleaning fish for the town kitchen. Blood welled up, hot and immediate, and someone called for Joel because he was closest. He didn’t say anything at first, just took your hand in his and wrapped it with that same blank expression he always wore. But something shifted in him when he touched you—like a wire pulled taut.

He’d looked at you, finally looked at you—not through you—and said, "You need to be more careful. There’s worse things out there than dull knives."

The way he said it chilled me. Like he knew those worse things personally. Like he was one of them.

Later, after dark, you were walking back from the library when you heard his voice behind me.

"You shouldn’t be out this late."

You turned and saw him half-lit under the amber glow of the watchtower light. He stepped out from the shadows like something conjured. There was no threat in his stance, not exactly. But you felt it anyway.

"You followin' me?" you asked, trying to sound braver than you felt.

His greying hair reflected the moonlight as his eyes stayed dull. No sparkle, no light to be found there.

"Ain’t followin'," he said, that half-Texan drawl coating the words like molasses. "Just... keepin’ an eye out."

He walked me home that night, saying nothing else. But you didn’t sleep well. Couldn’t. Every time you closed your eyes, you saw his.

Tonight, the mess hall was alive with music and chatter. A small celebration for a supply run that had gone smoother than expected. You stayed close to your friends, tried to ignore the weight of his gaze across the room. But you felt it, like pressure on the back of your neck.

When you stepped outside to get some air, he was already there, sitting on the edge of the porch, cigarette smoldering between his fingers.

"Didn't know you smoke," you said.

He shrugged. "Helps me think."

"You do a lot of thinking?"

"Lately, yeah. Mostly about you."

His words should’ve scared you. Maybe they did. But there was something hypnotic about the way he said it—like it wasn’t a confession, but a fact.

"You ever get the feelin'," he continued, flicking ash into the dirt, "like you’re not supposed to be somewhere, but you’re there anyway? Like the world made a mistake lettin' you in?"

You swallowed hard, unsure how to answer.

He stood, and for the first time, came close. Close enough that you could see the scar above his brow, the faded bloodstain on his collar. He smelled like oil and metal and something older. Something buried.

"Let me show you somethin'."

He led you out past the gates. Said he knew a spot, real quiet, where you could see the stars better. The guards didn’t stop us. No one questioned Joel Miller.

We veered off the main path, into the wheat fields just past the edge of the safe zone. The moon overhead cast everything in silver. You followed him wordlessly, trusting my gut. The trail wound into the woods, the branches arching overhead like ribs. The moonlight barely touched the ground. You walked, surrounded by nothing but stars and the swaying hush of stalks brushing your arms. And when you stopped, it was in a clearing surrounded by trees that looked like they’d seen too much.

"Beautiful, ain’t it?" he asked, but his voice was distant.

He turned to face you, his eyes darker now, unreadable.

“The sky’s something else here,” you whispered.

Joel looked up. “Reminds me of the world before.”

His hand brushed my jaw. You didn’t flinch. Not until you caught a flicker of something behind those tired eyes.

You turned to him, lips parted to say something, when you felt it—a crack like thunder.

Your body jolted before your brain caught up. Heat bloomed in your abdomen, hot and furious. You looked down and saw it—the bloom of red, dark as plum wine, spreading across your shirt.

Joel stepped closer, gun lowered now, his eyes unreadable.

"You weren’t gonna leave, were you?" he asked softly. "Tell Tommy? Run?"

You staggered, breath hitching, fingers pressing to the wound. The blood slipped between them, coating my skin, sticky and red as fruit.

He reached for me—not cruelly, but with something that looked like care. Something twisted and wrong.

"Didn’t wanna do it like this," he muttered. "But you’re smart. Smarter than most. And you looked at me like I wasn’t just a shadow walkin’ around. Made it hard."

The trees swayed gently above you two, the stars watching in silence.

And as your vision dimmed, you realized he hadn’t come here to bury you.

He’d come to keep you.

Alive.

With him.

Somewhere no one would ever find you.

A/N: Thank you so much for reading! Don’t forget to check out my other work xx

Back then, he was all sharp smiles and sharper intellect, more interested in building arc reactors with cocktail napkin schematics than charming investors. Reckless with nearly everything except the way he treated you. Somehow, against all odds, you’d slipped past the velvet rope that guarded the real him — the sleepless inventor who showed up on your fire escape at 3AM with a bottle of Scotch and a theory about thermal diffusion that couldn’t wait till morning.

You were best friends before Afghanistan. Before Iron Man. Before Stark Tower had its own AI department and a floor reserved just for “Tony’s regrets, part I through XXV.”

And none of that stopped him from hacking your firewall during lunch.

You were approximately three minutes into a well-deserved lunch break — grilled cheese in hand, Spotify playlist on shuffle, and the sanctity of a lab entirely free of explosions — when your firewall went up in flames.

Digitally speaking.

The code on your main monitor began to twitch. Literally twitch. Then twist. And then it smiled at you. A little pixelated smiley face blinked up from the line of code you’d just written, followed by a dancing ASCII cat wearing sunglasses.

“Oh my God,” you muttered, setting your sandwich down like it had betrayed you.

You knew that coding style.

You knew exactly who was responsible.

With the patience of a saint and the energy of someone who was one click away from snapping, you launched into the system’s backend, pulling apart the layers of the digital graffiti with expert ease, unraveling each line of smug Stark-ware. And sure enough, right at the root folder, embedded in a hidden command string, was a line of text:

"Nice firewall, sweetheart. 7/10. Would hack again. - T.S."

Your eye twitched. Your soul twitched.

He didn’t just breach your system. He decorated it. That wasn’t a hack — it was a housewarming party in enemy territory.

The man had billions of dollars, a global tech empire, multiple Iron Man suits, and — apparently — nothing better to do than hack into your secure files during his downtime like a caffeinated raccoon with a superiority complex.

You were going to kill him. Slowly. Or worse — give him a lecture so long and boring it could be classified as psychological warfare.

And thus, the war began.

With your jaw clenched and your heart pounding in that very specific, very annoying way it only ever did around Tony, you stormed out of your lab and stomped down the hallway of Stark Tower.

You bypassed three interns and a mildly offended elevator AI before slamming open his door like righteous judgment. Finally, you flung open the doors to his R&D suite without knocking.

Tony didn’t flinch.

Sleeves rolled up, arc reactor glowing, fingers dancing across a holographic interface. He looked up. Grinned.

“Hey, sunshine,” Tony said lazily from behind a table cluttered with open panels, a half-dismantled drone, and at least three coffee cups. “I was just thinking about you."

“You’re a menace.”

“I’ve been called worse.” He finally looked up, dark eyes glinting with amusement. “But usually by people who didn’t bother updating their encryption protocols.”

You crossed your arms. “You hacked into my system during lunch, Stark. That’s below the belt. I was eating grilled cheese.”

“Maybe next time add some brie and fig jam. Class it up a little.” He grinned. “You’re welcome, by the way. I just gave you a free security audit.”

You stared at him, deadpan. “Did your ego eat your moral compass for breakfast?”

He stood, sauntering over like confidence incarnate in a Henley and jeans, and leaned against the edge of the workbench — arms crossed, smirk fully loaded.

“I’d argue my ego is my moral compass. And it always points due north to: mess with you.”

“You hacked my system,” you repeated.

He tilted his head. “If I can break in, so can Hydra. I’m doing you a favor.”

You crossed your arms. “This is the third time this month you've done something like this. Last week, you turned my digital assistant into a sassy version of yourself. I had to argue with my microwave for twenty minutes before it would heat my soup.”

He beamed. “He’s got a personality now! Named him Toasty.”

“I’m going to rewrite your DNA.”

“Only if we cuddle after.”

You were going to scream. Or kiss him. It was a very fine line these days.

“I’m going to kill you,” you said conversationally.

He grinned wider. “You’re going to miss me.”

So instead, you narrowed your eyes and said, “I hope you like Shakespeare just as much as JARVIS does.”

He blinked. “What?”

You pulled your phone from your pocket, already typing."Your little AI pet seems to have brushed up on his Shakespeare, because he’s about to speak exclusively in iambic pentameter for the next twenty-four hours."

“Wait. No—”

“And make all puns food-themed.”

Tony’s jaw dropped. “You’re a monster.”

You shrugged, already walking toward the door. “Some people bake sourdough for fun. I emotionally sabotage billionaire AIs.”

Tony groaned. “JARVIS

, don’t you dare—”

“Verily, sir,” JARVIS chimed in serenely from the overhead speaker, “I find thy attitude rather cheesy, like brie upon a croissant most greasy.”

Tony’s head hit the desk.

You smirked. “Toasty says hi.”

It went on like that for weeks.

Tony retaliated by installing a movement sensor in your lab. Every time you entered, SexyBack blared at full volume. FRIDAY wouldn’t let you disable it. She said it was “legally classified as a morale booster.”.

It was a war.

You replaced his AI’s voice with Gilbert Gottfried reading Twilight.

Tony responded by having your smartwatch shout hourly affirmations about his hair.

You hacked his suit’s startup sequence. Now it greeted him with:

“Iron Man: The Human Hot Pocket. Online.”

It didn’t stop there.

He replaced your screensaver with a live feed of himself winking, finger guns included.

You programmed his coffee maker to scream “INCOMING!” every time it dispensed espresso.

Naturally, collateral damage was inevitable.

Bruce’s tablet was cursed to play Baby Shark whenever opened. He developed a twitch.

Sam’s Falcon gear announced all takeoffs with: “I’m a little teapot, short and stout.”

Steve’s toaster quoted Pride and Prejudice in Cher’s voice.

“It is a truth universally acknowledged,” it belted one morning, “that a single man in possession of breakfast must be in want of jam.”

He punched a wall. You both got fined.

Even Clint, ever the stealthy one, wasn’t spared. Every time he drew an arrow, it whispered “pew pew” in Tony’s voice.

The tower teetered on the brink of chaos.

Pepper threatened to move to Dubai.

It was late.

The Tower was asleep, mostly. Except for Tony, who you found in the R&D lounge, hoodie on, arc reactor glowing soft under worn fabric. He looked… still. A rare moment for a man who moved like his thoughts could outrun time.

“You gonna yell at me for the coffee pot thing?” he asked, not looking up.

“I should,” you said, easing into the seat beside him. “FRIDAY tried to launch a counterstrike when I made a cappuccino.”

“She’s passionate.”

Silence fell. He just stared at you like he was debating something he’d rehearsed a hundred times in his head.

You blinked. “What?”

Tony opened his mouth. Closed it. Then, “Do you want me to stop?”

You frowned. “Stop what?”

“The pranks. The hacking. I mean, I know it’s probably childish and annoying and… I don’t know. Maybe I just like having a reason to see you all worked up, to just see you more.”

You sat back, heart thudding.

“That,” you said slowly, “is the least emotionally articulate confession I’ve ever heard.”

He rubbed the back of his neck. “Yeah, well. I build flying suits, not feelings.”

You stood and walked over, stopping inches from him. His breath hitched, and yours did too.

“For the record,” you said, “I love your flying suits. But I also kind of love… this.”

He blinked. “The chaos?”

“The banter. The sabotage. The way your face lights up when you think you’ve outsmarted me, even though I’m always two steps ahead.”

“Debatable,” he muttered.

You leaned in, lips brushing the shell of his ear.

“And I love the way you look at me like I’m the only firewall you’ve never wanted to break.”

He stilled.

Then: “I’ve been in love with you since the day you fried that Russian botnet and called it ‘a poorly coded insult to my intelligence.’”

You smiled.

And then, you kissed him.

It was messy and hot and gloriously overdue. His hands cupped your face like he’d been dying to do it for years, and your fingers curled into his shirt like gravity had given up and he was your anchor now.

When you finally pulled back, breathless, he whispered, “I should have hacked you sooner.”

You smacked his shoulder. “Shut up and kiss me again.”

He did.

And that night, neither of you changed each other’s passwords.

You called a truce.

Sort of.

Now your prank war has a rulebook and a scoreboard. Nat is the referee. Bruce runs support (begrudgingly). Steve is still in therapy.

JARVIS still speaks in sonnets during thunderstorms. Toasty hosts a podcast. FRIDAY hosts a revenge fund.

A year later, Tony proposed via custom hologram code embedded in your firewall — romantic, glitchy, and absolutely extra.

You said yes.

And now, sometimes, late at night, you’ll find yourselves coding side-by-side, teasing each other like always — except now, there’s no more pretending.

Just love. Loud, messy, sarcastic love. With bad lighting, too much coffee, and more happiness than either of you thought you’d ever deserve.

And every morning, when you walk into the lab, “SexyBack” still plays.

You don’t stop it anymore.

Quinn’s first sensation was cold.

It pressed against her skin, seeped into her bones. The sharp scent of antiseptic filled her nose, and the distant hum of machinery buzzed at the edge of her awareness.

Her head throbbed. Her limbs felt heavy, sluggish.

She forced her eyes open.

Darkness.

No—not total darkness. A dim fluorescent light flickered overhead, casting eerie shadows on steel walls. The air was sterile, wrong.

She wasn’t in her apartment anymore.

A faint clinking sound reached her ears. Metal on metal. Restraints.

Her wrists burned as she shifted, feeling the cold bite of cuffs against her skin. She was strapped to a metal gurney, her movements restricted. Panic flared in her chest, but she swallowed it down.

Think. Breathe. Assess.

The last thing she remembered—Arthur. The bodies. The world tilting as her vision blacked out.

And now she was here.

A door hissed open.

Footsteps. Slow. Deliberate.

A silhouette appeared in the doorway, just out of reach of the light.

A voice, smooth and controlled, filled the space.

“Welcome back, Ms. Ashcroft.”

Quinn’s breath hitched.

She knew that voice.

And she wished she didn’t.

The man stepped forward, finally letting the light catch his face.

Quinn’s stomach twisted.

Dr. Elias Verrick.

She’d seen his face in Arthur’s classified files, in blurry photographs stolen from locked dossiers. A ghost of a man—one who shouldn’t exist anymore.

But he did.

And he was standing right in front of her.

“I have to admit,” Verrick mused, tilting his head, “I expected you to be harder to catch.”

Quinn glared at him, forcing her breathing to steady. “That’s funny. I expected you to be dead.”

Verrick chuckled. “Oh, neither are you, Quinn. But you and I both know the people in my line of work never stay dead for long. ”

A slow, creeping dread settled into her chest.

She flexed her fingers, testing the restraints. Too tight. No immediate way out.

Verrick watched her closely, a hint of amusement in his gaze. “You’re wondering why you’re here.”

“I figured that much out already.”

“Did you?” He took a step closer, lowering his voice. “Then tell me, Quinn—what exactly do you remember?”

Something about the way he said it made her pulse quicken.

Memories flickered at the edge of her mind. Disjointed. Flashes of a lab. A white coat. A voice in Russian. The Winter Soldier—no, Bucky—standing over her.

She swallowed hard.

Verrick smiled. “That’s what I thought.”

He turned away, pressing a button on the wall.

The gurney beneath her shifted.

And then, suddenly—pain.

Searing, white-hot pain tore through her skull like fire.

Quinn gasped, her body jerking involuntarily against the restraints as her vision blurred. Images crashed into her mind—a flood of moments she couldn’t place, couldn’t stop.

A name. A code.

Ulysses.

And then—darkness.

Again.

Bucky Barnes had been tracking Quinn for thirteen hours.

Her apartment had been a bloodbath, and Arthur Meyer was missing. No signs of struggle—except for Quinn’s coat, discarded near the door.

That wasn’t like her.

Which meant she hadn’t left willingly.

Now, standing in the shadows of an abandoned warehouse near the docks, he tightened his grip on his gun.

“You’re sure this is where the trail leads?” Sam’s voice crackled over the comm.

Bucky exhaled sharply. “Yeah.”

There had been whispers—underground sources, contacts who owed him favors. A name that kept popping up.

Elias Verrick.

The problem? Verrick had been declared dead three years ago.

Except now, it looked like that was a lie.

And if Verrick had Quinn, there was no telling what he was doing to her.

Bucky didn’t plan on waiting to find out.

He moved forward, slipping through the shadows, his every instinct on high alert.

He was getting Quinn back.

Or he was burning this place to the ground trying.

Quinn woke up screaming.

She barely had time to think before the pain hit.

Something was inside her head, clawing through her mind like jagged metal scraping against bone. Her body convulsed against the restraints, her throat raw from screams she didn’t remember making.

And Verrick was watching.

She could hear his voice—calm, analytical, almost bored.

“Fascinating. Neural degradation is minimal despite the surge. Increase voltage by another twenty percent.”

A sharp click.

Then—pure, unfiltered agony.

Quinn thrashed as white-hot electricity burned through her skull, turning her veins into molten fire. Images, memories, hallucinations—something—flooded her brain, each one worse than the last.

Her mother, bleeding out in their kitchen when she was twelve.

Arthur, his throat slit, mouth frozen mid-scream.

Bucky, staring at her with empty, dead eyes, a bullet hole between them.

She gasped, trying to separate what was real from what was being forced into her mind. The line blurred. Her head felt like it was splitting open.

Verrick leaned over her, his face a cold mask of curiosity.

“I wonder,” he mused, tilting his head, “how long before you break?”

Quinn clenched her jaw, forcing herself to meet his gaze through the haze of pain.

“Go to hell.”

Verrick sighed, shaking his head.

Then he nodded to someone behind her.

And the pain tripled.

Quinn’s world turned to static and screaming.

Bucky smelled the blood before he saw it.

The warehouse had led to a tunnel. The tunnel led to an underground lab. And the underground lab smelled like rotting flesh.

Sam’s voice was in his ear, distant. “Barnes? You good?”

No.

He wasn’t good.

Bucky stepped inside what looked like an abandoned surgical room. The walls were lined with steel drawers—body storage.

A morgue.

And the slabs weren’t empty.

Arthur’s rescues—Quinn’s people—were here.

Or what was left of them.

Bucky swallowed back bile as his eyes swept over the carnage. They weren’t just dead. They’d been ripped apart. Limbs severed, torsos carved open like experiments, eyes missing from some of the skulls.

And in the center of the room—

A chair.

Strapped to it was a corpse that looked fresh. Too fresh. The skin was flayed back, exposing muscles and tendons, and wires dug into what remained of the scalp.

A machine next to the body flickered with numbers.

This person—whoever they were—had been alive when this was done.

Bucky clenched his fists. His breath came out ragged, uneven.

Then he noticed the blood trail.

It led out of the room.

It led to a door.

And behind that door—

Bucky didn’t hesitate. He kicked it open.

And found hell.

Quinn hung from the ceiling like a marionette.

Chains dug into her wrists, her bare feet barely touching the ground. Her body was drenched in sweat and blood—most of it hers.

Her face was swollen, one eye forced shut from bruising. Her lips were split. Dried blood streaked her arms where electrodes had been ripped from her skin.

And she wasn’t alone.

A thing stood next to her.

At first, Bucky thought it was a person. But then it turned—and he realized it used to be.

Half of its face was gone, revealing a slick, wet skull beneath. Wires ran through its neck, disappearing into its spine. Its arms ended in metal claws, its skin stitched together like a patchwork doll.

And its milky, dead eyes locked onto him.

Then it moved.

Fast.

Bucky barely had time to dodge before it lunged, its claws slicing through the air where his head had been a second ago. He rolled, pivoted, fired—

The thing didn’t stop.

Even when the bullets tore into its chest, it kept coming.

Bucky snarled, gripping his knife.

Then, from behind him—

A weak, rasping voice.

“Bucky…”

Quinn.

Bucky didn’t think. He reacted.

He dodged another swipe, slammed his metal arm into the thing’s side, and drove his knife through its throat.

The creature convulsed, screeching like a dying animal.

Then it collapsed.

Bucky didn’t wait for it to move again. He was already at Quinn’s side, unfastening the chains. She barely had the strength to stay upright when he caught her.

“Jesus Christ,” he breathed. “Quinn—”

She was shaking, her fingers digging into his jacket.

“We have to go,” she croaked, voice shredded raw.

Bucky nodded. “Yeah. We’re getting out of here.”

But then—

A voice crackled over the speakers.

Cold. Amused.

Verrick.

“Oh, James,” he said. “You’re too late.”

And then Quinn started screaming.:

She was dying.

Bucky could feel it.

She was burning up, her body wracked with violent tremors as he carried her through the dimly lit corridor. Her breathing was ragged, shallow. Every few steps, a wet cough tore through her throat, blood splattering his jacket.

But she still had her fingers clenched in his sleeve. Still fighting.

“Stay with me,” he murmured, not sure if she could even hear him.

She let out a weak, broken laugh. “No promises.”

Bucky swallowed, pushing forward. The lab was still crawling with Verrick’s people, but he’d take them all down if he had to. He wasn’t letting Quinn die in this hellhole.

Then his comm crackled.

“Barnes. Tell me you’re not in some deep shit right now.”

Sam.

Bucky exhaled, relief cutting through the adrenaline.

“Sam. I need an evac. Now.”

A beat of silence.

Then—“You got a location?”

“Underground facility, north of—”

A sharp gunshot rang out, cutting him off.

Bucky whirled, pressing Quinn against the wall, shielding her with his body. The shot had come from down the hall—figures in black tactical gear were closing in fast.

“Shit.”

“Bucky? You still with me?”

“Yeah, but I’ve got company.” He adjusted his grip on Quinn, tightening his jaw. “Get here fast.”

Another gunshot.

Then—

The ceiling exploded.

A rush of wind blasted down the corridor as a figure dove through the debris, wings flaring in a wide arc before landing between Bucky and the approaching gunmen.

Sam.

His goggles glinted under the emergency lights, his shield locking into place on his arm.

“Man,” he exhaled, glancing back at Bucky, “I knew you were in some deep shit.”

Bucky smirked, despite everything. “Shut up and cover me.”

Sam just rolled his eyes.

Then the fight began.

Bucky barely felt the cuts and bruises littering his body as he kicked open the door to the safehouse.

The moment they were inside, Sam rushed ahead, clearing the space. Bucky carried Quinn straight to the cot in the corner, carefully lowering her down.

She whimpered as he moved her, her body still racked with fever. She looked bad—too pale, her breathing uneven.

Bucky’s hands curled into fists.

Sam knelt beside her, pressing two fingers to her pulse. His brows furrowed.

“She’s burning up,” he muttered. “What the hell did they do to her?”

Bucky exhaled sharply. “Experimented on her. Hooked her up to some machine. It was messing with her head—”

Sam’s expression darkened.

“We need someone who actually knows what the hell they’re doing.”

“No hospitals,” Bucky said immediately. “Verrick’s got eyes everywhere.”

“Then we call someone who doesn’t give a damn about Verrick.”

Sam pulled out his phone, scrolling fast.

Bucky hesitated. “Who the hell are you—”

“Calling in a favor.”

Then, into the phone—

“Romanoff. We need you.”

Quinn was trapped in the dark again.

Her mind was a mess—fragments of memories colliding, bleeding together. Screams echoed in the distance. Faces she didn’t recognize flickered in and out, all of them contorted in pain.

She couldn’t tell what was real anymore.

She barely registered the hands gripping her shoulders, shaking her.

“Quinn.”

The voice was firm, urgent. Familiar.

She forced her swollen eyes open.

Bucky.

He was crouched in front of her, his face set in that look—the one that meant he was worried but pretending he wasn’t.

“Hey,” he said, softer now. “Stay with me.”

Quinn tried to respond, but her throat was raw.

Then—another voice.

“You look like hell.”

Quinn’s eyes flickered past Bucky.

A figure stood in the doorway, arms crossed, red hair falling over a sharp, calculating gaze.

Natasha Romanoff.

Her presence seemed to shift the room.

Bucky stood, tension coiled in his frame. “Took you long enough.”

Natasha rolled her eyes. “Had to get my nails done first.” Then her gaze dropped to Quinn. The teasing faded. “She doesn’t have much time.”

Sam crossed his arms. “You got a plan?”

Nat’s lips curved into something sharp.

“I always have a plan.”

Then she reached into her bag, pulling out a syringe filled with something dark and metallic.

Bucky tensed. “What the hell is that?”

Natasha twirled the syringe between her fingers. “Something that might flush out whatever the hell they put in her. Might kill her. Might not.”

Bucky’s hands fisted. “You don’t even know?”

Nat shot him a look. “You got better options?”

Silence.

Then—

“Do it.”

Everyone turned to Quinn.

Her voice was weak, but her eyes—her eyes were blazing.

“Do it,” she rasped. “Before I lose myself.”

Bucky inhaled sharply. Sam muttered a curse under his breath.

Nat didn’t hesitate.

She knelt beside Quinn, pressed the needle to her neck—

And injected the serum.

Quinn’s body arched.

Her scream tore through the room.

Pain.

Quinn had lived with pain before.

But this—this was something else.

Her body burned from the inside out, fire searing through her veins, eating her alive. Her lungs seized, her muscles locked, her vision fractured.

She felt hands holding her down. Heard voices—muffled, tense.

Then a whisper. Low. Steady.

“You’re not alone.”

The words cut through the chaos, grounding her.

Then darkness took her again.

When Quinn came back to herself, the pain had dulled into a deep, bone-deep ache. She was on a cot, draped in a blanket that smelled like gunpowder and leather.

She turned her head, blinking against the dim light.

Someone was sitting beside her, watching.

Natasha.

Quinn swallowed, her throat raw. “How bad do I look?”

Nat raised a brow. “Like you went three rounds with hell and lost.”

Quinn exhaled a weak laugh. “Sounds about right.”

Nat didn’t smile, just studied her for a moment.

Then she said, quiet, “You survived.”

There was something in her voice—something Quinn recognized.

A weight. A knowing.

Quinn held her gaze. “So did you.”

A flicker of something passed over Natasha’s expression, gone too fast to name. Then she nodded, just once.

That was the moment Quinn knew—Natasha understood in a way the others never fully would.

They had both been taken. Used. Hurt.

But they had survived.

And now, it was time to make them pay.

“You’re sure she’s ready for this?”

Bucky’s voice was low, edged with something close to concern.

Natasha didn’t even look up as she finished checking her weapons. “She doesn’t have a choice.”

Across the room, Quinn was lacing up her boots, rolling her shoulders. Testing her strength. She was still pale, still looked like hell, but there was a new steadiness to her.

Bucky exhaled sharply. “This isn’t just some revenge mission. Verrick is dangerous.”

“So are we,” Natasha said simply.

Sam leaned forward, arms crossed. “Alright. We know where he is?”

Quinn’s fingers tightened around the knife she was sharpening. “I do.”

The room went silent.

Natasha lifted a brow. “You remember?”

Quinn nodded, jaw clenched. “Not everything. But enough. He’s at one of his black sites, an old research facility in the mountains. That’s where it all started. Where he took me. Where he’s keeping the others.”

“The others?” Bucky asked.

Quinn’s throat worked. “I wasn’t the only one.”

A grim, heavy silence fell.

Sam’s expression darkened. “So we’re not just going after Verrick. We’re getting them out.”

Natasha looked at Quinn. “You in for that?”

Quinn’s eyes burned. “I have to be.”

Bucky nodded once. “Then we finish this.”

Natasha smirked, spinning one of her batons. “About time.”

The team had split up to gear up, check weapons, go over the plan one last time.

Quinn found Natasha in the back room, checking the straps on her suit.

“You always this calm before a mission?” Quinn asked, leaning against the doorway.

Natasha glanced at her. “You always this chatty before a suicide run?”

Quinn huffed a laugh, stepping inside.

Silence stretched between them for a moment, not uncomfortable, just there.

Then—

“Did you ever think,” Quinn asked, voice quieter, “that you’d never get out?”

Natasha stilled.

Her fingers curled slightly at her sides.

Then she looked at Quinn, something raw in her expression.

“Yeah,” she admitted. “I did.”

Quinn nodded, exhaling. “Me too.”

A pause.

Then Natasha stepped closer, tilting her head slightly.

“But we did get out.”

Quinn met her gaze. “And now?”

Nat’s lips quirked into something almost like a smile, but there was steel behind it.

“Now we burn it all down.”

Quinn felt something settle in her chest.

She reached for her knife, testing the weight in her palm.

“Let’s go.”