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The girls were on their second bottle of wine, sprawled across mismatched couches and the floor, half-tipsy and mean in the way girls get when they’re bored and comfortable enough to prod at each other’s soft spots.

You sat cross-legged on the rug, clutching a red solo cup full of something too sweet. You didn’t drink. Didn’t party, didn’t flirt. You came tonight because they’d begged, and you were tired of always saying no.

“Aight,” Casey said, holding up her phone like a mic. “Time for the lightning round. Most guys you’ve hooked up with—go.”

Laughter. A few bold answers. One exaggerated moan.

“Does second base count?” Tasha giggled, already halfway through her third pour.

Someone nudged you. “Your turn, sweet thing.”

You looked up, startled. “What?”

“How many guys have you been with?”

The room quieted—not entirely, but just enough to feel heavy. Casey’s smirk widened like she already knew the answer. “Like… done anything yet?”

Your stomach twisted. “No,” you said softly.

A beat.

Then they all laughed.

Not cruel, not exactly. But loud enough. One of them clutched her chest dramatically, “Oh my god. You’re still—?”

"No way," another giggled. "Like—not even once? Nothing?"

You tried to laugh it off, but it came out small and tight.

"You’ve never had someone go down on you?"

"Or touched a dick at all?"

"Oh my god, you're like a virgin-virgin.”

“Damn, we gotta find you a man, girl.”

You laughed a little, again. Your throat felt tight, palms damp around your cup. You looked down into it like it held the exit.

They moved on quickly—talking about hookups and exes and who they’d do if they had to pick someone older—but you didn’t hear any of it. Your mind was elsewhere.

On the burn in your cheeks. On the lump in your throat.

The heat in your chest didn’t fade.

It stayed with you the rest of the night.

All the way home.

Even as you crawled into bed, still hearing their laughter echo behind your eyes.

——

There was a knock at the door just after 9 a.m.

You were still in the oversized sleep shirt you’d thrown on the night before—no bra, legs bare, hair messy. You hadn’t planned on being seen by anyone.

When you opened the door, Joel Miller stood on your porch, one hand braced on the frame, the other curled loosely around a travel mug.

“Hey,” he said, voice low and scratchy like he hadn’t been up long either. “Your dad around?”

You blinked at him, heart skipping a beat. “Uh—no. He left early this morning. Something at the shop, I think.”

Joel nodded, squinting slightly in the morning sun. He didn’t move to leave.

You felt his gaze flicker—just for a second. Barely there. A split-second glance down. Not lingering, but not accidental either.

You looked down and realized why.

Your nipples pressed clearly through the thin, pale fabric of your shirt. Chilled from the A/C and utterly visible. You crossed your arms quickly, heat rushing to your cheeks.

His eyes were back on your face, unreadable now.

“It’s—uh—it’s cold in here,” you mumbled stupidly.

He nodded again, awkward silence settling between you.

The girls' laughter echoed back in your mind, cruel and sharp.

You’ve never had someone go down on you?

Or touched a dick at all?

You swallowed.

“Do you… want coffee?” you offered, stepping back, pretending like nothing just happened. “I can make some.”

He hesitated, then gave a slow shrug. “Sure.”

The coffee pot sputtered and hissed in the corner. Joel sat at the table with his arms crossed while you busied yourself with mugs and sugar, hyper-aware of every movement. You could feel him watching you—quiet, curious.

Your hands shook slightly as you reached for the milk. You were still braless. Still flushed. Still full of something restless and reckless, your chest tight with leftover shame from last night.

You thought about his eyes. That flicker. The way they’d dropped without meaning to.

He was a man. He noticed.

You didn’t let yourself think. You just turned.

“Joel,” you said, too fast.

Your heart pounded so loud you could barely hear yourself.

“I—I want to ask you something.”

He raised an eyebrow, cautious. “What’s goin’ on?”

You looked down at him, jaw clenched, lips parting like you had something important to say—but instead, you just moved.

You stepped between his legs where he sat in the old wooden chair. Awkwardly. Bold and shaking all at once. Your hands landed on his chest, tentative, unsure.

And then—like you’d seen in a movie or read in a book—you started to climb into his lap.

“What’re you doin’?” he asked, voice low. Rough.

“I just—I want—” you stammered, and then you tried to kiss him.

Tried.

It was clumsy. Off-kilter. Your lips missed his at first, nose bumping his, and one of your hands clutched his shirt too tight like you were afraid of falling.

Joel pulled back immediately, hands firm but not rough as he gripped your waist and eased you back.

“Hey—” His voice was gentle but serious. “What’s this about?”

You were frozen. Embarrassment crashed over you in a wave. You scrambled off his lap, stepping back like you’d touched a stove.

“I’m—I’m sorry,” you mumbled. “I didn’t mean—..”

“Sweetheart,” he said softly. “Don’t be sorry. Just… talk to me.”

You couldn’t look at him. You crossed your arms again, staring at the floor, shame bubbling up your throat.

“I just…” Your voice cracked. “They were laughing at me.”

Joel’s brow furrowed. “Who?”

“My friends,” you whispered. “Last night. They all found out I’ve never done anything. Like—anything. And they just… kept laughing. Like I was a kid or something.”

He was quiet.

You dared to glance up.

“They made me feel so stupid,” you said. “Like I’m broken or behind or—or less. And I just wanted—” Your eyes welled with tears, and you blinked them away fast. “I wanted to not feel that way anymore.”

Joel exhaled slowly, running a hand down his face. “Jesus.”

“I thought maybe if I just…” you gestured vaguely toward him, face flushing darker, “then maybe it’d go away.”

He looked at you for a long moment. Not with pity. Not with judgment.

Just quiet understanding.

“I ain’t mad,” he said finally. “But this ain’t the way to fix that kind of hurt.”

You nodded, lips pressed together, throat tight.

Joel stood, stepping forward. Reaching out, careful, like you were glass.

“Look at me.”

You did.

“I’m not gonna laugh at you,” he said. “And if you really want this—if you really want me to be the one—then I’m gonna show you right. Not like this. Not all twisted up with shame and hurt

You swallowed. “Then how?”

His hand brushed a strand of hair behind your ear, fingers rough and warm.

“I’ll take you upstairs,” he said softly. “And I’ll show you slow. Real slow. You say stop, I stop. You say wait, I wait.”

You nodded—small, trembling.

Your bedroom looked suddenly different with Joel standing in it.

Smaller. Warmer. Too intimate.

You watched him cross the threshold slowly, his broad frame filling the doorway, calloused hands still at his sides like he wasn’t sure what to do with them yet. You could barely breathe.

He shut the door gently behind him.

You stood awkwardly near the bed, fingers twisting together, skin flushed with heat and nerves.

He looked at you for a long moment—his eyes softer than you'd ever seen them. Not just lustful, but careful. Curious. Patient.

“You sure?” he asked, voice low. “Ain’t too late to change your mind.”

You nodded.

“Need to hear it, sweetheart.”

“I’m sure,” you whispered.

Joel moved toward you slowly, like approaching something fragile.

His hand came up, warm and solid, fingertips brushing along your jaw. You leaned into the touch instinctively, eyes fluttering shut for just a second.

“You’re nervous,” he murmured.

“I don’t know what I’m doing,” you admitted.

“That’s alright.” He tilted your chin gently, guiding your eyes to his. “You don’t have to.”

His lips brushed yours, barely there—just a test, a promise, not a demand. You exhaled shakily. He kissed you again, a little deeper this time, his hand steady at your jaw, the other moving to your waist.

You clung to his shirt again, just like you had downstairs, but this time he didn’t pull away. He let you hold on.

“Lay back for me,” he said quietly.

You climbed onto the bed, heart thundering, laying down against the pillows, legs stretched out and trembling.

Joel followed, kneeling beside you on the mattress, looking down like he didn’t want to rush a single second of this.

“Pretty thing,” he murmured. His hand rested on your knee, and even that felt electric. “You ever been touched at all?”

You shook your head.

He gave a slow, grounding nod. “Alright. I’m gonna go real slow. Just keep lookin’ at me, yeah?”

You nodded.

He leaned down again, kissing you soft and patient. His hand moved up your thigh, under the hem of your shirt, fingers tracing skin.

Your breath hitched as his hand brushed the edge of your underwear.

“Let me take these off?”

“Yes,” you breathed.

He slipped them down, slow and careful, watching your face the whole time. When he saw you tremble, his hand found yours and squeezed.

“You’re doin’ so good, baby,” he whispered.

He kissed your inner thigh, your hip, your stomach—worshipping every inch of you without rushing.

By the time his fingers slid between your legs, you were already aching—more from the attention, the tenderness, the feeling of being seen than anything else.

“God,” Joel muttered, voice thick and low. “You’re soaked, sweetheart.”

Your face burned, but you didn’t look away.

He touched you with patience. With reverence. One thick finger sliding through your folds, circling your clit just enough to make you arch.

“Tell me if anything don’t feel good, alright?”

“It does,” you whispered, already breathless.

His lips kissed your temple, then your cheek, his finger slipping inside slowly—just one, stretching you gently while his thumb worked soft circles.

It was overwhelming. Not the touch, but the kindness. The way he whispered praise against your skin.

Joel’s touch was reverent—his hands patient, rough in all the ways that made your skin burn. He eased a single finger into you, watching your face the whole time.

“Goddamn,” he murmured, voice gravel-soft. “You’re tight, baby. Real tight.”

You let out a shaky breath, thighs instinctively tensing around his hand. He stilled immediately, his thumb brushing soothing circles into your hip.

“Breathe for me,” he said softly. “You’re okay. You’re doin’ so good.”

Your eyes fluttered open. He kissed your knee, gentle and slow, like you had all the time in the world.

“Gonna have to get you used to me,” Joel said. “Stretch you a little. Just with my fingers for now, alright?”

You nodded, lips parted, every nerve in your body already alight.

He moved again, just slightly—his finger curling inside you, searching, testing.

You gasped when he brushed something deep and unfamiliar.

“There she is,” Joel whispered, lips curving into a grin. “Right there’s what I’m lookin’ for.”

He added a second finger.

It was more, thicker, and you winced—not from pain exactly, but pressure, fullness.

“Shhh,” he murmured. “I got you, baby. I got you.”

He worked slowly—fingers moving in and out with a careful rhythm, his other hand stroking your thigh, calming you with soft murmurs.

“You feel that?”

“So fuckin’ wet for me. You didn’t even know you could get this messy, did you?”

“Gonna make you feel good, baby. Gonna show you how it’s supposed to be.”

You whimpered, hips rocking instinctively against his hand, chasing friction.

Joel leaned over you, voice rough at your ear. “You’re takin’ my fingers so sweet, sugar. Can’t wait to feel you wrapped around my cock—gonna split you open so slow, you’ll be beggin’ me for more.”

You clenched around him at the words, moaning softly. His pace didn’t change. He was unshakable, grounded, like he was never in a rush.

Your thighs were trembling. That tight, unbearable pressure was building in your belly, high and hot and close—

And then he pulled his fingers out.

You whined in protest, hips lifting, chasing him.

Joel just smirked, sliding down the bed with a low, approving sound.

“Not done with you yet, baby,”

He pressed your thighs apart, kissing the inside of your knee again. Then lower. Then lower.

You couldn’t look. You couldn’t breathe.

When his mouth finally met you, you cried out—quiet and broken and raw. His tongue slid through your folds, slow and deliberate, lips sealing around your clit with just enough suction to make your whole body tense.

He groaned low in his throat, like you were the best thing he’d ever tasted.

You fisted the sheets.

He licked you like he had nowhere else to be—long, slow strokes of his tongue, teasing circles over your clit, and then dipping lower again to fuck you with his mouth.

When his fingers joined in—pressing deep inside while his tongue kept working you—you lost all sense of time.

“Let go for me,” Joel murmured against you, voice muffled and thick with heat. “Wanna feel you come, baby. Just for me.”

That was all it took.

You shattered with a cry, back arching off the bed, legs clamping around his head as the orgasm hit you like a wave. It rolled through you in long, stuttering pulses, every inch of your body flushed and twitching under his touch.

He didn’t stop until you begged. Didn’t stop kissing you, licking you, whispering softly against your skin as you trembled in his hands.

When you finally opened your eyes, he was there, hovering above you, lips glistening, pupils dark and wide.

“You okay?” he asked.

You nodded, dazed and flushed. “I—yeah. That was…”

Joel smiled. “Yeah. It was.”

Your breathing was still uneven, chest rising and falling in little shudders as Joel moved back up your body.

He kissed your stomach on the way—soft, slow presses of his lips to damp skin. Then your ribs. The curve of your breast, just under the fabric of your sleep shirt.

When his face hovered over yours again, his lips were wet, beard damp with you, and his eyes—God—his eyes looked like they could ruin you all over again.

“Didn’t know you could make sounds like that, sweetheart,” he murmured, voice rough with something deeper than lust. “That pretty little mouth, always so quiet—‘til now.”

You flushed, instinctively trying to cover your face, but Joel caught your wrist, grinning as he pinned it gently to the mattress.

“Nuh-uh,” he said, low and warm. “You don’t get to hide from me now.”

You whimpered softly, still reeling, still trembling under him.

“Didn’t even touch my cock yet and you’re already fallin’ apart for me,” he said, tone teasing but fond. “That sweet little pussy just sucked my fingers right in—like she missed me.”

Your thighs squeezed together. Joel chuckled, amused and smug, clearly enjoying the effect he had on you.

“You don’t even know how pretty you look like this, do you?” he said, brushing his thumb across your cheek. “All wrecked and shy, all soaked for me.”

You could hardly answer—too overwhelmed, too dizzy with the softness and the burn.

“I should make you come again,” he murmured, kissing down your throat slowly. “Just ‘cause I can. Bet I could keep you in this bed all day, make you forget your name before I even fuck you.”

"Joel—” you gasped, barely holding it together.

He smiled against your skin. “There’s my girl. Say my name again.”

You did. Breathless. Shaking.

Joel kissed your jaw, your temple, then leaned his forehead gently against yours.

“You still want more?” he asked. “Want me to take it further?”

You nodded. “Please.”

He ran a hand slowly down your side, over the curve of your hip, then between your legs again—touching you lightly, just enough to make you whimper.

“Still drippin’ for me,” he said. “You ready to be filled up, baby?”

“Yes,” you breathed.

Joel’s body hovered over yours, solid and warm, his hand cradling your cheek while the other smoothed down your side. You watched him through heavy eyes, heart beating so fast it was hard to breathe.

"You sure, baby?" he asked again, voice soft as cotton but low with need. "I need you to tell me."

"I’m sure," you whispered, fingers curled in his shirt like you needed to hold onto something. "I want it. I want you."

He kissed you—slow and sweet—then murmured against your mouth, "Gonna make you mine, sweetheart. Real slow. Gonna take my time with you."

You felt him reach down between your bodies, shifting just enough to line himself up. His tip brushed your entrance, and even that light contact made your body jolt, hips twitching up without meaning to.

Joel groaned softly. "Fuck. You feel that, baby? You’re already squeezin’ me and I haven’t even pushed in yet."

You bit your lip, trembling. "Will it hurt?"

"A little," he said honestly. "But not for long. I’ll go slow, let you adjust. You tell me if you need to stop, okay?"

You nodded.

He kissed you again—calming, grounding—then started to press in.

Slow.

So, so slow.

You gasped. Not in pain, but in pressure—stretching, fullness, heat. He was thick, bigger than you'd expected. Your fingers gripped his shoulders, eyes wide as your breath caught in your throat.

Joel’s voice was right at your ear, warm and steady. "That’s it, baby. Just like that. You’re takin’ me so good. So fuckin’ tight around me—Jesus."

Your eyes fluttered. "I—I feel full."

He smiled softly. "You are full. That sweet little pussy’s never had anything like this, has she?"

You shook your head, breath stuttering.

He pressed in deeper, inch by inch, until he was only halfway, then stilled.

"Doing okay?" he asked, brushing his thumb across your cheek.

You nodded quickly. "It’s… a lot."

"I know, baby. You’re doin’ perfect." He kissed you again. "You’re so good for me. So fuckin’ good."

His hips rolled just a little, enough to make your breath hitch again.

"That okay?"

"Y-yeah," you whispered.

"Feels good bein’ stretched by me, huh?"

You hid your face in his neck, flushed and overwhelmed. "It’s… weird. But not— mmph..bad."

Joel chuckled softly, rocking his hips again—slow, careful. "That’s your body getting used to mine. She’s learnin’. Givin’ it all up to me.”

He slid in deeper.

You moaned, body twitching, overwhelmed in every way.

He paused, voice gentle. "That hurt?"

"No," you gasped. "Just… full. It’s so much."

Joel’s hand slid under your thigh, lifting it slightly, opening you just a little more. "Gonna help you take it all, sweetheart. Let me guide you, yeah?"

You nodded, dizzy.

“Atta girl,” he murmured, “Open up f’me.”

He rolled his hips again, and this time he bottomed out—slow and steady, until you felt every inch of him buried inside you. Your mouth fell open in a soft cry.

Joel groaned, head dropping to your shoulder.

"Fuck. You feel like heaven, baby. So warm. So tight."

He stayed still, letting you adjust, kissing your throat, your jaw, the corner of your mouth.

Then he moved.

Just a little.

A slow pull, then a roll of his hips that made your legs tighten around him, your voice catch again in your throat.

“That’s it,” he said, pace still slow and tender. “Let me show you how good this can feel. Let me show you what you’ve been missin’.”

His hand trailed down between your bodies again, thumb circling your clit in soft, steady strokes as he began to move in earnest—deep, slow thrusts that filled you completely each time.

You cried out—quiet, breathy.

"That feel good, baby?"

"Y-yeah," you whimpered. "So good…Joel..."

Joel kissed your forehead, your lips, moving just a little faster now, just enough to make the sounds of skin and slick heat fill the room.

"You’re doin’ so good for me," he growled. "Takin’ it like a good girl. My good girl."

You couldn’t speak—you were floating.

You felt your climax creeping up again, faster this time, deeper.

"Joel—"

"I got you," he whispered. "Come for me, baby. Let it happen. You’re safe. I’m right here."

You shattered again—softer this time, but no less intense. You clung to him as your body locked up, pulsing around him, mouth falling open on a helpless moan.

Joel grunted, hips stuttering as he chased his own release—but he didn’t stop praising you.

"That’s it. God, you’re perfect. Fuckin’ perfect."

He groaned loud into your neck as he spilled into you, slow and deep, his whole body shaking above yours.

He stayed like that for a long moment, breathing hard against your skin.

Then he kissed you.

Soft, slow, worshipful.

"That’s how it’s supposed to feel, sweetheart," he murmured. "Not shame. Not guilt. Just this."

You nodded, still dazed, still wrapped around him.

Your legs were tangled with his, bare skin still warm and slick from where your bodies had met. The room was quiet now, lit only by the soft glow of morning leaking through your curtains.

Joel was holding you against his chest, one hand rubbing slow circles on your lower back while the other stroked through your hair.

You felt like a puddle. A mess.

And you never wanted to move again.

He kissed your temple, your cheek, your jaw—slow, lingering presses of his mouth that made your insides melt all over again.

“You okay?” he asked softly, voice rough from sex and sleepiness.

You nodded into his shoulder. “Yeah.”

His lips curved into a faint smile against your skin.

"You were so good, baby. Real good for me," he murmured. “Took it so sweet, like your body was made for it.”

You flushed again, even now.

Joel leaned back just far enough to look at you, fingers still lazily tracing down your spine.

“You know what I think?” he asked, eyes gleaming just a little.

“What?” you whispered.

“I think next time those little smartass friends of yours try to tease you,” he drawled, “you oughta tell ’em you ain’t a virgin anymore.”

Your face burned.

Joel smirked, leaning in to kiss the corner of your mouth.

“In fact,” he added, “you should tell ’em you got fucked. And fucked good.”

You covered your face with both hands, groaning softly.

“Joel,” you whined, half-laughing, half-embarrassed.

“What?” he said, amused. “Ain’t a lie, is it?”

You peeked up at him through your fingers.

“No,” you admitted. “It’s not.”

“Damn right it’s not.”

You make a pact with yourself.

You’re going to make Joel Miller smile.

No particular reason — except maybe how miserable he always looks. All scowls and silence and stiff shoulders when he passes through Jackson. Like if someone ever tried to hug him, he’d go up in flames.

And yet, there’s something in you — maybe it’s that stubborn spark that somehow survived twenty years of death and ruin — that won’t let you leave him alone.

You start small.

A nod at the gates.

A cheerful “Morning, Joel!” at the mess hall.

Fresh bread left on his doorstep.

The first time he finally acknowledges you, it’s with a grunt and a very clear “You don’t need to keep bringin’ me things.”

You just smile. “You’re welcome.”

He doesn’t thank you.

But he doesn’t stop you either.

Joel Miller isn’t mean, exactly.

Just…tightly wound. Shut down. Like a man made of iron — forged by heartbreak and sharpened into something no one is allowed to hold.

But you keep showing up. You talk to him like he’s already your friend — teasing, warm, undeterred by the way he crosses his arms and huffs like you’re some inconvenient little storm.

You’re the only person who calls him Joel and not Mr. Miller or sir.

And when you call him “Sunshine” once — ironically, playfully — he nearly chokes on his coffee.

You don’t know that it kills him — the way you glow. The way you treat him like he’s worth knowing. You have no idea how much he wants to like you.

And how much he refuses to let himself.

——

When you offer to join Joel’s patrol run, you aren’t expecting applause. But you do think he might be at least a little grateful.

Instead, he says nothing. Not during prep, not on the trail, not even when you hand him half your rations just because you know he never eats enough.

The silence doesn’t scare you. It’s Joel. It’s how he is.

You’ve come to like the quiet little ways he shows things — the way he double-checks your gun for you, the way he walks slightly ahead, always between you and the open.

But this silence is different. It's tight. Icy.

And then, on the second day, after hours of walking through mud and thorns and awkward tension, you say something — lighthearted, harmless, maybe a little too cheerful — and Joel stops dead in his tracks.

“Do you ever stop talkin’?” he snaps.

You blink.

“I mean—shit, you just never quit, do you?” he says, voice harsher now. “It’s like you don’t even get how dangerous it is out here. You're distractin’. And honestly? You're annoyin’ as hell.”

Your heart sinks.

You blink once. Then again.

“…Right,” you say, voice quiet now. And for the first time since arriving in Jackson, you stop smiling.

He tries to apologize.

That night, by the fire, you sit apart. Not huffy — just distant. Withdrawn. You hand him food without a word. You wrap your own blanket tight and turn away.

He watches you for a long time before finally clearing his throat.

“I didn’t mean that, earlier.”

You don’t answer.

“I was just… I don’t know. Tired.”

Still, you say nothing. Just stare into the fire.

He shifts beside you, clearly uncomfortable. “You were just tryin’ to help.”

You hum, noncommittal. “It’s fine.”

“It ain’t.”

You look at him, finally.

“No,” you say, calm but cold, “it’s not.”

Then you turn away again, and Joel doesn’t know what else to say. He’s never been good with words — not when they matter.

So he lets the silence settle between you again. And this time, it’s him who can’t stand it.

Back in Jackson, you don't avoid him, not exactly.

But you don’t seek him out, either.

Your usual greetings are gone. You don’t drop off bread or linger by his porch. No little jokes. No big grins. You’re polite, sure — but distant.

And Joel feels it.

It guts him.

The gifts start small, it starts with a tin of coffee.

Left on your porch. No note. No explanation.

Then some new gloves — thick and warm and obviously not from the communal stock.

Then a jar of wild honey you know only Joel has access to.

He never says a word.

You know it’s him. Everyone knows it’s him. But he pretends he doesn’t notice when you glance at him in the mess hall, eyebrows raised.

He keeps leaving things anyway.

A flower. A new knife. A book you’d once mentioned in passing.

Little offerings. Quiet apologies. His own awkward, wordless way of saying:

Please forgive me. I miss you.

You don't give in yet.

You almost knock on his door one night.

Almost.

But you don’t.

Because part of you still remembers how it felt — being called annoying. Being seen as a burden. A joke.

He’ll have to do more than leave things on your porch to fix that.

You want him to say it. To mean it.

To show up.

One week later, he sees you near the stables.

You’re laughing.

Head thrown back, a soft sound slipping from your lips that he hasn’t heard in over a week. The guy standing with you — Jesse’s cousin or some new recruit, Joel doesn’t care — is clearly eating it up. He says something that makes you laugh again, and this time you touch his arm. Light, casual, familiar.

And Joel feels it in his chest. Like a punch.

Because that laugh — that spark — used to be for him.

Even when he didn’t deserve it.

Even when he hadn’t earned it.

He hasn’t heard you laugh since that day in the woods.

He thought maybe you were just tired. Thought maybe the gifts were enough.

But now you’re smiling for someone else.

And Joel’s stomach twists.

Burns.

He turns and walks away before he does something stupid. Before anyone sees the look on his face.

He spirals, slowly. Quietly.

The next day, Joel snaps at Maria for asking a simple question. He rebuilds a section of the fence that didn’t need fixing. Tommy watches him hammer the same nail three times before finally muttering, “You alright, brother?”

Joel doesn’t answer.

He doesn’t sleep much that night. Just lies in bed staring at the ceiling, remembering the sound of your laugh in someone else’s mouth.

The next morning, you’re in the mess hall, talking to the same guy.

He’s handing you a bowl of eggs, something stupidly charming in the way he grins a little as he offers it. You take it, smiling, and Joel feels something ugly claw up in his chest.

He doesn’t finish his meal.

Doesn’t even sit down.

He turns around and walks straight back out the door.

He can't take it anymore.

That night, you hear a knock.

It’s soft. Two short raps. Then silence.

When you open it, Joel’s standing there.

He looks tired — drawn out, jaw clenched, eyes dark. There’s a weight to him that wasn’t there before. Something frayed.

“I know you don’t wanna talk to me,” he starts. “And I get that. You don’t owe me nothin’. But I can’t keep walkin’ around like I ain’t losin’ my goddamn mind.”

You blink. “Joel—”

“I see you smilin’ for everyone else,” he says, voice rough. “I see you givin’ them that look you used to give me.”

You blink. “Joel—”

“I see you smilin’ for someone else,” he says, voice rough. “I see you givin’ him that look you used to give me.”

His throat works around the next words.

“And I know I don’t deserve it — but fuck, darlin’, I want it back.”

He takes a step closer.

“I want you back. Even if it means startin’ over. Even if you never look at me the same again.”

His voice lowers, quieter now. A rasp.

“I’ll take scraps if that’s all you’ve got left for me. But I can’t stand bein’ on the outside anymore. Not when I remember what it felt like… havin’ you close.”

You don’t speak. You just watch him.

He exhales sharply, like the silence is crushing him.

“I miss your voice,” he says. “Your talkin’. Your laugh. I miss how you looked at me like I was somethin’ worth knowin’. I ain’t. But God, I wanted to be. For you.”

There’s something raw in the way he says it. Quiet. Cracked open.

“I know I messed it up. But I don’t want anyone else gettin’ what I threw away.”

He looks at you then — really looks — and his voice is barely a whisper.

“Please. Let me try again.”

There’s a long silence after Joel finishes speaking — his heart in pieces at your feet, voice still trembling with it.

You don’t rush. Don’t rescue him. You just look at him — really look — like you’re trying to decide if he’s telling the truth this time.

Then you nod.

Soft. Quiet. Almost shy.

“...Okay.”

Joel’s lips part, like he wants to say more. He doesn’t.

He just nods back. Once. Clumsy and stiff like a man who’s not sure how to handle something fragile.

Then he leaves.

You don’t show up on his porch the next morning.

But when you pass each other near the stables, you smile. It’s not the full-beam kind he used to get — not the glowing, unfiltered sunshine of before.

But it’s real.

And it hurts a little. In a good way.

The next day, you say hi first.

The day after that, you stop and talk for a minute. Ask him about a repair on one of the town gates. He grumbles an answer, and you chuckle — just a small one, a puff of air — but it makes something in his chest crack open.

He gets your laugh back.

Not all at once.

It happens on a patrol briefing.

You’re standing with Maria and a few others, Joel just a few paces behind, arms crossed. Someone makes a joke about Joel being allergic to fun.

You snort. “Yeah, I offered him a cookie once and he looked at it like it was a loaded weapon.”

Everyone laughs.

Joel… doesn’t.

But you do.

Loud. Bright. Real.

It slips out before you can stop it. And Joel turns just in time to see the corner of your mouth twitch up — and for once, it’s for him.

He doesn’t know what to do with it.

That laugh.

That warmth.

It’s back.

And it terrifies him.

Because now he knows what it feels like to lose it — what it’s like to wake up and not have your voice in his mornings, your face lighting up the path ahead of him.

So he starts... fumbling.

Tries to joke with you once and stumbles so badly you have to clarify if it was sarcasm or a head injury.

Carries too many things for you without asking. Offers to fix things that don’t need fixing.

Once he just stands next to you silently while you talk to someone else — doesn’t interrupt, doesn’t even look at you — and only when you’re walking away does he grumble, “Wasn’t even funny.”

You laugh then, just to spite him. “Jealous, Miller?”

“Of him?” he scoffs, but he’s red behind the ears for the rest of the day.

You talk more now.

Not like before — not all brightness and flirting — but warmer, slower. Softer around the edges.

Joel doesn’t rush it. He doesn’t ask for more.

But every smile you give him feels like sunlight filtered through his ribs. Every laugh is a tiny miracle.

He catches himself watching you sometimes — long, thoughtful looks when you’re not paying attention. Like he’s still trying to figure out how something like you exists in a world like this.

And how the hell he’s supposed to deserve it.

You’ve been out on a short recon trip — nothing dangerous, just checking the perimeter with a few others. You weren’t even gone long.

But when you come back, it’s late. You’re cold. Mud on your boots, fingers stiff.

Joel’s already back in Jackson. You don’t expect to see him.

But when you reach your front porch, there’s a folded blanket on the step. Heavy. Familiar.

You stop.

It’s his. The one he keeps on his couch. The one that always smells like woodsmoke and worn cotton and him.

It’s his. The one he keeps on his couch. The one that always smells like woodsmoke and worn cotton and him.

You pick it up slowly. It’s still warm.

And there — tucked underneath — is a thermos.

You unscrew the cap and breathe in the scent: tea with honey.

Your favorite.

He must’ve left it minutes ago. So you decide to find him before he holes up for the night.

You find him walking to his house.

He doesn’t hear you at first — until you call his name.

“Joel.”

He stops. Turns.

The porch light behind you glows like a halo, and he stands there in the dark, hat pulled low, hands shoved into his jacket pockets.

You walk up, still holding the blanket.

“You left this,” you say softly.

He shrugs. “Figured you’d get cold.”

You smile, small and full. “You remembered I like honey.”

He shifts, suddenly uncomfortable. “Wasn’t a big deal.”

But it is.

To you, it is.

So you step forward — just a little — and place your hand on his arm. Just above the elbow. Light. Gentle. Warm.

“Joel…” you murmur.

And he freezes.

He doesn't know what to do with it.

Your hand is still on him — soft and still. He doesn’t pull away, but he doesn’t move either. Just stands there, staring down at where your fingers touch his sleeve like it’s something dangerous.

You feel the tension in him — the stiffness in his shoulders, the locked muscles under your touch. Like he’s afraid to breathe.

Like he wants to lean into it but doesn’t trust himself to.

“I know it's a big deal,” you say quietly. “You don’t do stuff like that.”

His mouth opens. Closes. “It’s just a blanket.”

“No,” you say. “It’s not.”

Your fingers squeeze gently before falling away.

Joel looks down, lost.

Like he doesn’t know how to hold something that isn’t already broken.

He says your name, soft.

You look up, heart thudding.

And for a second — just one second — you swear he’s going to kiss you.

But instead, he just says, “You were never too much.”

It slips out.

Quiet. Cracked.

You would sit in your apartment organizing the weapons you and your partner laundered through the streets of the QZ, pondering what it would be like to meet the man. You were never the one to deliver the weapons, only ensuring you were getting what you paid for. Your partner, Roger, would dispense the weapons to God knows who. 

It was enough to get you by. You never ran out of rations and your alcohol dependency was never a problem. 

You were too young to be this beat down. That’s what Roger would tell you, at least. 

But the truth of the matter was that before the QZ, you were free-roaming the US with no purpose. You killed a lot of people. When you arrived at the QZ with an ounce of ‘normalcy’ within your reach, you promised yourself never again. The darkness you harnessed would have to be forced down, sitting in the very pits of your being. 

When you met Roger, he just needed someone to live in his apartment and watch his stash when he was gone. You did just that and eventually, you formed an odd bond with the older man. He would let you count his rations and drink his liquor. Four years later, you depended on him to bring you back alcohol in return for your watchful eye. If a shipment came in late, you would panic, thinking your addiction would get cut off. You needed something to numb the scrambling thoughts, violent tendencies, and crippling anxiety. 

After one tough deal, Roger stumbles back to your shared apartment, venting about the man. 

“Fuckin’ Joel screwed me again. Gave him two .22’s and the motherfucker shorted me a bottle of Oxys.”

You were already too far gone to listen to the rest of the rant, finding yourself dozing off on the couch. The alcohol too often consumed you, sending you into dark nightmares that would have you waking up in the dead of night screaming.

By the time you woke up, though, Roger was no where to be found. Him being gone was not the worrisome part, though. 

No, what worried you was all the drugs and guns he left out on display. 

Springing up from your spot on the couch, you instantly get to work hiding the paraphernalia. When you grab a handgun from the table where you remember Roger sitting before you close your eyes, you feel eyes on you. 

You are still drunk and now your stomach is churning. You feel like you may throw up. 

There’s a figure standing by the window. Too tall to be Roger. 

Your instant dazed reaction is to hold the gun up, and point at the large man who stands in your messy bedroom. You blink away the sleep that’s still in your eyes and stumble a bit as the intoxication still riddles your bones.

“You were sleepin’ when I came in,” His voice is slow and deep and it sends chills down your forearms. 

“Who are you?”

You managed to sound pretty confident, even though you were scared shitless. You had not been so rattled since you almost got bit by some infected a year ago. You can make out his clothes, but that’s about it. Dirty jeans, an old green flannel with holes, and dark brown boots.

“‘M Joel. Roger ever told you about me?”

He finally turns to face you. You’re shocked to see a handsome dark-haired man and not some damaged old mug. His eyebrows are perpetually furrowed it seems, but you could also tell he was annoyed you were pointing a loaded gun at him. 

You were so terrified, you could not even speak. 

He puts a hand up, holding it over the barrel of the gun. “You shouldn’t be pointin’ that at me, sweetheart.”

You just nod, slowly putting down the weapon. You did not want problems with him. You knew what he was capable of. 

You also knew your aim would be off if you did try to shoot, still feeling like you were rocking on a boat. 

“Sorry,” You mutter, bringing the gun down and to your side. You swallow hard as his eyes rake your entire body, “Yes, he’s told me about you. Other people have, too.”

He looks pleased with that response. He steps away from the window and begins to saunter over to you. His footfalls are heavy. You assume it is because of his filthy brown boots. Or maybe it was the intimidation factor he was playing for you. He did not need to scare you, because you were fucked up and not on your game. He could kill you at any time. Why has he not killed you yet? 

“What have people said about me?”

You gulp, sucking in a whiff of his musk. He somehow still smelled good, even though it looked like he had been rolling in the dirt. His hair was pretty greasy but the curls laid perfectly on both sides. He looks like a guy you would avoid in the street, especially in this QZ. The attractive ones were usually the ones who would take advantage of any woman who looked their way. 

“They said you’re dangerous,” You manage, holding the grip of the gun a bit tighter, “That you have killed a-a lot of people.”

“Yeah,” Is all he says, before stepping an inch closer, “Yeah, I have.”

You can not look away from him. You are so rattled at the fact that he is good-looking. You vividly remember hearing a couple of dealers talk about how formidable he was and for some reason, you mocked up a man who looked like The Joker from Batman. 

He inspects you and your gun and crosses his arms, almost like he is guarding himself. “Now tell me… What did Roger say when he came home last night? I need to know how to handle this situation without spillin’ any more blood.”

You start to panic a bit, but you know you can’t be rash with your emotions. You did not want to be more blood that Joel Miller spills. You did not need to be a notch in his belt. 

But you also did not want to rat out Roger. He had done so much for you and you knew deep down, he cared for you in his own sick ways. If you told Joel everything, would that come at cost to him? 

What were you thinking? He was a dead man. 

He notices your demeanor change and his eyes soften. “Don’t worry, little one. I don’t kill just anyone. Unless they cross me. You haven’t crossed me, have you?”

You do not know why or how, but tears start to spill from your eyes. You know you are not guilty of doing him wrong, but you have heard before that it does not matter in his eyes. By proxy, you are associated with the man who fucked him over. You would be next.

“I have not crossed you, Mr. Miller,” You start to slur a bit, your face getting wet quickly with more tears, “Roger just said you fucked him over. I was too fucked up to hear the rest. Said you didn’t give him enough oxys.”

Joel raises one hand and grabs the bottom of your chin. His skin is rough and callous against your sheeny skin. His whole aura gives off danger. You are too afraid to look at him. You’re trembling, waiting for the other shoe to drop. 

“That fucker stole them all, that’s why. When I tried to get him to confess his wrongdoings, fucker dipped out of there,” He explains, using his thumb to push one of your falling tears, “We followed him and luckily he swallowed too many pills even to realize we were breaking in. You were pretty out of it, too.”

“I w-was d-drinking last n-night,” You knew you had to get ahold of yourself. You were like sand in his hands, slipping right through his fingers.  You were so easy to get information out of. “Where did you take him?”

Joel clicks his tongue, tilting your face so your eyes would look into his, “Don’t worry bout that, sweetheart.”

“Is he going to die?”

“Probably.” He states plainly, his eyes scanning your figure, “You’re going to show me where his stash is and ‘m gonna take back what’s mine.”

Your heart sinks to the floor. Roger was all you had. Without him running the guns and ammo, you had no way of income. You could not do these things yourself, especially now that Joel Miller knew who you were. No one would come near you when they heard he paid you and Roger a visit.  

“I’ll show you,” You respond, trying to steady your voice. “Are you going to kill me?”

It was selfish. With him admitting to having to kill Roger, you knew you were fucked either way. Without a dealer or runner, you had no earnings. You were going to rot away in this apartment, dying from starvation. Joel killing you would be a mercy killing and from the sounds of it, he did not show much mercy.

“Just tell me where everything is.”

You shake your head as you step back away from him. Your instinct is to hand him the gun in your hands, proving to him that you are not a real threat. You grab the barrel and give him the grip, shaking it in his direction. “Here.”

He stares at you, the divots on his forehead still prominent. He slowly lifts his flannel. You first see his hairy tummy and then you see he has a 9mm strapped in his waistband. “Don’t need it, sweetheart.”

You keep the gun extended out to him, “You can have another.”

There’s a beat of silence, a bitterness in the air.

“Are you stalling?” Your blood runs cold. You were not, you were just afraid and unsure of yourself. You also assumed he would want your weapon so you would not use it against him. So many assumptions run through your head, that you are not even aware you are creating more uncertainty for him. 

Your eyes drop, looking at the gun. “No, sir. Here… Follow me.”

You turn on your heels, walking back out to the dining room, right off the kitchen. You scoot the table away from the rug, the ammo and pills on the table vibrating as it moves. Joel watches your every move, the same unimpressed expression written on his face. You put the gun down on the table before you get on your knees at the corner of the rug. You pull it back, revealing a large trap door Roger installed before you moved in with him. It had a deadlock on it that was only able to be opened with a code. 

You think for a moment, your muddled brain trying to remember the numbers.

8-3-6-7-1-9-6-9. 

You say it out loud as you open it. When it clicks, you pull down and unhook it. As you toss it away from you, you hear Joel clear his throat. “Move.”

You instantly throw your hands up, crawling back onto your knees and sliding away from the trap door. You glance back at the tall man, seeing he has his gun trained on you. You did not even hear him pull it out. You sit back, pressing your shoulders into the wall opposite of the entrance of the storage cut-out. It’s lined with different drugs, handguns, some shotguns, and lots of pornography. 

Joel chuckles darkly, looking into the unit. “Seems like you two are freaky, huh?”

You never assumed Joel thought Roger was your lover, but the inclination made you want to throw up. You shake your head, “He was. Not me.”

His addiction never really affected you in any way. He saved those vices for when he was alone. You do recall one night accidentally walking in on him doing something very disturbing that was forever etched inside your brain. Jerking off over a pillow with a magazine full of very young girls. You never looked at him the same way after that. 

Roger was sick in the head, but he gave you drugs. He gave you alcohol. He gave you a place to stay. 

Joel clicks his tongue, crouching down to loot through your stash. “You’re too young for’a man his age, anyway. Too pretty.”

The hairs on your arms and shoulders raise at such a comment. You cock your head to the side, watching the man curiously. He thought you were pretty. 

He does not say anything else the rest of the time he is picking up bags of pills. He inspects each one, sniffing some of the bags as he does. The illumination from the window in the dining room lights up his face with golden stripes. It made you take note of his amber eyes. They were not dark brown in the sunlight. You can hear people on the street from the partially shattered panels, some dragged-out footsteps, and some hushed conversations. Screaming for help would be no use, people hear women screaming in the streets in broad daylight and do nothing. This QZ was not about justice. It was every man for himself. 

Joel stands up, tucking his gun back into his waistband. His eyes laser toward you and you feel his gaze pierce you. “Stand up, you’re comin’ with me.”

You do not try to hide your fear. While you knew better, you silently hoped that he would just shoot you here, let you drown in your own blood in the comfort of your own home. But he was going to take you to a secondary location. You would be dying on his terms. 

You push yourself up off the floor, your feet stuttering as you walk over to him. “Can I put on some shoes?”

He nods almost robotically. He watches you carefully as you drag yourself across the living room. You start to realize how torn up the place really is. Roger must have put up a fight because the side table is in pieces on the rug. You step around the splinters and grab your boots. After you tie up your laces, Joel is yanking you up by your bicep and dragging you into the dark alley your apartment opens up into. You were so fucked. 

-

Joel is a harsh man, but he does not kill you. 

You did not understand why he kept you around. You were eating his food, occupying a room in his apartment, and you were going through horrific withdrawals. He refused to give you an ounce of alcohol. The first couple nights at Joel’s, you were so sick that you violently shook for a whole day straight. You begged Joel through the door to shoot you and put you out of your misery. It was the worst feeling in the world. Your heart felt like it may beat out of your chest. 

After the third day, your shakes had subsided and your mind was a bit more clear. You still felt like shit, but it was tolerable enough that you just laid in bed and stared at the floral wallpaper in your new bedroom.

You did not mind being spared, but being locked away was almost worse than death. You noted the mold smell the day you arrived in Joel’s apartment. You could not stop smelling it, no matter what you did. You kept telling yourself you would get used to it, but it always lingered.  He restricted you to a bedroom where the window was completely caged. You had spotty natural light that only really peaked through in the evenings. 

Joel would bring you a small meal every morning, usually stale bread and a mug of water. On rare occasions, his footsteps would stomp over to your rotting wooden door and he’d unlock the door to feed you for lunch. That only happened twice, though, and it was a bare-bones meal. But every night, right after sunset, he would barge in with a Spam sandwich and a cup of ice water. You would sit on the rusty framed-out bed as he sat in the armchair in the corner of the room by the window. Occasionally he would have a sandwich for himself, other times he would just sit there and watch you slowly eat the meal he provided.

And for some sick reason, you always thanked him. 

He would never reply, his jaw slack and arms crossed. You only heard his voice a handful of times since he brought you here. 

After two weeks of isolation and staring contests over dinner, Joel finally asked you a question after you finished your Spam sandwich. “Do you want to shower?”

You had not washed yourself in weeks and you could smell yourself. The idea of being able to shower was so appealing, that you actually smiled as he asked it. 

Joel guided you across his expansive apartment into his bedroom. The entire place was falling apart, but Joel’s room seemed completely untouched by the times. It smelled like pine as soon as you bounded through the threshold. His bed was made up perfectly, with two pillows on each side. His side table only had one single lamp and a novel that’s title was in another language. Joel snatched you away from soaking up his oasis and forced you into the dated bathroom. He shuts the door behind him, clicking when he rattles the handle. 

You swallow, “Are you joining me?”

He shakes his head, turning and grabbing the bar of soap on the edge of the vanity. “No, ‘m just making sure you don’t try anything.”

You narrow your eyes at him, not completely believing him. Joel had not made any moves towards you, so you are not sure why you are suddenly skeptical of his intentions. Even if he did try something, you knew you could not do anything about it. 

You were at Joel’s mercy. You did not completely comprehend why he was locking you down in his home and you did not get why you were just going along with it. You used to be a ferocious fighter, but after everything with Roger, you did not know where else you would go if it was not with Joel. 

You turn your back to him, hesitantly undressing. Your clothes were disgusting, stained with sweat marks that you left when you were going through withdrawals. As you drop them onto the cold tile, Joel clears his throat. 

You cannot remember the last time you were nude in front of another man. Another person. It had to be over 10 years. “I got ya some new clothes. I’ll grab them when you get in the shower.”

You just nod. While you were grateful for new clothes, you were still confused as to why you were here. As you turn on the water, you peek back at Joel. He is not looking at you, he’s looking out the window. His hands are tucked in his pocket and you have truly never seen him look at peace. His face is relaxed and his shoulders are eased down. 

You use your hand to gauge the water’s lukewarm temperature before you slip in behind the curtain. The bathtub is an off-white color. As soon as you get under the shower head, you note the dirt and grime combining with the water and spinning down the drain. 

You use the bar of soap Joel gave you to clean off your frigid skin. The scent is just a hint of lavender. It must have been an old bar and with age, the smell has faded. As you massage it in, you hear the door creak open and click shut. You assume it’s Joel doing what he told you and then your mind circles back to your previous observation. 

Why is Joel doing this?

You ponder the idea that maybe he is a sadist psychopath who just likes the idea of having someone held captive. But you had heard a lot about this man, and while he was a murderer, you never heard about him kidnapping or hurting women. If anything, he was easier on women who did him wrong. 

But you were not a woman who did him wrong. You did nothing to him. You simply were in the wrong place at the wrong time. You did exactly what he asked and then you went along with his plans for you. 

Maybe he was just lonely?

His deep voice slices through your thoughts, “You almost done in there?”

You nod even though he cannot see you. “Yeah, I’m almost done.”

You rinse the soap out of your hair and turn off the faucet. You peek your head out from the curtain and Joel stands there with a towel in his hands. He laid a pile of clothes on the sink and you noticed that your clothes were gone from off the floor. Joel extends the towel to you and you reach around and grab it. 

It’s scratchy, but it absorbs all the beads of water off your body. You wrap it around your body, tucking the end under your right armpit. You pull back the curtain and Joel is still standing there. 

You step over the edge of the tub, letting some of the droplets run onto the cold tiles. Joel’s eyes never leave yours, but as soon as you step towards the clothes on the counter, his eyes trickle down your body. 

Your heart picks up when his hand comes up to your cheek. Your natural reaction is to flinch away from him, but his motion is quicker than you. He wipes away a water drip off your cheekbone, pulling it down to your jawline. “All better?” He asks, his voice low. You nod, sheepishly. “Yes, thank you.”

He smiles. 

“So polite. So pretty.”

And then he leaves you alone, clicking the knob shut as he exits the bathroom.

You get dressed quickly. Joel somehow knows your exact sizes because the cargo pants, long sleeve, and undergarments are a perfect fit. You never even managed to find clothes to fit you this well when you were doing your own stealing and looting. 

His words rattle around in your head and you start to panic a bit. You start to formulate a plan. You had to stop thanking him. You had to stick up for yourself a bit more. You had to see where your boundaries were with him. You had to figure out his motive. 

It was scary. Daunting. But you knew you could not live like this much longer. 

You reach out for the door, but the knob was already turned and being pulled forward. Joel stands by the entrance of the door and you stride out, your head held a bit higher than usual. His face shows confusion, but you do not falter. 

“I’m still hungry.”

It is like all the air is sucked out of the room. Suddenly, Joel is nine feet tall and you are an inch short. Your voice was confident enough to pass, but it was like he saw right through you.

“I fed you.”

You swallow, your eyes averted from his face for a moment, “Can I have a snack?”

His frown is more memorable than his smile. It is a permanent fixture in his big scary man aesthetic. 

“A snack?”

You almost want to laugh at his condescending tone. But you also realize how you are playing with fire and at any moment this man could snap and kill you. You had to know if you were able to test him, see if you could truly ask him for something and he would be willing to give it to you. This would be your lesson. 

So you nod, very matter-of-factly.

He is looking at you like you have four heads, but he bites.

“Fine, I’ll getcha a snack. Why don’t you have a seat on my bed?”

His cadence is giving him away. You can already tell he is not good at hiding his annoyance. You hesitantly walk over to his bed, plopping down rather obnoxiously. Your feet swipe the rug like a child’s would as you wait for him to return to the room. When he comes back, he has a single piece of beef jerky between his fingers. 

You narrow your eyes at the so-called snack. You hated cured meats and you were sure to let him know that. “Jerky?”

You are really testing him now. And you can tell by the way his chest rises and falls in one quick breath.

“You seem very ungrateful, little one.”

You reach out to grab the bark but he snatches it back in a quick motion. You crinkle your eyebrows at him, trying your best to feign innocence. With the way he is staring daggers at you, you should fear his next move. 

“Beg.”

You feel like your chest cannot take any more air in. Your hand is still hanging in the air, trying to reach out to his offering, but his hand is holding it far from your grasp. 

You do not want to beg, this standoff would be part of your resistance to his captivity. In your mind, something would have to give way eventually. You could not sit around and just take his crumbs and passive weird behavior. So, you shake your head no.

“Go to your room. You’ve pissed me off,” His tone is abrupt and rushed. You do not want to push this further, knowing that you have made it an inch with him and were not completely ready to run the mile. You needed to game plan your next move.

You stand up, walking painfully slow to the door and leaving his space. His steps trail behind you, ensuring you did what he asked you to do. You can smell his musk, which makes the hairs on your arms stand up. He smelled good for a man as rugged as him. 

When you reach your bedroom door, you grab the handle and turn around to face him. He stares down at you, his pupils dilated. 

You make one last plea. “So, no snack?”

You regret saying it immediately. He puts the jerky bit up to his lips, opens them deliberately, and takes a huge bite of the meat. It pulls apart with a crackle and watching it, you know it probably would hurt your teeth if you did something like that. His flexed jaw is a lot stronger than yours. His action is animalistic in a way, reminding you of a lion tearing into an antelope. 

And for some reason, it brings a rise of heat from your shoulders to your cheeks. Watching his teeth gnaw on the jerky sends your mind traveling to la la land. 

His voice forces you out of your thoughts. “Go to bed. Now.”

-

He stopped bringing you breakfast. Instead of your usual routine, Joel started giving you one small meal a day. You start to resent him and by the looks he is giving you, he is still bitter over your whole scheme with the snack. 

You woke up hungry, which only started your day off wrong. You are regretting ever testing him in the first place. You were biting the same hand that literally fed you. The more you think about it, the more you realize that you should be grateful he is even keeping you alive. Why are you even trying to rock the boat with him? In some weird twisted way, he gave you a second chance. You were completely sober from alcohol going on a month now. And while most nights you grieved the burn of it going down your throat, your mind was more clear. You felt more grounded in reality. You did not want to go back to the way you were. Sure, you were hungry, but you were not plastered and sleeping 18 hours a day, and that seemed like a fair enough trade. 

But the ache of your chest started to set in. You were feeling impulsive. You do not clearly remember how your body felt before you started drinking so much, but you do recall the aggression that would riddle your bones from time to time. The knee jerk reaction just to let loose. It had gotten you in some very sticky situations, but it was a sort of rush you craved. 

After three days of the stalemate, he brought you the Spam sandwich and a short cup of water for dinner. You do not look at him when he walks into the room, and you do not thank him. 

You had to get on his good side again. Somehow.

“Are you on a hunger strike or somethin’?” His deep Southern drawl always extending out the end of his sentences. You loved hearing it.

You shake your head no.

“You stopped giving me breakfast,” You grumble, reaching out to the plate he offers you. He shrugs, plopping down in his usual chair in the corner. He does not have his dinner in hand tonight. He leans forward, his elbows resting on his knees. 

“You were bein’ an ungrateful little bitch. I am offerin’ you a second chance here and you are not appreciative,” He states, almost sighing. You grit your teeth at his name for you, but you decide it is not worth the argument. 

You take a bite of the stale bread. The moan of your stomach subsides for a moment. 

“I am appreciative…”

He sits back, his shoulders flexing under his jean button-up. You scan his body, noting his dirty clothes and muddy brown boots. He was always tracking things into your bedroom from the bottom of his shoes and it ate away at your need for wanting things more clean. Your sober mind needed tidiness. 

He grunts, “Doesn’t seem that way, sweetheart. Didn’t thank me just now.”

You try to get your thoughts in order before you respond. You take one careful bite into the sandwich, trying to read the man sitting in front of you. He got you sober. He feeds you and houses you even though he could have shot you in the face for being involved with a man who screwed him over. And he is not a bad view to look at when you eat. 

“Thank you, Joel.”

He stands up and saunters over to you. As you swallow your bite, your eyes trail up his large frame. You start to worry a bit. Maybe he did not see your answer as genuine. 

His thumb begins to trace the outline of your jaw, before slowly making its way up to your cheekbone. You grasp onto the plate tighter, your eyes piercing his as he focuses in on your lips. When you think he’s about to pull away, his palm goes over your mouth and his hand squeezes your cheeks together. His grip on you is painful, his fingers sinking into the divots of your upper jaw. 

“You are receptive to feedback. Which is a good thing…” He trails off. Your heart starts to pound against your rib cage as you wait for the other shoe to drop. His hand jerks your head to the right, inspecting your side profile. “You will be good for me.”

You do not know what he is insinuating and are too afraid to speak up. You dip your head down, trying to promise him silently. Yes, I will be good. Please don’t kill me.

He slowly lets go of your face. He brings his thumb up to his lips and licks the very tip of the finger. You watch him bring it back down to your level. You flinch when he brings it up to the very corner of your lip. He wipes away at something like a father would to his young child who had food left on their face. 

Joel was violent. But he was quiet about it and that scared you. He moved with such intention and you found yourself occasionally hypnotized by his aura. He was unlike any man you ever met. It could be the fact that others around you made him out to be some enigma, but maybe he was one. 

You finally manage to speak up, the sudden tender touch starkly different from the aggression just minutes before. 

“What do you want with me?”

It comes out as a whisper, but with Joel being so close, his ears perk up. 

His face does not change from the steeled expression. “Time.”

-

He gives you breakfast one morning. You have been sleeping in, trying to use slumber as a substitute for food and it seemed to work for a couple of days. Joel brings in a plate with eggs and some stale bread. You had not seen him bring in eggs before and it shocked you. Your eyes almost well up in tears when he hands it to you in bed. 

“Thank you, Joel.”

He sits in his usual spot and watches you scarf down the meal. “I am going to be gone for a couple of days.”

Your eyes shoot back at him, confusion laced in your countenance. “What about me?”

“I’m letting you have access to the kitchen and living room. You’re not allowed to leave. The door will be locked from the outside.”

The thought of being alone for that long scares you. Your thoughts start spinning. Why is he leaving you? Why would he let you be alone? Would you be able to eat? 

Joel can see the cogs turning in your brain. 

“You are leaving me alone?”

He claps his hands on his thighs as he stands, “I have a run to make. I usually have other guys do it for me but I gotta do this one myself. You will be okay.”

For some reason, your instinct is to worry about him. Going out of the QZ walls is always a very dangerous feat and you knew he would be unprotected from the elements and infected. Joel seems more than capable, but anything can happen. What would happen if he died out there?

“How long will you be gone?”

The question comes out desperate and you do not mean it to. You crawl out from under your covers, planting your feet on the ground. You suddenly felt hot. When the cold air hits your bare legs, you realize that you forgot you discarded your pants in the middle of the night. You were just in your underwear in front of him. 

Joel’s eyes flicker down your unclad legs. You had a good radar when it came to men checking you out and as much as you did not want to admit it, you knew Joel was doing just that. 

His lips twitch, “Not long. Two days, max.”

You cross your legs, holding your hands in front of your crotch in an attempt to try to shield yourself a bit. You watch him meander over to you, his steps purposeful. Once he reaches about a foot away, your breathing slows as his hand trails up your arm. 

You felt this tension rise within the room and for a second you think he may act on his reaction to your legs. But instead, he just clears his throat. You are a bit disappointed and you do not know why. 

“I’ll be good, Joel.”

-

You survive the first night. You busy yourself with stuff around his apartment. You decide that you would not snoop through his belongings, only organizing the kitchen cabinets and alphabetizing his record collection. You had found a sense of purpose, filling your day with pointless tasks. 

When the second night comes, you decide that you finally need a shower. Joel did not tell you that you could use the bathroom in his room, but you became aware that the other tub did not work and was covered in mold. The smell in the bathroom was enough to make you gag. 

You were starting to reek of body odor and you did not want to sleep another night smelling the way you did. Plus, you knew the soap you used when Joel called you pretty was in that shower. He could not be that mad. 

So, you tiptoe into his room and wander into his bathroom. When you flick on the light, you notice some of his beard shavings in the sink bowl. To the left of the shower curtain, you spot a jumbled pair of boxer shorts. You feel a pang in your stomach. His face appears in your mind. You cannot stop yourself from imagining him in the room with you, just like he was when you stripped for your shower before. 

You step into the cool water, letting it soak you as your hands traveled around your body. Your nerve endings were buzzing as your thoughts pondered the idea of Joel being there with you. 

The glimmer of his eyes when you were pantsless days before still rattled around in your head. You had not been desired in so long and with that action alone, Joel made you feel wanted. The tension was so palpable. His close proximity to you, the occasional gentle touches, it was enough to fill your mind with all the dirty possibilities. 

Your hand travels down to between your legs. At first it’s only to clean, but as you explore, you cannot help but slip your fingers between your folds. The titillating motion is enough to have you throwing your head back in pleasure. You squeeze your eyes shut, thoughts drifting to how you need an explosive release and you sickeningly want Joel Miller to give it to you. 

Your pointer finger and middle spread your folds, rubbing carelessly and eagerly. You have not felt this driven to orgasm in years. You recall the sight of Joel’s stomach the first day you met him. Then you think about the boxers right outside of the shower next to you. Your thoughts spin and suddenly he’s naked in your mind. 

Your hand only moves quicker with the thoughts. Your clit is aching with such intensity, you are shuttering and using your free hand to balance yourself on the tub’s wall. The water is pounding down your chest, dripping through the valley of your breasts. 

Your eyes open a bit as you try to find your footing and you notice a bar of soap that’s covered in his short hairs. You snatch it up, bringing it up to your nose as your lips quirk up into a smile. 

Of course, it smells like him. 

You finger yourself faster, his name spilling from his lips as you press the bar into your face. It is almost like you are imagining it is his face stuck to your face. 

“Joel… Oh my god, Joel-”

The sound of the curtain being ripped away from its spot makes you completely jump out of your skin. His fierce brown eyes raking down your completely nude frame, hunched over and in a compromising position. He slams his fist against the faucet, shutting the water off in one swoop. You drop his soap to the floor, scrambling backward trying to dodge his rage. 

He is pissed. 

His hand wraps around your bicep, ripping you out of the tub and onto the tile. Your hip hits the ground first and it sends a shooting pain up your back. He is panting like he just ran a mile, standing over your sopping naked frame. 

“What are ya’? A bitch in heat?” He spits. You are so dazed and a bit afraid, you start to shake and raise your hands in defense. 

He squats down to you, his eyes scanning your dripping body. His hands work so quick to reach out and grab your face. With clenched teeth, he brings your face close. “Answer me.”

His grip is tight on your face and you do not know if you can even respond effectively. You feel your core pulsate with the way he has a hold of you. 

“I-I wanted to s-shower.”

He mocks you, “I-I… You are fuckin’ yourself in my shower like a dirty whore.”

He turns back to check to see if he actually saw you holding his bar of soap. It’s in pieces at the bottom of the tub surround. He pulls his hand away but the sting still remains. 

“I-I’m sorry, Joel.”

His gaze falls upon you again, a little less aggravated. “Dry off and get dressed. Sit on my bed when you’re done.”

-

Your mind is all over the place when you sit down on Joel’s bed. He is not in the room but you hear him in the kitchen moving around. You hear the clatter of some plates and then him grunting. 

When he barges in,you can tell he is annoyed still. 

“You reorganized?”

Your heart pounds with uncertainty. You did not believe that would ever set him off, but you are starting to realize you have gauged Joel incorrectly. “Yes.”

He stops his pacing, his hands still propped up on his hips. “Why?”

“Because I needed to keep busy while you were gone. I also went through and-”

“Alphabetized the records. I saw.”

Nothing was getting past him. Your breathing is labored, the idea of him killing you for helping him be more orderly is so pathetic. You had to go out in a better way. 

You clench your hands in your lap, “I did not mean to make you angry.”

He does not say anything, staring at you with an askane expression. He pivots to the dresser beside the bed, opening up the top drawer. He pulls out a pair of gray sweatpants and a beat up white t-shirt. He folds them meticulously, stacking them and then handing them to you. 

You reach out for them, putting them in your empty lap.

“Put them on and get under the covers.”

Of all the things he could have said, this surprises you the most. “In my own bed?”

“No, this one.”

You look back at his perfectly made bed. He wanted you to sleep with him?

“Joel-”

“We are tryin’ somethin’ new tonight. Change your clothes while I take a shower with my soap, and be under those covers when I get out,” His outline of directions is seriously rattling you to your core. You felt nervous but almost excited? 

You watch him turn on his heels and amble over to the bathroom, shutting the door behind him. Your stomach sinks when you hear the lock click. You look down at the clothes he gave you, raising them up to check the tags. 

Just your size. 

-

His bed is way more comfortable than the mattress you were cursed with. The blue quilt feels soft and worn under your fingertips. You lay on your back, feeling out of your own body. You hear the water shut off in the bathroom and your heart starts racing. You hear the rip up the curtain and some small stomps as Joel must be exiting the shower. 

When the door creaks open and you see him standing in only some boxer shorts, your breathing hitches. His hair is brushed backward and his hairy upper body is a sight to behold. You silently wished you had this image earlier when you were rubbing your clit. 

He walks over to his dresser, the same dresser he pulled clothes for you out of, and grabs a plain white t-shirt. He tosses it over his head, pushing his arms out of the holes on the side. It was slightly stained at the collar and it was see-through enough that you saw his dark chest hair still. 

“You are sleeping with me tonight,” He announces, walking over to the opposite side of the bed. Your stomach flips when you watch him pull the blanket back and crawl under the blanket. You observe how drastic his mood shifted from ripping you out of the shower. Why did he want you in his bed? What was his end goal? Your core is still sticky with your desire. You secretly wish he would just take advantage of you already. 

But he does not even turn your direction. You watch him face his back to you, tuck one arm under his pillow and shut the lamp off. 

Your mind starts to race. The bedroom door is unlocked, you can see it in the moonlight. You could easily slip out of the bed in the middle of the night and head for the front door and run. 

But it’s the same thought that slipped your mind when Joel left you a couple days ago. You could have jumped out a window, rigged the doorknob to the apartment to get out, but you just never did. Instead, you sat idle inside Joel’s apartment and waited for him to return. 

And now you have access to him when he’s at his most vulnerable. What was preventing you from sneaking a pointy object into the bedroom and stabbing him directly in the throat?

Because you needed him. And while your demented and violent thoughts of all the ways you could kill him rattled around in your mind, you knew deep down you would never do it. You craved the need to impress him. To be good for him. 

He’s silent next to you, not a sound leaving his body. You are not even sure if he is asleep when you slowly turn on your side, facing away from him as well. 

Somehow, you sleep better in his bed than your own. 

-

The routine changes after that night. 

Joel wakes up as soon as the sun breaks the sky and he leaves you in his bed as he prepares you breakfast. When you hear the door reopen, you always wake up to his frame standing over you with a plate. You rub your eyes as you grab the handoff, propping yourself up on his headboard. He would sit on the end of the bed, nibbling on his own meal. 

And then he starts asking you questions.

It starts off with him asking you where you were from originally. You explain how you traveled with a group of people that were essentially raiding other established communities. You had escaped the Baltimore QZ when a bunch of people got infected practically overnight and there was no oversight. When you got out, the people who survived with you became vicious and desperate. 

Then he asks you about your relationship with Roger. 

You give him the overview. You tell him you relied on him to fund your mind-numbing habits and he left you to look over his stash. When you press him about what he did to him, Joel gives you those eyes. Almost to say “you don’t get to ask the questions here.”

Most days you sat on the couch and read his collection of books. You were not the fastest reader so it took days to get through some of the stories. He had a lot of books about space and a variety of science fiction. He would leave every day, running his usual business. When he got back home, you would still be planted on the sofa, reading. He would slam his keys down and get to work on your Spam sandwich. 

Every other night you would shower. After the soap incident, he kept his soap on the very top corner of the shower. When you first noticed it, you smiled sickly. 

The sleeping situation is the same every night. You lay on your back, Joel lays on his side, completely facing away from you. Sometimes in the middle of the night, your arms would brush his back and he would stir. You tried your very best not to test his limits even though you had no real clue what they were. 

One particular night, the window he kept cracked was letting in the most frigid air. You always ran cold while Joel was like a furnace when he slept. He radiated enough heat to keep a whole house warm. But this night you were shaking under the quilt, your toes feeling like they may fall off. 

You turn on your side, facing his expansive back. You are so deliberate with your movement that when your arm falls over his waist, his body jolts. Instead of slapping you away or turning to face you, his body just stills completely, not even a rise and fall of breath. 

“What are you doing?” He asks through the darkness, his sleepy voice. Almost wholesome. 

You stifle a response, trying your best to sound confident. “I’m cold.”

He finally breathes out, his arm moving down over yours and holding it against his waist. Your heart races so hard you can hardly fathom falling asleep, but at least you were warm. 

You start to do it every night, even when the air is balmy outside. You settle on your side, your arm swinging over his waist and pulling your lower half taut with his butt. You never expected you would ever be spooning Joel Miller every night, but here you were, wearing his clothes with your pelvis flush to him. 

Your hand finds his hips one night while you adjusted your position. Your hand graces right below his waist and you feel his member half-hard in his boxer shorts. It makes your eyes snap open, the shock of your body waking him up. Your hand does not move, though. You hover it over that spot, curiously wanting to touch him through his shorts. 

“Do you feel me?”

His voice makes your throat tighten, unsure of how to respond to such a question. So you just hum and shake your head. 

He takes your reluctant hand and pushes it down to his clothed cock, his body pushing back into a bit. Your mind is still a bit fuzzy from your slumber, but when you feel him harden under your touch, you do not want to stop until you finish him. 

He is deliberately moving your hand around, pulling it over and under his boxers until you are touching his bare cock. You shutter at how large it feels in your hand and you cannot even see it from how you are laying. Your hand cannot completely wrap around it due to its girth. 

“Joel…” You practically whimper, clawing his back to get him to lay back so you can see him. He does not budge, still laying on his side. 

Your hand massages the very base of his dick, his curly hair poking your fingertips as you do. You are so eager that as you jerk him off, he grabs your hand to start guiding you slower. When your hand graces his tip, he hisses. 

“Gotta take me slow, girl,” He groans, holding your wrist so tight you know it will be bruised in the morning. You do as he says, slowly and methodically following how he likes to be jerked off. After a minute, you can hear his shallow breaths increasing as you bring your speed up just a bit. 

“Are you gonna cum?”

You try to say it in a sultry voice, but it comes out rushed and desperate. You just want to see him seize by your own hand. Joel grunts, his grip on your arm practically stilling your movements before he can even finish. You resist his persistent handle on you. You craved to make him orgasm. Eventually, he pushes his hips forward into your hand, sighing as he releases.

You feel the ropes of cum spill all over the back of your hand. As soon as the warm seed empties onto you and his tummy, he rips back the covers and stumbles into the bathroom. He shuts the door so fast, you hardly see him through the dark. 

You look at his clear-white fluid on your knuckles and smile in satisfaction.You want him to see your next actions. 

The bathroom light spills into the room as he holds out a wash rag to you. It’s obvious it’s the one he just used on himself. You shake your head, bringing your hand up to your lips, extending your tongue, and licking the spend off your knuckles. You swallow, willingly. 

He gawks at you, his eyebrows still knitted together, watching you clean off your hand entirely. “Didn’t even need my help. What a good girl.”

-

You wake up with Joel standing over you. It rattles you a bit, his stare zeroed in on your face. 

“Mornin’,” He uttered, holding out a small pile of clothes for you. “We are goin’ on a field trip.”

The last thing you expected after jerking the man off last night was an outing. You sit straight up, holding out your hands for him to shove the clothes in your palms. 

“Where are we going,” You stammer, pushing the covers down your legs.

His eyes rake down your body as you stand up, almost standing at attention in front of him. 

“You’re comin’ to work with me.”

You look down at the clothes he has given you. Some cargo pants, a short sleeve gray top, and even a new pair of underwear. 

This is the first outing you have had since being with Joel, so you are a bit nervous thinking about how the outside world may be. It cannot be any worse than it already was, but you worried about how you would be perceived walking down the street with Joel Miller. 

The more you ponder the idea, you start to feel more reassured than anything. If you were placed beside anyone, you would want it to be with the guy everyone feared. No one would ever think to give you a hard time. 

Joel’s line of work was dangerous but it was also a powerful role to have in this fucked up world in the QZ. You were on the right side of the insanity, in your opinion. Joel was your protection in some demented fucked-up way. 

You get dressed as he makes breakfast. This morning, he decides to make you two some eggs that he said were getting old so he had to make them. He likes his eggs runny, so you had to like yours runny, too. 

You two sat at the dining table as you ate. He scarfs his down in a minute, while you take your time to savor the different flavor. You missed eating food that was not Spam or plain bread. Joel notes your painstakingly slow chews. 

“Hurry up, we got places to be.”

-

The people on the streets pay mind to you now. Before, when you did leave your former place with Roger, everyone kept their heads down. Occasionally people would slam into you with their shoulders, acting like they could phase right through you. 

When you walk with Joel, people move out of the way.

The alleyway is not too far from Joel’s apartment. He forces you to walk in front of him, copying every step you make with his loud footfalls. He grabs your shoulders to direct you down a concrete staircase that seems to lead to nowhere. At the bottom, a brute man stands with his arms crossed. You hesitantly stop right in front of him, your eyes taking in all the scars littering his face. 

Joel grunts. “She’s with me, Pete. Thomas and Garrett in there with him?”

The man, who’s now known as Pete, just nods minutely. Joel pushes the door beside him open and grabs your forearm to drag you through the threshold. It’s a dimly lit hallway that smelled like dampness and gunpowder. There’s two light bulbs dangling from the paint chipped ceiling that guide you to the end of the hallway. Joel pushes open the door, and you smell that familiar metallic smell. 

It was a smell that leaked into your dreams occasionally. It’s so overpowering you can almost taste it. 

When you walk in, the room is occupied by three men. Two are standing over the other, their bodies blocking the entirety of the scene. You do note the huge puddle of blood on the floor near a knocked over wooden chair. Joel clears his throat and the two men step away looking at Joel, then you. They have to be around your age, maybe a bit older. The blond man speaks up first as he scans your body. 

“Bringing your kid along for the show?”

You glance over at Joel who’s jaw tightens. You watch his whole demeanor shift, his body becoming rigid. 

“Get out of here, Garrett.”

The blond man furrows his brows, not understanding why he was really being directed to leave. You can sense a bit of hesitance. “Joel, I’m just kidd-”

“Get the fuck out, now. We don’t need you.”

The man scrambles past you and Joel, shutting the door behind him. The dynamic Joel and his men have is very easy to figure out. Whatever he says, goes. The look the other man is giving him is that of unease. 

“He confessed that he stole from our stash. More than once.” Joel walks forward, drawing his gun out. Finally, the man on the floor comes into full view. 

And you recognize him. 

He was a pill smuggler that had come over to Roger’s a couple times before. He always gave off the vibe that he would take advantage of anyone, especially a woman. He would whisper things about you to Roger and you remember a couple times when he had inappropriately touched you. You believe his name to be Don. Maybe Ron. 

His eyes are swollen and bruised. His lip is completely split open and he has a gnarly gash on his left cheekbone. He is tied up, his arms and legs bound by ropes and zip ties. 

You are not at all phased by blood, but his beaten body is a bit hard to look at. He was not a nice looking man already, and surely the swelling was not helping him. 

His lips part almost like he is about to speak up, but Joel swipes the butt of his gun across his face with insane accuracy. 

One thing about you was you did not turn away from violence. Now that you are sober, it's easier to recognize that something was off for you to be so unfazed by the savagery. You sickeningly enjoyed watching people get their karma. 

You had no context as to why this man was bound and brutalized in this random basement, but you knew Joel had good reason to set him straight. 

“Donny boy, I thought we were friends,” Joel’s voice is dripping with sarcasm. He seems in his element as he squats in front of the man, “And you fucked me over good. Sold out people only to get yourself in this position. Pretty fuckin’ dumb.”

Don can hardly sit up, his body completely tilted with his elbow propping up his entire body weight. You can tell he is struggling to respond, but you hear the faintest voice quip up. 

“I told the truth, please,” He begs as he attempts to sit up more. Joel grabs his shoulder roughly, balancing his back on his butt. “I won’t do it again.”

You cannot see Joel’s face, but you know he does not believe that. His shoulders slot back a bit as he stands up and turns to face you. His face is straight, not showing any emotion at all. You notice the gun still in his hand, his finger completely off the trigger. 

“You know him?”

You just nod, your eyes peering down at the gun he has directed at you. His eyes flicker back and forth, seemingly contemplating what to say next. He pushes the weapon into your hand, his fingers curling around the grip so that your hand would follow suit. You watch every meticulous move, pulling the safety clip, slipping his hand away and gesturing towards the man. 

“You’re gonna kill him.”

Your eyes fly open, unsure if this problem should be dealt with by you. The promise you made to yourself when you stepped foot in this QZ rattled around in your brain as you tried not to show Joel your irresolution. Your mouth is dry when you gulp, “Why?”

His hand presses on your back as he pushes you towards the guy. You are about 2 feet from him and Joel’s face is so close to your ear. It’s the closest he has ever been to you. You can feel his breath on your lobe and neck and it makes bumps scatter across your body. 

He raises your arms, pointing the barrel towards Don. As soon as he does that, Don starts begging. His voice shaking, sweat pooling on his forehead, tears pricking at the corners of his swollen eyes. 

Joel’s voice is so hushed over Don’s pleas. “He is the one who told me about Roger stealing from me. Little did I know, he was stealing from me, too.”

It is like a switch goes off in your brain. Your eyes are trained forward on the trembling man but it is as if the whole world went quiet when Joel stopped speaking. You hear white noise in your ears and your mind shuts off for a nanosecond. Your pointer finger slots between trigger guard and trigger and you squeeze, your aim right at his head. 

You feel the spray explode across your face and suddenly you snap back to your reality. 

Your body was overtaken by the need to please. The need to impress Joel. It was also like your own sick revenge. This man is the reason Roger was dead. The reason you got ripped from your normalcy. Your brain had no time to catch up to your body’s actions. Instead of flinching or falling backward away from the body of the traitor, you stand over him like he’s some commodity in a circus. With wonder and curiosity, you lower the gun and smile. 

Joel steps beside you, his face expressing fervor. 

Finally facing him and forgetting the other man in the room who was just a witness to the scene, you speak up. 

“Did I do good?”

A small semblance of a grin spreads across his lips. “Very good, sweetheart.”

-

You and Joel do not stay in the room long after. Very quickly, he ushers you into another room where he checks a cabinet full of guns, looking over each other and counting in a hushed tone. You hear bounding footsteps in the hallway and men talking amongst each other. 

The voices are rushed and surprised. One states, “She didn’t even flinch. Joel’s lucky to have her.”

You feel a tickle on your brow and itch it absentmindedly. As you pull your finger back and look at it, it is stained red. 

You find a shiny surface in the room of arms and paraphernalia, glancing at your own reflection. The smear of blood goes across your forehead, while the splatter itself is speckled across your cheeks like freckles. Joel stops what he is doing to check you out, his steps trailing up to your back. His breathing is quite labored and as you stare at your own mirror image, you note the look he’s giving you. 

His hand goes across your chest, his finger tips starting to dance across your décolletage.

“We gotta clean you up. Can’t have you walkin’ the streets lookin’ like you killed someone.”

He says it while he rubs the blood across your chest, smearing it and massaging it into your skin. 

You loved it when he touched you. Even if it was roughly, you counted yourself lucky that Joel felt the need to do so. 

“But I did kill someone.”

Your voice does not have any hesitance, you are simply stating facts. Joel’s chin tilts upward, his hand grabbing your shoulder and jerking you around to face him. His face is practically millimeters from the tip of your nose. 

He grunts, almost like he’s clearing his throat. “And you didn’t even second guess me. I didn’t even need to push you, you just did it.”

You smirk to yourself, enjoying the slight praise he is giving you. 

“And here I thought I was testin’ ya.”

Your eyes flicker up to his, trying to see right into his soul. Testing you?

“Did you not expect me to do it?” You bite. 

“I had an inklin’ you’d be loyal. Consistent. Even a bit violent. But I didn’t expect a killer.”

Your chest rises at his statement. You are trying to manage your breathing as his words have a visceral effect on you. It was like he was talking dirty to you. Why did his impression of you mean so much? Ever since you met the man, you were at his mercy and you got off at his reassurance. It was like he was your new vice. 

His right hand traces down your bare arm, while his left grabs your jaw. “Let’s get you cleaned up and home, how ‘bout it?”

You agree with a jerk of your head. 

-

Once you walk into the apartment again, you are reminded of the smell of mold again. When the scent hits your nostrils, you scrunch your face. Joel is quick to notice the expression because his eyes and hands have not left your body since you shot that guy. He has been watching your every move. 

You toe off your shoes by the front door as Joel tosses down the keys. He takes the handgun out of his waistband and places it carelessly next to them. 

When he turns to look at you, he crosses his arms. He is studying you as you unzip the jacket he offered you. It was only to cover the blood that stained your new outfit. 

“Take it off slow.”

You shoot him a confused look, still trying your best to follow his instructions. You shrug the jacket off your shoulders, letting it purposefully fall down your arms. The blood on your clothes has left semi-permanent spots on your skin. Once the clothing pools to the floor, you stand there at Joel’s mercy. 

He clenches his jaw, nodding slowly as he inspects you. “Now the shirt.”

You do not second guess his next directions. You grab the hem of your shirt and draw it upward over your head. The fabric goes across your lips and nose lifting them up awkwardly. You smile when you drop the next article next to the jacket. 

The anticipation makes your pussy pulsate. You have thought about this moment for longer than you care to admit. 

“Pants.”

The pants are buttoned so you fumble with getting it undone before you are shoving them down your goosebump-ridden legs. When they get to your ankles, you use the opposite feet to step on the fabric and pull them off your feet. You kick them further away than the shirt and jacket.

You are only in your underwear in Joel’s living room. He is looking at you with such confliction. You have never felt very self conscious until this very moment. 

“Should I keep going?” 

It is an innocent question, but there is lustful intention behind it. There would be a point of no return if he did answer it. 

“I was gettin’ there,” He steps towards you, his guise not giving away any of his next movements. His face was still unyielding. “Panties first.”

Your breathing hitches when his fingers wrap around the elasticity of the waistband.

“I’m still c-covered in blood-” “Shut up.”

You nod, sliding the underwear down and revealing your already dripping core. He sucks in a big breath of air as his hand reaches between your legs and swipes at your wetness with the pads of his fingers. Your entire body tenses, the feeling so foreign and exciting that you cannot contain your gasp for air. 

Finally his expressionless face changes to a small twinge of a smile, “Dirty fuckin’ girl. Have been wantin’ this for a long time, eh?”

You are afraid to admit it out loud so you just nod. His fingers still make work through your folds and your knees feel like they may buckle with every swipe. Joel notes your position and grabs your face with his left hand, squeezing your cheeks so hard it forces you to look at him and stand up straighter. 

His fingers dip into you briefly, making squelching noise so loud that you both groan.

“Joel,” you whimper, sounding desperate and hasty.

He leans forward, pressing his lips to yours. It is a passionate act you did not expect. You did not know that sex would Joel would mean open mouth kisses, but you are thankful for it. His hand releases its grip on your cheeks and wraps itself around the base of your throat. Your lips slip open for his tongue, letting it explore every inch of your mouth. His fingers are making their slow methodical movements around your clit, driving you absolutely insane with desire. 

Your body seems so in tune with every movement he makes, but as you makeout with him, you realize it is because he has molded you this way. To curve and bend to his every will and way.

And you loved every moment of it. You thirsted for this type of control. You knew you would not have to worry or have a second thought, ever. Joel was already ten steps ahead and thinking out everything for you. 

He pulls away from the kiss, his eyes flickering between your lips and eyes. You note the red tinge of blood on his lips from kissing yours. 

“Get on your knees.”

You obey, whining when you realize that means he would no longer be keeping your pussy warm with his hand. Once your knees hit the hardwood, his hands are making work at his belt and jean buttons. 

“You know how to suck dick? Or do I gotta do all the work for ya?”

Your eyes fly open at the vulgarity. You tug your bottom lip between your teeth, “Yes, Joel. I’ve done it before.”

Having his dick in your hand last night was one thing, but seeing it for the first time is jarring. He is definitely the biggest you have ever had the pleasure of being in front of. He can tell by the look on your face that you are a bit stunned. 

“Let’s see how you do,” He inches his waist closer to your face and slightly ajar lips, “Open.”

Complying is what you do for Joel. 

You open your mouth nice and wide as he inches his cock into your warm mouth. You close your eyes, trying to focus on not disappointing him with your gag reflex. You try your best to relax, but his watchful eye is making you feel disoriented. 

He pulls out, letting you take a breath, only to push back in more forcefully. You try to stop his intrusion by putting your hand up on his hairy bare thigh, but it is no use. Your closed eyes prick with tears as Joel pulls out again, this time he is slapping his dick across your mouth. 

“Keep those fuckin’ eyes open and on me. Open nice n’ wide and relax that fuckin’ throat.”

His demands needed to be met, so you nod and adjust your position, laying your tongue out. He inches in again and instead of resisting, you relax and watch him through your eyelashes. His face twists as he draws back, his cock getting so impossibly close to the back of your throat. When he hits your gag reflex, you grip onto your own thighs tightly to contain the urge to empty your stomach. He smiles sickly at your reaction. “Poor girl,” He teases, snapping his hips forward again. Another gag. “Can’t fuckin’ take me? Guess we will have to train that mouth and throat, huh?”

He keeps fucking your mouth as your eyebrows draw together in concentration. Joel’s loving every moment, watching you writhe under him. Your wetness is pooling on the hardwood and you can already hint the embarrassment you will feel if Joel notices. 

You hollow out your cheeks, attempting to assert yourself in the situation. When you do that, Joel pulls out completely. He leans down to grab your arms and lifts you off the floor, dragging your shins against the uneven wood planks. And to your horror, he notices the wetness on the floor. “Drippin’ on the floor like a wet mop, ain’t ya?”

Joel’s eyes were always dark brown, but they look black with his eyes as dilated as they are. His grip on your arms is very assertive and when he pushes you back over the arm of the couch, you can feel your heartbeat in your ears. 

“Please, Joel.”

He grabs you up by your armpits, dragging your body across the couch. When you're lying flat, he settles himself between your legs, holding your right leg taut with his hipbone. 

“Keep begging,” He demands, a smug expression taking over his face. His eyes scour your entire body, “My little killer.”

The word sends your body into overdrive and you start grabbing at his body, trying to take what you want. He fights your hands, grabbing both of them and pinning them against the throw pillow right above your head.

You want to confess everything to him in that moment. The very moment you laid eyes on him, you wanted to give yourself to him. In every single way possible. 

“I want you.”

“I know you do,” He grabs the shaft of his cock and begins his torture. Sliding it through your soaked folds and humming in satisfaction. You lift your hips, trying to get him to slip it in, but he is always quicker than you. “Desperate, ain’t ya?”

Before your face can react to his mocking, his hips snap forward, fully sheathing himself inside you. The meat of your thigh presses against his waist, trying to hold him in that spot, but he does not let up. The pressure is almost too much but the pain is appallingly satisfying.

You cannot even remember the last time you felt this. Your previous sexual encounters were usually hasty and boring. Most were not consensual and left you feeling gross and deprived of release. 

The build up between you and Joel was a months long endeavor that left you feeling borderline insane. You could not help but let your desire for him fester. 

His pace is not slow in the slightest, but it is calculated. You manage to widen your legs a bit allowing more space for his thighs to take up. As he kneels between you, you get a great view of his muscular flexed thighs.

Joel was a specimen. You could not stop yourself from admiring such a sight, especially when his hands are all over you and his dick is driving into you over and over. You had never been in love, never seen it first hand even, but you knew you love this moment. You love Joel for making you feel so good. That’s not a feeling you have ever had for anyone, let alone a man in this sick world. 

“Oh my god, yes,” You clamor, your hands still locked over your head. The tension you feel in the pit of your stomach feels like it may explode, “Please, please.”

He repositions himself, releasing your wrists and pushing your legs up. You are folded in half while his upper body falls over you. You can already see the glistening of sweat across his neck and shoulders. His body locks you on the couch as he continues rocking into you. 

“You don’t cum til I say, got me?”

He fucks into you harder now, and from this angle, you do not know how that will be possible. A couple more thrusts and you know you are a goner. 

“I feel it,” You choke, trying to clench to prevent yourself from letting go before Joel’s instruction. “Joel.”

“I said hold that shit back,” His pace only speeds up, like he is chasing his own high, “Not ‘til I say.”

The friction is too much. You tug your lip between your teeth and you bite so hard that you start to taste blood. He is not letting up and you know the rope is about to snap. No matter how hard you try, when your eyes roll back and your body goes rigid, you let the release take over everything. 

You are screaming, your voice cracking as you do. Joel’s hip stutter when your pussy tightens up around him, but you know he’s only slowing down because you did not listen. 

Your limbs feel like jello and being that you are unable to really shift or move below Joel anyway, you just lay there limp. Joel flexes his arms and you can tell as he pulls away from your body that he is pissed. 

“Roll over.”

You knit your brows together, still trying to manage your breathing. “I’m sorry-”

He slaps your thigh, the sting prickling down your entire leg. “Roll the fuck over.”

The motion takes almost all of your energy. When you are on your stomach, Joel hauls your ass towards his pelvis. With your ass up in the air, you can feel the cold air hit your spent cunt. Your head is tilted, only able to see Joel in your peripheral vision. He looks down at your pussy, dragging his cock head through your seams. You note how he smiles coyly. 

When his lips purse and spit starts to dribble out, you start babbling all sorts of nonsense. The spit lands perfectly between your pussy lips and the top of his red tip. 

“You know what happens to girls who don’t listen?”

You keen as he pushes his cockhead into your cunt, “What?”

“Punishment.”

The thrust is so powerful it has your body almost slamming back onto the sofa. As he ruts into you, the moans that come out of you do not sound human. You are already so sensitive from your orgasm, you know that it takes practically no touch at all to set off the chain reaction again. 

His grip on your ass will leave bruises, just like all the other bruises he has given you in the last couple months. You count all of them like trophies. All the time Joel has touched you. 

When the grip turns into open hand spanking, you know your ‘punishments’ would be something you would enjoy tempting time to time. 

They are brutal. With each thrust, his palm comes down on your left ass cheek. All the while, his right fingers are digging scratches all along your ass and thigh. Between the sounds of the smacks and his balls slapping against your skin, you are being sent back into an ever-growing burn in the pit of your stomach. 

“Fuckin’ pussy is squeezin’ my cock,” He mewls, his voice gravelly, “You like gettin’ spanked? Hm?”

You restrain yourself from screaming out that you love it. You settle for just, “Please don’t stop.”

You can hear him chuckle behind you, his actions continuing as he bucks into you. 

“You’re lucky ‘m feelin’ nice.”

His hips start to stutter as you continue your mewling over his cock. He reaches out to your shoulders, pulling you upward and locking his arm around your neck. He has you in a loose headlock as he fucks you. Your hands rest on your forearm, your nails digging so hard that you leave small half moons on his freckled skin. 

His other arm finds its way between your legs, swiping your clit as his thrusts become more labored. Even with the pace slowed down, the small titillating circles he pushes into your sensitive bud sends you over the edge again. As you fall apart in his arms, he spirals into his own climax, fucking his seed so deep into you that you will probably have it dripping out of you for days. 

The husky moans he lets out as he empties himself inside you rattles in your eardrum. It was like music to your ears. You finally got what you want.

“You came again without permission.”

You do not respond, just grunt and fall onto the couch. 

-

Your body is humming still. Joel’s half-hard cock is still standing at attention as he stands up and walks over to the kitchen. You grab the back couch cushion and push yourself up to watch him wander over the sink. His hand reaches for a kitchen towel and he wets it under the sink faucet. 

His ass is so perfect and you silently curse yourself for not grabbing it when he was balls deep in you. 

“Come ‘ere.”

You scramble up, your legs wobbling with each step. Joel’s eyes scan your entire body again, enjoying the sight of you so bare in front of him. “Didn’t think you were the one for aftercare.”

He furrows his eyebrows, as he extends the towel to you. “I ain’t. Wipe yourself up.”

Your heart pangs against your ribcage. For some reason you thought being so intimate with him would bring something different out. You are sorely mistaken. 

The anger you felt earlier, the blind rage, takes over all your nerve endings again. You cannot stop yourself from lashing out after such a high. A high he gave you. 

You slap the towel away, tilting your chin up at him. He has never seen you defiant. His face twists in confusion. 

“You made me kill for you. Then you fuck me. And you can’t even give me any decency by wiping your fucking cum off of me?”

The words are like vomit coming out of your mouth. You ever thought you would talk back to him like this. It is the kind of thing you could have been killed for months ago. But now, you both are in vulnerable positions. You want to prove a point. Look at me, appreciate me, love me. 

“Excuse me?”

His tone is threatening. But so is yours. 

“You heard me.”

As silence cuts through the air, you notice the gun Joel put on the kitchen counter next to a broken coffee pot. He sees you eyeing it and goes to reach for it, but you are closer and a bit faster than him. When your hand wraps around the metal, you point it directly at his hairy chest. 

Proving a point with violence was always your specialty. Before the alcohol, and now, after the alcohol.

“You fuckin’ bitch,” He bites, his lips tightening inward, “You put that shit down now.”

You are steady with it, your finger not on the trigger, but only millimeters from gracing it. “No.”

“You’re not gonna kill me. Not after all you just did for me,” His voice is more clipped, his words staggered. His hands raise in the air, almost in surrender. “Put it down.”

You are not sure what your next move should be. The rage now turns into confliction. 

You have screwed yourself for snapping so quickly at him and now he was never going to trust you. Threatening him with words would be one thing, but pointing a gun at center mass was absurd. While you wanted to get your point across to him, you knew this was overkill. Your fuse was so short and your urges were unkempt. Acting on impulse was going to get you in major trouble.  

In the time you are second guessing your actions, Joel’s already springing forward and snatching the gun from you. You are easy to disarm when you are not prepared for a naked man springing at you in your time of contemplation. Joel grabs the gun, pushing you backward into the kitchen counter and points it at you. 

“Now…” His southern drawl carries out the word. Your heart is pounding, the same way it was racing last time Joel trained a gun on you. This time was different. Instead of a look of contempt and uncertainty, he appears to be offended by your actions. “You know damn well that shit ain’t gonna fly with me.”

“Joel-” “Shut your fuckin’ mouth,” He steps closer, the gun still trained on you, “You know better, don’t ya?”

The coldness of the barrel on your right collarbone is enough to send you over the edge. Your eyes flicker between his chest, his lips, to his eyes, “I do. I don’t know what came over me.”

His eyes reflect a silent consideration. He is trying to figure out if he believes you or not. You silently pray he does even if you do not fully believe yourself. 

“You are too quick to react to someone tellin’ you no. Knock that shit off now or else we will have bigger issues.”

You knew those bigger issues would lead to Joel putting you out of your misery. You would have to work on impulse control. “It won’t happen again. I will work on it.”

“You’re lucky I love that pussy of yours or else you would have a hole in your fuckin’ head.”

Love.

“You love it?”

He smirks at your candor. He did not even realize he said that. “Get on your knees and beg for my forgiveness. You don’t have time to get a big head.”

“On my knees?”

He clenches his jaw, withdrawing the end of the gun from your skin. It leaves a small circle indentation, solidifying that next time, there may be a much bigger one there. “On your knees, little one.”

You knew the sun would be baking today—the news alerted you of the rising tempers—yet it still didn’t prepare you to feel punched in the face by the suffocating humidity even when getting dressed, the sweat begun to pool around your forehead although you put on the smallest, thinnest clothing you owned.

Opening your backdoor, the bright sun instantly blinded you; the smell of booze and barbecue smoke sneaked up your nose as you walked out your white screen door to the backyard, the hinges snapping against the wall.

Thankfully you were just on time, walking through the soft grass, the freshly mowed clippings fluffed around your toes in excess, the strands sticking to your freshly lotioned skin causing your ankles to itch as you stride through the yard.

You can feel the sound of music beginning to shake in your eardrums—the country music booming out from the multicolored speakers.

As you approach the cul-de-sac, you quickly realize how crowded the block party has become.

Your neighbors have been hyping up this party for weeks now, an all-American, trashy way of celebrating Christmas, and if there was one thing people enjoyed most, it was drinking—always throwing unnecessary parties as an excuse to get shitfaced with little to no regrets, today being no different.

You were unable to complain as you imagined swimming in some rich neighbors pool, eating all of the free food you could muster and washing it down with expensive beer. Truthfully—that sounded like a damn good Saturday evening, and who were you to turn down some free ribs?

You could finally make out the lyrics to the end of the song that's played on your walk over. Getting distracted by all the people crowding the street, you almost trip over the spread out extension cords connected to the array of machines.

You didn’t expect it to be this crowded, the winter holiday was a time for families and cozy nights inside in front of the tv, but to your surprise—that didn’t stop everyone from showing up in abundance.

The strangers standing around the block weren’t dressed in the usual ugly Christmas sweaters, instead they shedded their layers for swimsuits and red sunglasses—you could only imagine how uncomfortably warm the large fuzzy Santa hats felt in this heat.

As you ventured further down the road, you stepped around the wooden corn hole setups and the booze spilt puddles, trying to find a good place to sit down and people watch, waiting to see someone you know. It was abundantly clear you misunderstood the popularity of the random celebration—the people going all out.

You watched in awe at the plastic fold up tables piled full with food, the lawn chairs and water inflatables filled the paved driveways, and the crowd? It was far too massive for the small space, hundreds of people spread out around the houses, their voices loud and slurred as they ran around rampant.

You quickly grew overwhelmed at the crowd, not recognizing any familiar faces, you finally found a safe spot out of the sun and underneath a tree. Leaning against the bark, you crossed your arms in an attempt to soothe yourself.

“Hey! Started to think you weren't gon’ show up.” A voice speaks, ripping you from your panicked thoughts.

Looking up in the direction of the noise, you see Tommy smiling brightly at you, holding a beer with his shirt unbuttoned. His cheeks looking flushed red from the sun, his freckles painting his nose bridge.

You go to reply, smiling big in his direction, but the grass crumbles behind him, a brown boot coming into your line of vision.

You quickly make eye contact with Joel, the man you always tried your best to make a good impression on, yet it always fell flat—him never bothering to start a conversation with you, no matter how hard you tried.

“Hey! Yeah-I um, I just got here.” You say loudly, yelling over the music. “It’s like, really crazy, I didn’t expect this many people to show up.”

You don’t mean to talk so much, yet the words effortlessly fall from your lips, quickly becoming overwhelmed with the party goers—and the quiet older Miller staring you down.

“You alright?” Tommy questions, raising his eyebrow in concern at your panic.

“Just…overwhelmed, lotta people here.” Humming quietly, you bow your head into the grass, staring at the small pale insects deep in the dirt. Joel instantly makes you start to second guess your actions just with his eyes—all without saying a word.

“We were just ‘bout to leave. Gonna head over to the gas station ‘n pick up some beers, you're welcome to join us.”

Tommy’s inquisition makes your ears perk up, more than ready to abandon whatever plans you had at the party tonight. “Okay, sounds good actually, thanks.”

Tommy looks over at his brother, yet Joel’s face remains stone cold. “Joel, you alive over there?

He doesn’t look at Tommy, instead he chooses to keep his eyes on you, holding eye contact as he lets out a grumble.

“You still comin’?” Tommy pushes, and you watch as Joel finally looks away from you, his Adam's apple bobbing in his throat, swallowing his spit.

“Yep,” he speaks, and you can barely hear him, his voice hoarse and raspy, his hand coming up to push his hat down over his eyes.

Joel stood there similarly to you, his awkward intimidating presence a much starker difference than his lively brother, Joel not bothering to talk to you.

It wasn’t that you were trying to irritate him, and you truly believed you’ve never actually done nothing wrong to him—but each time he’d stare at you, you were met with the same look in his eyes of pure indifference.

The same look he’s doing right now as you turned your head to look at him, his broad body standing firmly in place. His eyes met yours as he cleared his throat, cautiously taking a single step forward.

Joel knows you—well, he kinda knows you. He knows of your parents, far too old to pay attention to whatever their promiscuous daughter got up to.

He remembered the first time he met you, he was helping your dad replace his brake pads one early summer morning, his sweat dripping down his face into the collar of his shirt thanks to the Texas heat.

Bent over, he heard your flip flops clomping against the cement when you stepped into the garage, your voice sickeningly sweet as you asked your father for some cash to go shopping.

Joel peered up at the noise, his ears perking up your sugary feminine voice, and when he saw you? He knew you were it—a cute little thing, far too young for him, yet that didn’t stop his eyes catching on the flesh of your thighs hanging out your denim shorts.

He watched you stand next to your father, your eyes glazed with a hint of manipulation as you silently begged for the cash.

As he breathed in, letting the air fill his lungs full of breath he didn’t realize he'd been holding, he instantly got a whiff of your strong smelling perfume—the fruity substance just as sweet as your voice, he quickly grew dizzy in the large garage. As his sweaty hands stuck to the metal of the car, he wondered to himself if it was you or the humidity that had this effect on him.

Your father didn’t bat an eye at your presence, instead he smiled brightly, showing you his teeth, lovingly pulling you into his side. He balled his hand into a fist, carelessly messing your hair up with his closed palm.

Joel attempted to listen to what he mumbled in your ear, yet it was quiet enough to not pick up his words, and he couldn’t help his eyes fall back onto your face.

He watched as you giggled, kissing your father on the cheek, you thanked him loudly for the money, waltzing back into the house, but right before you closed the door—you smiled at him, the apples of your cheeks shining as your eyes crinkled, and Joel knew he was in trouble.

Less than a week later, on an evening where Joel came home late from work, he pulled into his driveway, the brim of his hat not helping in his favor as the setting sun burned orange hues in his eyes. As he approached the garage, something caught his eye—there you stood, twirling your hair between your fingertips, giggling at some nonsense Tommy was spewing.

Joel felt puzzled, his brother—and you? Hitting it off? He simply couldn’t believe it, Tommy was cocky and raunchy, and a girl like you wouldn’t be caught dead being friendly with a guy like him.

He felt a sour feeling tucked tightly in his abdomen, jealousy creeping itself up deep inside of him, and he quickly began to hate the feeling.

He was green with envy as he shut the truck off, the roaring engine coming to a silence, he stepped out his seat, rounding the truck to grab his paperwork out of his tool chest.

Joel could instantly tell his presence cut your conversation short, and when he walked up the pavement—his instinct was right, watching as Tommy gripped your arm, nodding his head at whatever you were whispering.

Joel didn’t look over as he brushed shoulders with Tommy, the action hard enough he stumbled, but Joel paid no mind, slamming the front door behind him.

Tommy causally brought you up in conversation that night, doting on how funny you were, the two of you having a lot in common. Joel couldn’t hide the snarl that appeared on his face as Tommy babbled on about his new connection with the cute girl across the street.

As if God was playing a cruel joke on him, Joel always saw you outside after that, typically with little to no clothes on, parading around your yard doing god knows what.

Sometimes he’d catch you outside next to his own backyard, swimming or tanning—you always greeted him with that same big smile, and Joel couldn’t stop himself from staring at you.

He felt dirty—and maybe he was, always turning around, hiding himself behind the white fence, swiftly adjusting himself in his suddenly too tight jeans.

He began to wonder why you never started a conversation with him and why it seemed like everyone got a chance to get to know you except for Joel, and that began to piss him off.

From that moment on, he constantly caught himself looking out his window, hoping to see you in the grass, ready to finally talk to him, but for Joel? The world never worked out correctly, and when he finally saw you out the window, it was a much different sight than he expected.

The clock rapidly blinked in the pitch black bedroom, the green flashing lights shined brightly at Joel, reading just a couple minutes past midnight.

Cursing to himself—he was exhausted, the long days and even later nights were starting to eat at him mentally, finding himself unable to fall asleep easily nowadays, his work schedule not helping.

Throwing the covers off his legs, he decided to get out of bed, maybe walk around the house and get a glass of water, striving to reset his mind from the unnerving task of sleeping.

Running a hand over his eyes, he looked over to his cracked window, the cool air filling the bedroom in a comfortable manner. Walking up to the window, he leaned himself on its steep edge, peering outside into the night.

As his eyes adjusted to the warm street lighting, he instantly caught something in his tired gaze, there stood you—completely bare, inches away from your own open bedroom window.

Maybe it was too much over the counter sleep medicine, or maybe he shouldn’t have had a beer after dinner that evening—surley, his eyes were deceiving him.

But there you were, your bare spine glistening in the soft light of your bedroom, the warm hues from what he presumed to be your lamp, hugged the curve of your plump ass. Your silhouette somehow appeared to glow through the closed window—even from hundreds of feet away.

Holding a white towel in your hands, you shimmied it side by side, delicately ridding yourself of the droplets of water that trickled down your body from your late night shower.

Joel’s heart fell into his stomach, his blood pressure instantly turning his ears pink, he cautiously hid himself behind the navy curtains.

Rapidly blinking his sleep deprived eyes, he attempted to rid himself of your image but it was no use—like each time he sees you, your essence burns a perfect cutout tucked away deep inside his memories.

He felt like a teenage boy once again, peeping on his attractive much older neighbor—yet this time it felt increasingly dirtier, you were young—too young to be gawked at like a piece of meat, but Joel couldn’t stop himself, feeling the same growth in his pants he's felt all week long, and with each time you being the cause.

Bringing a hand down to palm himself, his nostrils exhaled the underlying tension he was holding in, feeling his cock jerk in the combines of his sweats.

Watching you was an adrenaline rush he never knew he needed, his eyes trailing your bare frame as you bent over, fumbling in your wooden dresser.

Joel’s breath stuttered as he gripped himself through the cotton, his dick rock hard at the sight of you, and he couldn’t help himself from pulling the elastic waistband down—his cock wildly springing up to his stomach, his typical pink tip reddened and angry.

Stroking himself, Joel watched as you pulled your panties over your ass, hiding the delicious view of your ass. Joel bit his lip, thinking of how soft and plush your thighs were, watching how they jiggled as you turned around.

Joel collected a loogie of spit, letting it fall onto his cock with a small ‘tut’, he rubbed it on himself, the wet squelching filling his bedroom. He pounded his free hand against the wall in a fist, the cool smooth paint against his calloused hand, but all he could think about was how you’d feel on his cock.

Your unaware movements caused Joel’s knees to buckle, your swollen breasts now in his view, your nipples looking right back at him. He turned his view to your face in an attempt to not cum so quickly, and he was unable to tell your exact emotion spread across your face, yet your features were much softer alone in the relaxing moonlight.

Raising your arms, you quickly scrambled into a cut-off white tank top, the hem tickling right under your breasts. The covering was incredibly thin—so thin Joel could see the outline of your pebbled nipples.

He began to feel disappointed, the show ended as quickly as it started, but Joel was so enamored by you—and he could feel his balls tightening, growing increasingly close to his release.

His hand was rapid against his cock, pumping it as fast as he could, the motion burned deep in the muscles of his inner thighs but then—he saw it, your eyes looking over in the direction of his house.

You looking in his direction caused his hips to buck in his hand, you none the wiser; had no idea someone was watching you—touching themselves at your naked body.

The concept was so juvenile and dirty, it caused Joel to cum hard and fast, his cum spurting down his hand, making a mess of his sweatpants.

After an outfit change, Joel finally slept well that night, dreaming about you, and when he finally could get his hands on you.

You think he’s going to finally say something to you—finally address you like you mean something, but instead, he pivots his movements—his boots kicking up a small mountain of dirt as he turned around, heading over to the parked truck.

You could tell Tommy’s teasing was beginning to effect Joel, his jaw ticking each time Tommy opened his mouth, the bones tightening in his face so strongly, the tenseness spreading to his neck, highlighting his veins.

“We takin’ my truck?” Joel questions, the first time he’s really spoken up in front of you today.

“Nope,” Tommy responds quickly, his lips popping the ‘p’ sound. “Gotta take mine, was gonna fill up my tank, ‘s almost about on empty."

Joel shivered at the inclination, Tommy’s truck couldn’t fit the three of you, hell—it could barely fit him and Tommy. The red two-seater truck was old and cluttered, the middle console so tall it could barely squeeze a second body in, let alone three.

“Ain’t enough seats for three.” Joel grumbles, furrowing his eyebrows.

You look at Tommy, his lips spread into a smug smile, and back at Joel—his face ghostly white at the idea of having to take you with them.

“Where am I supposed to sit?” You question, butting in their brotherly conversation with a curious glint in your eyes.

Tommy pats your hip, wiggling his eyebrows. “Hey that’s alright, me n you can share a seat.”

Joel blinks hard at Tommy, watching how he raises his eyebrow at you, his lip curled into a cocky smirk. There’s no way in hell Joel is going to let that happen.

“No chance I’m driving your truck, last time I did the tire fell off the axle.” Joel blurts out, his words charged in dominance.

Tommy sighs at Joel, staring at him with the knowing brotherly look in his eyes you can’t quite decipher.

“Then how about yall share the passenger seat then, just a couple minutes away, shouldn’t be too big of a deal right?”

Joel gets into the truck first, his boots flicking up the dirt stuck to the running board, his knuckle gripping the handrail with a groan.

He adjusts his legs against the floorboards, graciously giving you enough room as he spreads them wide, your own personal seat for the next uncomfortable sweaty minutes.

Shakily, you mimic his movements, grabbing onto the hand rail, you yank yourself up into the truck, clumsily landing in between his open thighs.

The position wasn’t terrible, you just felt awkward—sitting on a man’s lap who’s barely ever uttered a word to you made you feel funny, you could feel the clammy sticky skin of your lower back against his forearms, the uncomfortable situation already beginning to swirl deep inside your belly.

Bump.

Bump.

Bump.

Tommy should have told you he was taking the backroads, the terrain uneven and filled with potholes.

It was growing impossible to hold still on top of Joel’s lap, each time the truck plowed into a pothole—you couldn’t control your movements, your ass rubbing directly in between Joel’s legs, the friction driving straight into his cock.

You tried to force your weight into the balls of your feet in an attempt to relieve the tension on Joel—but it was impossible, each time you’d go over a hump in the ground, you’d end up right where you started, directly on his clothed cock.

You could tell it was affecting him by the way his hands flew down onto each side of your hips, gripping the flesh in his palms. His big hands held you so tightly his fingertips were sure to leave bruises in the soft flesh.

The short ride seemed much longer with Joel pressed against you like this. Arching your back—you could feel the outline of his cock against the inside of your thigh, the large imprint poking into your ass.

You tried to distract yourself from the tense situation, focusing on the dirty floor, the build up of sawdust so strong it ticked your nose, but you were unable to stay focused—especially when Joel’s hands swallowed your waist so easily, you caught yourself tracing his veins with your eyes.

“Tommy, outta all the ways you coulda went, why the hell you’d pick this one?” Joel questions, his gravely voice vibrating behind you.

Joel can feel you let out a shaky sigh against him, your back moving against his belly.

If you could only hear what Joel was thinking, or—what his dick is thinking, you’d probably scramble off of him, hell—you’d probably ride back home in the trunk with the metal tool box, far away from his perverted self.

“You saw how busy the street was, ain’t no way I was drivin’ through that fuckin’ crowd.” Tommy bites back, and you can’t help the feeling in your gut of nervousness, maybe you shouldn’t have come along with them, the air in the truck suddenly feeling suffocating.

In an attempt to get some fresh air, your arm reaches over to the passenger side door, pushing your finger down onto the window button, you hear it screech as it rolls down, the warm wind beginning to blow your hair back.

Catching a glimpse out the open window, the hot air flows into the truck as you stare blankly into the open fields, watching the sun begin to dip below the horizon.

But one particular swerve of the car causes your body to jump in the air, and as you land down against Joel’s legs you see him staring at your face through the passenger side mirror.

He looked angrier than the last time you saw his face, his lips pursed into a tight line, the irises of his eyes deepened into a dark black—frustratingly staring directly into his target—you.

Joel wasn’t holding up well, your ass feeling much better against him than he could ever imagined, and oh was he was growing mad— his body furious at how oblivious you seemed to the situation, he was sure that you were purposely rubbing yourself on him in an attempt to rile him up, and Joel was seconds away from snapping.

Joel angled his hips in such a way to feel the space where your thighs met between your cunt, the feeling instantly gratifying—your weight snug against his dripping cock.

The feeling made him quickly grow dizzy, and he could smell your sugary perfume mixing into your sweat—the smell causing his tastebuds to wetten.

He watched how your face seemed scared and uncomfortable, your wide eyed gaze staring back into his through the mirror made him want to take you right there in front of Tommy—that will show him, show him who you’ve belonged to this whole time.

The idea of taking you now, slipping his cock out of his jeans and pushing your panties to the side was a wet dream for another night fisting his cock alone.

Joel was too focused right now, remaining calm with your body on him in the tight angle—the gravel under the tires vibrating your ass onto his dick.

The heat omitting from your barely covered cunt seeped through the denim of his pants, you continuously tried to take your ass of his cock, yet the movement causes your skirt to raise up your thick thighs, placing your thinly veiled pussy right onto his cock, and he could ever so slightly feel the pulsating squeezes from your cunt.

Tommy remains completely oblivious to what’s occurring beside him, humming to the song that plays low on the radio and tapping his fingers on the steering wheel.

As the truck finally pulled into the gas station, Joel couldn’t help himself from “accidentally” pushing his hips up into yours, and he couldn’t hide his chuckle that slipped from his throat when he heard a small squeak slip past your own lips.

You couldn’t wait for Tommy to unlock the truck, pushing the button yourself—you peeled off Joel and out of the truck quickly standing on your wobbly legs, desperately trying to get yourself out of the uncomfortable situation.

“Gonna go use the restroom,” mumbling, you tucked your arms over your chest, staring back down at the beige gas station pavement.

The lights from the sign buzzed in your ears as you waltzed over to the glass door, pushing your body into it, the bell rang as you walked inside, heading straight to the only bathroom at the back of the store.

Joel watched your hips bounce while you ran away from him, and Joel wasn’t going to let you get the chance to slip away once again. He’s been waiting on this moment for far too long, a chance to finally get you alone.

He takes one look at Tommy, mumbling an excuse about buying the beer, he hops out of the truck—following you inside.

The shifty bathroom smells of stale disinfectant and mold, the old rusted lock barley works as you attempt to wiggle it shut, a sliver of the isles still leaking through the small crack on the side of the door.

Turning the faucet on cold, you push down on the plastic soap containers grey button with your palm, fighting with the thick old soap that refuses to drip down.

Cursing to yourself, you bang the side of it, watching as it tumbles off the wall and down onto the floor with a loud shatter, the contraption busting wide open, pink slimy soap seeping on the vintage tiled flooring.

“Shit!” You curse to yourself, bending down to clean up your growing mess, you don’t hear the door creeking open over the faucet pouring water down the drain.

“The fuck was that?”

His voice startles you, jumping so hard you feel as if your heart stopped, you look over in the direction—instantly knowing who it is.

“What?” You question, wondering if he heard the crash echo through the thin walls, but your response only pushes his temper further.

Joel steps further into the bathroom, pushing himself up against the wall, making sure to actually lock the rusted door into place.

“Shit, don’t you look at me like that, you know exactly what you were doin’.”

Your stomach sinks further at his admission, the adrenaline pumping in your blood. “I-I didn’t mean to, I swear!” You exclaim, your eyes wide and desperate as you defend yourself. “Went to get soap and it fell off the wall.”

“What?” He scoffs, looking at you then the disheveled container. “I…I ain’t talking about that.”

Joel takes a step forward, the floor creaking underneath his boots as he closes you in.

“Fuck, you got no clue what you’re doin’ to me do ya?”

You really don’t mean to irritate him, even though he came into the bathroom you were using, you still feel like at nuisance, his aggressive demeanor making you feel small.

“Is this about the truck? You could have drove, Tommy said-”

“Don’t you bring him up right now,” Joel’s voice ticks, his eyes darkening.

You watch him in the reflection of the mirror slowly steps forward, his frame easily filling up the small bathroom. Squinting, you brace yourself—having nowhere to hide, the feeling of him brushing up against you makes the hairs on your arms prickle.

The lighting is hazy in the bathroom, the hissing green hues distorting his face, and like a hunter hunting his prey—Joel has finally caught you right where he wants you.

Gripping your hip, he pushes you back onto his hard cock, and you can instantly feel him against you, the denim tight from his swollen cock—all from your teasing.

“You feel that? Been doing this to me since you met me, prancing ‘round outside like a slut, never payin’ me any fucking attention.”

Swallowing the lump in your throat, you watch as he bends your spine down lower, forcing you to arch your back. Your shirt lifts up at the position, feeling the cold porcelain on the freed skin of your belly.

Joel absentmindedly grinds his cock into your ass, watching every quirk of your face through the mirror. He feels bad for what he’s about to do, but you’ve been teasing him for far too long and a man can only take so much.

“All on purpose right? Trying to get me riled up? Well shit it’s working.” He spits, his words like venom, and in some sick way—you feel your wet cunt get even slicker, rolling your hips back into his, meeting his movements.

“Answer me.” Joel orders, his tongue clicking.

He slides his free hand up your spine, and you can feel his calloused fingers twitch ever so slightly through the material of your top.

His hand travels up towards your head, his fingertips grazing the hairs nestled at the nape of your neck. His hand coasts around to your face, his palm resting snugly against your chin, he forces you to stare back at him in the cracked mirror.

“Yes I-yes, ‘s all on purpose. ‘m sorry,” you manage to choke out, giving into his sick game, his cock feeling too good against your covered pussy.

“You ain’t sorry, actin’ all sweet, ‘s an act ain’t it?” Joel whispers into your ear, bending his body weight onto you.

His belly crushes your frame, unable to breathe as your chest is pressed so deep into the sink, you can smell the fruity soap swirling deep downwards the drain, yet you remain focused on him, your eyes meeting his.

“Yes, been wanting you Joel, just too scared to talk to you.”

“Yeah? Things ‘bout to be real scary, shoulda been good, spoken up in the first place.” Joel scoffs, finally pulling himself off your body.

The hand that remains on your side comes down the hem of your skirt, he has you believing he’s going to pull it off, but he doesn’t bother—instead pushing the flimsy fabric up past your hips, he uncovers your cunt, barely confined inside of your cotton panties.

“All it took was one word,” Joel mumbles, more so to himself as he throws his head down against his chest, fumbling with his belt buckle.

“Woulda took ya out, nice dinner.”

You can hear the metal of his zipper pulling against the grain of teeth, the denim brushing in his hands as he yanks them down to his knees.

“Took ya back to mine and fucked ya real nice ‘n slow.” Joel hisses, and you can tell it’s from his cock hitting the cold air from behind you, even though he’s not focused on your face, your me focused on his, watching him as if smoke will erupt from his ears in anger.

“It’s a shame, taking such a pretty thing in such a nasty fucking bathroom.”

He finally looks back at you, his head shaking in disappointment, he takes a hand down to your soaked puffy cunt, pulling your panties to the side in such aggression, the fabric burns, scratching on your inner thighs.

“But you want that don’t you? A dirty fuck for a dirty girl.”

And with that, Joel pushes his cock into your entrance, stuffing you full of his thick red tip, the head already filling you up as you mewl, the feeling ripping your thighs open.

Your jaw turns slack at the stretch, choking on your breath; the feeling of his cock is incomparable to anything you’ve ever felt before. You were far from a virgin, but for someone this big and strong, your cunt couldn’t take it, squeezing down hard on his cock in an attempt to still his movements.

“J-Joel, you’re hurtin’ me.” You cry, begging for him to give you a chance to take him, yet he smirks at you in the mirror, his lip curling just barely enough you almost miss it.

He’s never heard a painful plea sound so pretty, and he hopes you can forgive him, but when it comes from your pouting distraught lips—he almost busts right then, before he’s even got the chance to fully fuck you yet.

“Good, need ya ta learn a fuckin’ lesson.”

Joel was telling you the truth, he wishes things were different—he would have loved to be a gentleman, do all the sweet things he’s telling you, yet Joel knows himself—he knows what he needs and more so what you can handle.

Pulling himself out of your tight pussy, he watches as your slick coats his dick. He shutters as he slams back in, your warmth sucking him back in; he grabs your hip to stabilize his movements, his thrusts picking up speed.

“Knew you’d be too damn tight, just needed me to loosen ya up huh?” Joel tuts from behind you, his cock ramming so hard into your pussy, you can feel the tip of his dick prodding at your cervix, the tight muscle aching against the protruding presence.

God, Joel feels obsessed with your cunt—the way you pull him inside, it’s everything and more he could have ever imagined. Your velvety walls smooth over the skin of his dick, so soft and wet, makes his legs shake with each thrust.

Your pussys quickly becomes a sopping mess around his dick, feeling him mold himself into the perfect shape in your cunt; he fucks you deep—each thrust knocking the wind out of you.

“J-Joel, ‘s too much!” You gurgle, gripping on to the sink so tight it begins to shake off the wall, you can see the porcelain's dirt-stained caulk looking back at you.

“Shit you like that don’t ya?” Cursing, Joel grinds his cock into you, his pelvis flush fo your ass.

Your hands react faster than your brain can realize, throwing your arms back, your right arm instantly finds Joel’s neck, pulling him closer.

Joel’s quick to respond—spreading his large hand over the expanse of exposed skin on your belly, he rushes his palm up the flesh, his hand rubbing your shirt off your chest.

The fabric gives at your breasts, watching in the mirror as Joel manhandles flimsy fabric off the fat of your chest, exposing your soft breasts—you watch him carelessly touching you in the mirror as if he owns you.

“Looks even better up close,” Joel breathes into your neck, bunching the fabric of your top so far up your body it begins to rub angrily at your neck.

The grinding sensation he’s giving you is too dull for the intensity you’re craving. You push your ass onto him—pushing his hips backward in an attempt to use his cock for your own pleasure.

Joel pulls back slightly, watching the way you take his cock all by yourself, the noise of your ass clapping echoing off the walls and deep into his eardrums causes him to shudder.

“Fucking yourself using my cock, lookin’ so damn pretty.” Joel coos, approving your movements.

But Joel has waited for this moment for far too long, and he would be crass to allow you to use him like this, he much rather use you—just like he planned

He grips you tightly around him, pushing his belly deep into your spine, his arm comes around your neck; his bicep sitting snug around your throat.

You let out a gargled moan at the new angle, his cock tilting itself just right it begins to rock fast against your g-spot.

“Tell me how good I feel, hell—can see it in your face, just how bad you want this dick.” Joel pushes, not wanting you to be quiet.

He needs to hear every single squeak out of your mouth, the need for your pretty little voice to scream his name would be a stroke of his ego he could only imagine in his dreams and he’s so close to getting it—knowing exactly what you need from him.

He brings the hand on your hip down in between your legs, pushing his pointer finger and middle finger on your clit, he begins to rabidly rub the bead, the feeling making your eyes roll into the back of your head.

His skilled fingers are too much for your body to handle, the feeling only intensified by the bicep around your throat, you can’t help but feel breathless, your moans becoming raspy as he holds your limp, fucked out body up.

He can feel your cunt fluttering around his cock, your legs clenching around his hand tells him you're close and Joel isn’t far behind, his balls skin tight as they slap loudly onto your skin.

“How ‘bout I cum inside ya? Make you prance around town with my fucking kid in yer belly?”

His words make your belly quiver, imagining Joel out of all people in town to be the one to claim your cunt as his makes you feel a way you’ve never felt before—his seed knocking you up in an aged gas station bathroom is disgusting—yet so satisfying you can’t help but moan out in agreement.

“Can feel ya clenching on me doll, shit-know you want it, want my cum inside of ya like a slut.” Joel babbles, himself coming closer to his release.

Joel cums before you, his girthy cock spurting thick ropes of his seed deep into your walls, you can feel the cum seeping deep past your cervix.

“Cmon, gotta feel ya cum for me baby.”

His words do it for you, pushing your knees together, your body begins to shake, your bones prickling with stars as your muscles burn. Your orgasm snaps through you like a rubberband, Joel having no choice but to help you stand up straight, your legs feeling like jelly.

As you cum, Joel’s hand comes down on your clit, slapping the puffy bead into overstimulation, you scream out loud, your knuckles turning pale on the edge of the sink.

Screaming, you thrash around his grasp, using both of your hands to release yourself against his angry palm, he finally lets off your pleading cunt, your clit throbbing in agony.

“Gotta take it out, ‘s gonna sting.”

Pulling out, his cum instantly falls from your stretched out cunt, the warm clear liquid seeping down your legs, Joel is quick to rip a paper towel, wetting it in the bathroom sink.

Swiping it up your cunt, you hiss in discomfort—although it’s a nice gesture after he abused your cunt, the scratchy surface of the towel burns the inside of your thighs, each wipe of his hand hurting more than the next.

“I’ll see ya outside,” Joel mutters under his breath, “gotta buy beer, ‘s what I came in here for.”

You watch as he zips up his jeans, the dark spot of precum dampening against his denim catches in the light as he walks out the bathroom, leaving you in your messy clothes, ass and tits out with his cum still seeping out of your pussy.

Confusion washes over you, and if you thought you didn’t understand him before—you sure as hell don’t get him now.

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You're posted up on the curb, legs stretched long and lazy in cutoff denim that barely counts as shorts. You twirl a piece of hair around your red-stained finger—cheap polish, heartbreak red— bitten and chipped—and catch your reflection in the glass door. Lip gloss smeared. Tank top see-through in the heat.

Good.

Men come and go. Most don’t look twice. Some stare. You like when they stare.

You catch him in the corner of your eye—rough, broad, beard catching the light like salt and pepper under the sun. He’s weathered. Heavy hands. Sad eyes. One of those quiet, steady men who could break your neck or cradle it just the same.

Perfect.

“Hey,” you call, casual, like you’re not soaked in heat and sin, like your heart isn't rotten under your ribs. “You mind grabbing me a bottle? Forgot my ID.”

You flutter your lashes. Bite your lip. Tilt your head just enough to look harmless.

He doesn’t stop walking, just glances at you—slow, from the bottom of your thighs to the tops of your lashes. There’s something sharp behind his eyes. Not lust. Not yet.

“How old are you?”

You shrug, lazy. “Old enough.”

“Yeah? Old enough for what?”

You grin. “Whatever you’re thinkin’.”

He exhales like he’s already tired of the game. “Not happenin’, sweetheart.”

You watch him disappear inside, chewing your lip until the taste of blood cuts through the gloss. You’re used to yes. But no? That’s rare. That stings.

You roll your eyes, light a cigarette with shaking fingers. Your mom’s off somewhere with a needle in her arm and your daddy’s bones are long gone to dust. It’s just you now. You, and the buzz, and the boys too stupid to look deeper.

Except him.

He comes back out, bag in hand. Doesn’t say a word. Just unlocks his truck and throws the bag in the back seat. As he starts to climb in, his eyes flick to yours. Long. Hesitant. Like he’s not sure if he’s about to make a mistake or fix one.

“You want a beer?” he asks. “I got a few in the cooler.” He pauses before adding— “Names Joel.”

You blink. Joel.

He opens the passenger door.

“C’mon. I’ll drive you home.”

You smirk. “What makes you think I’ve got one?”

He doesn’t answer. Just waits.

So you climb in.

The truck smells like sweat and smoke and pine tree air freshener. You kick your bare feet up onto the dashboard, window down, toes catching the warm wind as it rolls through the darkening fields.

You nurse a cold beer, sipped slow, and let the silence stretch.

He drives like a man who’s lived long enough to know better. One hand on the wheel. Jaw clenched. Eyes ahead.

But he keeps looking at you out of the corner of his eye.

Your legs. Your mouth. Your hair piled up halfway to God, strands stuck to your neck from the heat.

And then—your eyes. That’s what does it. Not the body. Not the laugh. The eyes.

His mouth hardens.

“You Jane’s daughter?” he asks, voice like gravel.

You glance at him, lazy. “Mhm.”

He scoffs under his breath. Shakes his head.

“You look just like your momma,” he mutters. “Before the drugs.”

You laugh. It’s bitter. “I know.”

“She used to wear her hair like that,” he says. “You even got that same damn freckle under your eye.”

You run a thumb under it, pretending to wipe away invisible mascara. “Guess I’m just the ghost of her fucked up past.”

“Don’t talk like that.”

You raise a brow. “Like what?”

He shifts in his seat, irritated. Not at you—at himself.

“At least she used to be sweet,” he mutters.

You roll your eyes, taking another sip of your beer. It burns going down this time.

He drops you off outside a trailer with one busted window and a porch light swinging loose. You half expect him to peel off and disappear, like the rest.

But he doesn’t.

He kills the engine and sits back, drumming his fingers against the steering wheel.

You finish the beer. Swing your legs back inside. The heat sticks to your thighs, sweat in the bend of your knees.

“I know what you want,” you say softly. “You wouldn’t have offered me that ride if you didn’t.”

His eyes snap to you. Hard. Unreadable.

“I offered because I figured you’d be better off in my truck than out here flirtin’ with every drunk asshole who walks by.”

You lean closer, lips parting. “But you’re not just any asshole, are you?”

His jaw tics. He stares at your mouth like it’s poison.

Then he exhales, long and tired. “Don’t do that.”

“Do what?”

He looks at you fully now—like he sees you, really sees you. Not the mouth. Not the legs. Just the wreckage underneath.

“This ain’t what you need,” he says. “A man twice your age who knew your mama back when she still had a future.”

You stare at him, heartbeat ticking in your throat. “Maybe I don’t want what I need.”

He shakes his head. Looks away.

“You’re just a kid,” he mutters.

You reach out. Press your hand to his thigh. Just enough to test. To tempt.

He catches your wrist, firm. Not rough. “Don’t.”

Silence.

You don’t pull away. You want him to want you. You want something to burn.

He lets go of your wrist and sighs again. “You don’t gotta act like this.”

“Like what?”

“Like love’s a thing you gotta earn with your body.”

You blink. It’s quiet. You hate how kind he sounds when he says that.

“Get inside,” he murmurs. “Before I forget how fucked up this is.”

You linger one second longer—just long enough to see the want in his eyes. That flicker of something dark and wrong and aching.

Then you slide out of the truck and disappear into the trailer.

He doesn’t leave right away.

—

It’s a week later. Friday again. The sky’s sick with heat and smog, the kind of Texas summer that makes the air feel mean.

Joel’s not planning to stop at the liquor store. He tells himself he’s just passing through, just needs gas, just wants to get home and not think for once.

But he sees you before he even pulls into the lot.

Same goddamn spot.

Same tiny shorts, legs stretched out long, red fingernails tapping a lazy rhythm against your thigh. Hair teased up like a crown of sin. A half-drained beer sweating in your hand.

But this time—

This time you’ve got a bruise blooming on your cheekbone. Dark purple. Ugly. Raw.

Joel kills the engine before he knows what he’s doing. He’s out of the truck, storming across the lot like something’s dragging him by the spine.

And there you are.

Still wearing that wicked little smirk, but your eyes look tired. Dull.

“Jesus Christ,” he growls. “You serious right now?”

You glance at him, bored. “What, no 'hi'? Not even a beer to offer this time?”

He stops in front of you. Stares at the bruise. At your lip, a little split on the corner.

“Who did that to you?” His voice is sharp. No patience.

You take a swig of the warm beer and roll your eyes. “What does it matter?”

“It matters.”

“No it don’t.” You smile again, teeth all spite. “S’just how it goes sometimes.”

He steps in closer. Towering. Looming. Not touching you, but you feel the heat of him anyway.

“Tell me who touched you.”

You snort. “Why are you even worried, huh? Ain’t you the one who said this was all ‘fucked up’?”

“That don’t mean I don’t care.” His voice breaks at the end. Rough with guilt, or something worse.

You blink at that. It almost sounds like the truth.

You lean back against the wall, beer dangling from your fingers. “Well, don’t. You’ll just be disappointed.”

He runs a hand through his hair, pacing a few steps like he’s trying not to punch a hole in the fucking sky.

“Goddammit,” he mutters. “Get in the truck.”

“What for?”

“I’m takin’ you home.”

“I don’t have one. Not no more.”

“Then you’re coming to mine.”

You don’t fight him on it.

You climb in barefoot, curl your legs up in the seat, and let the wind whip through the cab. You watch him out of the corner of your eye while he drives—jaw clenched, knuckles white on the wheel.

He doesn’t look at you at first.

But when he does—when his eyes flick down and catch the bruising on your neck, faint fingerprints just beginning to blossom beneath your collarbone—something breaks.

“Fuck.” He slams a hand against the steering wheel. “Fucking hell.”

You don’t flinch. You just take another sip and murmur, “Not like it’s the first time.”

He pulls over. Hard. Tires screech a little against gravel as the truck jerks to a stop.

Then silence. Thick. Boiling.

“Who was it?” he demands, turning toward you now, eyes wide, wild. “Tell me their name. Tell me what they drive. I swear to god—”

You sigh. “You ain’t my dad, Joel.”

His mouth tightens. He turns away, breathing hard, like he's trying to shove all that rage back down his throat.

“I know that,” he says finally. Quiet. Bitter. “But someone should’ve been.”

That makes your throat go tight. You stare out the window.

After a minute, his voice comes again. Lower this time.

“You don’t gotta live like this, baby.”

You blink. Hard.

“Don’t call me that,” you whisper. “Not if you’re gonna leave me here anyway.”

His hand twitches like he wants to reach for you. But he doesn’t.

Not yet.

“You drunk?” he asks.

You shrug. “Little. Not enough.”

He watches you. So long and deep it starts to hurt.

You don’t say anything else for the rest of the drive. Neither does he.

His hand stays white-knuckled on the gearshift. The silence sits thick between you, hot like blood. Your head rests against the window glass, the wind tugging at your hair, cooling the beer-sweat on your thighs.

You’re not used to men who don’t want something.

You're not used to silence that doesn’t scream what did you expect?

Joel’s house is outside of town—quiet, tucked behind rows of pecan trees and dying grass. It’s nothing fancy. Just a porch, some shade, a battered fence that doesn’t keep anything out.

He kills the engine, then turns to you.

“C’mon.”

You blink slowly. “What, no lecture?”

“No. Just a bed.”

You expect him to touch you. A hand to the small of your back, a palm on your thigh, something. But he doesn’t. He leads you inside like you’re made of glass.

Or like he’s afraid to break himself.

The house smells like cedar and old coffee. It’s warm. Lived-in. You stand in the entryway, swaying just a little, letting your eyes adjust to the dim light.

Joel toes his boots off and says, “You can sleep in the guest room. Sheets are clean. You hungry?”

You shrug.

He disappears into the kitchen, and you wander down the hall, fingers dragging along the faded wallpaper. You find the room. Bed made. Lamp glowing soft gold.

You sit on the edge and stare at your bruised knees.

There’s a knock.

Joel’s voice, low through the cracked door. “Brought you somethin’.”

You don’t answer. He comes in anyway—holding a glass of water and a pill bottle.

“Tylenol,” he says. “You’ll feel it all worse come mornin’.”

You reach for the water, your fingers brushing his. His eyes drop again—to your neck. Your jaw.

He sets the bottle on the nightstand, and just as he turns to go, you say it:

“I didn’t ask him to hit me.”

Joel stops. Shoulders tense.

“I believe you,” he says.

You nod. “My mom used to say the same thing. Every time.”

A pause.

You look up. Your throat feels raw.

“I don’t know why you care.”

His jaw works. “’Cause someone should.”

You fall asleep in his guest bed wearing one of his shirts—faded gray, soft from years of washing. It smells like pine and smoke. It swallows your frame whole.

Your hair’s loose now, falling across the pillow like a halo. Your cheek bruised. Lips parted. So small in that bed, you barely look real.

Joel watches from the doorway.

He watches too long.

It’s barely light when you wake. You’re thirsty. Confused. Quiet.

And there’s Joel—on the couch, still in his jeans and boots, arms crossed, head tilted back.

He didn’t sleep.

You pad into the room, your legs bare, the hem of his shirt hanging just under your ass.

He opens his eyes.

“Can’t sleep in your own bed?” you murmur.

He runs a hand over his face. “Didn’t wanna leave you alone.”

You step closer. Knees brushing his.

“Still worried I’m gonna break?”

He looks up at you. Tired. Torn.

“You already look broken.”

You crawl into his lap before he can say another word.

He tenses under you. “Don’t—”

But you’re not kissing him. Not grinding. You just curl into him, resting your head against his shoulder. Breathing slow.

His arms come around you—stiff at first, then tight. Tight like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he lets go.

“I don’t know how to be good,” you whisper.

He presses his mouth to your hair.

“I’ll take care of you anyway.”

His shirt swallows your frame. Your thighs stretch warm and bare over his jeans, your cheek resting on his chest. Every rise and fall of his breath rocks you gently, like the sea.

And then you say it.

Quiet. Measured. Meant.

“I ain’t got nothin’ to give you.”

Joel blinks.

“I didn’t ask for anything,” he says.

You wrap your arms around your knees and stare down at the fraying hem of his shirt.

“You’re bein’ nice,” you say. “Gentle. Feels like a trick.”

“It ain’t.”

You chew on your thumbnail, voice soft. “I don’t know what to do with that.”

He shifts toward you, his voice calm but deep, solid like the ground. “Then don’t do anything. Just stay.”

You look at him through your lashes. Raw. “I’m used to bein’ wanted. Not… taken care of.”

His jaw tics. He says your name low, like it hurts.

“I ain’t gonna touch you unless you ask me to. And even then—only if I believe you mean it.”

You blink slow.

“That ain’t what this is,” he adds. “I’m not tryin’ to sleep with you. I just want to keep you safe.”

You scoff a little. “Safe’s just a word. Doesn’t mean anything to me.”

Joel nods. “Then I’ll show you.”

And he does.

He starts small.

Feeds you—warm cornbread with honey butter, eggs over easy, cold peaches straight from the fridge. He doesn’t hover. Just sets the plate down, gives you that look, and walks away.

You start staying. One night turns to three. Then a week.

You clean a little. Wipe down his counters. Fold a blanket he left tossed over the couch. One day, you sweep the back porch barefoot, humming something low under your breath, and Joel forgets how to breathe for a second.

He brings you things.

A pair of fuzzy socks from the gas station.

A bottle of cherry red nail polish.

A tiny black comb for your lashes.

You sit on the couch with your legs across his lap, painting your nails slow, the sharp scent of acetone curling into the room like a warning. Joel watches the curve of your hand, the way your tongue peeks out as you focus.

“You always stare this much?” you tease, not looking up.

He doesn’t answer.

You grin. “That a yes?”

Still doesn’t answer.

But you feel it. The tension. Like a wire pulled taut between you.

Later that night, you find a new toothbrush in the bathroom. Still in the package. Waiting for you.

You sit on the edge of his bed that night—his, not the guest one—while he changes out of his flannel. You wear one of his old shirts again, your legs bare and tucked beneath you.

“Why are you doin’ all this?” you ask.

Joel looks over his shoulder. His voice is low. Worn.

“’Cause I care about you.”

You swallow. “You don’t even know me.”

“I know enough.”

You don’t answer. Your throat’s too full.

He walks over, crouches in front of you. Takes your hand.

“You don’t owe me anything,” he says. “I just want you alive, sweetheart.”

You blink fast. “That’s all?”

“That’s everything.”

Your voice is soft. Almost scared.

“I want you.”

He stills.

You look at him, eyes wide and unguarded. No teasing. No mask.

“I want you to touch me,” you say. “I know what I’m sayin’. I mean it.”

Joel breathes in through his nose, long and heavy. His jaw flexes, gaze locked on you like he’s bracing for something.

“Sweetheart,” he says quietly. “Don’t do that unless you’re sure.”

“I am sure.”

“I know you want to be,” he says. “But wantin’ someone and needin’ to feel wanted—they’re different things.”

You blink. Your throat is tight. “I know the difference, Joel.”

He searches your face. Hard.

You let him.

Finally, he lifts a hand. Brushes his thumb across your cheekbone—where the bruise has faded, soft now, a shadow of what it was.

His voice is hoarse. “You’re sure?”

“Yes.”

He kisses you.

It’s slow. Careful. Not hungry or rough—nothing like the boys in back seats, the strangers in shadows. Joel kisses like he’s terrified of breaking you, hurting you.

You melt into it. Hands fisting in his shirt, mouth parting for his tongue.

You kiss him deeper. Press closer. Try to pull him down on top of you—

But he pulls away.

Gentle hands. Soft sigh.

“Not yet,” he whispers.

You freeze.

He touches your face again. Holds your jaw with his palm like you’re something fragile and warm.

“I want you, baby,” he says. “But not tonight.”

Your eyes flick away, embarrassed, afraid you did something wrong.

“I’m not sayin’ no,” he adds. “I’m sayin' I care. And I’m not gonna take you like this—tired and still piecin’ yourself together.”

You stare at him, breath held tight in your chest.

“I want you whole when I have you,” he says.

“If you’ll let me, I wanna be the man who waits.”

And something inside you breaks open.

That night, you sleep in his bed.

No sex. No rush.

Just his arms around you. Your head on his chest. His breath in your hair, steady and slow.

He holds you like he’s never going to let you go.

And for the first time in a long, long while—

You believe a man.

———

The mornings are your favorite.

You wake up warm, skin tangled in old cotton sheets and the soft press of Joel’s body at your back. His arm slung heavy over your waist. Sometimes he’s already awake, rubbing slow circles against your hipbone, breath steady at the nape of your neck.

He kisses your shoulder before you speak.

You brew the coffee. He makes the eggs. You sit on the counter in one of his shirts, bare legs swinging, red polish chipped and faded. He watches you like you hung the goddamn moon.

Some days, he brings you things—nothing big.

A peach from the roadside stand, warm from the sun.

A paperback he thought you’d like. You pretend to read it just so you can press the spine open and leave it on the table where he’ll see.

A little bottle of lavender nail oil.

You clean when you’re nervous. Rearranging the kitchen drawers, rewashing clean mugs, reorganizing his bookshelf alphabetically until he teases you for it. You paint your nails at the kitchen table while he tunes his guitar. Sometimes you hum along.

He looks at you like he wants things. Long things. Good things. Forever things.

And for a while, it’s easy.

Until it isn’t.

The argument starts over nothing.

Joel’s working late in the garage, shoulders tense, grease on his hands. You ask if he wants dinner. He mutters something distracted. Doesn’t really answer.

You try again.

He exhales sharp. Doesn’t look at you.

“You don’t gotta take care of everything all the time.”

You freeze.

Your heart drops into your stomach like a stone.

And then your voice goes quiet. Cold. “Right.”

Joel doesn’t look up.

So you keep going. “Didn’t realize I was being such a burden.”

He frowns. “That’s not what I said.”

“No, but you meant it.”

“For fuck’s sake, girl—”

“Don’t call me that,” you snap. “I’m not some stray dog you took in off the road. If you’re tired of me, just say it.”

Joel turns, eyes wide, expression wounded. “Tired of you?”

You scoff, blinking fast. “You didn’t even want me here in the first place.”

“That’s bullshit and you know it,” he says, firm but calm.

“I don’t know anything, Joel! I don’t know what this is, I don’t know how to be here. I’m waiting for the day you wake up and realize I was just—just—something to fix.”

He walks over.

Slow.

No raised voice. No slammed doors. Just him, his steady hands, and his soft, heartbreak eyes.

You try to back away, but he catches your wrist—lightly. Warm.

“Hey,” he says. “Look at me.”

You don’t want to. But you do.

“I ain’t tired of you,” he murmurs. “I need you. I love havin’ you here.”

Your chin wobbles.

“I’m scared,” you whisper. “I don’t wanna be left again.”

“I know, baby.”

And then—your whole body crumples. Right there against his chest.

The sob hits you so hard it folds you in half. Joel wraps his arms around you tight and holds you like he’s the only thing keeping you from falling through the floor.

You cry for everything. For your mother. For the bruises. For all the nights you begged someone to see you. For all the ways Joel does.

He doesn’t shush you. Doesn’t rush it.

Just breathes with you. Anchors you.

And when the tears finally stop, and your face is hot and sticky against his shirt, he tilts your chin up and kisses your forehead.

“I’m here.” he says. “And i'll still be here in the morning.”

And he is.

He always is.

The days go slower now. Sweeter. You laugh more. You touch him without flinching. He kisses your wrist sometimes, like he’s grateful it still exists. You trace the silver in his beard and he lets you.

It happens on a quiet night.

There’s no lightning. No storm. Just the sound of the cicadas outside and the slow hum of the ceiling fan above the bed. Joel’s lying beside you, shirtless, reading something he keeps forgetting to turn the page on. You’re curled against him, one leg draped over his hip, fingers tracing circles on his chest, where the hair’s gone soft and silver at the edges.

You’re not thinking about your mother.

Not about the bruise that’s finally faded from your cheek.

Not even about how long you’ve waited for someone to hold you like this and mean it.

You’re thinking about him.

You tilt your head. Press your mouth to the side of his throat. He stiffens slightly beneath you, but doesn’t pull away.

“You can touch me now,” you whisper. “I want you to.”

He sets the book down.

“You sure?”

You nod. “I’ve never been more sure of anything.”

Joel turns toward you, propping himself up on one elbow. His eyes search your face— like he’s trying to memorize you.

“I don’t wanna hurt you,” he says softly. “Don’t wanna make you feel like you owe me this.”

He exhales—slow. Like he’s been holding his breath for days.

Then he leans in and kisses you. Not rushed. Not hungry. Just… full. Full of every long, aching thing he’s never said out loud.

You sigh against his mouth. Climb into his lap. He cradles your hips, hands steady, callused palms sliding up the backs of your thighs beneath his shirt.

“You’re so beautiful,” he murmurs. “So fuckin’ soft, baby.”

His voice makes you shiver. He peels the shirt from your body with careful hands, his eyes never leaving yours. When you’re bare in front of him, you almost flinch—almost cover yourself.

But he stops you.

“Don’t,” he says gently, cupping your jaw. “You don’t have to hide from me. You’re perfect.”

You don’t cry. But your throat tightens.

Joel lays you down slow. Presses kisses to your collarbone, the slope of your stomach, the inside of your wrist. He worships you. Like you’re the first soft thing he’s ever been allowed to keep.

You swallow hard. Your voice trembles. “Touch me, please.”

He groans softly at the sound of your voice—soft and needy—and kisses down your throat, slow and lingering. His stubble scrapes your skin in the best way. His mouth moves lower, teeth grazing your collarbone, lips warm over your sternum.

When his tongue flicks over your nipple, your back arches. He hums against it, suckling slow, his hand massaging the other breast.

“So good,” he murmurs. “Jesus, baby…”

He kisses down your belly next. Pauses to mouth at your hip, teeth scraping lightly. He hooks his hands under your thighs and spreads them—slow, giving you every chance to stop him.

You don’t.

You want this. You want him.

Joel settles between your legs like it’s where he was meant to be.

He pauses. “You okay?”

You nod, biting your lip. “Don’t stop. Please don’t stop.”

He doesn’t.

His mouth meets your center like a vow. Warm and wet and patient. He licks you slow, gentle, teasing—like he’s trying to savor every sound, every twitch of your hips. One thick finger slides into you—then another. He curves them up just right, and when your thighs tremble, he praises you for it.

“That’s it,” he murmurs. “Let me feel you, baby. So fuckin’ sweet.”

You’re gasping now, nails digging into the sheets, your hips rocking against his mouth.

He hums like he’s devouring you.

Your body tightens. That warmth building, coiling.

Joel keeps his mouth on you the whole time, tongue flicking soft and fast, fingers pressing deep and steady until you break for him. Crying out, breath catching, back arching.

He doesn’t stop. Not until you push gently at his shoulder, thighs twitching with oversensitivity.

When he pulls away, his beard is wet, and his eyes are wild. Soft.

You’re trembling, dazed and glowing, your body still fluttering with the aftershocks. He kisses your collarbone, your throat, your jaw—pressing soft murmurs into your skin.

He crawls back up over you, presses his forehead to yours.

“You okay?” he whispers.

You nod, dazed.

He brushes your hair from your face. Kisses your nose.

You reach for him. Wrap your legs around his waist, fingers tugging at the hem of his boxers.

He catches your wrists gently. Kisses your knuckles.

“I ain’t gonna rush you,” he murmurs. “Not tonight.”

You blink at him. Still breathless. “You’re not gonna—?”

He shakes his head. “I wanted to give you somethin’. Not take.”

“Joel,” you whisper. “Please.”

His eyes find yours, and fuck—he almost folds right there.

“You don’t gotta beg me for anything, darlin’.”

You sit up a little. Cradle his face in your hands.

“I want to beg you,” you say. “I want you inside me. I want to feel you.”

He lets out a low, strangled sound. Like you’ve knocked the air out of his lungs.

“Need you to know,” he says hoarsely, “I ain’t gonna fuck you just to get off. If I do this—it’s me lovin’ you, alright?”

You nod, eyes wide. “That’s all I want.”

You guide his hand to your chest. Your heartbeat pounds under his palm.

“This is yours,” you whisper. “I’m yours.”

That does it.

He groans, low and wrecked, and kisses you hard. No more hesitation, no more restraint. His hands roam your body like he’s trying to memorize it all, his mouth devouring yours with every ounce of the want he’s kept bottled for weeks.

He strips slowly. You help him. Kiss every new patch of skin you uncover—his chest, the thick line of his stomach, the scar near his hipbone.

When he’s bare above you, your breath catches.

He’s beautiful.

Strong, solid, real.

You reach between your bodies and wrap your hand around him. He hisses, his eyes fluttering shut.

“Jesus,” he mutters. “You keep doin’ that and I’m not gonna last long.”

You grin.

He leans over you, one hand braced beside your head, the other gently guiding himself to your entrance.

“You tell me if you need to stop,” he whispers. “At any point, you hear me?”

You nod.

But it’s not enough.

He cups your jaw. Makes you look at him.

“Say it.”

“I’ll tell you,” you whisper. “I promise.”

And then—he pushes in.

It’s slow. Deep. Your body stretches to take him, and Joel swears under his breath as your walls flutter around him.

“Fuck—you feel so good.”

You cling to him, gasping, overwhelmed but full. So full.

He stills once he’s seated all the way inside you. Lets you adjust. His forehead rests against yours, both of you breathing hard, trying not to come apart too fast.

“You okay?” he murmurs.

“Yes,” you gasp. “More than okay. Please move.”

He does.

Slow at first. Just the gentle rock of his hips against yours, his mouth moving along your skin—kissing your throat, your cheek, your shoulder.

“So tight, baby. So fuckin’ good for me.”

You moan. Dig your nails into his back. He rolls his hips deeper, dragging along that perfect spot inside you.

The pace stays slow. Worshipful. He takes his time, like he wants to feel all of you, like he’s terrified of missing something. He keeps one hand cradling your jaw, the other pressed flat against your belly.

“Let me hear you,” he murmurs. “Let me hear what I do to you.”

You do.

You say his name like a prayer. Like it’s the only word you know.

When you come again—hard and sudden—he groans, dropping his head to your shoulder. You pulse around him and he chokes out a curse.

He kisses you then—soft and slow, tongue teasing, lips worshipping yours like you’re a goddamn miracle. When he pulls back, he murmurs:

“I want you to tell me what you want. Every little thing.”

You catch your breath. “I want you.”

His hips pick up the pace again—slow but steady, worshipful. His hands roam over your body, memorizing every curve and dip. His mouth traces kisses down your neck, to your collarbone, whispering praise.

“You’re so fuckin’ perfect. So soft for me.”

You cry out softly, nails digging into his back, heart pounding.

“Joel,” you gasp, “Don’t stop.”

He growls low, like you’ve undone something deep inside him.

You tremble with need, words catching in your throat.

“I love you,” you whisper between breaths.

The words hit him like a shot through the heart.

His body freezes inside you. His breath catches. His eyes snap open, wild and raw, searching yours as if to make sure it’s real.

“God,” he chokes out, voice thick.

He buries his face in your neck, hands gripping your hips like you’re all he has left.

“Jesus, baby,” he groans. “I love you too. So goddamn much.”

His hips shudder, moving faster, harder. You gasp as he pulls you closer, skin pressing to skin.

You come for a third time—tight, overwhelming, tearing through you like fire.

Joel follows—his body trembling, voice breaking with a guttural growl as he spills inside you.

He holds you through the waves, breathing ragged against your hair, lips tracing soft, desperate kisses along your shoulder.

When it’s over, you’re both still, wrapped up in each other’s warmth, hearts pounding in the quiet dark.

He murmurs, “You’re mine, sweetheart. Don’t ever forget that.”

You hated curfew. You thought it was the most absurd thing to ever be invented. You were the future queen of Virelia, for heaven's sake. The idea of being confined in your chambers from 9 o'clock to when your ladies-in-waiting awakened you constantly frustrated you. You never understood it. Maybe it was the fact that you were well past 18, husbandless, and not the most obedient daughter to the king.

But that didn’t stop you from making your trek outside the palace. This is the farthest you’ve ever gone, with your midnight adventures usually consisting of wandering to other sides of the castle you’ve never explored. But now, you’ve decided it’s time to expand your horizons; you even changed out of your chemise and into a gown better suited for outdoor activities, which you had a lack of. 

You examined the palace gates from your balcony and then looked back down at the ground below you. Bushes. You could jump, land in the bushes, and make a run for it outside the gate… right? You gulped, all your confidence suddenly leaving your body. You took a deep breath, gripped the balcony ledge, and began to heave yourself over it. As soon as you pulled yourself halfway over the ledge, practically straddling it, you locked eyes with someone. Someone you knew a bit too well.

Joel.

Sweet, charming, but quiet, Joel.

A small smile began to form on your face, but then you realized. Seeing Joel means you were caught.

“What are you doing?” 

Panic began to seep through your veins, and then, you began to slip. Your hands frantically gripped the marble railing, but it failed you.

You braced for impact; hopefully, the bush would catch you. 

It did.

You opened your eyes, grateful the bush caught your fall, but still, it hurt. And there Joel was, looking down at you with that square look on his face.

“Thanks for catching me.” You said sarcastically, standing up and rubbing your sore shoulders.

“What’d y’think was gonna happen?” He huffed, crossing his arms. 

You rolled your eyes. That damn accent. You’ve always wondered where Joel was from; it wasn’t Virelia, that's for sure. Although you thought it was slightly cute.

Your thoughts were interrupted when Joel grabbed hold of your hand. “Come on. You'd better head back to your room. You’re lucky I ain’t telling your father.”

You winced as Joel helped you brush off leaves and dirt from your gown. “You really shouldn’t be out here,” he muttered, though there was a faint edge of concern in his voice.

“I could say the same about you,” you teased, stepping closer than necessary. “You’re supposed to be guarding me, aren’t you?”

Joel crossed his arms, jaw tight. “Yeah. And you’re testing my patience.” His voice was firm, but his eyes betrayed the slightest flicker of amusement.

You rolled your eyes. “Testing your patience or your restraint?”

He didn’t answer at first, just stared at you, silent and steady. Something about the way he watched you made your stomach twist in anticipation. Not fear, excitement.

“Look,” he finally said, his tone softer. “I can’t have you sneaking out like this. Someone could see you, and if your father finds out…” His words trailed off, but the implication was clear. Trouble, maybe worse.

You sighed dramatically, letting your hands drop to your sides. “Fine. I’ll behave… for now.” But even as you said it, you felt a spark of defiance. The night was still young, and there were places in this palace you’d never seen.

Joel frowned. “For now?”

You tilted your head, studying him. “Curious?”

He shook his head, though a corner of his mouth twitched in the faintest hint of a smile. “You’re impossible.”

You grinned, and for a moment, you imagined what it would be like to see him let that control slip completely. To tease him, push him, and, maybe eventually…see him respond. But for now, you’d settle for small victories.

Joel’s gaze followed you as you crept toward the garden gate. “I’m walking with you,” he said, voice low.

“Oh?” you asked, pretending to be surprised. “And here I thought I could outrun you.”

“You’d get caught,” he replied, moving to stand beside you, broad shoulders slightly shielding you from view. “I’d rather it be me than some palace guard dragging you back.”

You glanced up at him, and for a heartbeat, you noticed the lines in his face, the quiet strength in his stance, and the way his eyes softened whenever he looked at you. You had always been aware of him, of course; his presence was impossible to ignore, but now you were noticing details you hadn’t before.

The night air was cool against your skin as you walked together, hidden among hedges and shadowed paths. There was a rhythm to the silence between you, comfortable but charged, the kind of quiet that made every accidental brush of skin feel electric.

He finally let go of your hand when you entered the palace. It felt more like a prison. You groaned and walked up the staircase leading to your room.

When you finally approached your door, you turned to look at Joel. “I’m surprised you’re not telling on me.”

“Think I’d get in even more trouble than you will.”

You smirked, stepping closer. “So… does that mean you’re willing to let me have a little fun?”

Joel’s jaw tightened. “I’ve been thinking about it,” he admitted, his eyes locking onto yours. “But you’re reckless, princess. One wrong step and—”

“And you’re worried about me, right?” you teased, raising an eyebrow.

He growled softly, but there was a hint of a smile tugging at his lips. “Maybe.”

You took a breath, letting your gaze wander over the palace gates. “I want to see what’s out there. Not just the gardens… the world beyond these walls. I feel so trapped here. I know my father is doing what’s right to protect me, but…” You trailed off.

Joel’s eyes followed your gaze, and for a long moment, he was silent. His gaze caught yours as he noticed the tears welling up in your eyes. Then, finally, he let out a low sigh. “I’ll take you. Only if you promise me you’ll stick close.”

You gasp. “Really?”

He nodded slowly. “Yes.”

“Like… really, really?”

“Don’t make me change my mind.”

You smile. “Okay, okay. When, though?”

Joel shrugged. “Not sure, gotta figure out when the best time is. Can probably sneak you out once your curfew starts, just don’t know what day yet.”

It’s like the gods finally answered your prayers. “Thank you, thank you, thank you!” You squealed, pulling Joel into a tight hug. “I don’t know why you act so grumpy all the time; you’re such a sweetheart.” 

He rolled his eyes. “You’re welcome. Now, go to bed; it’s way past your curfew.”

—

A few weeks had passed, and you’d grown slightly agitated. Joel had yet to take you outside the palace walls. 

Yet he never did.

You frowned, frustration bubbling beneath the surface. “Joel,” you said one morning, brushing past him as he kept pace, “don’t tell me you’ve forgotten about me wanting to see the world outside these walls.”

Joel’s jaw tightened slightly, though there was no surprise in his expression. “Forgot?” he asked, his voice calm and steady. “Princess, I’ve not forgotten a damn thing.”

You stopped, turning to look at him, the sunlight catching the determined lines of his face. “Then… why not? You’ve had weeks to take me out there.”

Joel’s dark eyes softened ever so slightly. “I’ve been waiting for the right moment,” he said, low and deliberate. “Not just for you to sneak out. For it to be safe. For us to do it right. You don’t just… wander the streets at night and hope for the best.”

You blinked, momentarily caught off guard. “You… waited?”

“Yes. And since you won’t stop bothering me about it, we can go tonight. There’s a night market in the village square. You’ll just have to cover up a bit and look less... princess-y.”

“Yes, sir!”

Joel scoffed and turned around, walking away. “I’ll come get you at 9:30.”

After dinner you practically leapt to your closet, heart racing with anticipation. Cover up and look less princess-y, he’d said. Less princess-y? The very idea made a thrill run down your spine. You rifled through your wardrobe, tossing aside gowns and silks, finally settling on dark trousers, a fitted tunic, and a cloak with a hood to hide your hair. Practical… but still flattering. The thought of Joel seeing you like this made your cheeks warm.

By 9:25, you were pacing, tugging the hood over your face, trying not to fidget too much. Every nerve in your body was alert. He’s going to see me outside the palace… like this…

At exactly 9:30, there was a soft knock at your door. You peeked through and found Joel standing there, tall, broad, and as imposing as ever. His dark eyes swept over you, lingering longer than necessary on the curve of your shoulders beneath the cloak.

“Ready?” he asked, voice low and commanding.

“Yes, sir,” you murmured, letting a sly grin tug at your lips despite trying to appear serious.

Joel’s lips twitched, almost a smirk, though he quickly hid it. “Keep that grin to yourself, princess. Out there, people don’t know who you are. Don’t make trouble.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t dream of it,” you said, stepping closer than necessary, letting your hand brush against his as you took his offered arm. The contact sent a spark up your arm, and you felt him tense slightly under your touch.

Joel’s eyes darkened, scanning the palace gates before stepping outside. “Stay close,” he murmured, voice dropping even lower, almost a growl. “And don’t tempt me.”

Lanterns swayed overhead, merchants called out their wares, and townsfolk moved about oblivious to the princess wandering among them. But you barely noticed anything but him, Joel, walking just close enough to make your pulse race, hand occasionally brushing yours under the pretense of guiding you.

“You like it?” he asked suddenly, low and rough, his dark gaze catching yours across the crowd.

“It’s… incredible,” you breathed, letting your fingers brush against his just a fraction longer than necessary.

Joel’s jaw tightened, lips pressing into a thin line as he leaned slightly toward you. “Keep that up, princess, and I’ll have to take measures,” he murmured. The growl in his tone made your chest tighten, a shiver running down your spine.

“Measures?” you teased, biting your lip, letting the hint of a laugh escape. “Like what?”

He shot you a look that was equal parts warning and heat, and you felt it deep in your bones, then said nothing.

—

About an hour passed, and the night market was still alive with energy, though the initial rush had begun to fade away. You and Joel had explored most of the stalls, and you found yourself lingering at a small booth that sold intricate hand-painted masks. The masks were vibrant and colorful, each one unique and full of character. You picked up a mask adorned with shimmering gold and deep blue, the colors reminding you of a summer sky.

"These are beautiful," you murmured, tracing the delicate brushstrokes with your fingertips.

Joel leaned in, his shoulder brushing against yours as he examined the mask. "They are," he agreed, his voice low. "But I think this one suits you better."

He reached past you and picked up a mask with a playful, mischievous design, red and orange hues swirling together, creating a captivating pattern. 

"You think so?" you asked, taking the mask from him and holding it up to your face. The mask fit perfectly, and you couldn't help but grin at the reflection in the booth's small mirror. "I do look a bit more... adventurous with this on."

Joel chuckled, a warm sound that sent a thrill down your spine. "Adventurous is good. It suits you."

You turned to him, the mask still in place, and felt a sudden, unexpected urge to tease him. "Maybe I should wear it all the time," you said, your voice playful. "To keep my true identity a secret."

Joel's eyes sparkled with amusement, and he shook his head. "I think you'd be recognized regardless. Your spirit is too vibrant to hide."

You laughed, the sound light and carefree, and placed the mask back on the booth. "You're right. Besides, I think it's time to head back."

Joel nodded, his expression softening. "Yes, it is. But before we go, there's something I want to show you."

He took your hand, his grip warm and reassuring, and led you through the winding paths of the market. You followed him curiously, trusting him completely. Finally, he stopped in front of a small, secluded area where a lone musician played a haunting melody on a flute. The music was enchanting, filling the air with a sense of magic and wonder.

As you listened, you felt a growing desire to be closer to Joel, to feel his presence more intimately. You leaned into him, your body pressing against his, and felt his arm wrap around your waist, pulling you closer. The music seemed to speak to your soul, and you found yourself turning to face him, your eyes locked on his.

Joel's gaze was intense, filled with a mix of desire and restraint. You reached up, your fingers tracing the line of his jaw, and felt him lean into your touch. His hand moved from your waist to your back, pulling you even closer, and you could feel the heat of his body against yours.

"You're playing with fire, princess," he murmured, his voice low and husky.

You smiled, a slow, seductive curve of your lips. "Maybe I want to get burned," you whispered, your eyes never leaving his.

Joel's hand tightened on your back, and for a moment, you thought he might kiss you. But then, with a soft growl, he pulled away, his breath ragged.

"We can't," he said, his voice strained. "Not here, not like this. You deserve better than a quick moment in the shadows."

You looked at him, your heart pounding with a mix of desire and disappointment. "And what if I don't want better? What if I just want you?"

Joel's eyes darkened, and he reached out, cupping your face in his hands. "I want you too, more than anything. But not like this. Not until you're ready, and not until we can do it right."

You nodded, understanding his restraint, and leaned into his touch, savoring the moment. "Okay," you whispered. "Okay."

Together, you made your way back through the market, the memory of the music and the moment etched forever in your hearts. As you approached the palace gates, you turned to Joel, your expression serious.

"Thank you for tonight," you said softly. "For the adventure, for the music, and for being here with me."

Joel looked at you, his eyes filled with a depth of emotion that made your heart skip a beat. "It was my pleasure," he replied, his voice low and sincere. "Always."

—

You slipped back into your chambers, your heart still racing from the night's adventures and the intense moment with Joel. The palace was quiet, the only sound the distant hoot of an owl outside your window. You undressed slowly, your mind replaying every detail of the evening, the vibrant market, the enchanting music, and the electric touch of Joel's hands on your body.

As you lie in your bed, the soft sheets cool against your skin, and you can't help but think about him. The way his eyes had darkened with desire, the roughness of his voice when he spoke, and the strength in his touch. You closed your eyes, imagining his hands exploring your body, his lips pressing against yours in a passionate kiss.

It was past midnight when a soft knock at your door startled you from your thoughts. You sat up, your heart pounding, as you called out, "Who is it?"

"Joel," came the low, familiar voice from the other side.

You hesitated for a moment, then threw back the covers and padded to the door, opening it just a crack. Joel stood there, his expression serious but his eyes filled with a hunger that mirrored your own.

"Joel," you whispered, stepping back to let him in. "What are you doing here?"

He closed the door behind him, his movements swift and sure. "I couldn't stay away," he admitted, his voice low and husky. "Not after tonight."

You reached out, your fingers tracing the line of his jaw, feeling the rough stubble against your skin. "I'm glad you're here," you murmured, your eyes locked on his.

Joel's hands found your waist, pulling you closer, and you could feel the heat of his body against yours. His lips captured yours in a fierce, passionate kiss, and you melted into him, your body responding instinctively to his touch.

His hands roamed your body, exploring every curve and line, and you arched into his touch, wanting more. You fumbled with the buttons of his shirt, desperate to feel his skin against yours, and he helped you, his movements urgent and needy.

As his shirt fell to the floor, you pressed your lips to his chest, tasting the salt of his skin, feeling the rapid beat of his heart. Joel's hands found the ties of your nightgown, and he loosened them, his fingers brushing against your bare skin, sending shivers down your spine.

You stepped back, letting the nightgown fall to the floor, and stood before him, naked and unashamed. Joel's eyes roamed over your body, his gaze intense and hungry, and you felt a thrill of power and desire.

"You're beautiful," he murmured, his voice low and rough. "So damn beautiful."

You reached for him, pulling him down onto the bed with you, your bodies entwined in a tangle of limbs and desperate kisses. Joel's hands explored your body, his touch both gentle and demanding, and you arched into him, wanting more, needing more.

His mouth trailed down your neck, his teeth nipping at your skin, and you gasped, your body arching into his touch. His hands cupped your breasts, his thumbs brushing over your nipples, and you moaned, your body aching with need.

Joel's mouth captured one of your nipples, his tongue swirling around the sensitive peak, and you cried out, your hands fisting in his hair. He sucked and nibbled, his other hand teasing and tormenting your other breast, and you writhed beneath him, your body on fire.

His hand trailed down your stomach, his fingers brushing against your most intimate place, and you spread your legs, inviting him in. He slipped a finger inside you, his thumb circling your clit, and you moaned, your body clenching around him.

"Joel," you gasped, your voice breathless and needy. "Please."

He looked up at you, his eyes dark with desire, and slowly, deliberately, he slid another finger inside you, stretching you, preparing you. You moaned, your body trembling with anticipation.

"Is this what you want?" he asked, his voice low and rough.

You nodded, your body arching into his touch. "Yes," you gasped. "Please, Joel. I need you."

He withdrew his fingers, and you whimpered at the loss, but then he was positioning himself between your legs, the head of his cock pressing against your entrance. You wrapped your legs around his waist, urging him on, and he slid into you, inch by inch, filling you completely.

You gasped, your body stretching to accommodate him, and he stilled for a moment, his eyes locked on yours. "Are you okay?" he asked, his voice strained with effort.

You nodded, a slow smile spreading across your face. "More than okay," you whispered. "Don't stop."

And he didn't. He began to move, his hips thrusting in a rhythm that matched the pounding of your heart. You met his every movement, your body responding to his in a dance as old as time itself.

His hands gripped your hips, holding you in place as he drove into you, harder and faster, and you cried out, your body trembling with the force of your release. Joel followed soon after, his body shuddering against yours, his breath ragged and his heart pounding.

He collapsed on top of you, his weight a welcome pressure, and you wrapped your arms around him, holding him close. As your breathing returned to normal, Joel rolled off you, pulling you into his arms, your bodies still entwined.

You rested your head on his chest, listening to the steady beat of his heart, feeling content and fulfilled. "Stay with me," you murmured, your voice soft and sleepy.

Joel pressed a kiss to the top of your head, his arms tightening around you. "Always," he promised, his voice low and sure.

—

The next morning, you woke to the soft light of dawn filtering through your window. Joel was still beside you, his arm wrapped protectively around your waist. You turned to look at him, a soft smile playing on your lips as you traced the lines of his face, memorizing every detail.

He stirred, his eyes fluttering open, and a slow, sleepy smile spread across his face as he looked at you. "Good morning," he murmured, his voice rough with sleep.

"Good morning," you replied, leaning in to press a soft kiss to his lips. "Did you sleep well?"

He nodded, his arm tightening around you. "Better than I have in a long time. You?"

You snuggled closer, resting your head on his chest. "Perfectly. I feel... different. Like something has changed."

Joel was silent for a moment, his fingers gently stroking your back. "It has," he said finally, his voice low and serious. "Last night... it wasn't just about the physical. It was about us, about what we feel for each other. I've never felt this way about anyone, and I don't think I ever will again."

You looked up at him, your eyes shining with unshed tears. "I feel the same way," you whispered. "I never thought I could love someone this deeply, this completely. You've shown me a part of myself I never knew existed."

Joel cupped your face in his hands, his thumbs brushing away the tears that had escaped. "I love you," he said, his voice filled with emotion. "More than words can express. And I promise you, I will always be here for you, no matter what."

You leaned into his touch, your heart swelling with love and happiness. "I love you too, Joel. But… what about my father?"

He pulled you closer, his lips capturing yours in a passionate kiss, and you melted into him, your bodies pressing together, skin to skin. “Don’t worry about that right now,” he said. You could feel his desire growing, hard and insistent against your thigh, and you shifted, straddling him, feeling him slide into you with a groan of pleasure.

You began to move, your hips rolling in a slow, sensual rhythm, and Joel's hands gripped your waist, guiding you, urging you on. You leaned back, your hands braced on his thighs, and he sat up, his mouth capturing one of your nipples, his tongue swirling around the sensitive peak.

You moaned, your body arching into his touch, and he sucked and nibbled, his other hand teasing and tormenting your other breast. You could feel your orgasm building, your body tensing, and Joel must have sensed it, because he reached between you, his fingers finding your clit, circling and teasing.

"Come for me," he murmured, his voice low and commanding. "Let me feel you."

And you did. With a cry, your body shattered, waves of pleasure crashing over you, and Joel followed soon after, his body shuddering, his breath ragged.

------

Within the secluded world of your big noise-canceling headphones, you scan through silence on the CB radio, pausing for a few seconds on each channel before moving on to the next. 

Channel 11: Nothing. 

Channel 12: Zilch. 

Channel 13: Nada. 

When you turn the dial to channel 14, though, you pick up chatter and start transcribing. 

Channel 14 7/17/22 19:56

—got a bundle of carrots today. Budaydas, onions, too. Want me to come by tomorrow and make some stew? Over. 

Got enough for the kids? Over. 

And leftovers. Over. 

I’ll be at Margie’s around supper time. Over and out. 

The air goes silent.

After a minute goes by with no follow up transmissions, you glance at the clock. 7:58. Almost time for check-in. 

You tune the radio to channel 32 and review your transcription. 

Many people speak in code, encrypting their messages in seemingly benign conversations. To the untrained ear, they’re normal exchanges, people making small talk about jobs and rations and kids. Goodnight calls and check-ins that use predictable inquiries to convey messages. 

—got a bundle of carrots today. Budaydas, onions, too. Want me to come by tomorrow and make some stew?

Most of it you can translate from memory. The drug traffickers that use channel 14 have frequented the same lingo for years. Likely because of the high turnover rate of personnel. There’s less confusion that way. Confusion in communication raises more alarm bells for eavesdroppers than using the same code words across the board. 

You flip through your cipher for channel 14, searching for budaydas, but find nothing. Scrunching your nose up, you say the word out loud, “Budaydas. Buh-day-das.” 

Carrots, onions, budaydas in a stew. 

“Oh,” you nod in understanding, then jot down your translation, muttering under your breath, “Fucking Boston accents.” 

(Someone) picked up tranquilizers, benzos (budaydas = potatoes), and opioids. The caller wants to meet up and trade as previously agreed. 

The rest of it is easy enough to interpret without the use of a cipher. You probably don’t need to write down the translation, but do it in case your mom or Joel need to reference the notes at a later date. 

There’s enough to distribute product across their network of dealers in Boston QZ, plus more to stockpile. They’ll meet at their hub in Area 1, Margaret St, at midnight. 

You exhale through slack lips, glancing at the clock as it ticks over to 8:00, then pick up the microphone and hold down the speak button. 

“Radio check.” 

A few seconds go by before you hear a familiar gruff voice crackle over the radio waves into your ears, “Loud and clear. Over.”

Your nostrils flare when you hear him. Joel Miller. The bane of your existence. Your de facto stepfather, only because you don’t really remember life without him by your mom’s side. 

This isn’t to say he’s a father figure to you by any means. The two of you never shared the kind of heartwarming paternal bonding moments you read about in books. That would require warmth and vulnerability, which he distinctly lacks. 

Once, when you were maybe 11 or 12, you made the mistake of calling him Dad. The way he looked at you made you feel like dirt. Fire burning behind his dark eyes, he corrected you with one stern syllable that taught you your place: “Joel.” 

You sit up straighter and take a moment to gather yourself before responding. 

“Did you get your message from Uncle Paul? Over.”

“I did. Over.” 

“How’s the weather in Kansas City? Over.” 

“Cloudy. Over.” 

Fuck. 

You swallow around nothing, then clear your throat and ask, “And Grandma, how’s she? Over.”

“Fine, just busy is all.”

You exhale a sigh of relief that melts the tension between your shoulders. Joel continues. 

“Anything new with you? Over.” 

Tapping your fingers on your notes, you answer, “Rumor has it the market is gonna be busy tomorrow. Harvesting time, I guess. Other than that, same old same old. What about you? Staying out of trouble? Over.”

It feels strange, having a casual conversation with him like this. Even if it’s just a data exchange dressed up as a casual conversation. 

There’s a long pause, then he says, “Fine, yeah. Well. See you soon. Over ‘n’ out.” 

Stiff as a board. Cold as ice. Joel Miller, everyone. Round of applause. 

You snort, rolling your eyes as you unplug the headphones and toss them on the table. It takes a moment for you to re-acclimate to your surroundings. 

The dingy two-bedroom apartment is quiet and still. Outside, the setting sun casts the world in a dark golden haze. A FEDRA patrol vehicle roars down the street, broadcasting the curfew alert from a loudspeaker. Faint shouting from a few units down momentarily piques your curiosity before you decide it’s none of your business. 

You stand from the chair and reach your hands above your head, lungs expanding in a powerful yawn, then take a lap around the apartment to stretch your legs. 

Something catches your eye when you walk by the entry. A note slipped under the doorframe. On the outer fold, your name is written in a familiar scrawl. 

Your heart skips a beat. 

You pick it up and unfold the paper, revealing an invitation. 

I miss you. Come over when you’re done surfing the airwaves. XO, Bert. 

Warmth trickles down between your thighs. A smile spreads across your face. You glance up at the door, then to the CB radio and scanner on the desk. 

Indecision churns in your belly. 

You are explicitly forbidden from leaving the apartment while your mom and Joel are out on runs. A safety precaution you’ve protested dozens of times to no avail. They expect you to stay put and warn them if you notice any signs of potential danger. In return, you receive a cut of the profit and a roof over your head. Security, in short. Which is more than most could say. 

That being said… You break this rule from time to time, when the circumstances allow. 

Like when the Fireflies and FEDRA have been quiet for weeks and there are no smoke signals in sight. Like when you’re five nights into a seven day seclusion and think you might die of boredom if you don’t get the fuck out of here. Like when your boyfriend slips a note under the door and asks you to come over. 

You look down at the paper in your hands, re-reading the words I miss you. 

Fuck it, what’s the worst that could happen? 

—

Just before midnight, you wander down the hallway to your unit, jelly knees wobbling with each step. As you absentmindedly trace your tingling lips, still puffy from kissing, you unlock the door and push it open, then frown. 

The lights are on. 

They were off when you left, you’re sure of it. When you step further into the apartment, your foot catches on something. A backpack. This faint buzzing starts behind your ears as you blink at it, wishing it would go away.

Motherfu—

“Where the fuck have you been?” 

Your stomach plummets to the floor when you hear his voice. A thick knot of panic tightens around your windpipe as you look up to find Joel standing just a few paces away in the living room. 

He stares you down, dark eyes glowing with fury, and questions you again, “Where were you?” 

“N-nowhere.” 

The blatant lie sits sour on your tongue. His lips purse, so you fumble out another, “I went for a walk.” 

“A walk,” he repeats, tone disbelieving, “You went on a walk after curfew wearing that?” 

You look down at your clothing. A short skirt and tank top. Your throat bobs in a guilty gulp, then you meet his eyes again and nod. 

“And when did you leave on this ‘walk?’”

Your mind whirs as you try to come up with an answer. It feels like a trap. You try to calculate an answer that will provide minimal blowback. 

“I don’t know, maybe twenty minutes ago?” 

“Try again.” 

The electricity humming through you takes on a red, frustrated edge, and you snip, “I don’t fucking know, dude. It was a while ago, I wasn’t paying attention. Where’s my mom?” 

“Your mom sent me here to make sure you were alive,” he says pointedly, taking slow, deliberate steps towards you, “We’ve been tryin’a reach you for three hours. I got here an hour ago. That’s a helluva lot longer than twenty minutes, ain’t it?” 

Shrinking into yourself, you search his face. Jaw set, eyes boring into yours. Waves of anger roll off him as he approaches, and you remember all those rumors you heard about him on the radio. The fear you heard in grown men’s voices when they recounted run-ins with that bitch and her guard dog. 

You remember what Bert said about him: He’s fucking ruthless.

“You aren’t supposed to leave the apartment when we’re outside the QZ.” 

“I know.” 

“Then why did you?” 

Your heart thuds against your ribcage. 

Joel has never directed this kind of outright anger towards you. Sternness, sure. Contempt, maybe. But this is different. You’re in fucking trouble. 

There has to be a way out of this conversation.

You drop your gaze to the floor and ask, “Is my mom ok? Did something happen to her?”

“Don’t change the subject.” 

Righteous indignation straightens your spine and wills you to meet his eyes again, “I’m not saying shit until you tell me what happened to her.” 

“She sprained her ankle, but she’s fine. She’s safe,” he tells you, then takes another step forward, “Why did you leave?” 

You respond by rolling your eyes. 

“Answer the question.” 

With an irritated sigh, you search his face, then tell him, “You don’t know what it’s like to be here. Isolated for days or weeks at a time. I fucking hate it. It’s so lonely and boring, I feel like I’m losing my mind—”

“Oh, cry me a goddamn river.” 

You scowl at him, staring him down, “Fuck you.” 

“Watch your fucking mouth, you disrespectful little shit.” 

Red flashes through your field of vision, hot and angry and defiant. You gather the moisture in your mouth on your tongue and spit at him. It splats on his cheek. 

His face twists up with fury for one second before he charges, closing the distance between you. The impact pushes your back to the door with a thud. 

He grabs your jaw, fingers digging hard into the soft flesh of your cheeks. His eyes are hot coals, burning into you. The muscles in his jaw twitch, nostrils flaring, breath shaky. 

When he speaks, it’s through gritted teeth, “You don’t know what it’s like out there.” 

“No, because you won’t let me fucking leave—”

“You should be fucking grateful, you know that? Being here is a fucking cake walk. Your mom ‘n’ I have seen things, done things—horrible things you couldn’t even imagine,” he husks, searching your face, grip tightening so hard it makes you whine. “We keep you safe, and all we ask is that you stay put and keep a lookout for us when we’re gone.” 

Even if you wanted to respond, you can’t. The vice grip he has on your face renders your mouth immobile. 

All you can do is stare back at him, studying his furrowed brow and clenched jaw. Full lips pinched thin as he glowers at you. 

You notice how close his broad body is to yours. The heat radiating off his tightly-wound muscles onto your skin. His ragged breath scatters across your face and wafts into your open mouth. You taste the bootleg whiskey on his breath and your pulse jumps. 

Warmth drips down your spine and pools at the center of you, a horrifying sensation that makes you squirm.

“Were you with your little boyfriend? Hmm?” he asks, eyes darting around your face, trailing down to your body for a moment before returning, “That boy downstairs? Figure you musta been, on account of how you’re dressed.” 

You don’t say anything. You can’t. But it doesn’t matter, because it’s not really a question. 

“Abandoning your post to go out and get fucked, is that it?” 

A whimper slips from your throat as heat swells beneath your skin. 

He wouldn’t be treating you like this if your mom was here. He wouldn’t say these things or be this close to you. Knowing this, you understand that whatever is happening right now is wrong. 

You also understand that you like it. 

You hate that you like it, and hate him for making you like it, but you like it all the same. 

Letting go of your face, he demands, “Answer me.” 

“Fuck you.” 

Before you even realize what’s happening, you feel a sharp, hot sting on your cheek and yelp.

He fucking slapped you. 

“Wrong answer.” 

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” you retort, bringing your hand to the welt forming on your cheek, “I’m gonna tell her.” 

“Yeah? You gonna tell her I found you sneaking in at midnight, too? That you compromised our safety to go out ‘n’ get dicked down?” 

You harden your gaze on him, lips pressing together with disdain. 

“She wouldn’t like that, would she?” he asks, the smallest smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth, “She’d probably kick you out on your ass.” 

“She wouldn’t. You guys need me.” 

“And you need us,” he counters, searching your face, “So what do we do to make sure this doesn’t happen again? Hmm?” 

A dozen inappropriate images flash through your head, each more lurid than the last. An electric, tingling feeling shoots out from the base of your spine and works through your extremities. 

You swallow hard and shake your head, “I won’t do it again.” 

“If I don’t punish you, you will. You’re fucking disrespectful. Selfish. You need discipline.” 

Again, a flash of frustration taints the world red. Crossing your arms over your chest, you scoff, “Just because you’re fucking my mom doesn’t mean you’re my dad. I am an adult and you are not the boss of me.” 

He sighs and takes a step back, planting his hands on his hips. His gaze drifts around the empty apartment, jaw gnashing back and forth for a moment before he returns to twist the deadbolt closed and grab your arm. 

“What the f—” you swat at him and dig your heels into the floor, but it does nothing as he drags you by his steel grip, pulling you stumbling along behind him into the living room. 

He sits on the couch and forces you to lay over his bent knees, one big hand securing your wrists behind your back while the other flattens against the swell of your ass cheek. As soon his touch leaves, it returns, a sharp snap tingling across your skin. 

Shocked doesn’t even begin to describe the chaos throbbing through you. 

“You’re right, you’re an adult. And I’m not your dad,” he asserts, lifting his hand. Your whole body clenches in anticipation. “But as long as you live here, I am the fucking boss of you,” he slaps your ass again, “Do you understand me?” 

It surprises you when you hear yourself sob, “I’m sorry—”

He does it again and again, hissing, “Yeah, you’re fucking sorry now, aren’t you?” 

Each firm slap he lays down is firm, unflinching. Ruthless. 

It overwhelms your senses and becomes the only thing you feel. The universe world narrows down to just his palm on your skin. The reliable and exquisite pain ringing through you. Smack. Smack. Smack. 

Every time he draws his hand back, you don’t think you can handle it again. But you do. 

Soon, you start to crave the impact. His skin on your skin. You can’t feel the start or end of it. It’s just him and you. Pain and pleasure. Sobs and moans, all blended together. 

Far away, you hear him chide you for not wearing underwear beneath your skirt. Then he asks, “Are you fucking enjoying this?” 

Too ashamed to admit it, all you do is whimper in response.

Smack. 

He sucks in breath through his teeth, then grabs the meat of your ass and rumbles, “You do, don’t you?” 

When his grasp on your wrists releases, you pull your elbows beneath you and look over your shoulder at him, watching as he spreads your cheeks apart and stares down between your legs. You’re probably shiny and wet with the evidence of your desire. 

His lips form an ‘o’ when he kneads you back together and spreads you apart again. The motion teases all your hungry nerves and makes you moan. It feels so fucking good. 

You realize then that he’s grown stiff against your belly, hard cock leaving no mistake. 

“You fucking like it, too, don’t you?” you ask him, your voice breathy and amused, “I can feel how turned on you are.” 

Slipping a hand between your bodies, you press against his strained zipper. His cock jumps at the contact, and he groans, dragging his fingers through your slick lips. 

“Oh my god,” you gasp, eyes fluttering closed as you nod in approval. He works your clit in steady, firm circles while you smooth your hand along the big bulge in his pants, letting out a string of whines at the bubbling pleasure inside you. 

You lose yourselves here, both of you squirming and panting and petting the other. So wrapped up with how fucking good it feels that you forget to feel ashamed. 

When he smacks your ass now, you croak through clenched teeth, “Fuck yes.”

He likes that you like it. You can tell by the way he groans and throbs beneath you. This knowledge inspires your pulse to pound and your muscles to tense. 

“Joel,“ you whimper, opening your eyes to meet his heavy-lidded gaze, “I’m gonna fucking come, don’t stop—”

“Did I give you permission to do that?” he asks, slowing his touch to a torturous rhythm, “Did I say you could come?” 

You shake your head and whine, “Please, Joel, please—”

“Are you sorry for what you did?” 

“I’m sorry—”

“Are you gonna do it again?”

“No no no, I won’t, I promise, I’ll be a good girl—”

He groans, tossing his head back as you frantically rub at the bulge in his pants. Your palm chafes against the stiff denim, but you don’t stop. You would do this for eternity if it meant he’d let you find your release. 

“Oh yeah, you’ll be a good fucking girl for me?” he asks, touching you just soft and slow enough to twist your nerves ragged, but keep your orgasm out of reach. 

“I will, I promise. Please, Joel,” you whisper, holding his gaze as your face gets all hot, “Please make me come, please please—”

“Show me you mean it.” 

He doesn’t need to explain what he means. While he takes off his jeans, you scramble off his lap and kneel between his spread knees. His eyes stay glued to yours as you slide your hands up his thighs. 

Batting your lashes at him, you wrap your lips around his swollen cock. He fills your mouth. He feels smooth but hard against your tongue. He tastes salty and heady and when you inhale the musk of him, you moan around his girth. 

Nodding, he anchors his grip behind your head and bucks his hips, forcing his dick down your throat. When you gag, he doesn’t let up, but thrusts into the sensation, grunting, “Fuck. Yes,” before letting you pull off, gasping for air.

You wrap your hands around him, all shiny and slick with drool, and pump his length for a moment while you catch your breath, then take him in your mouth again. 

This time, you sit up taller. You relish the stretch of your lips as you bob up and down. Savor the tug of his fingers curled tight in your hair. Memorize the sound of his huffs and grunts as he fucks your face. The wet squelching gurgle of his cock squeezing down your windpipe. 

“Look at me,” he orders, so you do. 

He’s all blurred from your watering eyes, but you can make out the dark irises and stay locked onto them while relaxing the muscles of your throat to take him easier. When you make an enthusiastic humming noise, he groans. It’s wanton and lusty and lights a fire in your belly. 

Joel has never treated you this hard or soft. His regard for you has always been callous. Closed-off. Indifferent. With your assistance on the radio, he treated you like a tool for survival. Before that, or even in-between smuggling runs, he treated you like some kind of a household pet he had little regard for. Your mom’s responsibility, never his. 

For years and years, you ached for more. 

When you were younger, you used to sit up nights and wonder if he’d ever consider you his daughter. He wouldn’t, though. He won’t. 

But this is something. 

Distinctly, you want to please him. Be the best he ever had. You want to sink your claws into his brain and leave your mark for years to come. You want him to look at you after this and feel a flicker of desire and self-loathing. You want him to think of you when he fucks your mom. You want him to hate how you made him feel. 

When you pull off him and start to work his soaked length with your hands, you pant, “Does that feel good? Am I doing a good job sucking your cock?” 

“It’s good,” he nods, lets out a groan that pinches his eyes shut, then meets your gaze again, “So fucking good, Jesus Christ. Is this what you were out doing tonight? Sucking cock?” 

“Not tonight.” 

“But he fucked you, didn’t he? That boy?” 

You nod, stroking him slower. His eyelids flutter. 

“Did he fuck your pussy or your ass?” 

The question sends a jolt through your middle. You recall the sex you had with Bert. Barely an hour has gone by since he pulled out of your cunt to shoot his load on the mattress, but it feels like a lifetime ago. 

“My pussy,” you answer, then gather a thick, hot wad of saliva on your tongue and spit on his cock. You spread it with a slow churning motion, watching Joel’s face twist up with pleasure. 

“Were you bein’ smart about it at least?” he asks, studying you, “We don’t need you getting knocked up.” 

“He pulled out,” you shrug. 

He grunts in acknowledgment, then sits up and pulls on your arm to join him on the couch, “C’mere.” 

You follow his guidance, lying back on the cushions as he strips off his shirt. 

The only times you’ve seen him shirtless were accidental and slightly embarrassing for both of you. But now, you notice how his smooth chest glows in the dim light. Now, when you drink in the sight of his big arms and broad shoulders, heat bubbles up your spine.

While you pull your tank top off over your head, he tugs your skirt down your thighs, asking, “You ever taken it up the ass?” 

You shake your head. 

His eyebrows jump a little like he’s surprised. A sadistic kind of smirk plays across his lips as he pushes your knees up to your chest, then spreads you apart, the head of him nudging at your backdoor. 

He doesn’t ask for permission. He doesn’t ask if you want it this way, or if you want him to be the first. He doesn’t even warn you about the initial shock and pain you experience when he rocks his hips forward and breaches the tight hole. 

You yelp and try to lurch away from the sharp pain, but he grabs you and holds you there. 

Sitting up on your elbows, you cry, “That fucking hurts, Joel.”

“Wouldn’t be much of a punishment if it didn’t hurt a little, would it?” he murmurs, disinterested, watching your asshole stretch to accommodate the head of his cock. 

The sensation is overwhelming. Like being stabbed or split open. At first, you hate it. You sputter and gasp and shake your head as he pushes himself in further and further. 

Then he pauses the invasion, releasing his steel grip on you to tilt your chin up and meet his gaze, “Just relax.”

His eyes burn into yours, making your pulse jump. You bear witness to his heaving chest and parted lips and feel him twitch inside you. Sparks sizzle across your body, but you still scowl at him. 

“It hurts, I don’t like it.“ 

“It’ll get better, you just gotta relax,” he coaches.

“Why can’t we just have normal sex?”

He grunts, thinks about it for a moment, then tells you, “First off, this is not normal sex,” he points between your chest and his, “This will not be a normal thing, you understand?” 

It stings a little, if you’re being honest. But you nod, “I understand.” 

Nodding, he licks his lips. He throbs inside you, hips jerking a little in reaction. This time, the friction feels good enough to make you whimper. 

“Second, we don’t need another mouth to feed around here,” he says, searching your face, “We’re stretched thin enough as is. You know what I mean?”

“But if you—”

“Pulling out can still stick. This way’s tried and true, trust me.” 

“Trust you,” you scoff under your breath and roll your eyes. 

“What’s that?” 

You meet his hardened gaze, feeling emboldened enough to ask, “Do you fuck my mom in the ass?” 

“That’s none of your business,” he warns. 

“So, what, you can interrogate me about my sex life, but I can’t do the same?” 

“That’s right,” he barks, “Know why?” 

In response, you glare at him. 

He takes this moment of bitter silence to drag his knuckles up your slick, swollen lips. The light touch branches out beneath your skin and makes your heart pound. You gasp a little, but try to hide it. He clocks it immediately. 

“There we go,” he murmurs under his breath, almost as an aside, smoothing the pad of his thumb in soft circles on your clit. Pleasure churns beneath the touch, hot and hungry for more. When you whimper, Joel’s eyes go wild for a second, then he says, “I am the fucking boss of you, understand?” 

You swallow a moan as he arches forward and starts to roll his hips. It feels better now. Good. Fucking amazing, almost. Electric and gooey. He fills you so completely with each thrust, you wonder how you can even breathe. 

“So if I tell you to be home, that’s where you’ll be. If I ask you where you’ve been, who you were with, what you were doing—you tell me the truth. Understand?” 

Nodding, you gasp, “I understand.” 

“You don’t get to ask me about your mom. You don’t tell your mom. You don’t sneak out to go get fucked by some boy who doesn’t even know what to do with you—”

“Holy shit, Joel I’m gonna—” you gasp at the pressure building at the base of your spine, spreading thick and hot and delicious across your body. 

“And you don’t come without my fucking permission. Understand?” 

“I understand I understand,” you cry, literal tears burning behind your eyes at the ache of trying to keep the ecstasy at bay, “Please can I come, please please please—”

“Are you sorry?” 

“I’m sorry, I’ll never do it again—”

“That’s right, you’ll never fucking do it again. Why’s that?”

“You’re the boss,” you beg, your voice so raw and pleading it sounds foreign. He pounds into you now, a wet slap that echoes off the apartment walls. It takes all your concentration to keep your pleasure contained, to not spill over the edges, but you hear yourself babble somewhere far away. 

“You’re the fucking boss. I’m sorry I’m sorry I won’t disobey you again I’ll be a good girl I’ll do anything just please give me permission to come daddy please please please—”

When he moans, loud and depraved, it just about breaks you, but you manage to keep your resolve long enough for him to pant, “Go ahead, let it go.” 

With a choked sob, you untether your pleasure and allow it to expand, growing hot and wide and unlike anything you’ve ever felt. Every muscle in your body tenses up as the sensation swallows you whole, then spits you back up, sending wave after wave across your body.

“That’s it, that’s a good girl,” he grunts, taking his hand from your clit to hold your knees down and fuck your ass hard and fast and ruthless.

It surprises you when heat starts stretching out from the middle of you again. Your heart starts to race as the feeling grows. 

“Ffffuuuuck,” you whimper, “That feels so fucking good—”

“I told you, didn’t I?” 

“You did you did holy shit,” you meet his eyes and nod frantically, “I love it I love it—please can you come in my ass?” 

“Is that what you want? Want me to come in your tight little asshole?” 

A feral noise escapes you, and you sob, “Yes—”

“Do you wanna come too?”

“Yes—oh my god, yes, please please please daddy—”

“Come with me, baby.”

You let the feeling overtake you again, gasping out, “thank you thank you thank you,” as it takes you strong and fast. Pleasure pulses through your body, causing you to convulse and strain against Joel’s grip spreading you open. He releases a moan from his belly and gives you a hard, deep thrust that he holds for a shuddering moment. After emptying himself inside you, he pulls out, falling back to his seat on the couch. 

Chest heaving, you prop yourself up on your elbows and study him. He pinches his eyes shut and catches his breath before meeting your gaze again. 

His expression goes soft long enough for something dangerous to flicker between you. 

Then he turns away and starts getting dressed. 

“Get yourself together, I’m gonna go get your mom.” 

As you sit up, you fold your legs into your body and watch him button his shirt. 

“Joel—”

He looks at you, searching your face expectantly, but your brain goes static and you’re not even sure what you were going to say. 

“This stays between us, understand?” 

His tone is firm but gentle. You swallow hard and nod, “I understand.” 

Nodding, he glances down at your lips, then back to your eyes. He rises to his feet to leave, but before he does, he leans down to press a kiss into your forehead. 

“Good girl.” 

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

His turn.

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

Suddenly, they’re on you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Old and stinky?”

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

Your table erupts in laughter.

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

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

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

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

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

“Shit,” says the wall.

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

“You alright?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Too damn bad.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It rings ten times and goes to voicemail.

You try again.

Voicemail.

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

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

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

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

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

“They stayed.”

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

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

“Where do you live?” he asks.

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

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

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

“I ain’t leaving you out here alone.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What message?”

“You wanted me to follow you out.”

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

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

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

“Let me go!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You know that guy?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Are you kidnapping me?!”

His frustrated sigh fills the cab.

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

“I can call another Uber.”

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

“Why do you care?”

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

Civilians? Swore an oath?

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

“Come with me.”

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

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

“Chief,” one of them says. Chief?

“We need you. We got a call on—”

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

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

“Come on.”

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

Miller shuts that down real fast:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You’re back,” you mumble.

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

“Yeah. Didn’t die.”

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

He clicks his tongue, exasperated.

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

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

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

“No. He doesn’t want me.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

One of them steps forward. “Chief—”

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

Silence.

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

“Yes, sir.”

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

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

“You’re the fire chief.”

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

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

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

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

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

“How old are you?”

“You gonna judge me?”

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

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

“I’m not gonna kiss you either way.”

“See? That’s discrimination.”

“You still drunk?”

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

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

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

The light turns green. He drives.

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

He shakes his head. No to all.

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

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

“No. Not with you.”

“Am I ugly?”

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

A Cheshire cat smile spreads across your lips.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Fishing for an ego boost?”

“Forget I asked.”

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

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

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

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

“So I went out with this guy.”

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

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

“I can already imagine why.”

“Mhm.”

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

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

“Haven’t had any bad experiences yet.”

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

“Have you always been a battalion chief?”

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

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

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

“Tommy from the bar?!”

“Tommy from the bar,” he confirms.

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

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

“Mhm.”

“Joel Miller.”

“Yes.”

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

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

“Family’s family,” he replies simply.

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

You unbuckle your seatbelt as you say,

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

You open the door to get out. Joel says,

“Close that door.”

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

The console light dims.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Because you wanna be the wild friend?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your breath starts coming just a little heavier.

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

“Not even your friends.”

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

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

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

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

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

He squints, confused, until it clicks.

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

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

You say what he needs to hear:

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

“Good. That stays between me and God.”

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

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

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

God. That kiss.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He swallows hard.

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

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

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

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

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

“Not here,” says again.

God. You could cry.

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

“Go on. Get inside.”

But before you do, you raise a finger.

“Can I suggest something?”

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

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

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

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

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

“You want me to do a four?”

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

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

“Enough to not regret this in the morning?”

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

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

One raised brow. A wordless well?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A smile curls his lips.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Joel’s no exception.

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

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

“I probably smell like smoke,” he murmurs.

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

Another smile. He’s on a roll.

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

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

“Again,” you whisper.

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

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

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

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

“You need to fuck me. Now.”

“Urgent?”

“Mhm. So I can come again.”

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

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

Thank you, God. Uncut.

You look up at him.

“Come here.”

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

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

“I don’t mind.”

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

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

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

“Quiet,” he says, then thrusts again.

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

Joel goes again, once, twice, three times.

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

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

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

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

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

“Give me a minute.”

“Okay. Pull out.”

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

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

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

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

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

“Suck a soft dick?”

“Why not? I wouldn’t mind.”

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

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

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

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

“Yeah? You learn anything?”

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

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

Joel’s lips tug into a half-smile.

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

“You’d never let me win.”

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

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

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

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

“No comment.”

“Austin’s most wanted bachelor.”

“The divorcé,” he corrects.

Oh? You pull your mouth away from his neck.

“How long?”

“Five years.”

“Good. Tomb’s been sealed.”

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

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

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

Ah. Yes. But actually…

“Can I try something else?” you ask.

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

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

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

“Been neglecting this pussy, huh?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your whole body shakes.

“Joel—”

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

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

Almost.

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

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

“No. Just… stay off my clit.”

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

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

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

Goddamn.

Thanks for your service, Chief.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Any pie here sweeter than you?”

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

Still, you smile back.

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

“Kidding.”

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

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

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

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

The Sweetest Bite.

That barely-there smile curves his lips.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Right,” he says to both.

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

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

“I’m not going’ to your house.”

“Why not?”

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

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

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

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