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The silence between them on the doorstep lasted long enough to become its own kind of statement.
They both looked at each other. She was aware of the sound of the bay somewhere behind the houses, the coastal wind moving through the native planting along her fence, and the distant bark of a neighbor's dog. Everything was ordinary. Everything was entirely unaware of what was happening on her front step.
She thought about asking him in. She looked at his face, the blue of his eyes, the full force of what lived behind them, and she thought about James's backpack hanging on the hook in the hallway, and James's drawings on the refrigerator, and the schist stone with the dark stripe sitting on the kitchen windowsill where James had placed it the afternoon they came home from the lake.
"There's a café," she said. "Ten minutes from here."
He looked at her.
"Walking," she added, because she did not want to be in a car with him, enclosed, moving, in a space she couldn't exit on her own terms.
He looked at her for another beat. Then he said, "Okay."
They walked. The residential streets of Wakana on a Monday evening had the drowsy, unhurried quality of a town that took its ordinary hours seriously, with front gardens catching the last of the sun, a child on a bicycle at the end of the block, and the smell of someone's dinner through an open window. She walked beside him with three feet of footpath between them and her hands in her jacket pockets, and she did not speak, and he did not speak either, and the silence between them was eating Dex alive.
She noted how different he was now. The same overall: he had the same build, though larger and more robust; the same eyes, though with some wrinkles around them; the same voice, but deeper. Everything about him was more pronounced, as if his age was showing. She wondered if he felt the same way about her.
She tried not to stare at him. She watched him out of the corner of her eye, paying attention to the path and the busy streets.
They arrived at the café. She chose a corner table without thinking, and then realized she'd chosen it because it had her back to the wall, giving her all the space at her fingertips. He'd rushed to pull out the chair in front of her and offer it to her, but she was already sitting down, so he moved the chair and sat down himself. He sat and looked at the table, and then at her. She could see him watching her; he wasn't subtle about it, nor was he trying to hide it. He was looking directly at her, openly, as he usually did, but now trying not to miss a single detail.
"Please, stop doing that." she said.
He blinked, almost surprise. "What?"
"Stop staring at me like that." She picked up the menu, which she did not need. "It's making me feel like a museum exhibit."
"Ellie, I haven't seen you in eight years." he said.”I´m trying to get in the idea we´re face to face.”
"I'm aware of that."
"I'm just…" He paused. He looked at his hands on the table, then back up at her. "I keep thinking I'm dreaming. I kept thinking that all week. Every time I saw you from…" He stopped himself.
She lowered the menu slowly and looked at him. "From where, exactly?"
A pause. "The café down the road from the resort. Once." He said it with the flat delivery of a man reporting a fact he is aware does not reflect particularly well on him.
"Once?" she asked.
"Maybe three other times from the parking lot "
She put the menu down. She looked at him across the table with the expression of a woman arriving at a conclusion she had suspected but had not yet confirmed. "How long have you been in here?"
"Nine days."
She absorbed this. "Nine days."
"I wasn't going to…" He stopped. Started again. "I had a plan. I wanted to find the right moment to talk to you."
"And instead you talked to my son at a lake while I was sleeping, right."
The server appeared before he could answer, a young man who took their order with the cheerful efficiency of someone who had correctly read that this table required speed rather than lingering. Flat white for her, black decaf for him, and then he was gone, and she looked across the table at Dex, and he looked across the table at her, and the question she had been not quite asking sat between them in the air.
"Is he mine?" Dex said.
She held his gaze, take a breath and nodded. It was a small. She was carrying a secret for eight years and telling him was putting at end to it.
He looked at the table. He was still for a long moment.
"Okay," he said, finally. To the table.
"Okay? That's all you´re going to say?"
"I just need a second."
She let him have it. The coffee arrived. She wrapped her hands around the cup and felt the warmth of it and watched him come back from wherever he had briefly gone. He looked at her hands on the cup, and she was aware of the tremor in them, faint, fine, the kind that arrived when she was running at a higher internal frequency than her exterior suggested.
"Are you frightened of me?" he said.
She let out a short laugh, a nervous type, the one that surfaced when something was too precisely accurate for any other response.
"Dex," she said. "The last time I saw you, you killed three people in front of me. In a costume."
He looked down at the table.
"In that Daredevil costume," she said. "Which you were wearing, I don't know, for… fun?"
"It wasn't…" He stopped, he was biting his internal cheek. "There were reasons."
"I know there were reasons. You explained the reasons in the back of a car immediately after I'd shot a man to get out of a room that Fisk had put me in because of you." She said it without raising her voice, which worsened it. "So yes. A little frightened. Given the context."
He was quiet. The quiet of a man who is absorbing something he has no defense against because it is simply true and is owed no defense.
"Did you get my letters?" he said. “I… tried to explain everything in there.”
"Yes."
"All of them?"
"Most of them." She turned the cup. "The ones from the psychiatric facility were… harder."
He looked at her. "You never answered."
"No."
"I didn't know if you were safe. For years I wasn't sure if…" He stopped. He pressed his mouth together for a moment. "You couldn't have just told me you were alive?"
“No.” She looked at him across the table. "You were working for Fisk, Dex. You were wearing a weird devil's costume and killing people and lying to me about everything for months. And you want to know why I didn't write back?"
"You could have waited until—"
"Until what? Until you were done wanting to kill people? Until you got bored of it? I wasn't going to do that." She gripped the mug tighter. "I spoke with the district attorney that very night, then I left there, and I found out I was pregnant, and after that it wasn't just about me anymore. Even I had ceased to be important; James became the number one priority."
A silence.
"I know." he said.
"Do you?" She looked at him steadily. He held her gaze. He looked at her with the full, unguarded force of his attention, and she felt it the way she had always felt it, as a weight, a presence, something that did not permit being ignored.
"Tell me about him," he said.
Something happened to her face. It was involuntary. She could not have prevented it, and she was not sure if she would have tried. It was the face she made when she talked about James, the one Pip had described once as almost unfair, the tightness releasing around her eyes, the set of her mouth shifting into something warmer and less contained.
"He's extraordinary," she said, and the simplicity of it, the complete unhedged confidence in it, was the most genuinely happy thing she had said since they sat down. "He's funny” She paused, and then decided not to examine that sentence. "He's kind."
Dex was very still.
"He's observant," she continued. "Notices things, he´s very intense with the things he likes, he puts his heart to it. He likes music, rocks and dinosaurs.” She smiled, briefly. "He also throws things with an…"
She stopped and looked at him. "... with an accuracy," she finished, more carefully.
He said nothing. He was looking at her with the expression she had seen on him only a handful of times, the one where the managed exterior had been entirely cleared away, not because he was breaking down but because something had arrived that was larger than what he usually let reach his face.
"Is there anything in him…" He paused. He tried again. "Does he seem…" He stopped, and the stopping was the most honest version of the question: does he seem like me. Not in the good ways. In the other ways.
She understood immediately.
"No," she said. Directly and without hesitation. "Whatever you're imagining, no, Dex. He's okay. He's more than okay." She held his gaze. "Whatever he has from you, it's the good parts. A pause. "The throwing, he even competes with a frisbee thing, pretty weird actually but a kids play.." She said it and watched his face. "But the rest of him, the way he is with people, the warmth, that's him. That's just him."
He exhaled. Small and controlled, barely visible.
"Thank you," he said.
"Don't thank me for telling you the truth about your son," she said.
_______________________________
He looked at his coffee. He looked at her.
"How did you find us?" she asked.
He told her about Mr. Charles, not all of it, but enough. The arrangement, the information that had been part of the deal, the fact that Charles had known where she was before Dex had ever gotten on the plane.
She listened without interrupting. She had always been good listener, it was a professional skill that had become a personal one, the ability to receive information without letting her face do anything it wasn't supposed to.
"So, you just from employer, then." she said, when he finished.
"For now." he said.
"That doesn't concern you?"
"I know what he is," Dex said. "I know not to trust him. That's not the same as not being useful to him while the situation requires it."
She looked at him for a long moment. She filed this under things she would think about later, in the specific mental cabinet she kept for Dex-related information that required processing time.
He reached into his jacket and took out his phone. He navigated something on the screen with the focused economy of someone executing a task and then her phone vibrated in her pocket.
She took it out. She looked at the number on the transfer notification for a long moment.
"How do you…?," she said. “No, stop it.”
"It's already done, sorry.” He smiled.
"Dex. I don't want you to think that you owe us…"
"It's not about owing," he said. "You spent eight years doing this without any support from me. None. That's…" He stopped. "It's not a debt, at all. It's just accurate. It´s money for you and James."
She placed her phone face down on the table. She looked at him. He looked back. Across the café, the afternoon was passing like Wakana's afternoons: leisurely, golden, completely indifferent to the two of them and what they were doing.
He reached across the table and placed his hand on hers, and she pushed it away. Dex lowered his gaze. He was grateful that she wasn't being cruel about his rejection.
"I want to try again," he said. "If you'll let me, of course."
She looked at him. He held her gaze, steady and serious.
"Eight years," he said. "I tried to stop thinking about you, and I couldn't. Not once. Not a single day."
Ellie opened her mouth, then closed it. She stared at him for a long moment, and something shifted on her face: something complex, something she hadn't yet decided, and then she laughed.
Not a nervous laugh, but a genuine laugh, brief and surprised, the laugh of someone who has been taken by surprise and hasn't had time to decide whether to let it out. She covered her mouth with her hand.
"I'm sorry." she said. "Sorry, I'm not… I´m not making fun of you, but are you serious?"
He looked at her. He looked slightly confused, which on Dex was an unusual and faintly endearing expression. "Yes, Ellie."
"You're… okay." She took her hand from her mouth. She looked at him steadily. "So if you want to try again, that means you're not going to hurt us, right? You're not going to kill us?” You´re not here to get revenge?
He stared at her.
"You're not going to…" She waved a hand vaguely.
"Hurt you?" he said. The flat register of a man repeating a sentence he cannot quite locate the logic of. "How? I would never hurt you, Eloise. Not you, or James."
He looked at her for a long moment. He looked at her with the expression of a man encountering a translation problem, like someone who has been inside their own perspective for so long that the outside view of it has become genuinely difficult to access.
"I'm not going to hurt you, no." he said. "I'm not going to hurt James either. Why would you think that was something you needed to ask?"
"Dex."
"I love you," he said, and said it the way he said things that were simply true. "I've loved you since the bar. Since the pool table. Since the media day with the makeup brush when you touched my face. I have never once."
"Okay." she said, quietly.
"Then why would you ask me if…"
"Because love and harm are not mutually exclusive, Dex." She said it gently, not as a weapon. "You know that. You know what happened. You know what I saw. You say you love me, but then you became someone totally different. "
He looked at her. He was still for a long moment. She watched him sit with this, the real sitting-with-it, not the managed version, the actual arrival of a piece of information from outside his own perspective and the uncomfortable process of integrating it.
"I'm not that person anymore," he said, finally.
"I don´t know that." she said. "I want to. But I don't know who you are." She took a breath. "I know what you were, what you were to me, a great love and a part of the reason James exists, but what we had... it wasn't healthy, Dex. It was toxic and..."
He interrupter her. "What we had wasn't toxic, Ellie." he said, and there was something in the word as he said it. "It was real. What I feel for you, fuck. What we were, that was the realest thing I've ever had in my life. I know I did things wrong, and I´m making amends for that. I know there were…" He paused. "Things I should have done differently. But I'm not going to sit here and call it toxic like it was nothing. Like you we were nothing."
She looked at him. "I didn't say we were nothing," she said. "I said it was toxic because the the dynamics were harmful. It was all very fast, dependent, and obsessive. When you were obsessed with me, it was excessive, and when I was concerned about you, it was even worse." She looked around, uneasy. "I want you to understand that love and obsession are two different things."
"I know the difference."
"Do you?"
A pause. "I'm working on it," he said.
She looked at her coffee. She looked at his hand, which was still on hers, which she had still not moved.
"If something were to happen between us... if I were even considering it, which I'm not right now, I'm just putting it hypothetically. But if it were to happen, James would always be my priority," she said. "Not like some other person you have to win over, no. He's been my priority from minute one. Before what I feel, before what you want, before any version of this." She gestured with her hands, indicating them both. "James is my priority."
"I know," he said.
Dex's face was beaming with excitement. "So... you still feel something for me?"
She snorted. "Are you even listening to what I'm saying?"
"Yeah, I just want to know." He insisted. “Please, Ellie.” He looked at her with his best face. "Get me out of this misery."
"I don't know, Dex. It's... strange. It's not that I don't feel anything, I... I think the love I had for you never went away, but there's also terror and confusion about you, about who you are, about what you do and keep doing, and damn, that weighs heavily on me."
He smiled, widely. “I can work with that, I'll prove to you that I've changed.”
"Also…. James.” She reminded him. “He can't know who you are," she said. "Not yet. He has a whole… I couldn´t tell him about you, I didn´t know what to tell, so he's built a story about his father in his mind." She held his gaze. "He's eight. He's not… I need him to be secure, whatever happens. That's the only thing that isn't negotiable. Do you understand?"
"I understand," he said. “And I agree 100% with you.”
"Do you actually understand, or are you saying that so that you can buy my good faith?"
He looked at her. "Twenty minutes with him at the lake," he said. "Twenty minutes, that's all I've had. And I…" He stopped. Something moved across his face. "I knew right away he was mine." Ellie opened her mouth to reply. "Ours, I'm sorry. Our son... I understand he comes first. I'm not asking to come first, at all. I'm asking to be… considered in the picture, to tell him who I am, eventually. When you're ready, of course."
She held his gaze for a long moment. "God, Dex.” She let out a snort, helpless. “I need time, time to think." she said.
He nodded. "Okay," he said.
"I... I'll be here for a few months, if that's okay with you?"
"I can't make you disappear. I tried, and here you are." She smiled, a little bitterly.
"You want me to disappear, Ellie? I'll do it if that's what you want, really." He sounded genuine because he truly meant it.
They were both silent.
"No," she finally said. "I mean, I don't know." She put her hands to her face. "I don't want to cry, but... God, all of this. It's a lot, you know?"
"I wish... I wish things were different," she said. "I feel like... we could have been something really beautiful, you know? The three of us together."
He smiled.
"Please, Dex." He reached out his hand again, and this time she did too. "Don't break my heart again."
"I can say the same thing. Please, don´t break my heart again." He stroked her hand. "I... I promise not to put you in danger, to be there, to be honest about everything, but please, don't leave me without saying anything, without knowing anything, don't just vanish. I couldn't bear it, especially now that... now that I know about James."
"Can you give me some time then?" she asked. "Let me... let me clear my head."
"Okay," he said.
They sat in the small warm café in Wakana for another twenty minutes, drinking coffee that went from hot to warm, and they talked, carefully at first, and then less carefully, the conversation finding its footing the way conversations between people who have known each other very well tend to find footing, even across a long absence. She told him more about James, the frisbee competition thingy, his rock schist collection. He listened with the complete, absorbing quality of his attention and asked questions that were good questions, the questions of someone who was genuinely trying to understand rather than performing interest, and she answered them and found the answering easier than she had expected.
He did not ask about Emmett. She did not ask about what had happened after Fisk. There was an unspoken agreement about the perimeter of the conversation, the things they were not yet ready to touch, and both of them honored it without discussing it, which was its own kind of fluency.
When she checked her phone it was four fifty-one. "James is home at five," she said.
He reached into his jacket and wrote something on a napkin, a number, handed across the table. She looked at it. She folded it and put it in her pocket without comment, which was neither a yes nor a no, and he saw this and accepted it.
He walked her home. She did not ask him to. He did not ask if he could. It simply happened, the way things sometimes happened between them, without formal negotiation, the natural outcome of two people who were going the same direction.
At her front path, she stopped and turned to face him. The evening had come in while they were in the café, the light lower now, the bay wind picking up, the native planting along the fence moving with it.
"I'll call you," she said.
He looked at her. He looked at her face in the early evening light, the dark hair moving in the wind, the careful, considered face of a woman who had built something real from raw materials and was standing at the edge of a decision she had not finished making.
"Okay," he said.
She turned and went up the path to her front door. She unlocked it. She paused in the doorway with her back to him, and went inside.
He stood on the footpath in the early evening of Wakana and looked at her closed front door and felt something he had not expected, which was not the catastrophic absence of the last time a door had closed between them. Not that. Something with a different shape. Something that had room in it for what came next.
The door was closed, but he had a number on a folded napkin in his jacket pocket.
He put his hands in his pockets and walked back the way they had come, through the residential streets, through the evening that had gone gold and long around him while he was inside the café, not noticing it. The bay wind was cold now and mineral and carrying the smell of water from somewhere he couldn't see.
He did not go back to the duplex and sit at the repositioned couch. He went back, and he sat at the kitchen table, and he thought about a woman describing her son with her face doing that thing, and about twenty minutes at the waterline of a glacial lake, and about a closed door with room in it for what came next.
I will do it carefully this time, I will do it right.
He sat in the kitchen for a long time. Then he went to bed. He checked the time on his phone; his wallpaper was a photo of Ellie and James walking, a photo Rose had taken. He looked at it one last time, as if to say goodnight. Thinking about his family.
Ellie and James, James and Ellie. His family. The family that both created, the family that he would never leave, that he would protect to the death.
Hi, can I request reader and Joe being married and they have a daughter who is in 3rd or 4th grade. Anyways, it’s career day and their daughter volunteers Joe to be a guest speaker for her class. Joe and reader come along and Joe talks about his music career/acting career maybe he brings some instruments to show the kids & all of their daughter’s classmates think Joe is so cool. And their daughter is so happy like “yes, that’s my dad” and reader is so happy that Joe could make that happen for their daughter despite how busy he is.
"Career day"
⋆⭒˚.⋆ Joe Keery x reader ⋆⭒˚.⋆
english is not my language please be kind and sorry if i wrote wrong :) requests are open if you want!
summary: On career day, Joe clears his busy schedule to speak at his daughter Lily’s third-grade class during the career day
warnings: None, pure fluff, domestic and family themes
The morning sun filtered through the sheer curtains of your master bedroom, casting a soft golden glow across the rumpled sheets. You stirred slowly, feeling the familiar weight of Joe's arm draped over your waist. Even after years of marriage, waking up next to him never got old. His breathing was steady, face relaxed in sleep, the faint lines of exhaustion from touring and filming starting to soften now that he was home for a longer stretch.
A small figure burst through the door without knocking.
"Mom! Dad! It's career day today!"
Lily, your eight year old daughter in third grade, bounced on the balls of her feet at the edge of the bed. Her dark hair tamed into two braids you'd done the night before swung wildly. She wore her favorite purple dress with tiny music notes along the hem, a subtle nod to her dad's world.
Joe groaned playfully, cracking one eye open.
"Kiddo, it's barely seven, give your old man a second to wake up."
"You're not old," Lily declared, climbing onto the bed and wedging herself between you both. "You're the coolest, that's why I signed you up yesterday. Mrs. Harper said I could bring a guest speaker if I asked first."
You sat up, smiling as you brushed a stray curl from her forehead.
"You volunteered Dad without checking with us?"
Lily's eyes widened with that innocent confidence only kids possess.
"I knew you'd say yes, dad always says family comes first and everyone else's parents are like, doctors or teachers or accountants but my dad is Joe Keery! They're gonna freak."
Joe chuckled, pulling Lily into a hug that made her squeal.
"Alright, alright baby. I guess I'm cleared for duty. What time do I need to be there?"
"Ten o'clock. Mom's coming too, right?" Lily turned those big brown eyes on you, eyes that perfectly blended yours and Joe's.
"Of course, baby. I wouldn't miss this for anything."
Joe met your gaze over Lily's head, his expression warm and grateful.
You knew how packed his schedule had been lately, he and his bandmates were soon to leave for a tour, but he always carved out these moments.
That was one of the things you loved most about him, the way he showed up, even when the world pulled him in a thousand directions.
Breakfast was a whirlwind of pancakes, packed lunches, and last-minute prep. Joe disappeared into the music room for twenty minutes and emerged with a guitar case, a small keyboard bag, and a backpack full of laminated photos and tour memorabilia he'd printed the night before. "Can't show up empty-handed," he explained, kissing your temple as you loaded everything into the car.
The drive to the elementary school was filled with Lily's excited chatter from the backseat. "Tell them about the time you met Taylor Swift! Or when you were in that big city… I don't remember the name of it! Oh, and definitely play something. But not too loud, Mrs. Harper doesn't like loud noises."
Joe glanced at you in the passenger seat, his hand finding yours on the console.
"No pressure, right?"
"You've performed for stadiums of screaming fans," you teased. "A class of third graders should be easy."
He laughed, but you caught the flicker of nerves in his eyes. Not stage fright exactly, he'd outgrown that years ago but the deeper desire to make this perfect for Lily. To be the dad she could brag about without reservation.
The school parking lot was bustling when you arrived, parents milled about with briefcases, stethoscopes, tool belts, and laptops. Lily skipped ahead, clutching Joe's free hand while you carried the keyboard. Heads turned immediately and a few moms whispered behind their hands, recognizing him. One dad did a double-take so obvious it made you stifle a laugh.
Inside the classroom, colorful posters covered the walls, Lily's desk was in the third row, decorated with stickers of guitars and stars. Mrs. Harper, a kind-faced woman in her fifties, greeted you warmly.
"Mr. Keery, we're thrilled you could make it, the kids have been buzzing all morning."
"Please, call me Joe."
He shook her hand firmly, then set down his gear at the front of the room, twenty-two pairs of wide eyes tracked his every move as the class filed in from recess.
Lily took her seat, but not before giving you both a thumbs-up. You sat in the back with the other parents, heart swelling with quiet pride.
When it was Joe's turn the teacher introduced him simply, he stood at the front, guitar slung over his shoulder, looking effortlessly cool in jeans, a plain black t-shirt, and the leather jacket Lily had insisted he wear. The kids leaned forward in their chairs.
"Hey everyone," he started, voice warm and engaging. "I'm Joe. Lily's dad… and yeah, I sing and act for a living, but I didn't always. Want to hear how it started?"
Hands shot up immediately, but he gestured for patience with a grin.
He launched into his story, keeping it age-appropriate and captivating, he talked about growing up in Boston with his sisters, how music was always around the house.
Then he pulled out the acoustic guitar and played a simple chord progression, letting the kids clap along. Then he switched to the small keyboard, demonstrating how different instruments layered to make a full song. "In the studio, we record each part separately. Drums, bass, vocals. It's like building with Legos, but with sound."
The class was hooked
Lily sat straighter than you'd ever seen, her cheeks flushed with pride, every time a classmate whispered "That's so cool" or "Your dad's awesome," she beamed. You caught her mouthing "That's my dad" to her best friend Mia across the aisle.
You watched from the back, eyes misty. Joe had flown in from Brazil two days ago after playing in a festival, he'd been exhausted, yet here he was, fully present.ù He answered every question with patience: How do you remember all the words to songs? What's the scariest part of performing? Do you still get nervous?
He pulled out laminated photos next: one of him and his bandmates from a recent tour and a behind-the-scenes shot from a movie set. The kids passed them around carefully.
Then came the highlight. "Want to hear a song?" The roar of approval was deafening. Joe glanced at the teacher for permission, she nodded, smiling.
He strummed the opening chords to a kid-friendly version of one of his upbeat tracks, changing a few lyrics on the fly to be school-appropriate. Half the class knew the chorus and sang along. Lily's voice rang out clearest of all, pure and joyful, when he finished, the applause was thunderous, several kids asked for autographs on their notebooks.
As the presentation wrapped, Joe knelt down so he was eye-level with the class.
"The most important thing isn't being famous or traveling the world. It's finding something you love and sharing it with the people who matter, like my family. Lily inspires me every day to be better. And her mom…" he looked straight at you, eyes soft with love "keeps me grounded. You all have that support too. Use it."
The bell for lunch rang too soon
Kids swarmed Joe for high-fives and more questions. Lily hung back for a moment, then threw her arms around his waist. "Thank you, Daddy. Everyone thinks you're the coolest dad ever, I told them so!."
Joe hugged her tight, kissing the top of her head. "Anything for you, Lilypad."
You joined them, slipping your arm around Joe's waist.
"That was incredible," you whispered. "You made her whole year."
He kissed you softly on the cheek, mindful of the audience but unable to resist. "We made it happen, team effort."
The rest of the day unfolded beautifully.
After school, the three of you stopped for ice cream at Lily's favorite spot, she recounted every moment in vivid detail, and Joe listened like it was the most important story in the world, asking questions and laughing in all the right places.
Back home, while Lily did homework at the kitchen table, you and Joe prepped dinner together, he chopped vegetables while you stirred sauce, the familiar rhythm of your life together wrapping around you like a warm blanket.
"You know," you said quietly, "I was watching her face the whole time. That pure pride? You gave her that. Despite the tours, the late nights, the paparazzi... you show up."
Joe set the knife down and pulled you close, resting his forehead against yours.
"I wouldn't miss it, there were years when I thought balancing this life with family would be impossible but you make it possible. You and Lily. She's my favorite audience now."
Life with Joe was never quiet, but it was rich. Full of music, laughter, late-night talks, and the steady presence of a man who chose family every single day and as you watched him spin Lily around the living room to an old track you knew this was the real success story. Not the charts or the awards, but this: the three of you, building a life moment by moment.
colt meeting ryland's girlfriend!reader — ft. coltland twins au
Ding-dong!
The loud ring of the doorbell startles you awake.
Having barely registered the noise yet somehow fully alert, you peek your head out from the covers, eyes fixating on the general direction of the door like a cat that locked onto a bird sitting on the windowsill.
It's Sunday. You have no prior knowledge of receiving any visitors. Neither you or Ryland have any packages you have been waiting on. Speaking of Ryland, he would knock on the door to avoid waking you up even if he had gone out and realised he forgot to take his keys. Then again, there is the faint sound of the shower running, so it can't be him.
... Maybe it's someone who got the door wrong, and will eventually realise their mistake and go away. Maybe it's a neighbour who wants to complain about something, or maybe it's a scammer.
Either way, it's not something you feel like dealing right now. They should just take the hint and go away if you pretend you don't exist.
Exhaling harshly, you kick the blankets away with newfound rage, throwing yourself off the bed and stomping over to the door with full intention of chewing them out, though not immediately, as it could still be a relatively innocent person despite their lack of thoughtfulness.
Just to be on the safe side, you yank the door open with a tight smile on your face and hiss out as neutrally as possible, "Can I help you?"
"... Oh." The smug smirk drops from the man's face.
You blink.
The man leaning against the doorframe, and was casually abusing your doorbell until a second ago is a carbon copy of your boyfriend.
".... No."
Shaking your head, you shut the door, the small chain locked into place, palm covering the peephole just in case.
From the split-second look you got, the resemblance is uncanny. The eyes, the jawline, down to the curl of their lips when they are sporting a lopsided smile. There are some differences such as the stranger having slightly coarser facial hair and a more rugged style — though even the silhouette of sporting a jacket is similar.
Scam calls of people imitating your elderly parents or your friends or partners are common. Likewise, accounts getting hacked and sending malicious links to people's inboxes pretending to be the owner are common.
Not whatever this— this Mandela Catalogue, this No I Am Not Human, this Among Us, Imposter situation—
"Uh, Ma'am..?" The Doppelganger awkwardly clears his throat, tapping on the door from the other side to get your attention, "Terribly sorry if it's wrong, but there's supposed to be a Ryland Grace living here..?"
... Okay. The fact that he knows Ryland's full name means good. ... Probably.
".......Ry..!" you yell as you approach the bathroom, and a muffled One sec! accompanies the sound of shuffling before Ryland opens the bathroom door, hair still sopping wet, the bathrobe barely halfway closed. "... There's a clone of you at the door."
"Clone..?" Ryland tilts his head, and it takes a fraction of a second before realisation dawns on him. "Oh! Can you let him in? I'll get dressed super quick!"
... Okay. So he knows the guy, great!
You slammed the door in the guy's face. .... Not-so-great.
Swallowing your nerves, you crack the door open, hesitantly peeking your head out to meekly offer, "... Come in, please. He'll be with you in a moment."
The Not-Ryland closes his eyes for a second before he gives you a thankful nod as he steps in, but the way his lips are pursed and his shoulders shaking slightly is proof enough of how hard he's trying to hold in his laughter.
It makes laughter bubble up in your own stomach, honestly. The entire situation is ridiculous.
"So," you start, "Since Ryland is apparently wrestling his wardrobe and will take a while, I suppose introductions are in order," extending your hand for a handshake, you offer him your name, "... The girlfriend," you tack on the title.
"Colt Seavers," A calloused hand takes yours in a firm handshake, mimicking your format "...The twin brother."
"Ugh, figures!" you chuckle, running a hand through your messy hair, "I don't know my first thought was some kind of clone version of Ry, I really need to lay off sci-fi movies for a while—"
It dawns on you that you're still in your pajamas. Hell, you're standing in front of your boyfriend's unknown-until-now brother freshly rolled out of bed.
"I should get dressed!" you turn on your heel towards the bedroom, only to turn back around again at the thought of leaving a guest unattended in the arguably messy (you now realise) living room, without a beverage, no less. "Actually— can I get you anything? Coffee, tea—?"
"I'm good, sweetheart, no need to worry," He waves you off, moving to the kitchen himself. "Sorry for the scare. My dear little brother forgot to mention he has a girlfriend. I mean, I know our communication is a bit spotty sometimes, but sheesh!" He reaches for a mug from the cabinets, seemingly knowing his way around.
"Funny, he also forgot to mention he has a twin brother to me."
"Don't blame him too much. Things sometimes slip his mind — you know how he gets." Colt gives you a non-committal shrug as he waits on the coffee machine, "You can go change. Cute pajamas though." He points to your fluffy pajamas, decked in panda prints.
"Shut up," you half-heartedly swat at his direction, already halfway through the room before he finishes his sentence. "Cool jacket! I'll be back in a jiffy."
Whipping around suddenly, you support yourself on the doorframe, leaning in to whisper; "Do you have some embarrassing childhood stories to share?"
Colt barks out a short laugh, giving you a double thumbs up. "Thousands."
"Booyah!"
"I did not just hear the two of you plotting against me." Ryland comes up from behind you, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose, eyes narrowed in suspicion.
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Loved this sm!! What about a fic where they tell their daughter how they struggled at first and telling her their story of becoming parents at such a young age. (maybe someone at school teased her for having such young parents or shamed them, like a teacher)
im glad you enjoyed the fic!! i love the idea of their daughter being old enough now to finally understand that her parents weren’t just “young parents”, they were literally kids trying their absolute best while the world kept expecting them to fail
she was worth it
Joe Keery x reader
Summary: After somebody at school makes a cruel comment about her “teen parents,” Joe and reader finally tell their daughter the full story of what those early years were really like - the judgement, the grief, the fear, and the overwhelming love that made it worth surviving anyway.
Warnings/tags: 18+ ONLY, minors DNI, no use of y/n, established relationship, teen pregnancy, teen parenting, family conflict, estrangement, hurt/comfort, domestic fluff (lmk if i missed anything)
W/C: 1.6k
A/N: You can read the previous part here!
Read more of my writing here: [masterlist]
Your daughter comes home from school and walks straight past the bowl of chips on the kitchen counter.
Joe watches her disappear upstairs before lowering the glass in his hand slightly.
“Huh,” he says quietly.
You glance up from the kettle. “What?”
“She didn’t steal my chips.”
The house settles back into silence after that. Footsteps overhead. A bedroom door shutting. Music starting faintly through the ceiling a few seconds later.
You dry your hands slowly on a tea towel.
“Maybe she’s tired.”
“Maybe.”
But Joe keeps looking toward the stairs with that slight crease between his eyebrows that’s been there for most of his adult life now. The one that usually means he’s worrying about somebody.
You’ve spent nearly twenty years watching Joe love people.
He does it attentively. Quietly. Like he’s always listening for small changes in the atmosphere.
An hour later, your daughter comes downstairs wearing one of Joe’s old hoodies, sleeves pulled over her hands. Her eyes look swollen around the edges in that careful way people try to hide crying.
Your stomach drops immediately.
Joe notices too. You see it happen in the way he straightens slightly in his chair.
“Hey, bug,” he says softly.
She shrugs like she regrets being perceived already.
“Hi.”
Joe nudges the chair beside him backwards with his foot. She hesitates for a second before sitting down heavily, shoulder knocking automatically against his side. Joe’s arm settles around her without either of them really thinking about it.
You still aren’t used to how much she looks like him sometimes.
Not physically, even though she has his curls now.
It’s the smaller things. The way she folds into people when she’s hurting. The way she tries to joke around bad moods until they dissolve on their own. The stubborn little line between her eyebrows whenever she’s pretending she’s fine.
“What happened?” you ask gently.
Your daughter picks at the cuff of the hoodie for a second too long.
“One of the teachers said something today.”
Joe goes very still beside her.
“What kinda something?”
“We were talking about university applications and families and stuff.” Her voice tightens awkwardly. “And somebody asked how old you guys were when you had me.”
The room shifts slightly.
You feel it immediately.
Your daughter stares hard at the table while she talks.
“She laughed.”
Joe’s arm tightens once around her shoulders.
Not dramatically.
Just enough that you notice.
“She what?” he asks quietly.
Your daughter rushes onward immediately, words tumbling over each other now like she already regrets bringing it up.
“It wasn’t even that bad, okay? She just said it made sense I’m independent because apparently I ‘grew up fast with teenage parents.’”
The kettle clicks softly behind you.
Nobody moves to pour it.
Joe looks down at the table for a second before asking carefully, “You alright?”
Your daughter shrugs.
Which is answer enough.
You move slowly toward the table and sit beside them. Outside, rain taps softly against the kitchen windows while somebody’s dog barks further down the street.
Your daughter keeps staring downward.
“Was it really awful?” she asks eventually.
You blink. “What was?”
“When I was little.” She glances carefully between both of you. “Was it actually as bad as everybody thought it would be?”
Joe answers before you do.
“No.”
The certainty of it makes her look up.
Joe rubs his thumb absentmindedly against her shoulder through the hoodie fabric while he thinks.
“It was hard,” he says finally. “Really hard sometimes.”
You watch him carefully as he speaks. There’s grey at his temples now if the bathroom lighting catches him the wrong way. Laugh lines around his eyes. He still gestures with his hands too much when he talks. Still reaches for people automatically.
Still looks at your daughter sometimes like he can’t believe she’s real.
“We didn’t know what we were doing,” he admits with a small laugh. “I had like three separate panic attacks trying to install your car seat.”
Your daughter snorts quietly despite herself.
Joe smiles slightly.
“We had no money. Your mom was finishing school while taking care of a newborn. I worked basically every shift anybody would give me.”
“And people were horrible sometimes,” you say quietly before you can stop yourself.
Your daughter’s expression tightens immediately.
“Like who?”
You and Joe exchange a glance.
It still feels strange talking about those years out loud. Like opening boxes you taped shut a long time ago.
“Everybody, sometimes,” Joe says carefully. “Teachers. Parents. Random strangers.”
“Your grandparents,” you add softly.
The room stills again.
Your daughter looks between you both slowly. “That’s why they stopped talking to you?”
Joe’s hand finds yours beneath the table automatically.
You stare at the grain of the wood for a second before answering.
“They thought we’d ruined our lives.”
Your daughter’s face crumples in a way that hurts immediately to look at.
“That’s awful.”
Something catches painfully in your chest then, because she sounds genuinely heartbroken for you. For the two terrified teenagers you used to be.
Joe turns toward her slightly.
“Hey,” he says gently. “Don’t be sad for us.”
“How am I not supposed to be?”
Joe leans back in his chair a little, thinking.
The kitchen light catches against his wedding ring when he reaches up to rub tiredly at his jaw.
“I dunno,” he says softly. “Because we still got you.”
Silence settles warmly around the kitchen after that.
Rain against the windows.
The hum of the fridge.
Your daughter blinking rapidly while pretending she isn’t emotional.
“You guys never really talk about it,” she says eventually.
You laugh quietly under your breath.
“Honestly? We were usually too busy trying to survive it.”
That earns a small smile.
Joe glances toward you then, something fond and tired flickering briefly across his face.
There were years where surviving really did feel like the only objective.
You remember feeding your daughter pasta at the kitchen counter while finishing essays at three in the morning because deadlines didn’t stop for babies. You remember Joe falling asleep sitting upright on the sofa after double shifts, still wearing his work shoes because he’d been too exhausted to take them off properly.
You remember being so tired once you cried because the supermarket had run out of formula.
And Joe - barely eighteen himself - standing in the middle of the aisle holding your face in both hands while your daughter screamed in the trolley beside you.
“We’ll figure it out,” he’d whispered.
Somehow, he always made you believe him.
“You cried because she sneezed once,” Joe says suddenly.
“It sounded concerning.”
“She sneezed.”
“It was aggressive.”
Your daughter laughs properly this time, shoulders shaking against Joe’s side, and something in your chest loosens instantly at the sound.
God.
You remember that laugh as a baby. High and sudden and impossible not to answer with one of your own.
Joe’s smiling now too, softer around the edges than he realises.
“There were scary bits,” he says quietly. “But honestly?” He looks down at your daughter for a second. “Mostly we were just obsessed with you immediately.”
Your throat tightens.
Joe laughs softly under his breath like he’s embarrassed by his own honesty.
“You slept in a laundry basket for like three months because we couldn’t afford a crib yet.”
Her eyes widen. “Seriously?”
“You loved that laundry basket,” he says firmly.
“You screamed every time we put you anywhere else,” you add.
“She also once threw up directly into my mouth.”
“Oh my god, dad.”
“I’m just saying, you weren’t always cute.”
Your daughter groans loudly while you laugh into your hand.
The heaviness in the room shifts slightly after that. Not gone entirely. Just softened around the edges enough to breathe through.
Your daughter leans more heavily into Joe’s side, chewing thoughtfully at the inside of her cheek.
Then, quieter, “I think you guys are cooler than everybody else’s parents, actually.”
Joe perks up immediately. “See? I’ve been saying this for years.”
“You cried at Finding Nemo.”
“That fish had a difficult life.”
“You cried at Ratatouille too.”
“He followed his dreams.”
“You cried at my year six nativity.”
Joe looks genuinely defensive now. “You were a very convincing sheep.”
Your daughter bursts into laughter again while you shake your head fondly across the table.
There’s flour on Joe’s sleeve from where he’d started making dinner earlier. Your daughter’s still curled into his side despite technically being an adult now. Rainwater glows gold beneath the streetlights outside the kitchen window.
The stove clicks quietly behind you where dinner’s still sitting forgotten.
Nobody moves.
Joe keeps absentmindedly rubbing circles against your daughter’s shoulder while your hand stays tangled loosely with his beneath the table.
And sitting there beneath warm kitchen lights, listening to the two people you love most tease each other over animated films and primary school plays, you feel something settle quietly inside you.
Because there was a time people looked at the three of you and saw disaster.
A cautionary tale.
Something doomed before it had even really begun.
And maybe those years were difficult in ways your daughter will never fully understand. Maybe there were nights you cried from exhaustion and mornings Joe left for work running on two hours of sleep and fear alone.
But looking at them now - your daughter laughing into Joe’s shoulder while rain taps softly against the windows of the home you built together - you can’t bring yourself to regret any of it.
About: You've been an Emergency Room nurse at the Walter Mondale Care Center in North Dakota for about a year now. You move up to the role of Charge Nurse in no time, and tonight you're training a new RN transferring from Indiana- a super sweet, charming guy named Steve Harrington.
Meanwhile, you're also navigating a tenuous coworkers-with-benefits situationship with the ex-Sheriff's-Deputy turned EMS Chief, Gator Tillman.
When these worlds collide, it's gonna be a hell of a shift.
You sip some coffee from a paper cup (it's not quite as sweet as you like but there were only 3 packets of sugar in the break room drawer) and look over the clipboard with your crew's assignments for the night.
The emergency department at the Walter Mondale Care Center was only 20 beds and not terribly busy most nights. You had the occasional bar fights needing stitched up on the weekends, car accidents from icy roads, people needing a dose of Narcan, typical ED fare, so you usually only had 5 or so nurses under your charge on any given shift.
Tonight, however, you noticed a name penciled next to yours, which was new.
Steve H. -- training shift 1
Guess you've got a newbie tagging along tonight. You breathe a little sigh into your coffee cup, not necessarily abhorred by the idea of having a trainee; it just meant you'd really need to perk up since you'd probably be talking more than you're used to, and you didn't want to scare them away before they even got started.
Bodies start shuffling in, bags being tossed into lockers and the Keurig spurting to life as your crew gathers for pre-shift huddle. You give everyone a small "hello" as they sit down and start going over their assignments for the night. It was a solid group tonight, reliable nurses that you could trust to get their shit done, so it would make training the new guy easier for you.
Your eyes flick over the new updates that hospital management wanted you to share, and just as the clock ticked over to 18:45, huddle start time, the break room door swung open violently and a man came stumbling in.
He had long, dark hair, tousled in a way that looked effortless but stayed perfectly in place as he bounded in, so it was obviously a meticulously crafted masterpiece. He's got big, beautiful, hazel eyes, full of panic thinking he was late, lips parted as he tried to catch his breath.
"I'm so sorry, I'm sorry. I couldn't find the fuc-- the darn break room." He stood straighter, adjusting his badge on the right corner of his scrub top where you saw the flash of his name - Steve.
"Well, hey newbie. No worries, we usually give ya about 5 minutes grace, traffic and whatnot. Usually you'll come in and grab your assignment, but you're with me tonight so why don't ya just take a seat and we'll get started?"
His eyes glitter and a wide smile splits his face, ever so slightly tilted higher to one side than the other. He was...okay, he was really, really cute.
He clutched the strap of his messenger bag and awkwardly scooched past some of the other staff to sit at the very back and observe. You couldn't help but notice how his blue Figs hugged his very tight ass.
18:48 PM
You shook the thoughts of Steve's ass out of your brain (at least for the moment) and went into leader-mode, giving your spiel, discussing the plan for the night, going over assignments, and stopping a potential meltdown one of the older nurses was about to have because her assignment was near the doors, and she didn't like sitting near the doors since they were loud and let in the chilly night air.
"Madgie, just sit at the central station, you can pull up your vitals on the main computer."
"Well, someone's gonna have to show me how."
"That's fine, we gotta train the new guy on it anyhow. You can watch. Speaking of which, everyone say hi to Steve. He's coming to us all the way from Indiana, so let's give him a nice welcome, 'kay? No biting."
You shoot him a quick wink and he smirks, giving the room a small, demure wave.
"Morning. Well, evening, I guess? I didn't really do nights before. That'll take some getting used to.
"No one really cares, kid." One of the gruff male nurses, Odie, grumbles from the corner. His massive arms are crossed, highlighting the tattoos scrawled all over almost every inch of visible skin. His thick, black mustache wriggles as he abuses the wad of gum between his teeth, chomping far harder than necessary. He's been trying to quit smoking this week, and the Nicorette just isn't cutting it, but you were proud of him regardless.
Odie was a damn good nurse, rough around the edges, but had a way with kids that was astonishing. One would think he would scare them off, but it was just the opposite. He'd walk in, blow up a glove like a balloon and throw a little happy face on there, and they were putty in his hands.
Steve, who didn't know yet that Odie was actually a huge teddy bear, looked horrified.
"He doesn't mean that, Steve. Odie just needs to chug that coffee and maybe go ahead and start a second one, hm?"
He grumbles something else that may contain a "Sorry" and Steve's shoulders relax a fraction.
"Okay gang. Shift change in 5. Get out there, wash those hands, get to your stations. And Claudia, please get your BLS done tonight. I don't want you to get locked out of the system, hon."
Claudia, a pretty, young, blonde nurse who started about 7 months ago, nods sheepishly.
"Got it, boss. Sorry, slips my mind every time."
"I'll try to circle back around 5 to remind ya, okay?"
"Thanks. Have a good shift, Steve." She wiggles her fingers at Steve in the corner and he nods eagerly, excited just to be acknowledged. It was honestly refreshing, you missed sometimes how much you used to bubble over about your job. Unfortunately it can wear you down fast, but maybe Steve some of Steve's positivity will rub off on you.
"Alrighty, Harrington. Got any questions to start? Ya get a tour of the place yet?"
He jerks to his feet, that golden retriever energy still very much alive.
"Yeah, tour's done, it's a nice place. I was in pediatrics for a little bit back home before I decided to haul ass to a new state and try something else. It was a lot bigger, but I like this. Easier to navigate for sure.
"What so you -- ya just packed up and moved to a completely different state? Just...because?"
You were jealous. You've been stuck in Stark County your entire life, dreaming of one day getting the hell out but never really seeing it as a possibility. Steve shrugs.
"My friends all split up and went their different ways after colleges and careers happened. I didn't really feel like being the only one stuck in Hawkins, so, yeah. Just took a leap."
The smile he gives you is warm, but there's a sadness behind his eyes. No one really prepares you for the very real possibility that when you grow up your friends just leave -- go out and live their own lives, make new friendships, and there really wasn't a lot you could do about it. Maybe you'd see each other around the holidays, maybe you'd send each other a funny text or an Instagram Reel that reminds you of them, but eventually even that becomes too much effort and they just turn into bittersweet, cherished memories. Childhood was short; adulthood was cruel.
And wow, you're sure a ray of fucking sunshine, aren't you? You shake off your melancholic musings and plant a firm hand on his shoulder, giving him a broad, welcoming smile.
"Well...I'm glad you leapt into our little pond, Steve. Now c'mon, get your stuff in a locker and let's go get started."
⚕️
"So you've got three training shifts before we boot ya out onto the floor, but anytime ya need anything ya can always reach out to whoever is in charge or -- well, anyone really. We're a pretty friendly bunch." You think for a moment, and add, "Maybe not Madgie. Don't -- don't ask Madgie for anything. But everyone else is perfectly pleasant."
Steve chuckles and nods, already having faced Madgie's miserly wrath when she caught him nibbling on one of the packets of graham crackers she kept in "her" drawer at the central nurse's station.
//
"The ones in the nutrition room are always expired, these are my personal crackers from home!"
"Madgie, I'm -- I can't tell you how sorry I am. I swear on my life I'll replace your graham crackers." Steve had told her, putting a hand over his heart and giving her the most sincere, apologetic look. You had had to turn your body away and bite your lip just to keep from bursting into a fit of giggles right there.
As soon as you both turned the corner of the corridor, leaving her grumbling about "all the crumbs he'd left, too," neither of you could hold it in. You both quietly wheezed, trying not to make a huge commotion. You smacked his shoulder and leaned into him breathlessly, mouth open in a silent cackle. He had caught you by the dip in your waist, holding you upright as you both tried to compose yourselves, tears in your eyes from laughing so hard.
//
That was probably close to 45 minutes ago, and the skin on your side was still burning from the feel of his hand gripping you there.
"So, got any questions so far, hon?" The pet name slips out without you realizing it, but you catch yourself. "Sorry, Steve. Please don't sue me for, like, harassment or whatever."
"For hon? My mom calls me hon. You'll have to do a lot worse than hon to get me riled up."
Well. That sounded like a challenge you could really have a lot of fun with...but, you just smile with a slight roll of your eyes, muttering, "Can never be too careful these days."
It's about halfway through your shift, and you can already see that Steve is an incredible nurse. He's just supposed to be sticking with you at the central station tonight, but he's started assisting when a new admit drops in, grabbing vital signs or just a cup of coffee for a family member in the waiting area. He's always courteous, kind, charming, and accommodating, even when people come in burdened by pain or anxiety. He's gentle in a way that's even soothing for you, and you're not even on the receiving end of it.
"I don't even know why they've got you training with me tonight, Harrington. You're a natural. A pro."
He beams at you, scrubbing down a countertop with sanitizing wipes while you QC test the glucometers for the unit.
"I dunno, I'm learning a ton. It's been fun hanging out with you, too. You're a good teacher."
"Oh, yah? What invaluable wisdom have I bestowed upon you tonight, Nurse Harrington?"
He pauses and thinks for a moment.
"You showed me where the bathrooms are. That's pretty important, I think."
You laugh so suddenly that you snort a little, hand darting up to cover your face.
"Goddamnit, I hate that stupid --"
"No! It's amazing, I love making you laugh. That's been the best part of the night."
He glances up at you and you feel heat rushing to multiple parts of your body, most noticeable visibly on your cheeks.
"Mine...mine, too. So thanks for that."
The small pause seems to stretch between you forever until he tosses the spent wipe in the trash along with his purple nitrile gloves. You catch yourself ogling every twitch and curl of his fingers as he tidies up.
"Hey, would you maybe wanna, like, stop for a coffee or something after our shift?"
The offer catches you completely off-guard. It hasn't even been a whole shift, and he's already asking you out for coffee? Or, maybe it was just professional courtesy. Maybe he just wanted to decompress after his first night shift in your ED. Best not to get your hopes too high.
"Oh, um...yeah, sure. There's a great little place a couple blocks from here. Bean There, Done That, I think."
His brow twitches and furrows.
"Bean There...Done That?"
"Yessir. We don't skimp out on the puns in this town."
"Oh, Christ. Is it too late to transfer down to Texas?"
"Oh, yah. You're stuck here with us now, Harrington."
You grin slyly and he laughs, raking his fingers through his gorgeous head of hair.
"I guess there's worse places to be."
His eyes are twinkly, making the harsh florescent bulbs above you seem appealing somehow. You're just about to come back with some more demi-flirty banter when the lights and sirens pull into the ambulance bay.
Both of your heads snap up in that direction, not expecting any kind of incoming trauma or emergency.
"Madgie, you know what this is?"
"How should I know?" She grumbles, smacking on one of her treasured grahams.
You jog outside to meet the paramedics, Steve not far behind. The doors to the back of the ambulance swing open as they unload a stretcher with a young man in his early twenties holding his fist wrapped in a blood-soaked t-shirt.
"Well, what do we got going on here?"
"Hey, Doc. Blew my fingers off with a firecracker."
You pinch the bridge of your nose with your thumb and pointer.
"Alrighty then. Well, I'm not the doctor, but go on in, they'll getcha sorted. Steve, ya wanna go with our friend and get the admit started?"
"Love to. C'mon, dude. So, fireworks, huh?"
He walks alongside the kid, chatting him up completely nonchalantly like two of his charred digits weren't sitting in a plastic baggie full of ice on his lap.
Yeah, he's gonna do just fine here, you thought.
You were pulled from your musings by a strong pair of hands snaking around your middle. You whip around, pushing at the chest of the ambulance driver and Chief of the EMS crew, Gator Tillman. His lip curled up into a wicked little grin, a half-healed bruise under his right eye from some recent scuffle.
"Helloooooo, nurse." He crooned, still trying to hold you against him by the small of your back as you weakly tried to push him away.
"Oh, yah, Gator, that never gets old."
"How's it goin' tonight? Who's the pretty boy ya came out with?"
"Hmm. Jealous? That's my new friend, Steve."
"Jealous? Please. Real men don't go into nursing, no offense."
Your jaw drops, and you shove away a little more earnestly, his hands falling away from your body. You cross your arms over your chest in a huff.
"Lots of offense, Tillman. Like, all of the fucking offense. Layers and layers of it. You tell that to Odie, he might actually strangle ya to death. Besides, what's wrong with a female-dominated career field? I think we kick ass."
He sneers and rolls his eyes, hands shoving into the pockets of his EMS vest jacket.
"Please, don't get all PC on me." He clears his throat and his voice gets a little smaller. "But, uh, don't tell Odie I said that, actually."
You snicker at that, and he gives you a softer smile in return.
"Sorry...didn't mean it bad."
"Well, it came out bad, Gator. Men and women alike can be amazing nurses. You've seen it, so don't even lie. You're just jealous of his hair, I think. Guys got an epic head of hair."
"Jealous? I'm not jealous a'that puss--"
You shoot him a look before he can make yet another sensationally sexist comment in your presence and his jaw clamps tight around the words. He sniffs and squares his broad shoulders, cracking his neck on both sides.
"Not jealous. He should be jealous. Cause I get to come here and do stuff like this..."
He closes the two steps between you both again, fingers slipping brazenly past the waistband of your scrub pants and gripping the flesh of your ass. Your breath catches in your throat as you cling to his shoulders, trying to keep your balance with him looming over you.
"Gator! Someone could see." You hiss.
"Mm-hm. I can tell how much ya like that, too." His fingers slide down the cleft of your ass and press against your core from behind, feeling the wetness soaking through the cotton of your underwear.
A shaky breath escapes your lips. You search around the ambulance bay wildly to check for any prying eyes, and, finding none, you grip the back of his neck and crash your lips onto his. He groans and hitches your leg up around his hip, then shoves his other hand into your pants and begins kneading and spreading your ass cheeks with his palms.
"Fuck I love this tight little ass." He mutters into your mouth as you grind your hips back into his grasp. He gives one of your flanks a little slap drawing a high-pitched squeak of delight from you. "So fuckin' dirty. Just lettin' me play with your ass while you're at work? Hm? You'd let me fuck ya right here, wouldn't ya?"
"Gator..." You growl, but he can tell his words are having an effect on you. He chortles, shaking his head and rutting his solid cock against your front, dragging it teasingly a few times over your throbbing clit.
"Nah, I know. I can't either, got shit to do. But, you'd still let me. If I wanted."
He straightens up, letting your leg fall from his hip as he withdraws from you completely. You roll your eyes and straighten your scrubs, fixing your ponytail in the ambulance side mirror. He adjusts his massive cock into the waistband of his work pants and slides his shades over his eyes.
Just as you try to decide what your next words would even be to this fucked up situationship you can't seem to shake no matter how hard you try (and believe me, you've tried), Steve comes walking briskly around the side of the ambulance to find you.
"Hey! Got the kid all settled in Room 6, Doc McKinley said getting the fingers on should be easy enough. Oh, hey man, what's up? I'm Steve."
Steve holds his hand out to Gator, and to your surprise he grips it without hesitation (although likely with far too much force) and gives it a hearty shake. He smirks in your direction, but you don't really know what that's about.
"Tillman. Gator."
Steve cocks his head in confusion.
"Which one of those...is your first name?"
You giggle and Gator glares at you briefly before returning the heat of his gaze back to Steve.
"Don't gotta worry about it. You can just call me Chief, cause that's what I am. Cool?"
Steve raises his eyebrows, flustered, and stammers,"Oh, yeah, sure, co--" before Gator cuts him off.
"Great. Alright, hon, watch it. I gotta get going."
Gator shuffles by you, purposely brushing his chest far too close to yours, and loads back into the driver's seat. With a wink and a click of his teeth, he turns the engine over and roars out of the bay. His presence is so domineering that you and Steve can't help but just stand there for a moment, basking in it. You turn to him and shake your head in disbelief.
"He used to be our county Deputy, if you can believe that. His dad is still the Sheriff. Roy Tillman?"
"Shit, yeah. I saw the billboard. A hard man..."
"...for hard times. Yeah, that's the one. Gator's...well, he's a lot. And his family is a hell of a lot. But, as much as it may not seem like it, he's a real great medic. Cool under pressure, quick-thinking, reliable. He doesn't quite have the compassionate care part down, but the backbone? He's nothing but." You give Steve a small, tight-lipped smile, not quite understanding why you felt the need to defend that man in front of this one, but you did all the same.
Steve nods but frowns, glancing down at his hand.
"...His, uh...his hand was wet."
You wrinkle your nose, cheeks growing warm with embarrassment at the realization of why Gator had that shit-eating grin on his face when he grabbed Steve's hand -- it was still slick with you. You jerk your head back towards the hospital.
"You better go wash that, hon."
A/N: okokokok this is a quickie but I wanted to get everyone introduced. This is gonna be so fucking fun, I can't wait.
Jealous Ryland is incredibly pouty, his bottom lip jutting out a little as he watches another guy try to make moves on you. He keeps sighing dramatically, practically begging you to notice his irritation. Throughout the night, he refuses to leave your side, marking his presence with subtle touches - his palm resting warm against your lower back while you converse with others, his fingers tightly intertwined with yours whenever you walk, and his fingertips tracing slow, abstract patterns on your thigh beneath the table while you sit. He is oddly quiet. Then again, he can never truly stay silent, he only speaks when absolutely necessary, which is entirely out of character for a man who is usually a total rambling machine.
When you finally lean in and whisper, “Ry, come on. It’s nothing. I don’t care about whatever he said or is trying to do. I’m here with you, and I’m leaving here with you” the tension leaves his shoulders. It soothes him just enough that he starts talking a bit more, not fully back to his usual energetic self, but getting there.
The second the front door clicks shut at home, he is all over you.
“You only love me, right?” he murmurs, his breath hot against the sensitive skin of your neck.
“He can't trigger the supply of oxytocin to your brain like I do” he claims, practically pressing the words against your lips.
“You’re mine, aren’t you, baby?” he asks tenderly, breathless after absolutely devouring you.
Summary: Financially desperate and years into mutual pining, shy influencer Kurt Kunkle and his roommate decide to start an OnlyFans channel together. What begins as an awkward “just for the money” arrangement slowly unravels months of built-up sexual tension, leading to increasingly explicit roommate porn that neither of them can resist.
Word count: 2.7K
Warnings: NSFW, smut, oral sex (m/receiving), shy/anxious Kurt, mutual pining, slow burn to smut, roommate AU
A/N: first time writing Kurt… kinda nervous
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Seven months of living with Kurt Kunkle had taught you two things: he was endearingly shy, and he was a walking disaster when it came to money.
It started innocently enough. You’d answered his Craigslist ad for a roommate after your old place flooded. Kurt was this lanky, greasy-haired guy in oversized hoodies who barely made eye contact during the interview. He’d rambled about his “content creator journey”, rideshare streams where he talked to the dashboard camera about society, awkward unboxing videos of cheap tech gadgets, and late-night rants about how the world ignored “real authenticity.” You thought he was harmless, cute, even.
The mutual pining crept in slowly, then all at once.
It was the little things at first. Kurt would leave coffee made for you on mornings he knew you had early shifts, scribbling shy little notes on post-its: Hope your day isn’t too bad :). You’d catch him staring when you came home from work, still in your barista apron, his eyes lingering on the way your shirt clung from the heat. He’d look away instantly, ears red, mumbling something about editing.
You weren’t innocent either. Late at night you’d lie in bed replaying the sound of his soft voice through the thin walls as he practiced his streams. The way he’d knock gently on your door around midnight, offering half his leftover takeout “because it’s going to go bad anyway.” Your fingers would brush when you took the container, and the spark felt electric. You started wearing shorter sleep shorts just to see if he’d notice. He always did, swallowing hard and finding sudden reasons to retreat to his room.
There were almost-moments. One night after a particularly bad day, you found him on the couch spiraling about his failing channel. You sat close, closer than necessary and rested your head on his shoulder for comfort. Kurt froze, breath catching, but eventually his arm came around you awkwardly. Neither of you moved for nearly an hour. You could feel his heart hammering.
Another time, you walked in on him fresh out of the shower, towel slung low on his hips. He yelped, clutching the towel, but not before you saw the trail of dark hair leading down and the flush spreading across his chest. “S-sorry!” he stammered, but his eyes had dropped to your chest for a split second. You pretended not to notice how hard he was breathing.
The tension simmered constantly, stolen glances in the kitchen, lingering hugs that lasted a beat too long when one of you had a rough day, the way he’d compliment your laugh during movie nights but immediately backtrack like he’d said too much.
Meanwhile, the bills piled up.
Kurt’s rideshare gigs were inconsistent at best. Half the time he came home defeated, muttering about rude passengers or low tips. His streaming channel? Maybe 200 dedicated followers who mostly showed up to troll him. “Kurt Kunkle’s World” wasn’t catching on, no matter how many hours he spent editing in the dark living room, blue light glowing on his anxious face.
Your barista job covered groceries and your half of rent, but barely. Then came the triple whammy: your hours got cut, Kurt’s car needed a $600 repair, and the landlord hiked rent by $200. One night you found him at the kitchen table at 2 a.m., hoodie sleeves over his hands, staring at a final notice from the power company. His laptop showed a rejected sponsorship email.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered when you sat across from him. His voice cracked. “I keep thinking if I just push harder… get the right angle, the right content… but nothing works. People don’t want real anymore.”
You reached across and touched his wrist. He jolted like you’d shocked him, but didn’t pull away. Tension crackled in the quiet apartment, the kind that had been building for months. Unspoken want. Shared desperation. The way his breath hitched when your thumb brushed his skin.
“Kurt,” you said gently, “we’re fucked if we don’t do something drastic.”
He looked up, eyes wide and vulnerable behind his messy curls. “Like what?”
You hesitated. The idea had been floating in your head for weeks, born from scrolling late-night TikTok and overhearing customers talk about side hustles. But saying it out loud to him felt dangerous.
“What if we made an OnlyFans?”
The silence was deafening. Kurt’s face went scarlet. He stared at you, mouth opening and closing, ears burning red. For a moment you thought he’d bolt to his room and never speak to you again.
“W-with… me?” His voice was barely audible. “You mean… like… adult content? Us?”
“Yeah.” You kept your tone casual even as your heart raced. “Roommate stuff is huge. The ‘we’re just friends but the tension is obvious’ angle. You’re naturally cute and awkward on camera — people eat that up. I’m comfortable with my body. We split everything 50/50. No pressure, no strings… unless we want them.”
He swallowed hard, eyes dropping to the table. But you saw the way his thighs shifted, the subtle press of his hand against his lap. The tension thickened. Months of stolen glances, late-night conversations where you both danced around the obvious chemistry, nights where you’d lie in bed wondering if he was touching himself thinking about you in the next room. (He was. You’d heard the muffled sounds once or twice.)
“I… I’ve never…” Kurt mumbled. “Not on camera. Not with anyone I—” He cut himself off, flushing deeper. “You’d really let me touch you? For this?”
The vulnerability in his voice made your stomach flip. Not just financial need anymore. This was crossing a line you both had been eyeing for months.
-
The decision didn’t happen that night. Tension simmered for three more days.
Kurt avoided you at first, hiding in his room, editing old footage with headphones on. But the power notice glared from the fridge. You ate cold cereal for dinner. He came home from a bad driving shift soaked from rain, looking defeated. That night you both sat on the sagging couch watching a movie neither of you cared about, the space between you charged like static.
Halfway through, his knee brushed yours. Neither moved away. When you turned to say something, his eyes were already on you, dark, hungry, terrified. “I can’t stop thinking about it,” he admitted in a rush. “The idea. You and me. It’s… it’s too much. But we need the money and I… I want to. With you.”
You leaned in slowly, giving him time to pull back. He didn’t. The first kiss was hesitant, soft lips, shaky breath, his hand hovering at your waist like he was afraid to claim it. When you deepened it, sliding into his lap, Kurt whimpered. Actually whimpered. His hands finally settled on your hips, gripping like you were a lifeline.
That kiss stretched into heavy making out, clothes half-pulled aside, grinding and panting until you were both too worked up to pretend it was just “for the channel.” But you stopped before it went further. “Save it for the camera,” you whispered against his mouth. “Make it real.”
Kurt nodded, dazed and painfully hard beneath you. “Okay. Yeah. Let’s… let’s do it.”
-
Before filming, you spent an evening setting up the channel together on your shared laptop. Kurt sat unusually close, his thigh pressed against yours as you created the account.
“We need a good username,” he said, voice still shy but excited. “Something that screams roommate vibes but isn’t too obvious.”
After tossing ideas back and forth, giggling over increasingly ridiculous ones you settled on KurtsWorldWithHer. It kept his original brand vibe while making it clear you were now part of his world.
For the bio, Kurt typed carefully, cheeks pink:
“Two broke roommates turning tension into content. Shy boy meets bold girl in KurtsWorld. Real chemistry, real firsts, real messy feelings. Exclusive videos weekly. 50/50 split but 100% real. DMs open for requests. #RoommateGoals”
You added a winking emoji and made him blush harder.
The profile picture was a carefully cropped shot you took together: Kurt in his black hoodie looking flustered, you in a tank top leaning against his shoulder, both smiling at the camera with just enough skin showing to be suggestive without being explicit. Kurt kept adjusting the crop “so it looks natural but hot.”
By the end, Kurt was vibrating with nervous energy, leg bouncing. “This is actually happening. People are gonna see us. Together.”
You squeezed his hand. “Only the parts we want them to see. And we’re in this together.”
-
The first video took two days to film because Kurt kept overthinking.
He set up the ring light and tripod in the living room like it was a blockbuster production, adjusting angles obsessively. “Lighting has to be flattering,” he muttered, ears pink. “And the framing — people like authenticity but not ugly authenticity.” You wore a thin tank top and panties. He stayed in his black t-shirt and gray sweatpants. The second you stepped into frame, his hands trembled on the remote.
“Kurt,” you said softly, stepping close enough to feel the heat radiating off him. “We can stop anytime. This is just us.”
He looked at you like you’d hung the moon. “I’ve wanted this for months. Since you moved in. Every time you laughed at my dumb videos or made coffee for both of us… I felt pathetic for how much I liked it. And now we’re here because we’re broke and I still can’t believe you chose me for this.”
The camera started rolling. Red light blinking.
You cupped his face, thumbs brushing his burning cheeks. “Hey… kiss me, Kurt. Like you mean it this time.”
He leaned in, lips trembling against yours at first, soft, tentative, almost too gentle. His breath hitched when you parted your lips and invited his tongue. The kiss deepened slowly. Kurt’s hands slid up your sides, shaky but gaining confidence as you moaned into his mouth. He tasted like the mint gum he’d nervously chewed earlier.
“God… you feel so good,” he whispered against your lips, voice cracking. “So warm. I— I’ve dreamed about this.”
You straddled his lap on the couch, grinding down against the obvious bulge in his sweatpants. Kurt gasped sharply, hips bucking up involuntarily. “Fuck— sorry, I didn’t mean to— you’re just… really turning me on right now.”
You tugged his shirt off, revealing his lean, pale chest. Kurt’s hands finally grew bolder, sliding under your tank top to cup your bare breasts. His thumbs circled your hardening nipples, pinching lightly when you arched into him.
“Is this okay?” he asked breathlessly, eyes wide. “They’re so soft… perfect. Can I taste them?”
You nodded, pulling your top off. Kurt latched onto one nipple immediately, sucking greedily while his other hand kneaded the other breast. Wet, obscene sounds filled the room as his tongue flicked rapidly. You moaned loudly for the camera, threading fingers through his greasy hair.
“Yes, Kurt— just like that. You’re so good with your mouth already.”
He whimpered at the praise, switching sides, sucking harder. His free hand slipped down, rubbing you through your soaked panties. “You’re wet,” he murmured in disbelief, voice muffled against your skin. “For me. Holy shit.”
You slid off his lap and knelt between his spread thighs. Kurt’s eyes were huge as you pulled his sweatpants and boxers down, freeing his throbbing cock, thick, veined, already leaking precum at the flushed tip.
“Fuck, look at you,” you purred, stroking him slowly from base to head. “So hard for your roommate.”
Kurt’s head fell back, a broken moan escaping. “Please— I don’t know how long I’ll last. You’re too hot on your knees like that.”
You took him into your mouth, tongue swirling around the head before sinking deeper, relaxing your throat. Kurt’s hand flew to your hair, not pushing, just gripping desperately.
“Oh my god— your mouth is so warm and wet— fuck— I can feel your tongue…” He panted heavily, hips twitching. “Slower, baby, please— I’m gonna cum if you keep doing that thing with your throat.”
You didn’t slow down. You bobbed faster, hollowing your cheeks, one hand cupping his balls while the other pumped what you couldn’t fit. Kurt’s thighs shook.
“I’m close— I’m so close— can I cum in your mouth? Please let me cum in your mouth—”
You hummed approval around him. Kurt came with a loud, pathetic cry, hips jerking as thick ropes of cum flooded your throat. You swallowed every drop, pulling off with a wet pop and licking your lips for the camera.
He stared down at you, dazed and flushed. “That was… incredible. You’re incredible.”
-
The video titled “Shy Roommate Finally Snaps. First Time Crossing the Line” exploded. $1,400 in 48 hours. Enough to pay the electric bill and buy real groceries.
-
The videos kept coming, each one peeling back another layer of tension. Kurt and you explored all kinds of content: teasing “accidental” walk-in showers where Kurt would get flustered and hard on camera; long, intimate nights of him eating you out on the kitchen counter while wearing his old streaming headset; risky quickies in the car after his rideshare shifts; even soft dom/sub dynamics where you praised him as a “good shy boy” while riding him slow and deep. You guys even tried light bondage with his hoodie sleeves tied around your wrists, sensory play with ice cubes from the freezer, and plenty of creampie-focused videos that fans begged for.
Six months later the channel KurtsWorldWithHer had nearly 200k subscribers. Kurt still got anxious in public when fans recognized you two. Like the time a barista whispered “I love your videos” while handing over coffee, making his face burn crimson as he mumbled a shy “thank you” and hid behind his hoodie. Or when a group of fans at the grocery store asked for a selfie, and Kurt’s hand trembled holding the phone while you laughed and played it cool. He’d get quiet and clingy afterward, needing reassurance that you were still his safe space, but it also turned him on in private, the thrill of being seen with you.
At home he was addicted to you, to the work, to finally being seen. After one particularly intense shoot, he curled into your chest, soft and clingy again. “I love you,” he whispered. “Not just for the channel. For everything.”
You kissed his head. “Love you too, Kurt. My favorite cam boy.”
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thinking about holland in the bath (nsfw version this time)
When Holland isn’t having a horrible day and using the tub to wallow in his sadness, the two of you use the tub in a much more intimate manner. Not to actually wash yourselves of course.
If Holly is gone, the house is quiet and neither of you are looking for anything too intense in the sheets, you usually gravitate toward the tub.
The warm water, the soft silkiness it offers, and the close proximity creates a relaxing, steamy place to spend an hour.
More often than not, Holland steps in first, laying back against the porcelain to get comfy before waving you in with a stupid, giddy smile. You settle between his spread legs, shimmying to rest against his torso. But not before carefully sinking onto his cock.
It’s a confusing combination of soothing and incredibly arousing to have him nestled so deeply when you lay together. Holland always groans when you take him, throwing his head back so hard sometimes he’ll knock it against the lip of the tub in response to the lovely squeeze of your walls.
Once you get comfortable against him, the two of you talk about whatever you deem worth whispering about in the humid room: your days, the weather, his cases, your annoying coworker. You can last quite a while in his lap, keeping his cock warm and enjoying the press of him against your back. It varies day to day how long Holland can last without touching you.
Some days he can hold it together, cock softening to a semi and his urge to ask you to grind on him a far-off thought. Other days, he’ll barely last 5 minutes before he snaps.
Once he gets impatient and wants to spur things on, he’ll spread your legs with his and his hand will wander between your legs.
Playing with you under the water is a whole different kind of arousing. There is no thrusting, no drag of cock- just his fingers. Oftentimes, Holland will even continue your conversations like he isn’t exploring every inch of your sex beneath the suds.
The careful touch of his fingers, the gentle rubbing along the skin where you’re connected, searching for the parts of you that have pleasure zinging up your spine will have you fluttering around him in no time. The effort of your walls trying to milk him dry usually gets Holland off enough to work himself up to a high (it never takes much to get Holland to cum). If Holland does his job right, the fingering of you alone will bring you both to a soft orgasm.
Once your peaks have ebbed- he’s softened inside you and the throb in your core has dulled- you’ll sit for a while longer in silence, massaging whatever body parts of each other you can reach while Holland whispers sweet nothings against your temple.
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Reader is Holly‘s babysitter or Holly‘s teacher and March meets reader and falls instantly in love, but Holly is not OK with her dad dating her teacher or babysitter because she thinks it’s weird idk something like that
Dad Dating
(Holland March x Babysitter! reader)
Holland March had been a mindless, daydreaming mess for weeks— more so even than usual. Ever since you'd started babysitting Holly two months ago, having responded to the ad he put up in the papers, he could not stop thinking about you. The way you laughed at his terrible jokes; the way you helped Holly with homework without making her feel stupid; the way you looked at him like you were happy to see him— even when he was late home. He was falling, and he was falling hard.
One evening, after Holly had gone to bed, Holland finally worked up the courage to ask you something, while you were gathering your things by the door. It was now or never, he supposed.
“So… I was thinking,” he said, loosening his tie casually from work. “Would you let me take you out for dinner tomorrow night? Payment for, uh, staying late so much this week.”
"You already pay me, Mr. March," you smiled. His stomach flipped when you called him that.
He rubbed the back of his neck— shit, he'd have to be honest.
"Ok, well, indulge me. I—" he paused a moment. "I like your company. I'd like to spend some time with you not in this... fuckin' house, just you 'n me."
Your cheeks warmed slightly as you slung your bag over your shoulder.
"Well, when you put it that way... I'd like that," you laughed. "See you tomorrow, then?" you prompted. He smiled back goofily.
"Yeah," he sighed dreamily, "tomorrow." Holland watched you disappear down the driveway, still clutching the doorway as if his knees might give out.
Holly had overheard everything from the hallway— and, worse still, seen her father acting like a sick puppy. She wasn't happy. As far as she was concerned, these were two corners of her life that should not cross over, and she definitely didn't want her new friend playing house with her actual dad. Ugh.
The next morning when you arrived (a weekend, so March was off to a matinée stake-out with Healy), Holly was waiting on the couch, arms crossed, looking defiant. Before you'd had the chance to ask what was up, she spoke.
“You can’t marry my dad,” she said bluntly. You paused, surprised.
“Holly… what?”
“You're going to dinner with him tonight," she scoffed. "What next? You're gonna make me call you 'mom'?”
You fought back a smile as you dropped your bag by the door.
"Holly. We're going for dinner— that doesn't mean we're going to get married. And it definitely doesn't mean you have to call me mom," you giggled, joining her on the sofa. Holly averted her gaze.
"It's just... it's weird, right?" she mumbled, looking down at her hands. “You’re my babysitter. If you two break up, everything will be awkward and you'll leave. I don’t want that,” she sighed.
Unbeknownst to you, Holland had been passing the lounge just in time to hear this. He stood in the hallway, half-buttoning his shirt, distracted by trying to be as quiet as possible as he listened from the doorway, your backs thankfully turned to him.
Holly thought about what you had said for a long moment, then sighed as she pulled her knees to her chest.
“Fine. But no kissing in front of me. And if you break up, you still have to be my babysitter.”
You let out a relieved laugh and nodded solemnly.
“Deal. No kissing in front of you."
At this, Holly smiled, content at last, and stood up from the couch to return to the garden, where she had been playing. As she skipped out the door, you called out to her.
"And, Holly," you called out. She stopped in her tracks, turning back toward you with eyebrows raised expectantly.
"I'm not going anywhere unless you want me to, ok?"
She nodded an "ok" then continued her trajectory outside.
As Holly ran off to play, Holland spoke from the doorway. You jumped, turning around sharply; he was wearing a hopelessly smitten grin with a cigarette hanging pathetically from his lips, unlit thus yet.
“I’m in so much trouble,” he whispered. “Like, the really good kind.”
Imagine living like a king someday @pinkpunkdynamite - Tumblr Blog | Tumlook
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