CINNAMON

Summer made everything look kinder than it was at your home.

The grass brushed warm against your bare legs as you ran through the backyard, sunlight pouring thick and golden over everything it touched—the porch steps, the wildflowers crowding the fence, the white railings with their chipped paint, your mother sitting in the shade as if she had been placed there by the day itself. The air smelled of clover and lavender and the sweetness of earth left baking under the afternoon sun, and somewhere close by bees hummed lazily among the flowers while the screen door behind the kitchen knocked once against its frame and settled again.

You kept running for no better reason than because you could. Because the grass was soft. Because the light was pretty. Because your mother was watching and smiling, and when she smiled at you the whole world seemed to turn gentler.

“Don’t go too close to the fence, baby,” your mother called.

Her voice drifted across the yard like a ribbon, and you turned immediately because you always did when she spoke.

She was sitting on the porch steps in a white sundress trimmed with lace, one hand resting over her knee, the other shielding her eyes from the sun. Her dark hair fell in a long, shining curtain over one shoulder, and even from where you stood you could see the strange, beautiful color of her eyes when the light caught them—storm blue one second, jade green the next, as though the sky and the earth themselves had fought a long war over her and finally agreed to a truce. Fragments of every element seemed to live in her irises, crowning her delicate face with something almost unreal.

“I’m not!” you called back, though you were, a little.

She smiled. “I know.”

There was a softness to her today. A tiredness too, though you did not know how to name that yet. You only knew that some days your mother moved like music and some days she moved like something hurt. Today was somewhere in between.

You wandered farther through the grass, crouching here and there to inspect the tiny, miraculous things that seemed so important—a bent daisy near the fence, a beetle crawling over a stone, a line of ants disappearing beneath the porch. Everything felt alive beneath the careful magnifying glass of your curiosity.

Then something lilac drifted through the air in front of you.

You stopped so quickly you nearly stumbled.

For a second, you thought it was a flower petal blown loose on the breeze. Then it moved again, delicate and wandering, and your whole face lit with wonder.

“Mama,” you gasped. “Mama, look!”

Your mother straightened slightly where she sat. “What is it, sweetheart?”

You pointed, too enchanted to lower your hand. “A butterfly.”

She followed your finger, and the moment she found it, her smile changed into something softer, deeper, touched with a kind of quiet fondness that made your chest feel warm. “Oh,” she murmured. “Yes. I see her.”

Her.

That felt right inside your small heart.

The butterfly floated through the yard as though she belonged to no one and nowhere, lilac wings opening and closing in the sunlight, pale violet with silver threaded through the edges whenever she caught the light just so. She moved from flower to flower in no hurry at all, and you followed at once, laughing softly every time she rose just beyond your reach and drifted down again as though she had only moved to make sure you were still paying attention.

“Can I hold her?” you asked, crouching in the grass while the butterfly settled on a flower no taller than your shin.

Your mother shook her head, smiling. “No, baby. Gentle things don’t like to be held too tight.”

You considered that with complete seriousness, your brows drawing together for a second before you nodded. “But I wouldn’t crush her. I’d be careful with her.”

“I know you would,” she said softly. “But it’s better not to try, sweetheart. You could hurt her wings, and then the poor thing wouldn’t be able to lift herself into the air again.”

You watched, chin nearly resting on your knees, too absorbed to notice the heat anymore. Everything narrowed to the small, lovely miracle in front of you. The butterfly moved her wings slowly, almost lazily, and the whole world seemed to slow with her.

Then a shadow cut across the light.

A rough cry split the stillness overhead.

You jumped with a gasp, your heart lurching so hard it hurt.

The butterfly lifted into the air at once.

Something dark swept down toward the oak tree near the edge of the yard, wings broad and black and startling against the late afternoon sun, before settling on one of the lower branches with a rustle sharp enough to make your stomach drop.

“Mama!”

You ran before you had even finished screaming for her, tearing through the grass as fast as your legs would go, fear closing tight around your throat. By the time you reached the porch, you were crying from the shock of it, scrambling into your mother’s lap with clumsy little hands and wet cheeks and a heartbeat that would not settle.

“There you are,” she murmured, gathering you close without hesitation. One arm circled your back while the other smoothed over your hair, over and over, until some of the panic in you loosened enough to breathe around. “What happened?”

“There’s a bird,” you mumbled into the hollow of her neck. “A very ugly one.”

You felt her laugh softly. “An ugly one?”

You nodded hard against her skin. “Very ugly.”

“Oh, sweetheart.” She pressed a kiss into your hair. “Look at me.”

Reluctantly, you lifted your head.

Her expression was gentle, touched with amusement, but not dismissive. She always did that—made room for your fear without making you feel foolish for it.

“That’s not an ugly bird,” she said softly.

“Yes, it is,” you insisted immediately, one hand clutching the lace at her shoulder. “It scared me.”

Her thumb brushed a tear from your cheek. “Scaring you doesn’t make something ugly.”

You blinked at her, unconvinced.

She turned you carefully in her lap so you were facing the yard again, your back against her chest, her chin resting light near your temple. “Look,” she said. “There.”

The bird still sat in the oak tree, dark and sleek against the branch, his feathers drinking in the sunlight until they seemed almost blue at the edges. Bigger than the little birds that came to the feeder. Sharper too. His head tilted with a strange, unsettling intelligence, as if he were watching not only the yard but understanding it.

“That’s not an ugly bird,” your mother murmured. “That’s a crow.”

You stared at him from the safety of her arms. “He’s scary.”

“A little,” she allowed.

The butterfly drifted back into view over the roses, and the instant the crow turned his head toward her, your whole body went tight.

“He sees her,” you whispered.

Your mother’s arm tightened around your middle. “I know.”

“He’s gonna eat her.”

This time her laugh came quieter, almost fond, though there was something thoughtful beneath it too. “No, baby.”

“Yes, he is,” you said, your voice breaking. “He’s bad. He’s gonna hurt her. Make him stop, mommy!”

“Hush now.” Her lips brushed your hairline. “Just watch.”

“I don’t want to.”

“Yes, you do.”

There was something so certain in the way she said it that you fell quiet, even with tears still damp on your cheeks.

So you watched.

The butterfly floated through the yard in wandering little arcs, lilac and silver and impossibly delicate. The crow followed her movement from the tree, shifting once along the branch, then again, always turning to keep her in sight. Not lunging. Not diving. Not striking. Just watching with an intensity that no longer looked like danger. 

“He’s waiting,” you whispered.

“Maybe.”

“He wants to catch her.”

“Or maybe,” your mother said, her voice dropping softer still, “he just can’t look away.”

You tipped your head back enough to look at her. “Why?”

Her gaze stayed on the yard. “Because sometimes a thing can be so lovely, so strange, so unlike anything else around it, that even something wild stops just to marvel at it.”

You looked back at the crow.

He had gone very still, his black shape sharp against the branch while the butterfly drifted above the flowers below him, careless and beautiful and bright enough to hold the eye whether you meant to stare or not.

“He likes her,” you said.

A little smile touched your mother’s mouth. “Maybe he does.”

You kept watching, fear beginning to unwind into something else. Curiosity. Wonder. Relief. The crow moved when she moved, but never toward her in any cruel way. He followed her with the same fascinated patience someone might follow sunlight on water.

“I thought crows were mean,” you admitted after a while.

“Most people do.”

“Why?”

Your mother was quiet for a moment, her fingers slowly combing through your hair. “Because they look like shadows,” she said at last. “Because they’re black and loud and too clever for their own good. Because they don’t sing the way people want birds to sing. They don’t come wrapped in pretty colors. They don’t flutter.” She smiled faintly. “People like pretty things they understand. Crows make them uneasy.”

You considered that. “But they’re not bad?”

“No.” Her voice softened. “Not just because they look severe.”

She shifted slightly on the step beneath you, and you settled more comfortably against her while she went on, her tone unhurried now, almost thoughtful, as though she were speaking as much to herself as to you.

“Crows are some of the cleverest creatures God ever made. They remember faces. Did you know that? If someone is kind to them, they remember. And if someone is cruel…” She paused, a faint shadow passing behind her eyes before she smiled again. “They remember that too.”

You looked at the crow with renewed awe. “Really?”

“Really.” Her fingers traced absent little paths through your hair. “They watch. They learn. They protect each other. If one of them is hurt, the others gather. They mourn their dead. They bring gifts sometimes—small shiny things, bits of ribbon, bottle caps, all sorts of treasures—just because something in them decided it mattered.”

Your mouth fell open. “Like people?”

A quiet laugh escaped her. “Sometimes better than people.”

You turned that over in your head.

The butterfly landed on a pale flower near the fence. The crow remained above her in the oak tree, motionless now, his whole dark body angled toward her like devotion disguised as stillness.

“Maybe he thinks she’s beautiful,” you whispered.

Your mother’s arms tightened almost imperceptibly around you. “Maybe he does.”

“And he’s not gonna eat her?”

“No, baby.”

“But… How do you know that?”

This time, when she answered, there was something wistful in her voice, something so tender it made the whole yard seem to lean in and listen.

“Because that’s not how he’s looking at her.”

You went still in her lap.

Children knew more about tone than adults ever gave them credit for. You did not understand everything, but you understood that this mattered. That the answer was bigger than the butterfly and the crow and the yard and the summer heat wrapped around the two of you.

“How is he looking at her?” you asked, almost with a conspiratorial tone.

Your mother smiled, though sadness had begun threading itself into the edges of it. “Like she’s the prettiest thing he’s ever seen.”

You looked back at the tree, and suddenly that was exactly what it looked like.

No hunger. No cruelty. Only absolute devotion disguised as wonder.

The butterfly moved again, and the crow tracked her without sound, as if the whole sky had narrowed to the lilac flicker of her wings.

A little laugh escaped you, watery with leftover tears. “I like him now.”

“I thought you might.”

You leaned back into her more fully then, content to simply watch them together, the butterfly wandering from bloom to bloom, the crow following from above with all the solemn intensity of something old and dark discovering beauty for the first time and not knowing what to do with the ache of it.

The wind stirred across the porch.

The strap of your mother’s sundress slipped slightly down her arm.

And that was when you saw the bruises.

They were soft colors at first. Bluish at the edges. Violet where the skin was paling. Bloom shaped beneath the white of her dress and the warm gold of the afternoon. Your eyes fixed on them immediately, the comparison arriving before the thought itself had fully formed.

“Mama?”

She hummed absentmindedly, still looking toward the yard.

You reached for her arm with one small finger, careful not to press. “Those are the same color.”

Her body went still.

“The same color as what, sweetheart?”

“The butterfly.”

Silence.

You traced the air above one bruise without touching it. “And this one too.”

For a long moment she didn’t speak. The whole yard seemed to hold its breath with her—the wind, the flowers, even the crow in the tree.

Then, quietly, “You notice everything.”

You looked up at her, your little face full of the unguarded concern children wear so openly it almost hurts to witness. “Did it hurt?”

Her gaze flickered toward the house, then back to you. “A little.”

Your mouth turned down. “Why Daddy did that?”

The butterfly still drifted through the flowers, and the crow still watched from his branch with patient attention. But in your mother something closed. Something drew tight and careful behind her face.

She gathered you a little more firmly in her lap. “Your father works very hard,” she said quietly. “He gets tired.”

You frowned. “Tired?”

She nodded. “And sometimes when people are tired, they… they don’t always know what they’re doing.”

The answer didn’t sit right, even in your small body. You looked from her bruises back to the crow, back to the butterfly, trying to make the shapes of things match the way she wanted them to.

“I don’t like it when he hurts you,” you whispered.

Her hand closed around your wrist. Not harshly. Just enough to stop you from pointing again. Enough for you to feel that the air had changed.

“Don’t say that.”

You blinked at her, startled.

“Baby,” she said, softer now, though no less firm. “Your father loves us.”

The words felt wrong inside you.

You looked back toward the tree where the crow still sat in the branches, black and solemn and so careful in the way he watched that even you could see the difference now.

“But the crow likes the butterfly,” you said slowly, “and he isn’t hurting her.”

Something flashed across your mother’s face—pain, maybe, or shame, or just exhaustion too old to hide quickly enough.

“It’s not that simple.”

“Why not?”

She drew in a breath that sounded thin in her chest. “Because grown up love can be hard.”

You frowned harder. “But if it hurts, then why is it love? You love me, and you never hurt me. Grandpa doesn’t either.”

Her eyes closed for just a second.

When they opened again, they looked too bright.

“Because sometimes,” she said, voice low and strange, “people hurt the things they love.”

The sentence slipped into you like something sharp and quiet.

You didn’t have the words for contradiction. Didn’t have language yet for how wrong something could feel even before you knew how to argue with it. But you had your own small logic, and your own small logic was already pushing back.

“No,” you said softly.

Your mother looked down at you.

You shook your head. “That’s not what the crow is doing. He loves the butterfly and he isn't doing any of those things, mommy.”

And there it was—her own lesson turned against the lie she was trying to hand you.

She had told you not to judge the crow by the darkness of his feathers, by the roughness of his cry, by how frightening he looked at first glance. She had told you to watch what he did. And what he did was follow beauty without harming it. Marvel at it without crushing it. Stay near it without taking from it.

Your father did not do that. Even then, some hidden part of you knew it.

Your mother looked away toward the yard, her jaw tight. The wind lifted strands of her black hair across her cheek, and she brushed them back with trembling fingers.

“It’s my fault sometimes,” she murmured after a while. “I know how to push him. I know when I should stop talking and I don’t. He comes home with so much on his shoulders and sometimes I make things worse.”

You stared at her, confused in that deep, miserable way only children can be when an adult they love asks them to stand inside a lie.

“But he did it, he hurt you,” you said.

She swallowed.

“Mama…”

“He loves me. He did it because he loves me,”

The words came out brittle this time, as if she needed them to be true because the alternative was too large to survive.

You looked at the bruises again, lilac and blue against her skin, the same shades as the butterfly’s wings, and felt something inside you twist painfully. Even in the warmth of the porch, you turned cold.

Because the crow had frightened you.

But your father frightened your mother.

And those were not the same thing at all.

“That doesn’t make sense,” you whispered.

Her face changed then. Not anger. Something sadder. Something almost broken.

“No,” she said softly, too softly. “No, it doesn’t.”

The answer startled you more than if she had insisted again.

For a second, she looked as though she might say more. As though something inside her had risen all the way to the surface and might finally spill over. But then the familiar restraint came down again, like a curtain drawn shut.

“He’s your father,” she said instead. “You owe him some respect, you can't say those things because someone could hear and think that he's a bad a man,”

You lowered your eyes.

The apology came before you could stop it. “I’m sorry.”

You didn’t know what you were apologizing for. Only that the air had gone wrong and your mother’s face had gone far away and some instinct already lived in you that whispered that when love changed temperature, you should try to fix it.

Her expression crumpled at once.

“Oh, baby.” She pulled you against her so quickly your cheek knocked against her shoulder. “No. Don’t do that. Don’t you apologize to me.”

You wrapped your arms around her neck, frightened by the tremor in her voice more than by anything else.

“Did I make you sad?”

“No.”

“Did Daddy?”

Her arms tightened until you could feel the beat of her heart against you, quick and uneven.

“Mommy?”

“Hush now.”

Her voice was gentle again, but closed.

So you did.

You sat there in her lap and watched the yard with the solemn silence of a child trying to understand a world that had shifted beneath her feet without warning. The butterfly rose from one flower and drifted to another. The crow kept watch from the tree. The summer light softened by degrees, turning everything gold at the edges.

After a while, you asked in a quiet voice, “If the crow likes her that much… Will he keep her safe?”

Your mother was silent for so long you thought perhaps she hadn’t heard you.

Then she kissed your temple and said, “I’d like to think so.”

You nodded and let that answer settle in you.

The butterfly lifted higher into the evening light, pale lilac against the sky. The crow watched her without moving, dark and still and wholly taken by her.

You stared at him for a long time.

Then you tilted your face up toward your mother and said, with all the dreamy seriousness of a child confessing a secret wish, “When I’m big… I want someone to look at me the way he looks at her.”

Your mother went utterly still.

For one suspended moment, the whole world seemed to narrow to the space between your face and hers.

When she looked down at you, there was so much sadness in her eyes it nearly swallowed the light in them whole. She touched your cheek with trembling fingers, brushing a strand of hair away from your forehead.

“Oh, my love,” she whispered.

You blinked up at her. “What?”

Her smile came small and heartbroken. “Nothing.”

But that wasn’t true. Even you could tell that much.

This would be the first contradiction you would ever carry: that something capable of frightening you could turn out to be unexpectedly gentle, while something beloved could become cruel enough to wound you. At your age, all you had was a feeling. The feeling that two utterly contradictory things had been placed into your hands at once by your mother. Love and pain, both insisting they belonged in the same place.

And somewhere deep inside your small, tender chest, where no one could yet reach it, confusion planted itself like a seed—because the crow was not what it seemed, but your father was not what she said.

You looked back toward the yard, toward the butterfly and the crow, and your mother held you a little tighter, as if she were trying to keep something from reaching you.

The wind moved first, turning cold where it should have stayed warm.

Then the scent of lavender thinned.

The porch blurred at the edges. The flowers lost their shape. The oak tree smeared into shadow, and the sunlight that had soaked everything in honey-colored gold drained slowly into something dimmer, flatter, wrong.

Your mother’s arms disappeared last.

── .⋆♱ ⋅🦋⋅ ♱⋆. ──

You woke slowly, like surfacing through dark water.

Your lashes fluttered.

For a second, all you could see was the blurred oval of the airplane window beside you, black outside except for the faint wing light flashing intermittently against the night. Then the cabin came into focus around you in pieces—the dimmed overhead lights, the low rustle of sleeping passengers, the steady hum of the engines carrying all of you westward through the dark.

Your throat felt tight.

You swallowed against it, blinking the last of the dream away, but it clung to you stubbornly, not in images now but in feeling. An invisible, bruise-colored ache blooming beneath your ribs. The phantom warmth of your mother’s arms. The sound of her words echoing somewhere inside you.

Peter was already watching you, as though he had woken the moment he sensed the shift in your breathing and knew immediately that sleep had turned against you again.

You didn’t realize his hand had already settled over yours until his thumb brushed lightly across your knuckles, warm and lazy with remains of his own sleep.

“You were dreaming again,” he murmured.

His voice was low, careful not to disturb the passengers around you. The soft cabin light caught the neat line of his jaw, the expensive watch at his wrist, the polished ease of a man who had never looked out of place anywhere in his life—not in Manhattan restaurants, not at charity galas, not in first class, and, you suspected, not in the small Wyoming town waiting for the two of you at the end of this flight.

“It was nothing,” you said quietly. “Just strange.”

Peter’s brows lifted a little. “That bad, huh?”

You let out a small breath and turned toward the window again. “Apparently.”

He was quiet for a second, then his fingers closed a little more firmly around your hand. “You had the deepest frown on your face.”

That made you glance back at him. “I did not.”

“You did.” A faint smile touched his mouth. “You looked like you were seconds away from starting an argument with someone in your sleep.”

A tiny laugh slipped out before you could stop it.

“There,” he said softly, a little smug now. “That’s better.”

You shook your head, but the tension in your chest loosened by a fraction. “Maybe I was winning.”

Peter shifted in his seat to face you more fully. “No, definitely not. That was not the face of a woman who’s winning.”

“And what does that face look like?”

He pretended to consider it. “Smug. Slightly unbearable. Very pleased with herself.”

You huffed a quieter laugh this time and looked back down at your lap.

Peter watched you for another moment. “What did you dream about?”

You shrugged lightly. “I don’t know. It’s already slipping.”

“That’s convenient.”

You gave him a look. “It’s true.”

He smiled and tipped his head back against the seat for a moment. “You know, I’ve never understood why you never tell me about your nightmares.”

“They’re not nightmares.”

“No?” He looked at you again. “You wake up tense, out of breath, and looking like you haven’t slept at all.”

You drew the blanket a little higher over your lap. “That still doesn’t make them worth talking about.”

Peter tilted his head. “Maybe not. But I’d still like to know.”

The words were simple. Gentle. Not demanding. Just honest enough to make looking at him feel vaguely unfair.

You lowered your eyes. “It’s not personal.”

He studied you for a second, then softened. “Okay.”

The answer came so easily it caught you off guard.

A moment later, he unbuckled his seatbelt.

You frowned. “Where are you going?”

“Stay there.”

Before you could argue, he got up and disappeared a few rows ahead. You watched him exchange a few quiet words with a flight attendant before coming back with a small bottle of water, a paper cup, and the familiar little foil packet of aspirin from his bag.

When he sat down, you gave him a look. “You brought aspirin?”

He glanced at you as though that should have been obvious. “I’m traveling with you.”

That pulled the ghost of a smile from you.

Peter shook one tablet into the cup, poured a little water over it, and waited for it to dissolve before handing it to you. “Drink.”

“You’re very dramatic.”

“And yet,” he said, “here you are with a headache.”

“I didn’t say I had a headache.”

“You didn’t have to.”

You took the cup from him anyway. The water tasted faintly chalky, but you drank it in a few swallows and handed it back. He set it carefully on the tray table between you and twisted the cap back onto the bottle.

“Better?” he asked.

“I’m sure the miracle will kick in any second.”

Peter smiled. “Let’s hope.”

The engine hummed steadily beneath the silence that followed. Around you, the cabin remained dim and half asleep, a small suspended world of soft lights and low breathing and the occasional rustle of fabric. Outside the window there was nothing but darkness and the intermittent pulse of light over the wing.

Peter reached for your hand again, turning it over this time so his thumb rested against the inside of your wrist.

“Was it your mother?” he asked after a while.

The question was so quiet you almost missed it.

Your answer came too quickly. “No.”

Peter looked at you for a beat, then nodded once. He knew you were lying.

“Okay.”

You stared at the window.

After a second, he added, “You know you don’t have to shut down every time I ask, right?”

You let out a breath through your nose. “I’m not shutting down.”

“No?”

“No.”

He smiled a little at that—not mocking, just tired.

You glanced at him. “Don’t do that.”

“Do what?”

“Do that thing where you look at me like I’m being difficult.”

“I’m not.” His smile widened just a fraction. “I’m looking at you like you’re awake at three in the morning pretending you weren’t clearly having a terrible dream.”

“That’s a very specific look.”

“I’ve had time to perfect it.”

You shook your head, but there was no real force behind it.

Peter leaned back into his seat again. “You don’t have to tell me tonight.”

“I know.”

“But one day you probably should.”

You were quiet for a moment. “Maybe.”

He glanced sideways at you. “Maybe?”

“That’s all you get.”

Peter’s mouth twitched. “I’ll take it.”

He closed his eyes again, though he kept hold of your hand. For a minute you thought he might drift back to sleep, but then he said, still half-smiling, “For the record, you really did look like you were about to fight someone.”

You rolled your eyes. “Maybe I was.”

“Mm.” His voice was growing softer now, sleepier. “Poor bastard.”

That earned one more quiet laugh from you.

And because he heard it, because he always did, his fingers gave yours one last absent minded squeeze before his breathing began to even out again.

You turned back to the window.

Outside, the wing light kept blinking against the dark in measured intervals, too distant and too steady to feel real. The aspirin had left a bitter trace on your tongue. Peter’s warmth still lingered faintly against your skin where his hand had been.

You should have felt calmer.

Maybe, in some small way, you did.

But the dream still clung to you stubbornly—not in images now, but in feeling. An invisible, bruise colored ache blooming beneath your ribs. The phantom warmth of your mother’s arms. The echo of her voice somewhere deep inside you, soft and sorrowful and impossible to untangle from the rest.

Beside you, Peter slept.

You pressed your fingers together in your lap and stared out into the dark, trying and failing to shake the dream loose.

Somewhere deep in the hollow between memory and omen, between the mother you had left behind and the life waiting for you in Jackson, there was the feeling that something had followed you out of sleep and into the cabin with you.

And the terrible, tender shape of a wish made long before you were old enough to know what it would cost.

── .⋆♱ ⋅🦋⋅ ♱⋆. ──

By the time the car pulled up in front of the house, the sky had turned the pale, washed blue of late afternoon, the kind of quiet color that made everything around it seem cleaner somehow, sharper at the edges. Mid June in Jackson looked nothing like June in New York. Nothing like heat trapped between buildings, sirens swallowed beneath traffic, or sunlight bouncing harshly off glass towers until the whole city seemed to gleam with the exhausting effort of being looked at. Jackson did not lunge at you. It did not glitter. It simply sat there beneath the enormous Wyoming sky, self contained and still, as though it had never once in its life felt the need to prove anything to anyone.

The house waiting at the end of the drive was beautiful in the way expensive gifts often were—large without being ostentatious, tastefully designed down to the last beam and stone path, with broad windows reflecting the mountains in the distance and a wraparound porch that looked too perfect to belong to real people. The front garden had already been landscaped, the hedges trimmed, the flowerbeds arranged with the kind of careful effortlessness that only ever came from money.

Not your money, of course. 

Craven money. 

The kind that had a habit of arriving before you did and deciding what your life should look like.

You stepped out of the car and drew in a slow breath, stretching your back after the flight. The air felt different here—thinner, cleaner, carrying the scent of pine and sun warmed wood instead of exhaust and concrete and expensive cologne lingering in elevator walls. Somewhere nearby, you could hear the faint bark of a dog, the distant slam of a truck door, wind moving through the trees in long, dry whispers.

For one suspended second, standing in the driveway with your overnight bag still slung over your shoulder, you let yourself believe that maybe this could mean something. A beginning, perhaps. A pause. A place to breathe, the way you had once promised yourself you would find.

Then Peter’s voice cut through the moment like a knife through silk.

“No, not there,” he said sharply, barely waiting for the movers to finish unloading before stepping back out from the passenger side. “The larger boxes go upstairs. The ones marked study need to stay together, and for God’s sake, be careful with anything labeled glass.”

One of the movers nodded, already breathless from hauling boxes up the porch steps. “Yes, sir.”

Peter loosened his tie with one practiced hand, though the gesture made him look no less composed. Even after the flight, even after hours of travel, he still looked like something lifted neatly out of a magazine spread—charcoal slacks, pressed button-down with the sleeves folded once to the forearm in a way meant to suggest casualness without ever quite managing it. He glanced toward the front windows, toward the stack of boxes, toward the delivery van parked at the curb, mentally cataloguing imperfections before they even had a chance to happen.

“The dining room pieces go in last,” he added. “I don’t want any of them damaged because someone decided to crowd the space.”

Another mover gave a quick nod. “Got it.”

You watched him for a moment from beside the car, your fingers still hooked around the strap of your bag. There was something almost impressive about the efficiency of it all, if efficiency had ever been your kind of romance. Peter did everything like a man who expected the world to obey the shape of his expectations. Sometimes people mistook that for competence. Sometimes, when he was in a good mood and the room was full of people eager to be impressed, you did too.

He turned at last and noticed you standing there. His expression softened immediately into something warmer, smoother, like a door quietly clicking into place over whatever had been visible beneath it a second earlier.

“You okay baby?” he asked, walking back toward you.

You nodded. “Just stiff.”

“The flight was long.”

“It was.” You glanced past him toward the house again, toward the movers carrying in the life you were meant to inhabit now. “I still can’t believe your father bought us an actual house.”

Peter followed your gaze, and for a second pride flickered over his face so openly it almost made him look younger. “He wants us to start properly.”

You smiled, though it didn’t quite reach the place inside you where joy should have lived. “Properly.”

He looked back at you then, sensing something in your tone. “Don’t start.”

You let out a small breath, not yet a laugh, not quite a sigh. “I’m not starting anything.”

“No?” His brow lifted faintly. “Because it sounds like you’re about to.”

You hesitated, then shrugged one shoulder. “I just mean… It's a lot.”

Peter’s gaze drifted to the house again, to the porch columns, the wide front windows, the movers already disappearing inside with more boxes. “It’s a gift.”

“I know.”

“And a generous one.”

“I know that too.”

He turned back to you fully, slipping his sunglasses off and tucking them into the open collar of his shirt. “Then maybe try sounding a little more grateful.”

There it was. Not loud. Not overtly cruel. Just precise enough to leave a small mark if you let it.

You looked down briefly, toe nudging a loose pebble in the driveway. “I am grateful.”

Peter studied your face for a beat too long, as though weighing whether to let the moment go or sharpen it further. Then, apparently deciding the movers were audience enough for the day, he exhaled through his nose and reached to smooth an invisible crease from the shoulder of your dress.

“I know you are,” he said, quieter now. “You’re just tired.”

The correction settled over you before you could object. You were not irritated, not exactly. Not ungrateful. Just tired. That was easier. Cleaner. Something that required no discussion.

“Maybe,” you said.

“Maybe?” he repeated with a faint smile.

You managed a small one back. “Definitely.”

“That’s better.”

Behind him, one of the movers struggled awkwardly with a large framed mirror.

Peter turned at once. “Careful with that,” he snapped. “If you scratch the frame, it comes out of your fee.”

The man flushed. “We’ve got it, sir.”

Peter stood there another moment, watching until the mirror disappeared through the front door, then muttered under his breath, “Unbelievable.”

You shifted your weight from one foot to the other and glanced toward the road, then toward the line of houses stretching farther into town. Everything looked so still compared to the city. So open. The mountains in the distance were blue with evening haze, and the sidewalks seemed to invite wandering in a way New York sidewalks never had. Not crowded. Not hurried. Just there.

“You know,” you said carefully, “you could leave them to it for ten minutes.”

Peter didn’t look at you. “Could I?”

“Yes.” You adjusted your bag higher on your shoulder. “Come take a walk with me. We’ve been on a plane for hours. I need to stretch my legs.”

That got his attention. He turned, one hand resting on his hip, the hint of amusement returning to his mouth. “A walk.”

“A short one.”

“With half our life in boxes on the front lawn.”

You smiled lightly. “I think the house will survive without us.”

“The house, maybe.”

You rolled your eyes, though softly enough to keep it playful. “Peter.”

He took a step closer. “What?”

“Come on.”

His gaze lingered on your face for a moment, and you could see him almost considering it. Or perhaps considering whether indulging you was worth the interruption to the order of things. In the end, order won, as it so often did with him.

“I can’t,” he said.

Your smile faded a little. “Can’t or won’t?”

He reached out and curled a hand around your waist, drawing you gently toward him until the edge of your bag pressed between your side and his hip. Up close, he smelled like juniper and mint and the cologne he only ever wore when travel or family were involved. Something expensive and familiar and faintly suffocating.

“Don’t do that,” he murmured.

“Do what?”

“Ask questions you already know the answer to.”

You opened your mouth, closed it again.

Peter tilted your chin up with two fingers, the gesture almost tender if not for how controlled it was. “You know I want everything settled before tonight. My father may call. The club board will want an update by the weekend. There are a dozen things to take care of before we can enjoy any of this.”

“Enjoy,” you repeated, softer than you meant to.

His eyes narrowed just slightly. “Is there something you want to say?”

You should have said no immediately. You knew that. Instead you hesitated for half a second too long, and Peter noticed because Peter noticed everything.

“I just thought…” You searched for the least dangerous wording and found none of it satisfying. “I thought maybe the point of moving somewhere like this was to breathe a little.”

His expression cooled by a degree. “And you think I’m stopping you from doing that?”

“No.”

“But you do believe it.”

You looked away, toward the porch, toward the movers, toward anything but him. “I didn’t say that.”

Peter let the silence stretch just long enough to make your pulse skip. Then, just as quickly, he smiled again. Smoothed over. Effortless. “You need air, sweetheart? Go get some air.”

His hand eased from your waist as he leaned down, and the kiss he gave you was soft and brief, warm with familiarity rather than urgency. It lingered just long enough to register, not long enough to deepen, the kind of kiss that belonged more to habit than desire and still managed, somehow, to feel gentle.

When he drew back, he remained close for a beat, his thumb brushing once beneath your jaw, his features softened into something almost boyish in the late light, as though the sharpness you’d heard in his voice a moment earlier had already been folded away.

“Go for your walk,” he said. “Look around. Fall in love with small town America if you want to.” His thumb grazed once beneath your jaw. “I’ll be here when you get back.”

There was something in the way he said it that should have sounded comforting.

You searched his face for a beat, trying to decide whether you were imagining the weight in the words, but he was already turning away again, attention returning to the house before you had fully stepped out of his reach.

“Not that rug,” he called to one of the movers. “The blue one goes in the den, not the foyer.”

You stood there another second, watching him slip seamlessly back into command, back into the version of himself the rest of the world found so polished and reliable. Then you tightened your fingers on your bag strap, exhaled, and turned toward the street.

“Don’t go too far,” Peter said without looking back.

Something in you stiffened, small and automatic.

“I won’t,” you answered.

“Take your phone.”

“I have it.”

“And keep the sound on.”

You looked over your shoulder. “I’m just walking.”

Peter glanced at you then, just briefly. “I know.”

The smile he gave you was mild. Reasonable. Impossible to argue with.

You started down the sidewalk before you could think too hard about why the back of your neck suddenly felt warm.

Jackson opened around you slowly.

The first thing you noticed was the quiet. Not silence exactly—there were too many signs of life for that—but a different kind of noise than the one you were used to. Here, sound spreads out instead of piling up. A truck rumbling somewhere a few streets over. Wind combing through the trees. Laughter drifting from a yard. The metallic clink of someone repairing something in a garage left open to the evening. No sirens. No car horns. No constant electric thrum beneath everything. The town seemed to breathe at its own pace and expect everyone in it to do the same.

You walked without hurry, passing neat little houses with porches full of rocking chairs, potted plants, wind chimes, bicycles leaning against fences. Some were painted in soft faded colors, sage and cream and dusty blue, while others wore their age plainly in weathered wood and cracked steps. None of them looked like the sort of homes designed by committees or decorators or fathers trying to purchase a future. They looked lived in. Chosen. Kept.

The sidewalks were lined with June flowers, and more than once you caught sight of curtains moving behind a window where someone had clearly noticed the unfamiliar face passing by. Not unkindly. Just curiously. Small-town curiosity. The kind that would undoubtedly become gossip before sunset if given enough encouragement.

A woman pushing a stroller smiled at you as she crossed the street.

You smiled back, surprised by how natural it felt.

A little farther on, two boys on bicycles sped past you, one of them calling, “Sorry!” when he nearly clipped your elbow, though he was grinning too widely for it to sound particularly repentant.

“It 's okay!” you called after him, laughing despite yourself.

The air smelled faintly of pine and cut grass and something sweet baking somewhere nearby. Bread, maybe. Or pie. The kind of scent that would have felt artificial in Manhattan somehow, like a candle trying too hard to recreate a life nobody really lived. Here, it seemed to belong.

You slowed near a parked pickup truck when something in its window caught your eye, and for a moment it wasn’t the truck itself that held you there but your own reflection in the darkened glass. The pale dress moved softly around your legs in the breeze but something about it made you go still before you had fully understood why. It was not the same dress your mother had worn, of course it wasn’t, yours was newer, bought beneath flattering lights in a bright SoHo boutique by a woman who had called it timeless, and yet it was close enough in color, in shape, in the way it fell over your shoulders, that it made your stomach tighten all the same.

You took a small step closer to the window, as though the image might settle if you looked at it long enough, but it only made the feeling sharper. For one uncomfortable second, you looked so much like her that it unsettled you more than it should have, not because she hadn’t been beautiful, but because some part of you had always been afraid of becoming her in ways you didn’t quite know how to name.

A harsh cry split the air overhead before you could linger on the thought.

You jolted, your shoulder nearly clipping the side mirror as a black shape swept low across the street and vanished into the branches of a nearby tree. A crow, bigger than you expected, all sudden movement and dark wings against the soft evening sky.

You stepped back at once, the reflection breaking apart with it.

“Okay,” you muttered under your breath, more to yourself than anything else.

When the crow called out again from somewhere hidden above you, the sound was enough to make you turn in the opposite direction without thinking, your pace quickening as though distance might settle whatever had tightened in your chest. You told yourself it was nothing as you walked—just a reflection, just a bird—but that didn’t stop the faint unease from lingering even long after you’d left it behind.

It took a few streets for the feeling to loosen.

By the time you slowed again, it was because something else had caught your attention.

Each house had its own tiny garden, each one so lovingly tended it felt almost rude to stare. There were sunflowers taller than the fences, ivy climbing porch posts, strings of prayer flags fluttering in one yard, a rusting birdbath in another. One little blue house had yellow trim and a front porch full of clay pots bursting with herbs and late-blooming flowers.

That was where you saw her.

An older woman stood in the front garden with a hose in one hand and the other planted at her hip, watering a crowded spread of lavender, daisies, and trailing green things that had long since spilled past the edges of their pots. She wore a faded apron, loose gardening gloves, and the kind of practical expression that suggested she had lived long enough to stop pretending not to notice everything. Her silver hair had been twisted up loosely at the back of her head, though half of it had already escaped.

She looked up the moment your steps slowed near the gate.

“Well,” she said, smiling before you’d even opened your mouth, “you’re either lost or new, and you don’t look particularly worried, so I’m guessing new.”

The warmth of her voice caught you a little off guard. “Is it really that obvious?”

She laughed softly and turned the hose down until the water ran in a gentler stream over the flowers. “Honey, in a town this size, it’s obvious when somebody breathes differently. You’ve got that look people get when they’re still trying to decide whether they like it here or not.”

That pulled a small laugh out of you. “And what if I haven’t decided yet?”

“Then you’re perfectly normal.”

You smiled despite yourself.

She let the hose fall to one side of the flowerbed and straightened a little, squinting at you in the late light with open curiosity that somehow didn’t feel invasive.

“You one of the Cravens, then?”

You paused.

There it was already. Small-town speed.

You gave her a polite half-smile. “Something like that.”

The woman snorted, unimpressed by vague answers. “That house on Pemberley Lane didn’t stay empty long enough for anyone not to notice. Movers all afternoon, big shiny car in the driveway, and a tall man standing around like he personally invented instructions.” She gave a small shrug. “People talk. Or, more accurately, people don’t have enough else to do.”

Despite yourself, you smiled. “Yes. That would be him.”

“And you,” she said, looking at you more carefully now, “are the poor girl he dragged all the way out here from civilization.”

That startled a real laugh out of you. “That depends who you ask.”

She grinned. “Another good answer. You’re doing well so far.”

You stepped a little closer to the fence, your gaze drifting past her garden toward the narrow trail disappearing between the cottages farther down. It curved away beneath a line of trees, quiet and half hidden, and something about it caught your eye immediately.

“Excuse me,” you said, nodding in its direction. “What’s down there?”

The woman followed your gaze and smiled at once, like she’d been expecting the question. “Oh, that’s the path to the church.”

You looked again. “There’s a church back there?”

“There is.” She rested both forearms across the top of the fence as though settling in for a proper conversation now. “Jackson Community Church. Been there longer than most of the people living around it. It’s small, but don’t let that fool you. It’s lovely inside.”

“What kind of lovely?”

She smiled at that, as though she approved of the question. “The stained glass, for one. The light comes through it late in the day and makes the whole place look better than it has any right to. Even people who don’t care much for churches tend to care for that.”

You looked back toward the path. From where you stood, all you could see was the first bend and a little wash of brightness beyond it.

The woman caught your expression. “You like churches?”

You hesitated. “I don’t know if I’d say that exactly.”

She barked out a laugh. “Smart girl.”

You smiled too, a little sheepish. “I just like old buildings. And quiet places.”

“Well, then,” she said, lifting one shoulder, “that church has both. And if you’ve just spent the day moving into a house with too many boxes and too much polished wood, I’d say it probably has the exact right amount of peace too.”

You glanced back in the direction you’d come, as if Peter might somehow appear at the end of the street just because you’d thought about him. Then you looked at the trail again.

Of course she noticed that too.

“He’ll survive without you for twenty minutes,” she said dryly.

You let out a quiet laugh. “Is it that obvious?”

She leaned in a little, lowering her voice as though she were sharing a private truth. “Sweetheart, I was married for thirty eight years. Men like that all wear the same face once you know how to look.”

The words landed more softly than they should have. Maybe she saw something shift in your expression, because she straightened again almost immediately and smiled, gentler now.

“I’m Matilda, by the way.”

You told her your name.

“Well,” Matilda said, trying it out like she was testing the weight of it, “welcome to Jackson.”

“Thank you.”

She nodded toward the path again. “Go on, then.”

You laughed. “That convincing, huh?”

“Oh, absolutely. You’re curious already, which means you’ll go whether I tell you to or not. I’m just saving you the trouble of pretending this was never the plan.”

“That obvious too?”

“You’d be amazed what I can do.”

That made you laugh again, more easily this time.

Then, before you could stop yourself, you asked, “Is it far?”

“Not at all. Five minutes, maybe less if you’ve got a reason to walk quickly.” She paused, then added, “And before you ask, no, you can’t miss it.”

“I was going to ask that.”

“I know.”

You smiled and adjusted the strap of your bag on your shoulder. “Who runs it?”

“The church?”

You nodded.

“Father Miller.”

The name settled somewhere in your mind without really meaning to. “And what’s he like?”

Matilda made a face that was not unkind, just familiar. “Big. Gruff. Keeps mostly to himself.”

You blinked. “That doesn’t sound especially welcoming.”

“Oh, I didn’t say he wasn’t welcoming. I said he keeps to himself.” She gave you a pointed look. “There’s a difference.”

You considered that. “Is there?”

“There is once you’ve lived long enough. Some people are cold because they don’t care. Some people are quiet because they care too much and don’t know what to do with it.” She shrugged. “Father Miller falls into the second category more often than he’d probably like.”

You glanced toward the trail again. “You know him well?”

“As well as anybody in this town knows anybody else.” She reached down to pick up the hose, then changed her mind and let it lie there another moment. “He’s a good man. Stubborn as a mule, terrible at asking for help, not nearly as easy as he ought to be, but good. And he has that look about him.”

“What look?”

“The look of a man who spends too much time carrying things alone and then acting offended when his back hurts.”

That made you laugh.

Matilda smiled, pleased with herself. “There. That’s the right reaction.”

“So he’s difficult.”

“Oh, absolutely.”

“And you like him anyway.”

She gave you a very measured look. “You can like people and still think they’d benefit from being shaken.”

You laughed again. “That sounds oddly specific.”

“It is.” She bent to pull one glove off properly this time. “Jackson doesn’t have nearly enough interesting people for me to waste the word lightly, and Father Miller is interesting whether he likes it or not.”

You didn’t know why that stayed with you, but it did.

You looked once more toward the path. The trees shifted in the wind, and the last of the sunlight slipped through the branches in long soft bands, laying brightness over the dirt trail like something inviting. The world behind you still smelled faintly of lumber, moving boxes, and the life that had already been arranged for you but the world ahead smelled of wild flowers, earth, and whatever waited at the end of that narrow winding path.

“Thank you,” you said.

Matilda smiled and reached for the hose again. “For the directions, or for the excuse?”

You opened your mouth, then laughed when you realized there was no answer that would improve on hers.

“For both.”

“That’s what I thought.”

You hesitated a second longer, then gave her a little wave and stepped toward the path.

“Careful,” she called after you.

You glanced back.

Matilda turned the water on again, letting it run over the lavender as she smiled to herself. “Jackson has a habit of turning into home before people mean for it to.”

Something about the line lodged beneath your ribs before you could stop it.

You gave her a faint smile. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

Then you turned and started down the trail.

The noise of the street fell away behind you almost immediately. Gravel softened into packed earth beneath your shoes, and the path curved between trees and tall grass as the light filtered through in fractured gold. Somewhere ahead, still hidden from view, a church waited at the end of the trail with stained-glass windows catching the last of the afternoon sun.

And without quite knowing why, you found yourself walking toward it as though something there had already started calling your name.

── .⋆♱ ⋅🦋⋅ ♱⋆. ──

The church stood at the end of the trail like it had been there waiting for you.

From outside, it seemed almost modest. Quiet. Tucked away. But the moment you stepped through the front doors and into the cool dimness beyond them, the place opened around you in a way you hadn’t expected.

Stone.

That was the first thing that struck you.

Not whitewashed walls. Not plain wood. Not the smaller, simpler kind of chapel you might have imagined finding at the end of a hidden path in a town like Jackson, but old grey stone rising in long, graceful lines that pulled your eyes upward before you could help it. The walls were rough in places, worn smoother in others, and the arches overhead gave the whole room the shape of something older and heavier than it had looked from outside. It wasn’t grand. It didn’t need to be. The stone did enough. It held the room together with a quiet severity that made your own footsteps feel too loud for a moment.

You stopped just past the threshold.

The doors had closed behind you with a low, heavy sound, and now the church seemed to settle around you all at once. Not empty, exactly. There were too many signs of life for that. But still in a way that made every small noise matter—the faint creak of old wood somewhere high above, the shift of air through a building too old to be fully sealed, the soft echo of your own breathing.

Then you noticed the light.

It came through the stained glass in long, broken bands, spilling color over the stone floor and the pews in deep reds, greens, blue, and gold. The whole church changed depending on where you stood. Parts of it looked colder where the shadows held. Other parts glowed unexpectedly warm where the late sun cut through the glass and touched the stone.

You moved farther in, slowly, your gaze lifting toward the windows.

Rows of dark wooden pews ran toward the altar in neat lines, their surfaces polished by use more than effort. Candles sat unlit near the front. Fresh flowers had been placed in simple vases, not arranged with any great precision, only care. A pair of reading glasses rested near a hymn book someone had forgotten to put away. The church did not feel abandoned. It felt paused for a moment.

And then your eyes found the first stained glass panel properly, and you stopped.

At the center stood a moose.

Broad and still beneath a wash of green and gold light, his antlers rose through the glass in dark, branching lines that gave the whole image a quiet kind of weight. Beside him stood another of his kind, smaller in frame, her body turned slightly toward his, and between them, tucked safely in the space they seemed to make around it, stood a calf.

You moved closer without thinking.

There was something unexpectedly tender in the image. No movement. No danger. No grand religious symbolism you could immediately decipher. Just the three of them standing together in a clearing rendered in color and lead, the larger bodies creating a kind of shelter around the smaller one without seeming to try. A family. Nothing more dramatic than that. A male. A female. Their young. The whole thing held in such quiet stillness that it made your chest tighten before you fully understood why.

The father did not look proud.

That would have been easier to read.

He looked complete. Entirely turned toward the fact of them. The mother stood close enough that the space between them did not feel like distance at all, and the calf, half hidden in the middle, seemed placed there with so much care that for a moment it felt less like church glass and more like someone trying to preserve a memory before time could get at it.

You stayed there longer than you meant to.

Then your eyes moved to the next panel, and whatever calm the first one had given you disappeared almost immediately.

The calf lay at the father’s feet.

You went still.

The mother was gone now. Her absence struck you before any other detail did. The whole composition had opened up around the father, but not in a way that felt freer. In a way that felt emptied. He stood over the calf with his head lowered, his whole body altered by the weight of what was in front of him. He looked larger in this one and somehow more diminished at the same time, as though grief had made him heavier and hollowed him out all at once.

You stepped closer.

The calf was very small.

That was what got you first. Not blood. Not damage. Just the size of it against the father’s legs. Small enough that the first window returned to you immediately and made this one worse. A moment ago it had stood between them. Safe. Held. And now it lay there, still and unreachable, while the father remained above it as though not even he understood how something could still be in front of him and already be gone.

Then you saw the face.

Or what had been done to it.

There were fine silver lines cut into the glass, slight enough that you almost thought you’d imagined them until the light shifted and made them visible again. Tears. Or something close enough that your throat tightened anyway.

He was crying.

Once you saw it, the whole panel changed. It changed the first one too, reaching backward and giving it a tenderness it hadn’t needed a moment before. The father in the first window became warmer, more vulnerable. The calf here became not just dead but loved.

You stood there and looked at him for longer than was probably reasonable, and the longer you looked, the clearer it became that whoever had designed these windows had not meant to show death in some distant, noble way. They had meant to show what came after the shock of it. The helplessness. The stillness. The impossible fact of having to remain standing over something you could not fix.

The next panel was violence.

The same moose—or what had to be the same one—was locked in brutal struggle with another of his kind, antlers crashed together, bodies straining with enough force that the whole image seemed to carry motion even in stillness. It took you a second to understand why it unsettled you so much after the grief of the panel before, and then it clicked.

It looked like rage.

Not clean rage. Not triumphant rage. The kind that came after there was nothing left to do with pain except drive it outward. The father was no longer bowed in this one. He was turned hard into impact, every line of his body violent with force. If the first panel had been tenderness and the second helplessness, this one was what came next when grief had nowhere else to go.

You kept looking.

The antlers looked almost desperate in the way they tangled. The bodies were too close, too committed to the blow for this to feel ceremonial or symbolic. It felt physical. Ugly. Necessary in the way some forms of anger seemed necessary when a person no longer knew what else to do with what hurt.

Then you moved to the next window, and this was the one that held you longest.

The moose stood alone again, but whatever violence had lived in the previous panel had burned itself out by now. Nothing in him looked triumphant. Nothing even looked furious anymore. He was still upright, still enormous, but the weight of him had changed. His body looked worn down by endurance rather than animated by strength, and around him, closing in from all sides, were five wolves.

You counted them twice.

Five.

One of them was already feeding.

Its jaws were sunk into the moose’s leg, and the dark red worked into the glass there was restrained enough that you didn’t notice it fully until you stepped closer. The others had not reached him yet, but that almost made the image worse. They were still circling. Still waiting for their turn. Still finding the best places to take from him.

And he was still standing there.

That was the part you couldn’t stop looking at.

He did not look wild in this one. He did not look enraged. He didn’t even look afraid. He looked tired. Tired in a way that felt almost painfully human. As though the fight had already happened, the grief had already happened, and now all that remained was the long, punishing part where the world kept taking and he had to endure it a little longer because he hadn’t yet fallen.

Something about that exhausted sadness in him made the wolves feel crueler.

You stepped closer until the colored light shifted over your shoes.

The whole sequence sharpened in your mind then, each panel locking into place behind the next. First the family. Then the dead calf. Then the rage. Then this worn, cornered body being eaten alive by what had come after. It no longer looked like separate images. It looked like the same life moving through different stages of pain.

And what struck you most was that the father kept changing in ways the world around him did not. In the first panel he was part of something whole. In the second he was broken open. In the third he was all force. In the fourth he was simply tired. The wolves had not just found him. They had found what was left after grief and anger had already done their work.

You should have looked away.

Instead, you searched for the next panel as if you already knew there had to be one.

At first your eyes struggled to make sense of it. Pale shapes against dark ground. The curve of bone. The familiar reach of antlers detached now from anything living. Then it settled into one image, and the sadness of it landed so quickly and so cleanly that you felt it before you found words for it.

The moose was gone.

What remained were the bones.

There was no struggle left in the glass. No movement. No wolves. No anger. Not even grief, exactly. Just the remains of something that had once been huge and living, reduced now to pale fragments on the painted ground. The antlers lay off to one side like an afterthought. The spine curved through the center of the image in a line too clean to be anything but final.

You stared at it.

And felt, absurdly, sorry for him.

Not because animals died. Not because death in art was unusual. But because after everything the windows had asked you to watch him endure—love, loss, rage, attack—this was how it ended. Alone. Stripped down to what the world had not wanted or had already finished taking.

Then your eyes lifted and found the figure standing above the bones.

A girl.

Or maybe an angel.

She was slight and still, dressed in pale glass that caught the light differently from everything around her. There was something wing like suggested behind her shoulders, but not so literally that you could say with certainty what she was meant to be. What mattered was where she was looking.

At him.

At what was left of him.

She had not come in time to save anything. She had not interrupted the wolves. She had not changed the ending. She only stood there, looking down at the bones with a sadness so quiet it almost hurt more than anything else in the sequence.

You couldn’t stop staring at her.

Because somehow that was the part that made the loneliness unbearable—not that he had ended like this, but that someone small and silent had been left behind to witness it. To arrive after the violence, after the grief, after the hunger, and see only the remains.

You looked back at the first panel then, all the way down the line of windows, and for a moment the whole thing lived in your mind at once.

A family.

The absence.

The grief.

The rage.

The exhaustion.

The end of him.

And finally someone left to look at what the world had done.

You let out a breath you hadn’t realized you’d been holding.

It felt less like church art and more like a life told in the only language the place knew how to hold.

Only then did the rest of the room begin to come back into focus around you.

The pews. The flowers. The cool weight of the stone. The stillness of the empty church. You turned slowly, your eyes moving from the windows to the altar, and that was when you saw the cross.

And laughed.

Because after all that careful pain and beauty and stone and silence, the wooden cross hanging above the altar was visibly crooked.

Not missing. Not broken. Just tilted enough to be ridiculous.

You stood there staring at it for a second, then let out a soft laugh before you could help it.

“Well,” you murmured to the empty church, “that seems ironic.”

The room, unsurprisingly, offered no answer.

You looked at it a little longer, head tilting slightly as if the angle might correct itself if you stared hard enough. It didn’t. It only stayed there, crooked above the altar in the middle of a church full of grief and wolves and angels and stone.

You smiled despite yourself.

Then, from somewhere beyond the wall behind the altar, a man’s voice cut through the stillness—low, irritated, and very clearly cursing—and the sound was so out of place in the quiet of the church that it made you go still without thinking. A second later came the sharp crack of wood splitting, followed by another muttered swear, rougher this time, dragged under his breath as if whatever he was doing had just gone wrong again.

You turned your head slowly toward the back of the church, listening as the voice carried once more, closer now, impatient in a way that felt almost jarring against all that stone and colored light. It grounded the space immediately, pulled it out of something distant and solemn and back into something real, something where people got frustrated and things didn’t go the way they were supposed to.

For a brief moment, you hesitated, the echo of the place still lingering around you, but curiosity got there first.

You crossed toward the side door tucked behind the altar, your steps quieter now without quite meaning to be, as if the building itself had taught you how to move inside it, and when the crack of wood came again from somewhere just outside, you reached for the handle without overthinking it and pushed the door open, following the sound.

── .⋆♱ ⋅🦋⋅ ♱⋆. ──

You pushed the side door open and stepped out into the warmer air behind the church, the shift from cool stone to late-day heat immediate against your skin. The light was lower here, filtered through the trees and falling in long gold bands across the yard. It took you a second to place the sound properly—the crack of wood, the scrape of something heavy dragged aside, the low, irritated voice that kept muttering under its breath every few seconds like the day itself had personally offended him.

Then you saw him.

He stood with his back to you near a chopping block set a little way from the church wall, broad shouldered and planted solidly on the ground as he drove an axe into a split log with enough force to make the sound echo off the stone. A stack of cut wood stood off to one side, neatly piled. Another stack—wetter, rougher, rejected—lay a few feet away. He bent, picked up another log, set it upright, and brought the axe down again.

It split cleanly.

He grunted once, low in his throat, as though even success had only barely earned his approval.

The next one didn’t.

The blade struck off-center, lodging awkwardly in the wood, and the man straightened with a muttered, “Christ,” before yanking it loose again and setting the ruined piece aside with visible annoyance.

Only then did you notice the radio.

It sat on the low stone wall behind him, old and a little battered, the music soft enough that you hadn’t recognized it at first over the sound of the axe. Then the voice came through clearer, Bruce Springsteen sliding into the chorus of I’m on Fire, and something about that—about the song, the heat, the rough flannel stretched across a man’s back in the middle of nowhere—made the whole scene feel faintly unreal for a second.

He was wearing jeans and a dark flannel shirt with the sleeves shoved up to his forearms, which would have been an insane choice in that weather on anyone else and somehow only made him look more stubborn on him. He was older than you. That much was obvious even from behind. Built heavy through the shoulders, strong in the arms, moving with the kind of contained efficiency that suggested he knew exactly what his body could do and had no interest in making a show of it.

You stayed where you were.

For a moment longer than was sensible.

The song drifted on. The axe rose and fell. The rhythm of it was oddly easy to get caught in.

The line of his back tightening beneath the flannel.

The flex of his forearms when he adjusted his grip.

The rough little sound he made every time a cut didn’t go the way he wanted.

One split log landed squarely where it should. Another rolled off the block and he swore at it under his breath, bent, set it back up, and tried again.

You didn’t realize quite how long you had been standing there until he said, without turning around, “Well?”

You blinked.

He drove the axe down one more time, split the log clean through, and then finally added, “You gonna stand there all day starin’, or what’s wrong with you?”

The words hit with such flat dryness that you actually startled.

You had, in fact, been staring.

You straightened at once. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to bother you.”

He bent for another piece of wood. “That’s good to know.”

You frowned. “Because I’m apologizing?”

“No,” he said, setting the log upright. “Because at least now I know you can talk.”

You stared at the back of his head. “That’s a little rude.”

He brought the axe down. “Well, most people start with hello and their name. They don’t just stand there like a statue watchin’ me work.”

The irritation in his tone was so matter-of fact that it threw you for a second.

“I wasn’t watching you work,” you said, which would have sounded more convincing if it had also been true.

He gave a low hum that made it very clear what he thought of that.

You looked around the yard instead, more out of stubbornness than interest. “I was just—”

“Mm.”

You glanced back at him. “You really do make conversation difficult, don’t you?”

That got the faintest pause.

He bent, picked up another log, and this time when he spoke there was something drier in it, almost bordering on amusement. “Ain’t much of a conversation so far.”

You exhaled through your nose and decided to try anyway.

“Fine,” you said. “Hello. I’m—”

He lifted one hand in a small, distracted gesture, not even turning around. “Don’t need your whole life story, darlin’. Just basic manners.”

You narrowed your eyes. “You know, for someone lecturing me about manners, you’re not exactly making an incredible first impression.”

At that, he gave the shortest huff through his nose and finally turned halfway toward you.

The first clear look at him hit harder than you would have liked.

Dark hair gone a little unruly at the temples. Beard threaded with grey. A face lined just enough to make it more interesting instead of less. A nose that looked like it had been broken at least once. Eyes that landed on you and took in everything in one sweep—your dress, your bag, your shoes, your face—before settling into something unreadable.

Then he turned back to the wood.

You recovered half a beat too late. “Are you the gardener?”

He didn’t answer.

You waited.

Nothing.

You frowned. “Or maintenance, maybe?”

Still nothing.

He drove the axe down again.

You blinked at him in disbelief. “Wow.”

“Mm.”

“No, seriously. Wow.”

He reached for another log.

You folded your arms. “You’re very rude.”

That got you a glance over his shoulder, brief and wholly unimpressed.

“Look,” he said, “what I’m doin’ is savin’ us both some time.”

“By ignoring me?”

“By not pretendin’ this is goin’ anywhere useful.”

You stared at him. “That doesn’t even make sense.”

“It does to me.”

He set the log. Raised the axe. Brought it down.

The split came out ugly this time and he muttered under his breath again.

You looked at the damp piece he kicked aside, then back at him. “You do know you’re behind a church, right?”

“Mm.”

“And still cursing.”

“Also mm.”

You actually laughed. “Do you answer everything like that?”

He planted the axe into the block and finally turned to face you more fully. The movement was unhurried, but there was something in it that suggested he was very aware of the fact that he had already given you more attention than he intended.

“Lemme try this another way,” he said, voice rough with that easy Southern drawl. “It’s pretty clear you got turned around. The boutiques are on the other side of town, sweetheart.”

You just looked at him.

Then your mouth dropped open. “Excuse me?”

His expression didn’t change. Not one bit. “You heard me.”

“I did hear you, actually. I’m just trying to work out whether that was supposed to be helpful or insulting.”

He shrugged one shoulder. “Depends how thin your skin is.”

You let out a short, disbelieving laugh. “No, I’m serious. What exactly gave you the impression that I was lost?”

He looked you up and down again, slower this time, and if the first glance had been assessing, this one was openly dismissive.

“The dress,” he said. “The bag. The face.”

“The face?”

“Yeah.” He hooked a thumb vaguely in the direction of town. “That look city people get when they accidentally wander somewhere without valet parkin’.”

You stared at him in stunned silence.

He turned back to the stump as if that settled it.

“It hasn’t escaped me,” you said after a beat, “that you are wearing a flannel shirt in June.”

He bent for another log. “And?”

“And I’m just wondering if heatstroke is part of your problem.”

That made the corner of his mouth twitch, though he clearly regretted it immediately.

“I’m not lost,” you said, more firmly now. “I’m exactly where I want to be.”

He grunted in response.

That annoyed you more than if he’d laughed.

You took a few steps closer instead of backing off, and his shoulders shifted like he’d noticed but had no intention of acknowledging it.

“Well?” you said.

“Well what?”

“Do you always treat strangers like this?”

He adjusted the log on the block. “Usually don’t get this many follow up questions from ‘em.”

“You haven’t answered a single one.”

“Maybe they weren’t worth answerin’.”

You folded your arms tighter. “You are deeply unpleasant.”

“And yet you’re still here.”

The crack of the axe split the air between you.

You looked away for a second, trying not to let the irritation rise too quickly, and that was when he jerked his chin toward the trees.

“See that squirrel?”

You blinked. “What?”

“That squirrel.” He pointed with the axe handle toward a nearby pine.

You followed the gesture and spotted it immediately, a small blur of brown and grey scrambling up the trunk.

“Oh.” Your face softened before you could help it. “Yes. It’s cute. Ours in Central Park don’t really—”

“I don’t give a shit about Central Park,” he cut in. “That squirrel just ran for cover because you showed up, and you ain’t been here five minutes. You’re already alterin’ the local wildlife.”

You turned to stare at him.

He looked almost bored now, like he’d finally said something rude enough to make you leave and was simply waiting for the result.

“And,” he added, after a beat, “that includes me.”

For one long second, you just looked at him.

Then you drew yourself up, crossed your arms, and said very seriously, “You know what? You’re right.”

He paused.

Actually paused.

One brow lifted a fraction. “I am?”

“Yes.” You nodded once. “I’m glad you included yourself in that, because clearly what I’m looking at is the closest thing this town has to a Neanderthal.”

He blinked. “A what?”

“A Neanderthal.”

His eyes narrowed. “You wanna repeat that slower, or—”

“You heard me.” You smiled sweetly. “What other explanation could there possibly be for a rude, impossible man in a flannel shirt, in the middle of June, behaving like a primate the second a woman speaks to him?”

For the first time since you’d stepped into the yard, he looked genuinely surprised.

Not offended.

Not amused.

Just surprised enough that it bought you one glorious second of satisfaction.

“Primate,” he repeated.

“Yes.”

He looked you over again, slower this time, and when he spoke his voice had dropped half a note.

“If my shirt bothers you that much, darlin’, you’re free to leave.”

You tilted your head. “And miss all this charm?”

His mouth flattened. “Your people are probably waitin’ for you.”

You frowned. “My people?”

“Yeah.” He split another log with unnecessary force. “The ones with matching luggage and opinions about thread count.”

You gaped at him. “You know absolutely nothing about me.”

“Know enough.”

“No, you really don’t.”

He shrugged. “Then enlighten me.”

The challenge in it was so dry it almost passed as indifference.

You opened your mouth.

Closed it.

Because, absurdly, you had the sudden suspicion that telling him anything at all would feel like losing.

So instead you lifted your chin and said, “I think you’re insufferable.”

“Been called worse.”

“I’m sure you have.”

“Usually by people less dressed for brunch.”

You let out a sharp laugh. “This isn’t brunch attire.”

“Could’ve fooled me.”

“And you,” you shot back, “look like a lumberjack who lost a fight with a thermostat.”

That got him.

The sound that came out of him this time was definitely a laugh, though short enough that he could pretend it wasn’t if challenged. He bent to lift a damp log and tossed it onto the rejected pile.

“Lord,” he muttered. “You just keep goin’.”

“Well, someone has to keep this conversation alive.”

He straightened and looked at you again, properly this time, his gaze steady enough to make you aware all over again of the height of him, the roughness of him, the broad set of his shoulders under that absurd flannel.

“Who says I want a conversation?”

You smiled, all teeth. “Your squirrel did.”

That earned you another flicker at the corner of his mouth.

He looked away first.

You liked that far more than you should have.

For a while the only sound between you was the radio and the wood and Bruce Springsteen still dragging his voice through the heat. You didn’t know why the song seemed to fit him, only that it did.

He split another log clean through.

Then another.

Then, without looking at you, said, “You always this persistent?”

You leaned one shoulder against the church wall, pretending not to notice the shift. “Only when I meet someone this unpleasant. It becomes a challenge.”

“Think you’re winnin’?”

“I think you’re talking more than you were five minutes ago.”

He gave a low grunt that sounded suspiciously like acknowledgment.

You smiled to yourself.

Then you remembered why you’d come outside in the first place.

“The cross is crooked, by the way.”

That made him glance over.

You pointed toward the church with your chin. “Inside.”

He stared at you. “The what?”

“The cross.”

He squinted slightly, as if weighing whether this was some sort of trap. “It’s crooked.”

“Yes.”

“How crooked?”

You blinked. “Enough.”

“That ain’t an answer.”

“It’s the correct one.”

He looked at you for one beat longer, then shook his head once, like you were a problem he had no interest in solving. “Maybe your eyes are crooked.”

You stared at him. “My eyes are not crooked.”

“They are.”

“It is visibly crooked.”

“To you.”

“To anyone with functioning eyesight.”

He rested both hands on the handle of the axe and looked at you with something almost like patience, which was somehow more irritating than the rudeness had been.

“You done inspectin’ the place?”

“No, actually. I’d barely started before someone outside started swearing loud enough to be heard in the sanctuary.”

“That so.”

“Yes.” You narrowed your eyes. “And you still haven’t told me who you are.”

He reached for another log. “Didn’t say I would.”

“I asked if you were the gardener.”

No answer.

“Or maintenance.”

Still nothing.

You exhaled slowly. “Unbelievable.”

He set the log. Raised the axe. “Mm.”

“I genuinely don’t know how you live in a place this peaceful with that personality.”

He split the wood in one clean strike and finally looked at you again. “You’re still here.”

You opened your mouth to hit him with something truly devastating, but the truth was starting to creep in under your annoyance, which made it all much worse.

He was right.

You were still there.

Still standing in the yard of a church you’d never seen before, arguing with a broad shouldered stranger in flannel while Bruce Springsteen played on the radio and the sunlight caught in his hair every time he moved.

That realization irritated you enough to make you step back.

“Right,” you said crisply. “Well. You’ve been awful.”

He nodded once. “Appreciate the feedback.”

“I mean it.”

“So do I.”

You stared at him.

He stared back.

Then you turned on your heel and headed for the back door of the church.

You had your hand on the latch when the sheer force of your own offense got the better of you. You looked over your shoulder and snapped, “You’re an asshole.”

This time, the surprise on his face was quick but unmistakable, the kind that seemed to catch him before he had time to hide it.

Then his expression settled again into something drier.

You didn’t wait for him to answer. You pushed the door open and stepped back inside, the cool hush of the church closing around you at once, colored light still spilled across the floor exactly where you’d left it. The change in temperature should have calmed you down. It didn’t. Your pulse was still moving too fast, your cheeks warmer than they had any right to be, and all you could think as the door swung shut behind you was:

“Unbelievable.”

You had barely taken another step into the sanctuary when his voice reached you from outside, lower now, rough with reluctant disbelief and just loud enough to carry through the door.

“Christ… mouth like that oughta come with a warning.”

You stopped in the middle of the aisle, the words catching you through the door before you could keep walking.

For a second, you just stood there.

Then, despite yourself, a laugh slipped out.

.⋆♱ taglist: @stephtuckerwriting, @madisonauroraxx, @pattwtf, @ess-evo, @taniamiller, @capuccinodoll

You drank too much.

You know you did.

One drink with the girls over happy hour turned into two, and somewhere after the third, they started blurring together.

Then the crying started—the slightly too loud "how could he do this to me?" at the table making onlookers turn their heads. The pitiful stares of your friends, their hands running along your back in what was supposed to be quiet comfort, all settled in your stomach like a lead weight.

Against all odds, you somehow made it home without stumbling or throwing up in the Uber. Made it up the three flights to your front door. Dropped your keys more than once like the clumsy fool you are, all while the poor old lady across the hall was forced to listen to every expletive you could think of, muttered beneath your vodka-scented breath.

Now you're lying in bed, pajamas half on, phone in hand as you fixate on things you have no business dragging up.

An ex.

The ex.

Should you call him?

Definitely not.

Are you typing in the number you know by heart and pressing call anyway?

Absolutely.

If for nothing else than to tell him to go to hell, that you hope he's miserable without you.

That, or you'll start blubbering like a baby again and regret it like a shot to the head come morning.

You already fucked up royally by looking. Saw the tagged photos, the smiling selfies, the public softness he never gave you. The girl who matters more than you ever did under his arm.

What's another mistake to add to the growing list of ones you've made so far?

The line rings a few times before it clicks to life.

You blink, stare at the ceiling for a couple seconds too long, insides curdling before his name even makes it past your throat.

"...Evan?"

He sighs, low and deep, more tired than anything else.

You're crying before he can get a word out. Shudders that stay lodged in your chest quickly growing to the humiliating, telltale sobs that betray any composure you might have had left.

"I didn't mean to call," you lie, wiping at your eyes, sniffing quietly. "God, I'm just confused. Why did you even say you loved me if you were just gonna—"

You trail off, the words dying on your tongue, swallowed down with another shaky breath.

Joel toes off his boots, groaning quietly as he drops onto the couch, the springs creaking in protest.

The first time he's sat all day, and apparently this is what he's doing with it—listening in on something he's got no business hearing.

"He cheat?" he asks simply.

That voice, unfamiliar to your ears, shuts you up real quick.

You frown, pulling the phone from your ear to glance at it, your reflection glaring back at you in confusion. The number is exactly how you remember it.

Five-eight-four—

Fuck.

"Oh, my god," you groan loudly, face screwing up in embarrassment, palm connecting with your forehead sharp enough to leave a mark.

Maybe you deserve it, drunk-dialing some poor stranger just going about his business and spilling your guts out without hesitation.

"I'm so sorry. Wrong number."

"Just about," he says gruffly.

You're too far gone to say much else—cheeks flushed with humiliation, fingers twisted in the sheets.

"He do that often?" he asks suddenly, the question lingering.

"Do what often?"

"Make you cry."

Damn him for asking.

The question lands harder than it should, enough to make your breath catch, what was meant to be a quiet sob coming out mortifyingly loud.

Your free hand drags through your hair, fingertips snagging in the tangles it accrued throughout the night, the acrid smell of cigarette smoke still clinging to the strands.

"...Yeah," you admit reluctantly, voice small. "That's—"

You breathe deep, sinking further into the mattress.

"Yeah."

You scrub hard at your face, like maybe if you do it enough, the shame will come off along with the mascara streaked down your cheeks.

Joel doesn't say a thing. Not yet, anyway.

The silence stretches—not awkward, but not exactly comforting, either. Your laugh comes out brittle.

"This is so humiliating."

You sniff, dragging your sleeve under your nose with a grimace.

"You can hang up if you want."

He can.

He probably should.

This isn't his business and he knows it.

But Sarah's at a friend's for the night. The only alternative is the lonely hum of the radiator, a cold beer, and whatever game show rerun is on this late.

He exhales through his nose—slow, steady.

What the hell.

"Go on."

That simple permission from him does something to your chest, loosens it just enough for you to make it through the story without crying your eyes out.

He doesn't tell you you're a pain—doesn't make you feel small or stupid for trusting the wrong man. Just sits there, listening without a word.

"—then my friend said he was always a little ugly anyway, which honestly wasn't helpful, it only made me feel worse, 'cause, like, what does that even say about me—"

You trail off with a yawn, eyes heavy, the phone slipping slightly from your grip.

"And yeah..." you murmur. "That's what happened."

"Mhm."

The beer's gone warm in Joel's grip, phone resting on his chest as he listens to your breathing evening out on the other line.

His eyes are on the television, arm tucked behind his head, watching some poor bastard blow his Jeopardy winnings in the same damn category—like he didn't learn the first three times.

He waits for you to say something else, the silence growing longer.

"...you still there?"

When you don't respond, breathing deep and steady into the receiver, he scrubs a hand over his face.

"...Get some sleep."

Click.

Joel thinks about you all damn day.

Not in a dramatic, poetic way he'd ever admit out loud, but in little flashes that distract him more than he'd like.

The sound of your crying through the receiver while he rips out old drywall.

That small, embarrassed little thank you when he didn't leave you high and dry at your worst, coming to mind as he tries to drive a screw into place.

Your sleepy sighs when the night grew late as he lays down a tarp.

He tells himself it was a one-off—a drunk stranger, wrong number, end of story—but even Tommy notices something's off.

"You plannin' on starin' that damn drill to death or you gonna use it?"

Joel grunts, ignores him, throwing himself back into his work without a word.

But his head just isn't in it.

"Who's got you all distracted, brother?" Tommy asks, a sly grin growing on his lips, like he knows something Joel won't admit.

"I ain't distracted."

"Sure... Alright." He walks past, claps him on the back. "And I'm the Pope."

When Joel manages to get a minute to himself, he stares at his phone like the damn thing's liable to blow up any second.

One text. That's all he needs.

He types You okay? Decides it's simple enough. Hits send before he can tell himself what a damn fool he's being.

Meanwhile, you wake in a cold sweat.

Hair a mess, strands stuck to your damp forehead, feeling like you've just been hit by a freight train.

Popping a couple painkillers, you groan as you sit up, back slumping against the headboard.

Squinting one eye open, you pat around for your phone, digging it out from somewhere beneath your hip.

You don't remember much about last night.

The taste of liquor in your throat. Your friends trying to console you over Cosmopolitans and bad karaoke.

Crying.

Lots and lots of crying.

That much, you remember. But there's an odd feeling nagging at you, like you're forgetting something important.

Your phone vibrates in your palm, a new message jolting you from your thoughts.

— You okay?

You stare at it until your eyes dry out, and something happens in your chest you can't explain.

It's not panic—not yet. It's something quieter, an odd sense of relief that washes you clean.

The tension eases from your shoulders in waves, a calming breath leaving your chest.

He checked.

And only then do things start to click—the memory crashing in all at once.

The man on the phone. The shameless sobbing in his ear as you told him your whole life story like he asked for it. Him listening without a word.

Your jaw goes slack, mortification taking its rightful place in your expression as you drop your face into your hands with a silent scream.

You glance at the message again—fingers hovering over the keyboard— cycling through what on earth you could even say to make up for it, but nothing seems good enough.

Maybe he'll forget all about it.

What if he doesn't?

With a deep, steadying breath, you mull it over.

You'll call him tonight, you decide. Just the once.

Apologize and put this all behind you. Put him behind you.

Might be easier said than done.

You pace once, then back again—arms crossed tight over your chest, thumbnail caught between your teeth as your phone sits on the bed like a live grenade.

His number still open and waiting, the clock on your bedside reading nine on the dot.

This is ridiculous.

You're a grown woman. You can call a man and apologize for drunkenly unloading your entire tragic backstory onto him without needing to explain yourself.

It's a normal response. Reasonable, even. Entirely sane.

Just call, apologize, clear the air. After all, the worst he can do is not answer.

Or block you.

Or answer just to tell you to never call him again.

Your face twists, stomach turning.

Okay. Maybe not the worst.

You tell yourself he wouldn't have texted if that was the case, if he didn't care at least a little bit. So, before you can think better of it, you lunge for the phone and press call.

Your eyes widen in immediate regret, but your fingers are too slow to hang up.

"Shit."

You drag a hand through your hair, resume your pacing while the call connects.

It rings only once before he answers, like he was expecting you.

He was.

"Hi—"

His sigh is slow as it comes through. Not annoyed, but something warmer—light enough to stop you dead in your tracks.

"You makin' a habit outta this?"

"Of what?" you ask, swallowing around the sudden dryness in your throat.

"Callin' men you don't know," he says—like it's obvious.

Despite yourself, your mouth tips upward.

No irritation, no clipped impatience. Just warmth in his voice that loosens something in your chest.

"Technically, the first time was an accident," you counter in defense.

"Yeah? And what's it this time?" he asks, giving you all the space you need to answer.

Your mouth opens, closes, the words not coming out as easy as you thought they would.

You settle on the edge of your bed, your free hand running idly along your thigh as you muster a reply that feels right.

"Just wanted to apologize. For last night."

Joel sets his beer down, rests his elbows on his thighs, repositioning the phone at his ear.

You listen, wait patiently for something—anything—toying with a loose thread on your bedspread, gaze fixed stubbornly on it.

"Got nothin' to apologize for."

You huff softly. "I beg to differ."

A moment passes, your steady breathing filling the space.

"I don't even know your name," you add quietly.

His head dips, jaw working, staring at nothing while he listens to the way your voice shrinks around the admission.

"Joel."

You lift your head, eyes rising, the name warming your chest.

"Joel," you repeat.

You tell him your name in return—it's only fair. But it feels like you're handing over something more precious than it is.

Then he says it back, turning it over in that rough voice like he's testing the shape of it in his mouth, making sure it fits.

It does.

It sounds better coming from him than it has from anyone else.

You don't quite know what to do with it.

"Suits you," he adds.

You sigh, head hanging between your shoulders.

He pretends it doesn't do a damn thing to him to hear you like this.

Not upset. Not shattered over some asshole who didn't deserve you.

Just you.

But hearing you say his name—soft, relieved, almost fond—settles something in him he'd rather not think too hard about.

You talk for a while after that—about anything and everything. This and that. Nothing important.

Just things.

Somewhere between talking about work and him complaining about his daughter making him upgrade his phone, you find out he isn't married.

No wife, no girlfriend. Just him and Sarah. And when he talks about her, something in his voice shifts—softening around the edges with unmistakable pride.

Your heart likes the sound of it.

The hours pass quicker than you'd like, and it isn't long before you chance a glance at the time and wince.

"It's getting late," you say softly. "I should probably let you go."

"Yeah. Got work... and Sarah just got home."

"Sarah—right..."

The silence stretches once more, and you feel it then, hanging in the air between you.

Reluctance.

"Joel?"

"Yeah?"

"...Glad I called," you admit.

For a moment, all you have is the sound of him there. Just a quiet exhale through the line, softer than before.

"Yeah," he says then. "Me too."

Click.

You lay there a little while after, phone still flush to your ear—like if you stay there and wait, he might reappear on the other end, giving you more time to memorize the sound of his voice.

He doesn't.

And you realize too late you've begun to memorize it anyway.

Two weeks later, you're still calling, and Joel's still answering like it doesn't cost him a thing. But deep down, he knows it does.

He won't admit he waits by the phone now, soon as nine o'clock rolls around. That he lets it ring before picking up so he doesn't seem too eager.

Sarah's started to notice it, too.

Him smiling to himself about some unspoken thing, eyes drifting to his phone just before he puts her to bed.

He was right that it's become a habit, and if there's one thing either of you know about habits, it's that they can be dangerous little things.

This one feels like it might just be headed that way.

Before, you wondered if you were grasping at straws—fighting to keep something alive that didn't want to be—but he meets you halfway now.

And God, if that doesn't make you want to hold on that much tighter.

"How was work?" you ask, rummaging through your dresser, phone on speaker.

"Fine. Same as always," he replies, exhaling slow. You hear the sound of his throat as he takes a swig, the quiet drone of the TV through the receiver.

"How was school?"

"Ugh, it was boring," you scoff. "Two exams and the longest lecture of my life."

He snorts. "Brat."

You freeze.

It's the first time he's ever called you that, and it sends an unexpected warmth skittering up your back, lingering at your nape.

Gaping at the phone, a surprised laugh escapes you.

"Excuse you. I am not a brat."

"You are. Always talkin' back," he says, like that explains it.

Before you can get a word out, he adds, "See? There you go again."

A smile finds you anyway—slow and unbidden as it settles on your lips.

"You're so annoying," you mutter, hands stilling momentarily as you glance at his name on the screen.

Joel 🤍

The heart emoji next to it? Purely decorative.

That's what you've been telling yourself since it found its way there, anyway.

"What're you diggin' for?" he asks, pulling you from your sudden daze. "Makin' all that noise."

"I'm just looking for something," you say casually, trailing off as your fingers card through the drawer in search of the right thing.

You don't mention you're looking for a nightie you bought months back—pink silk with white lace. The same one you can't stop imagining him bunching up around your hips before he—

Woah.

No.

You're just going to change, lie down, listen to him talk about his day the way you always do.

And maybe you'll slip your fingers into your panties while you do, rub one out before he notices anything is amiss.

That's all. No big deal.

It's an innocent crush, is what it is.

"...Somethin' on your mind, sweetheart?"

"What?" you say—too quick, too breathy.

You shake it off, rest your hand on your chest to steady your heart. As if he didn't just catch you in the middle of a thought that grew legs and ran out ahead of you.

"No, nothing. Just—" your fingertips find home on the soft fabric, latching on instantly. "A-ha!" you exclaim, pulling it from the drawer with a satisfied grin.

He's silent for a moment, then speaks again, voice lower now—curiosity dripping from every word.

"What'd you find?"

Biting the inside of your cheek, you turn toward the mirror, smoothing the fabric over your frame.

"Mm... nothin' really."

You tilt your head, watching yourself. The words slip before you can stop them.

"You'd like it."

Joel pauses mid-sip, beer tilted against his lips as he registers what you said. The silence is a heady thing, stretching for miles between you, so palpable you can nearly taste it.

You can't help but wonder if he's imagining you the way you do him.

When it's late at night and he's on your mind, and your composure slips enough that it's his name you sigh into the dark—only to pretend in the morning you didn't step over that line in the sand that's been fading more and more by the day.

His voice darkens, dropping low enough to send all the warmth in your body pooling south the moment he speaks.

"Yeah?" he asks. "That so?"

The silk shifts against your bare legs—soft and delicate, too gentle for the filth that's suddenly clogging up your mind.

"Yeah," you murmur, confidence coming in like waves on a shore, tide growing high. "I think you would."

You hear the quiet clink of his beer as he sets it down, the rustle as he adjusts himself on the couch to get more comfortable. You close your eyes—let yourself picture him.

Big hands running up your thighs, rough and calloused from working hard, parting them just enough to get a good look at you. Beard scraping your skin as he kisses his way down your chest, lips finding your ear to rumble words that make you ache.

"You still with me, sweetheart?"

"Mhm," you hum, quieter than you need to be, not wanting to give yourself away.

Your fingers find the hem of your shirt, tugging it off, discarding it on the floor without a care.

Slipping the nightgown overhead, you pull it down as far as it goes—just above mid-thigh, hugging your body like a glove.

He hears it all.

The difference in your breathing, the sounds of you changing, clothes being tossed aside.

He's imagining you, too. With all the shamelessness a lonely man like him can muster.

Picturing what you might look like under him.

If your eyes would be blue or brown as they stare into his.

If your nails would leave light indents along his back, or deep, red scratches that would still be there come morning.

Then the obvious—if your face is as pretty as that voice of yours. If the little noises you'd let out when he makes you feel good would sound as sweet as he's envisioned.

"You changin' for me?"

Your heart thunders in your ears—loud and unruly—throat running dry, like cotton in your mouth when you try to speak.

You swallow. "Maybe."

It's been a while since your mind started chiding you for this, telling you to quit while you're ahead, but you don't listen. Enough to ignore it when it tells you this is something you can't come back from.

You know that.

And still, you couldn't care less.

"You wanna see?" you offer, eyes fluttering shut as you try to slow your pulse, breaths coming in quicker now.

His grip tightens around the phone, pressing it closer to his ear like it'll let him hear those words again.

You're offering something he should refuse, something he has no right to accept. But Joel Miller's quickly learning he doesn't have the honest strength to deny you a damn thing.

"Sweetheart..." he says, letting the silence speak for itself for a minute. "Don't do that unless you mean it."

You interject smoothly—so wound up, you're practically trembling where you stand.

You laugh to yourself, a huff of nervousness that makes your chest feel tight. "I mean it. Just—tell me you wanna see me."

It takes Joel a while to get the words out.

Not because he doesn't want to.

Maybe it's knowing what all it could do. A sweet thing on the other end of the line—something too good for the likes of him—offering herself up to his eyes without hesitation.

It's bound to change things, for better or for worse.

And he's never been a fan of change.

Even still, he can't say no to you. Won't.

Not when you're asking like you're half-convinced he'll reject you already, like a man who doesn't know what he's got.

"Yeah," he mutters finally. "Wanna see you."

Something in you draws up tight at that, a flutter in your stomach that knocks the wind clean out of you.

"Okay... Yeah, okay. Give me a second," you murmur, ambling over to your bed.

You settle onto your knees, sitting back on your calves, legs parted to reveal delicate lace panties you put on with him in mind. The silk slides under your fingers as you draw up the slip, until it sits resting high around your hips.

You've done this before, taken photos of yourself for a man—more than once.

But... it's never felt like this.

Not even close.

There's a steady flush in your cheeks, and a heat like fire burning down low, an ache building you wish he could soothe.

He'd know what to do, you think.

How to get you riled up, filthy words low and rough in your ear as he works you over with his fingers. Then, mouth trailing down your chest, he'd settle against your wet heat, lapping at you until you finish on his tongue, drinking you down without hesitation.

You purse your lips, press them together tight to tamp down how the thought of him taking care of you is ruining you more and more by the second.

Once the picture is gone in the air, hitting send with shaky hands, you drop back onto the bed and wait for it to deliver.

When he doesn't say a thing, you're close to asking if he got it—then, you hear it.

Quiet enough to miss if you're not paying attention.

But you are, without a goddamn doubt.

A slow release through his nose, proceeded by a hum that has your thighs clamping shut, breath hitching in your chest.

Satisfied.

Appreciative.

"You wear that for me?" he asks, a husky shift in tone that has your lips parting.

"Yeah, I—"

You stop yourself, take a second.

"Do you like it?"

"You gotta ask?" he murmurs, drawl draping itself around every word, a shiver running through you at the sound.

You giggle softly.

"Maybe I do. You're a man of few words," you return, finger twirling around a strand of your hair.

"Oh, I got words, darlin'. They just ain't sweet enough."

"I'm sweet enough for the both of us," you blurt, the double-meaning landing heavy between you.

He goes quiet again, long enough to make you wonder if you broke him. When he speaks again, his voice lands low in your belly, twisting you up deliciously.

"That right?"

"Mhm," you hum, smiling to yourself, tucking your hair behind your ear.

"Keep talkin' like that. That mouth's gonna get you in trouble."

Your mind takes that idea and runs with it before you can reel it back in. Joel bending you over his knee, his hand coming down firm on your ass, leaving a handprint that lingers for days, hot to the touch.

That same harsh voice in your ear telling you exactly what your mouth got you.

Christ.

"You still with me?" he asks.

"Yeah," you blurt, tongue darting out to wet your lips, tone laced with anticipation. "I'm here. Just... thinking."

The small grin in his voice registers without needing to see it. It drives you crazy.

"About me?"

You laugh, a touch unsteady. "Yeah, about you... wanna see you."

"Mm," he hums, as if considering it. Like he's not already straining against his jeans from that one picture of you.

"What you wanna see?" he asks finally.

"Your face," you mumble, a near whisper. "Your hands... your fingers."

Another low breath filters through the speaker, sounding like a heady mix of amusement and sheer arousal. But he doesn't laugh, not outright—doesn't tease you for being specific.

He takes it exactly how you meant it.

"My hands," he repeats slowly, rolling the words around his mouth like he's tasting them. "Fingers."

You hear a rustle—denim shifting against denim—then a heavy creak like he's leaning back, spreading his legs wider, latching onto every goddamn word that leaves your mouth.

"What exactly do you wanna do with 'em?"

You swallow, worrying your bottom lip, staring at the ceiling to try and ground yourself.

"I was hoping you'd be the one using them, actually."

The admission hangs in the air, raw and unrestrained. You're giving him control and he knows it.

When he speaks again, his voice has darkened—breaths slower, more controlled. Then that rough, approving sound rumbles low in his throat, a faint curse muttered under his breath.

"Ain't even touched you and you got me actin' stupid."

Your fingers tighten in the sheets before relaxing completely, running slowly along your thigh, phone angling closer to your ear.

"...You wanna touch me?"

He pauses.

"Been thinkin' about it."

You flush instantly, thighs clenching again, tighter this time.

"...Tell me about it," you say.

His response takes a moment to come out, like he's choosing every word carefully.

"You wanna know what I'd do with my hands on you?" he asks, voice rougher at the edges, dragging over every syllable like gravel under a boot heel.

Your fingers inch closer to your core, rubbing slow over the lace, applying just enough pressure to make your back arch as a shiver curls its way up your spine.

"Yeah," you whisper, a ragged little sound in your throat. "Please."

"I'd start slow," he says, voice dropping an octave. "Real slow."

You let your eyes flutter shut as you press down firmer, rubbing in slow circles that have your hips bucking into your hand, focused entirely on the sound of his voice in your ear.

"Slide my hands up your thighs real gentle, feel how soft your skin is. Wouldn't leave marks—too pretty for that."

"And if I ask nicely?" you ask breathlessly.

Joel palms himself through his jeans, sighing with relief as he works himself free.

The sound of his zipper perks you right up.

"Got a feelin' I'd have a hard time tellin' you no."

"That's a dangerous thing to tell a girl like me," you goad, moving the lace aside to swipe a finger along your slit. You circle your clit firmly, just once—all you need to have you whimpering in his ear.

He hums low, the sound rumbling through the phone like a physical touch.

"Reckon it is."

His hand moves over himself faster now, imagining your fingers taking the place of his own, working up a steady rhythm that has him grunting under his breath.

"You started this."

The slick sound of your arousal reaches him through the speaker, followed by that pretty voice of yours that has his movements faltering.

"I did," you admit. "...But you wanted it to happen."

"Not denyin’ that," he says, low and unhurried. "Wanted it."

He pauses.

"Still do."

"Me too," you whisper, lashes fluttering when you finally sink a finger in—curling just enough to hit that spot that makes you shiver, drawing a moan from your lips.

His head tips back against the couch, jaw tight, hanging onto every little noise you make.

"Add another," he says suddenly, your eyes opening in a daze.

"What—"

"You heard me. Another."

Your mouth parts on instinct, heat flooding your face, pulse kicking hard at your throat.

"Joel..."

"C'mon, sweetheart. Don't go shy on me now."

Eyes squeezing shut, your hand obeys before your mind can catch up.

It's a tight fit, walls clenching around your fingers to try and accommodate the sudden fullness. You bite your lip nearly hard enough to bleed, whining at the feel of it, his name tumbling from your lips like it's the only word you have left.

"That's it," he murmurs. "There you go."

You're not sure what does you in.

His hard breaths across the line, the wet sounds his hand makes as he strokes himself—a slow and languid rhythm at first, soon picking up pace to match your own—but before you can help it, you're tensing, coming with a sharp cry of his name.

Joel's hand tightens around his length, his own breath catching in his throat. He can imagine you all too easily—back arched, face flushed, those legs spread wide as you come apart.

That's all it takes.

With a guttural groan, he comes hard, release coating his hand, spilling onto his stomach.

Coming down from the high, you right your panties into place and settle onto your side. You curl up under the sheets, listening to his staggered breaths as he puts himself back together again.

"So..." you murmur, toying with the hem of your nightgown, core still throbbing from your release. "Same time tomorrow?"

He breathes deep, trying to steady himself as best he can, letting the silence speak for itself.

Then—

"Yeah."

You smile, slow and satisfied—wait for him to say it.

"Same time tomorrow."

a/n: i interrupt our regularly scheduled program to bring you... a very self-indulgent, horny joel miller fic! and the crowd goes wild!!! idk why my first ever breakup came to mind to use as a plot device, but life imitates art or something like that.

Saturday night started with Fleetwood Mac drifting out of the bathroom and Joel pretending he had not been listening to the same soft, hypnotic rhythm of Dreams for the past twenty minutes.

He was on the bed with his back against the headboard, one leg stretched out and the other bent lazily at the knee, a book open in one hand that he had not actually read beyond the same two paragraphs since you’d disappeared into the bathroom with your makeup bag, your curling iron, half your perfume collection, and the kind of determined expression that usually meant the bedroom was about to become a staging area for decisions he did not fully understand but always enjoyed witnessing. The door stood half open, and light spilled through the gap in a warm stripe across the floorboards, carrying with it the faint hiss of running water and your voice rising every now and then over the music when a lyric caught you in just the right place.

Joel didn’t smile much when he was alone. It had never come naturally to him, not even in peace. But the corner of his mouth had been sitting in that almost smile for a while now, stubborn and helpless, because there were some things marriage had taught him no amount of age or bad habit could defend against. The sound of you singing too loudly in the bathroom was one of them. Not perfectly. Not even close, sometimes. You had a dangerous faith in high notes after two glasses of wine and a worse one when you were sober, but there was something about that song that made you softer instead of louder, your voice warm and careless as it slipped through the half open door. You sang like you were living inside the song instead of performing it, like the words belonged to you for as long as they passed through your mouth, and Joel had discovered early on that there was a kind of happiness in hearing someone you loved be unselfconscious in the next room.

That was the word for it, maybe. Unselfconscious. Safe enough to be noisy. Safe enough to take up space. Safe enough to scatter clothes across his side of the bed and shout, “Don’t look yet,” as though he had not seen every inch of you in states far less organized than this.

He looked at the open book again and absorbed none of it.

From the bathroom, you called, “Joel?”

“Hm?”

“Are you listening?”

He lifted his eyes toward the door. “To what?”

“To Stevie Nicks.”

“Been hard not to, darlin’.”

Your laugh came out bright and immediate. “Rude.”

“Didn’t say it was bad.”

“You implied it.”

“I implied you got enthusiasm.”

“Enthusiasm is a compliment.”

“In some contexts.”

“Joel.”

He turned the page only to keep up appearances. “Sorry, ma’am.”

There was a pause, and then something small hit the bathroom door from the inside. A makeup brush, maybe. Or a hair clip. He didn’t know. You owned enough tiny objects to arm yourself for a siege.

He shook his head and looked back down, still smiling despite himself.

He liked this part more than he had ever thought he would. That was the honest truth of it. Years ago, before you, Joel might have thought this kind of waiting would annoy him; the music, the clothes, the questions that did not have one correct answer no matter how many times you insisted they did, the slow transformation of the bedroom into a disaster of fabric, jewelry, perfume, and half zipped handbags. He might have mistaken all of it for fuss. For delay. For complication.

Now he understood it as anticipation.

There was something almost ceremonious about the way you prepared for a night out with your girls. It was not simply putting on clothes and leaving the house. It was the choosing. The trying. The little rituals of becoming the version of yourself the night required. You did your makeup with a concentration that made him go quiet, then ruined your own seriousness by turning a mascara tube into a microphone the second Bad Romance came on. You held earrings against your neck and turned your head in the mirror as if consulting some invisible jury. You sprayed perfume into the air and walked through it with your eyes closed. You changed your mind three times, sometimes four, and every version of you that stepped out for his judgment looked so good to him that he was, admittedly, useless as a critic.

Joel had learned not to say that too early.

If he said “that one” right away, you accused him of not looking closely enough. If he hesitated, you accused him of hating it. If he said he liked all of them, you told him that was sweet but unhelpful. Marriage, as far as he could tell, was a long and humbling education in answering questions for which the truth was not always the point.

The bathroom door opened a little wider.

“Okay,” you said from behind it. “First option.”

Joel closed the book around one finger and looked up.

You stepped out barefoot, still in the soft robe you wore while getting ready, but holding a dress against the front of your body by its hanger. It was black, short enough that Joel’s eyes gave it careful attention before he remembered he was supposed to be evaluating rather than reacting. You stood at the foot of the bed with your lips pressed together, trying to read his face before he’d said a word.

He knew better than to speak too fast.

“Well?” you asked.

Joel looked at the dress, then at you. “That the one you wore to Pat’s birthday dinner?”

“No. That one had sleeves.”

“Right.”

You narrowed your eyes slightly. “Do you actually remember that?”

He gave you a look over the top of the book. “You wore it with those little gold earrings that look like knots.”

Your mouth parted just a little, pleased despite yourself. “Hoops, Joel. They’re hoops.”

“They got knots in ’em.”

“They’re twisted hoops.”

“That’s what I said.”

You laughed and looked down at the dress again, your thumb smoothing over the fabric. “So?”

He took a second, more because he wanted to watch the way you waited than because he needed one. “It’s pretty.”

“Pretty good or pretty pretty?”

“Pretty dangerous.”

Your face changed, and he felt the satisfaction of it low in his chest.

“Dangerous,” you repeated.

“Mmm-hmm.”

“That sounds like a… husband answer.”

“Ain’t I your husband?”

“Yes, but that doesn’t mean you get to be lazy.”

Joel’s brow lifted. “You ask me what I think, I say you look dangerous, and somehow I’m lazy.”

“You didn’t specify why.”

He set the book aside at last because pretending had become insulting to both of you. “Alright. It’s got that neckline you like, the one that makes you stand different.”

You blinked.

He continued, because now you had asked for it. “The skirt hits high enough that you’ll keep tugging at it when you sit, but not because you don’t like it. Because you know it looks good and you’ll want to act like you don’t know.”

Your expression softened into surprise.

“And,” he added, eyes moving back up to yours, “if you wear it with those black heels that make you mean, you’ll spend all night pretendin’ you’re not enjoyin’ everybody lookin’ at you.”

You stared at him.

Joel waited.

Then you said, quieter, “The black heels make me… mean?”

“They do.”

“How?”

He shrugged one shoulder. “You walk differently in ’em.”

Your smile started small. “Different how?”

“Like you’re about to ruin somebody’s life.”

You laughed then, delighted and embarrassed all at once, and the sound went through him with a warmth so clean it almost hurt. You turned on your heel and disappeared back into the bathroom, calling over your shoulder, “That one goes in the maybe pile.”

Joel watched the empty doorway for a moment.

Then he reached for the book, opened it, and did not read.

The music changed then, the first low, gritty pull of Sex on Fire slipping through the bathroom door, and you made a pleased little sound from inside, the kind he could picture without seeing it: your head tipping back, your shoulders moving, your hand finding a brush or lipstick or bottle of something as though the song had made the decision for you. He heard drawers slide open, hangers scrape, the soft thump of clothing landing somewhere it probably shouldn’t. Every now and then your reflection crossed the thin vertical slice of the bathroom mirror visible from where he sat, and Joel caught fragments: your bare shoulder, the line of your neck, your hand lifting to your mouth, the flash of an earring.

Joel looked down at the book again and pretended not to hear the way you sang that one lower, less pretty and more amused, like you knew exactly what the song did to the air between the bedroom and the bathroom.

It was not that he needed to watch.

It was that he liked being allowed to.

There was a difference he did not think most men understood. Watching you get ready was not about possession, though there was some quiet, old fashioned part of him that took a dangerous kind of pride in knowing you would come back to him at the end of the night. It was about being the person who saw the before and after, the decisions no one else would know had taken place, the little anxieties that passed through you before you stepped out looking like nothing in the world could touch you. Your friends would see the final version. The bar would see the smile, the dress, the gloss, the confidence. Joel saw the bobby pins between your teeth and the mascara face and the way you frowned at one shoe because it had betrayed you once on a sidewalk crack two summers ago.

He loved the finished thing but he loved the making of it even more.

You appeared again with the second option, this time actually wearing it.

Joel’s spine straightened before he could help it.

It was not as obviously dangerous as the black dress. That was the trouble. This one did not announce itself. It was softer, the color warm against your skin, the fabric skimming rather than clinging, the straps delicate enough to make his hands feel suddenly aware of themselves. You came out smoothing your palms down the front of it, looking at him with uncertainty he immediately disliked.

“I don’t know,” you said.

Joel’s eyes lifted to your face. “Why not?”

You glanced down. “Maybe it’s too simple.”

“No.”

“No?”

“No,” he said again, firmer.

Your gaze flickered to his. “You like this one?”

“I do.”

“You said the other one was dangerous.”

“This one is too.”

You let out a little disbelieving laugh. “Joel, you cannot call every outfit dangerous.”

“I can if they are.”

“That’s not helpful, baby.”

He sat forward, forearms resting on his thighs, and looked at you properly. “That one’s quieter.”

You went still.

He chose his words with more care, because he could see now that this mattered differently. “Not plain. Not simple. Quiet. Like… it doesn’t need to try so hard.”

Your face shifted with that, some of the doubt giving way to something more tender.

“It looks like you, that's why.” he said.

The room changed.

Just a little. Just enough.

You looked down again, but this time not because you were unsure. Because you were trying to hide the effect of him.

Joel’s voice softened. “You look beautiful, baby.”

You pressed your lips together, fighting a smile. “You’re supposed to be helping me choose, not making it harder.”

“Didn’t say I was good at the job.”

“You’re terrible at it.”

“I’m honest.”

“That might be worse.”

He huffed a laugh. “Probably.”

You walked to the full length mirror near the dresser and turned sideways, studying yourself. Joel watched you with a concentration that did not feel casual anymore. There were things he could have said and didn’t. That he liked the way the dress made your shoulders look delicate when he knew perfectly well you were not fragile. That the soft color made him think of summer evenings and your mouth after wine. That he liked how comfortable you seemed inside it, how much less you performed when you forgot he was watching and assessed yourself with those quiet, devoted eyes.

Instead he said, “Can you dance in it?”

You glanced back. “That’s your deciding factor?”

“If you’re goin’ out with the girls, yeah.”

That made you smile properly. “I can dance in it.”

“Can you sit in it without complainin’?”

“Yes.”

“Can you eat fries in it?”

You laughed. “What kind of question is that?”

“A practical one.”

“I can eat fries in anything.”

“Not true. Green dress from New Year’s.”

Your mouth dropped open. “That dress was tight.”

“I remember.”

You tried to glare at him, but your smile ruined it. “Maybe pile?”

“Maybe pile.”

You turned back toward the bathroom, then paused at the doorway. “You really like it?”

Joel’s expression settled, the humor easing into something steadier. “Yeah, darlin’. I really like it.”

You disappeared before he could say more, but he saw the way your shoulders lifted, lighter than before.

That was another thing he liked. Not the insecurity, never that, but the privilege of being trusted with it. You did not hand those little uncertainties to everyone. You did not ask just anyone, Is this too much? Is this enough? Do I look like myself? You asked him. Only him. And every time, something inside Joel answered before he did: I see you. I’ve got you. Come here, let me look.

He rubbed a hand over his jaw and glanced toward the window, where the last of the evening light was thinning into blue. You had been excited about tonight all week. Girls’ night, you kept calling it, though there was always a touch of ceremony in the way you said it, like it meant more than drinks and dinner and too many shared appetizers. It meant being someone besides wife for a few hours, not because being his wife trapped you, but because Joel knew love was healthiest when it left the door open. He liked that you had women who made you laugh loud enough to lose your breath. He liked that you came home with stories, with lipstick half gone, with your feet aching, with that loose, tipsy warmth that made you affectionate and bossy and far too honest.

He especially liked the part where you came home to him.

That thought was enough to make him look back down at his hands and smile secretly to himself.

The bathroom door opened again.

“Okay,” you announced. “Final option.”

Joel looked up.

And forgot, briefly, that he was supposed to be civilized.

You had chosen a dark denim dress he had not seen before, something different and fitted with a neckline that was not indecent but still made him sit very still. You had added jewelry this time. Not all of it, not yet, but enough: small earrings catching the light, a bracelet at your wrist, a necklace resting just above your collarbone. Your makeup was half done, your hair still not quite finished, and somehow that made it worse. Not polished yet. Not complete. Still in the middle of becoming. Still his to see before the world got the final version.

“Well?” you asked, more quietly this time.

Joel’s gaze traveled down and back up with deliberate restraint. “That’s the one.”

Your brows rose. “You’re sure?”

“Yep.”

“You didn’t even think about it.”

“Didn’t need to.”

You looked down at yourself. “Why?”

Because I want to cancel your night and keep you here, he thought, and immediately decided not to say that because he was, contrary to some evidence beneath his pants, a decent man.

Out loud, he said, “You’re comfortable in it.”

You softened. “That’s your reason?”

“One of ’em.”

“What’s the other?”

He leaned back against the headboard again, eyes on you. “You keep lookin’ at yourself like you already chose it and you’re waitin’ for me to agree.”

Your lips parted, then closed. You glanced toward the mirror, caught, and laughed under your breath. “That is extremely annoying.”

“Being right?”

“Yes.”

You walked closer, stopping between his knees at the edge of the bed. Joel tipped his head back to keep looking at you, and for a moment the music from the bathroom seemed to move farther away, softened by the doorway and the warm air and the fact of you standing so close that he could smell the coconut lotion on your skin. You reached down and took the book from beside him, glanced at the cover, then at his face.

“Space for idiots,” you read aloud. “What page are you on, baby?”

Joel did not blink. “Page I’m on.”

“You haven’t moved in half an hour.”

“Book’s dense.”

“You’re a bad liar.”

He looked up at you, and the truth sat in his face before he bothered with words. “You were more interestin’.”

Your expression changed in a way he felt more than saw. Softer at first, then pleased, then something else underneath it, something playful sharpening around the edges.

“You like watching me get ready.”

He could have denied it. He had enough pride left to try, maybe. But you were smiling at him like you already knew, and Joel had reached an age where lying badly in front of a beautiful woman was more trouble than it was worth.

“Yeah,” he said.

Your smile widened. “Why?”

He slipped his hands to your hips, not pulling, just settling there because you were close enough and he wanted to. “You ask a lot of questions.”

“You don’t answer enough of them.”

“That ain’t true.”

“It is.”

He studied you for a moment, thumb moving once against the fabric at your side. “I like seein’ you happy.”

The playfulness in your face dimmed into something tender.

Joel kept his voice low, almost plain, because that was the only way he knew how to say things that mattered. “Like watchin’ you choose things for yourself. Like watchin’ you get excited. Like knowin’ you’re goin’ out and gonna have a good time, and then you’re comin’ back here after.”

Your hand came to rest lightly against his shoulder. “To you.”

His eyes held yours. “To me.”

For a second, neither of you moved.

Then your phone buzzed somewhere in the bathroom, and the moment broke gently instead of shattering. You looked toward the sound, then back at him with reluctant duty.

“That’s probably them.”

“Then you better finish gettin’ ready.”

You sighed dramatically. “You’re kicking me out?”

Joel’s hands tightened slightly at your hips before he released you. “If I was kickin’ you out, you’d know it.”

You leaned down and kissed him, quick at first, then not quick at all when his hand came up to the back of your neck and kept you there a moment longer. You tasted faintly of cherry lip gloss and smelled like perfume he knew would linger on his shirt after you left. When you pulled away, his eyes stayed on your mouth.

“You’re going to mess up my gloss,” you whispered.

He huffed a laugh. “Consider me warned.”

You straightened, but before you could leave, he caught your wrist and turned it gently, his thumb brushing beneath the bracelet you had half fastened. “You want this one?”

You looked down. “Yes, please.”

He stood, taking the two ends carefully between his fingers. For a man who spent his days handling lumber, concrete, and power tools, Joel could be surprisingly patient with delicate things when they belonged to you. He bent his head, brows drawn in concentration, and fastened the clasp with more care than the tiny piece of jewelry probably deserved. You watched him do it in silence, your wrist resting in his hand, and he felt your gaze on the top of his head like warmth.

“There,” he murmured.

You turned your wrist, making the bracelet catch the light. “Thank you.”

He didn’t let go right away. His thumb slid once over your pulse. “Text me when you need me.”

“I will.”

“Not when you think you might need me. When you need me.”

Your smile was immediate, but you didn’t tease him for it. You knew the difference by now between control and care, between Joel trying to hold you back and Joel needing to know there was a line of safety between your night and his hands.

“I promise,” you said.

He nodded once. “And drink water.”

“There he is.”

“What?”

“My old man.”

Joel’s eyes narrowed. “Careful.”

You rose on your toes and kissed his cheek. “My handsome old man.”

“That ain’t better.”

“It’s a little better.”

“It is not.”

You laughed as you slipped out of his hold and back toward the bathroom, leaving him standing by the bed with your perfume on his shirt and your bracelet’s warmth still ghosting across his fingers. He watched through the open door as you leaned close to the mirror again, reapplying gloss with precise little movements, then stepping back to check the whole effect.

The song changed once more, and the first dramatic beat of Bad Romance filled the bathroom. You gasped softly in recognition before turning it up, already reaching for your mascara tube like it had been waiting all night to become a microphone.

“Oh, I love this one.”

“I know,” Joel called.

You poked your head out, eyes bright. “Yeah?”

He sat back on the bed, reaching for the abandoned book out of habit rather than interest. “You play it every time you’re gettin’ ready.”

Your smile went strangely soft. “You really do pay attention.”

Joel looked at you over the book, the answer too obvious to dress up. “Told you I did.”

For once, you didn’t make a joke.

You just stood there for a second in the warm bathroom light, half finished and already beautiful, looking at him like you had found something precious in the middle of an ordinary evening. Then you disappeared again, singing along under your breath at first, until the French part came and you gave up on pretending to be subtle altogether. Joel heard the sudden lift in your voice, the ridiculous confidence of it, the way you leaned into every syllable as if the bathroom mirror were a stage and the mascara tube in your hand had been made for exactly this.

Joel lowered the book a fraction, watched the flash of your hand in the mirror, and decided there were worse things in life than being married to a woman who performed Lady Gaga to an audience of one.

And then he let his head fall back against the headboard as the house filled with music, perfume, and the living proof of you.

By the time Joel made it to the bar, he still had the ghost of your perfume on his shirt.

He noticed it when he stepped out of the truck and the evening air shifted around him, cool enough now that the heat of the house seemed to fall away in pieces. It was faint, almost gone beneath sawdust, soap, and the clean cotton of the shirt he had changed into before leaving, but it was there all the same. Something soft. Something yours. It followed him across the small parking lot like a hand at the back of his neck, and by the time he pushed open the bar door, Joel had already made the private mistake of wondering if you were singing already in the car with your friends, laughing too loud and checking your gloss in the passenger mirror.

The bar was warm, dim, and familiar, full of the kind of Saturday night noise that didn’t ask much of a man. A game played on the television above the counter with the volume low. Country music hummed somewhere under the voices. The place smelled of beer, fried food and old wood. Joel liked bars like this. Nothing polished. Nothing trying to impress anybody. Just a room where working men could sit down, drink something cold, and pretend their knees did not hurt when they stood back up.

Tommy was already at a table near the back with a couple of the crew and one electrician they used often enough that he had become less subcontractor and more permanent nuisance.

Tommy lifted his chin when he saw Joel. “There he is.”

Joel pulled out the chair beside him. “Y’all start without me?”

“Hell, I was born startin’ without you,” Tommy said, sliding a beer toward him. “You’re the one who likes showin’ up after everybody’s settled.”

Joel sat and reached for the bottle. “Had things to do.”

“Mmm-hmm.”

That was all Tommy said at first, which was how Joel knew his brother had decided to behave for at least three minutes. Maybe four, if God was feeling generous.

Eugene nodded at Joel over the basket of wings. “Miller.”

“Eugene.”

“You missed Tommy explainin’ why he could fix the Cowboys if Jerry Jones would just take his calls.”

Joel took a drink. “Ain’t sure the Cowboys deserve that.”

Tommy pointed at him. “See, that right there is why I don’t talk football with you. No vision.”

“I got vision. I can see you’d make it worse.”

The table laughed, Tommy included, though he gave Joel a look like he was storing the insult for later. It was easy at first. Easier than Joel had expected. The beer was cold, the chair was comfortable enough, and the men around the table were talking the way men talked when nobody’s wife was close enough to tell them they were all repeating the same argument they had every other week. Work bled into football, football into truck problems, truck problems into Eugene insisting he knew a mechanic who could “hear a bad alternator from across a damn county,” which nobody believed and everyone encouraged.

Joel listened. Mostly.

He answered when spoken to, laughed once when Tommy told a story about a homeowner who had tried to explain load bearing walls after watching three videos online, and corrected Caleb when he started blaming the wrong supplier for the late windows on the Henderson job. For a while, he was present enough to pass. Present enough that no one had reason to look too closely.

Then his phone buzzed in his pocket.

It was nothing, just a notification from the weather app, but his hand was halfway there before he stopped himself.

But Tommy saw.

Joel knew he saw because Tommy did not say anything.

And that was worse.

His brother only took a slow drink from his beer, eyes forward, mouth doing that almost smile that had gotten him into trouble since they were boys. Joel ignored it. He was good at ignoring Tommy when he had to be. Had decades of practice. He folded his arms, leaned back, and focused on Eugene arguing with the electrician about whether the bar’s fries had changed.

“They’re thinner,” Eugene said, offended down to his soul.

“They ain’t thinner,” the electrician said. “You’re drunker.”

“I’ve had two beers.”

“Exactly.”

Eugene pointed at the basket. “A man knows when a fry’s been disrespected.”

Tommy shook his head. “Lord help whoever marries you.”

“Too late,” Eugene said. “My wife married me for my standards.”

Joel glanced at the television, then, without meaning to, toward the phone he had set face down near his elbow.

Still nothing.

He had told himself he would not sit at home waiting, and he hadn’t. Technically. He was at the bar. He had a beer in front of him and Tommy beside him and enough noise around him to count as social participation. But there was a part of him that had never left the bedroom, never left the sight of you standing between his knees in that dark denim dress, asking whether he liked watching you get ready as if the answer had not been sitting all over his face.

He wondered if the bracelet had stayed clasped.

He could picture you too clearly: your head bent toward one of your friends across a table, your drink held between both hands, the necklace catching low light at your throat. He could hear, in his mind, the way you laughed when something truly caught you off guard, not the pretty laugh you gave strangers but the full one, the one that made you lean into the nearest person and lose the thread of your own sentence.

Joel took another drink.

Tommy leaned sideways. “You hear a word I just said?”

Joel looked at him. “What?”

Tommy smiled slowly. Not too wide. Just enough to let Joel know the trial had begun.

“I said,” Tommy repeated, “that Ricky’s cousin backed his boat into his own garage door last summer.”

Joel stared at him.

The table went quiet for half a beat.

Then Caleb snorted into his beer.

Joel frowned. “What?”

Tommy’s smile widened. “Nothin’. Just checkin’.”

Joel set his bottle down. “You’re full of shit.”

“I am,” Tommy said easily. “But you still didn’t know.”

Eugene leaned forward, delighted. “Uh-oh.”

“No uh-oh,” Joel said.

“Oh, there is definitely an uh-oh,” Eugene said. “Man’s body is here, soul’s elsewhere.”

Joel gave him a flat look. “My soul’s mindin’ its business.”

Tommy rested an elbow on the table and turned more fully toward him. “Where’d you go, big brother?”

“Nowhere.”

“Mm. That why you’ve looked at your phone four times since sittin’ down?”

“I have not.”

“You have,” Caleb said, earning himself Joel’s stare and immediately lowering his eyes to his drink. “I mean… maybe three.”

Eugene shook his head gravely. “No, four. I respect accuracy.”

Joel sighed through his nose. “Y’all got nothin’ better to do?”

“We did,” Tommy said. “Then you started actin’ suspicious.”

“I’m not actin’ suspicious.”

“Joel,” Tommy said, voice dry as dust, “you just missed an entire made up story about a boat.”

“I was thinkin’.”

“About?”

Joel did not answer fast enough.

That was his second mistake.

Tommy’s expression changed in the exact way Joel hated: softer first, because he knew, then amused, because he was Tommy and mercy had never been his strongest quality.

“Ah,” Tommy said. “There she is.”

Joel picked up his beer. “Don’t start.”

“I didn’t say her name yet.”

“You didn’t have to.”

Tommy leaned back in his chair, now fully enjoying himself. “She’s out with the girls tonight.”

Eugene’s eyebrows rose. “Oh. That explains it.”

“Explains what?” Joel asked.

“The watchfulness,” Eugene said, like he was diagnosing a condition. “The haunted look. The sad little phone glances.”

Joel pointed at him with the neck of his beer. “Ain’t nothin’ sad about me.”

Tommy laughed. “Brother, you look like a dog tryin’ to pretend he ain’t heard the treat bag.”

The whole table broke.

Joel stared at his brother for a long second. “You been waitin’ all night to say that?”

“Came to me just now.”

“Should’ve let it pass.”

“Couldn’t. Gift from God.”

“You and God need better hobbies.”

Tommy’s grin turned sharp. “So how long before she texts?”

Joel looked back to the television. “Don’t know.”

“But you got a guess.”

“No.”

“Liar.”

“I don’t.”

“You absolutely do.” Tommy tipped his beer toward the phone. “You’ve been watchin’ that thing like it owes you money.”

Joel jaw shifted. “She’s havin’ fun.”

“Didn’t say she wasn’t.”

“She don’t need me hoverin’.”

“Nope.”

Joel glanced at him, suspicious now. Tommy’s voice had changed just slightly. Less bite. More brother.

Tommy shrugged one shoulder. “Ain’t hoverin’ if you’re waitin’ to be called.”

Joel looked down at the beer bottle in his hand, thumb worrying at the damp label. That was the trouble with Tommy. He could be an ass for twenty straight minutes and then say something too close to true with no warning at all.

“She looked happy when she left,” Joel said, before he could stop himself.

The table went quieter, not silent, but softened at the edges.

Tommy nodded. “Yeah?”

“Mm.”

“Good.”

Joel kept his eyes on the bottle. “She gets excited about this stuff. The gettin’ ready. The music. Showin’ me half her closet like I know a damn thing.”

“You know more than you pretend,” Tommy said.

Joel glanced over.

Eugene leaned in. “Oh.”

Joel turned his head slowly. “Tommy.”

“What? I’m celebratin’ your growth.”

“You’re about to celebrate eatin’ through a straw.”

Caleb laughed too hard and tried to hide it behind his bottle.

Tommy only smiled, entirely unafraid. “See? That right there. That’s my brother’s love right there.”

Joel took a drink because it was either that or smile, and he wasn’t giving Tommy the satisfaction.

Eugene, unfortunately, had found blood in the water. “So she tried on outfits before?”

Joel looked at the ceiling.

Tommy answered for him. “Oh, absolutely.”

“You weren’t there,” Joel said.

“Didn’t have to be. You got that face.”

“What face?”

“The face of a man who’s been asked whether two dresses are different and knows his life depends on the answer.”

The table laughed again, and this time Joel let himself huff the smallest breath of amusement because, damn it, it wasn’t entirely wrong.

“They were different,” he muttered.

Tommy snapped his fingers. “Hear that? Expert witness.”

Eugene leaned forward, solemn. “How different?”

Joel looked at him. “One had sleeves.”

The laughter came louder this time.

“Hell,” Eugene said, wiping at his eye. “That’s marriage right there.”

Joel shook his head, but the corner of his mouth betrayed him. “Y’all are idiots.”

Tommy’s grin softened. “Maybe. But you like watchin’ her get ready, don’t you?”

Joel didn’t answer right away.

That was a question he could have dodged with something gruff. He could have told Tommy to mind his business, could have insulted Eugene’s wings, could have stood up and gone to the bar for another beer he didn’t need. But the night had been built around that exact truth, and maybe it was still sitting too close to the surface because your perfume was on his shirt and your bracelet’s clasp had warmed beneath his fingers before he left.

“Yeah,” Joel said finally. “I do.”

No one laughed.

Tommy watched him, expression quieter now.

Joel cleared his throat and kept his eyes somewhere past the table. “She gets all worked up about it. Not nervous exactly. Just… alive, I guess. Music playin’, clothes everywhere, talkin’ to herself in the mirror like she’s negotiatin’ with a hostile witness.”

Eugene smiled into his beer.

“She asks me things she already knows the answer to,” Joel went on. “Then gets mad when I don’t answer right. Changes her mind six times. Sings too loud. Throws somethin’ at the door if I get smart.”

Tommy’s mouth moved with fond amusement. “Sounds awful.”

Joel glanced at him. “It ain’t.”

“I know.”

Joel looked back down at the table. “I like that she’s got that. Her friends. Her night. Somethin’ that’s hers.”

“And you like that she comes back,” Tommy said.

Joel’s thumb stilled on the bottle.

There it was again. Tommy cutting through all the noise because he had known Joel too long not to.

“Yeah,” Joel said, voice lower. “I like that part too.”

The silence that followed was brief but real. Even Eugene managed not to ruin it immediately, which Joel supposed counted as growth.

Then Tommy, because he was still Tommy, lifted his bottle and said, “To Joel, then. Patron saint of marriage.”

Joel pointed at him. “Do not toast me.”

Too late. The table raised their bottles.

Eugene added, “May his phone buzz soon and his dignity survive.”

“It won’t,” Caleb said.

“My dignity’s fine,” Joel muttered.

Tommy clinked his bottle gently against Joel’s. “Sure it is.”

The conversation moved on after that, but the teasing stayed alive now, circling back whenever Joel lost focus. They talked about the Henderson job, about a supplier who kept sending warped lumber and pretending not to understand the problem, about whether Tommy’s truck was making a new noise or the same old noise with more confidence. Joel answered, argued, listened.

Mostly.

Then his phone buzzed.

Every head at the table turned at once.

Joel froze with his beer halfway to his mouth.

Tommy grinned. “Well?”

“Could be anybody.”

Eugene pointed at the phone. “A man says that when it ain’t anybody.”

Joel picked it up with as much dignity as he could manage while five grown men watched him like he was about to open a verdict.

Spam.

A damn package delivery scam.

Eugene groaned. “Cruel.”

Caleb slapped the table. “That shouldn’t count.”

“Count for what?” Joel asked.

Everyone got too quiet.

Joel looked from one face to the next. “Y’all bettin’?”

Tommy took a drink.

Joel stared at him. “Thomas.”

“Don’t Thomas me in public.”

“Are y’all bettin’ on when my wife texts me?”

Eugene lifted one hand. “Not officially.”

“That mean yes?”

“That means there’s no written record.”

Joel leaned back in his chair and stared at the lot of them. “Grown men.”

Tommy nodded. “Barely.”

“You’re all pathetic.”

“And yet,” Tommy said, “you’re the one who checked a spam text with hope in his eyes.”

Joel’s mouth opened.

Nothing came out.

The table erupted.

“Goddamn,” Eugene said, delighted. “Tommy got him.”

Joel turned the phone face down on the table. “I hate every one of you.”

“No, you don’t,” Tommy said. “You’re in love and inconvenienced. Different thing.”

For the next twenty minutes, he did better. Or tried to. He kept his eyes off the phone, though leaving it face down on the table made it somehow louder in his awareness. Tommy told a story about Maria talking him into buying overpriced candles because apparently “she loves a house that smells like a pie nobody had to bake,” and Joel laughed in spite of himself. 

Then Joel’s phone lit up again.

This time, the screen showed your name.

Joel picked it up before anyone said a word.

you awake handsome? 💕

His face changed before he could stop it. He felt it happen, which made it worse.

Tommy did not miss it.

“That’s her.”

Joel turned slightly away. “Mind your business.”

“Look at him,” Eugene said, voice full of wonder. “Man just got ten years younger.”

Joel typed with one thumb.

Always.

Three dots appeared. Disappeared. Appeared again.

He waited, the bar fading around the edges.

your wife misses you

Something in his chest softened so sharply he had to look down to hide it.

Good thing your husband’s close.

Your response came almost immediately.

good because i might need him soon

Then another one:

not yet tho don’t rush me i’m having fun!!!

Joel laughed under his breath.

Tommy’s face softened before he covered it with a grin. “She good?”

Joel nodded. “She’s good.”

“Need you?”

“Soon.”

Eugene raised his beer. “Countdown resumes.”

Joel sent one more message.

Have fun. Text me when you’re ready. Drink some water.

Your reply came fast.

yes daddy

Then:

sorry

yes handsome

Joel shook his head, smiling down at the screen.

“Disgustin’,” Eugene said. “Absolutely no shame.”

Joel set the phone down, but this time he left it face up. “Eugene.”

“What?”

“Eat your fuckin’ wings.”

“I am busy witnessin’ romance.”

“You’re witnessin’ me losin’ patience.”

Tommy laughed. “Nah. If you were losin’ patience, he’d know.”

Eugene looked at Tommy. “Would I?”

Tommy nodded. “You’d be bleedin’.”

“Fair.”

The next stretch passed easier. Hearing from you settled something in Joel he had not wanted to admit needed settling. You were happy. You missed him. You would call when you were ready. It gave his attention a place to rest, and for a little while he managed to stay with the men around the table, even if Tommy occasionally glanced at the phone and smirked like a man enjoying a long, slow sunrise.

When the message finally came, Joel saw it the moment the screen lit.

you can come get me now handsome

A second later:

pls 💕

He was already standing.

The table erupted before his chair finished scraping back.

Tommy pointed at him. “There he goes.”

Joel grabbed his jacket from the back of the chair. “Shut up, Tommy.”

“You didn’t even finish your beer.”

“Bill me.”

Eugene slapped the table. “He actually said the thing.”

Caleb laughed. “Man didn’t even pretend to think about it.”

Joel slid his phone into his pocket and pulled out his keys. “Y’all done?”

Tommy leaned back, grinning, but there was affection beneath it now, clean and unmistakable. “Go get your girl.”

Joel looked at him.

For once, he didn’t have a smart answer ready.

Because that was exactly what he was doing.

Not rescuing. Not retrieving. Not obeying, though he knew plenty of men would call it that and think themselves clever. He was going to get his wife because she had asked for him. Because the night had brought you to that loose, shining place where you wanted his hand on your back and his truck waiting at the curb. Because he had promised that wherever you went, he would be there when you wanted to come home.

So he nodded once.

“Tell Maria I said hi,” Joel said.

Tommy lifted his beer. “Tell your wife she owes me ten bucks.”

Joel paused. “For what?”

“For bein’ exactly as predictable as I said you were.”

Joel’s eyes narrowed. “You bet on me leavin’ before eleven thirty?”

“I bet on you leavin’ the second she said please.”

Eugene raised a finger. “Which he did.”

Joel shook his head and started toward the door. “Y’all can go to hell.”

“Drive safe, lover boy,” Eugene called.

Joel didn’t turn around.

He lifted one hand, middle finger raised with calm precision, and the laughter followed him all the way out into the night.

Outside, the air had cooled further, and the street shone faintly beneath the parking lot lights. Joel climbed into the truck, shut the door, and let the quiet close around him. For a second, he sat there with both hands on the wheel, smiling despite himself like a fool in the dark.

Then he started the engine.

He did not drive straight to you.

Not yet.

Because he knew you. Because he knew the shape of the next hour before it happened. Because girls’ night always left you thirsty in a very specific way, craving something cold and sweet that was never soda.

Joel turned toward the gas station two blocks over, already making a mental list.

Fruit juice. Cold.

Something salty.

Something sweet that was not chocolate.

Water too, even if you rolled your eyes at him.

He pulled into the empty pump lane, parked, and went inside with his keys in one hand and purpose in every step. The fluorescent lights were too bright after the bar, the aisles too narrow, the cashier too bored to care about the man who walked in looking like he was preparing for a very small, very specific emergency.

Joel headed straight for the refrigerated section.

You liked orange juice sometimes, apple if you were tired, but after a night out you always wanted something sharper. He chose a cold mango juice, then grabbed a bottle of water because he knew better than to trust your relationship with hydration. In the snack aisle, he paused longer. Barbecue chips were safe. Vinegar chips were riskier but had a better chance if you were in the mood for something strong, which after drinks and dancing you usually were so he grabbed both.

Then he stood in front of the candy.

Chocolate was out. He remembered that too clearly. The way you had curled into yourself in the passenger seat last time, one hand on your stomach, looking wounded by your own choices. You had insisted you were fine. Then accused the chocolate of betrayal. Then fallen asleep against the window with your hand still tucked in his.

Joel scanned the shelves.

Gummies. Sour belts. Licorice. Hard candy. Things bright enough to look poisonous.

Then he saw them.

Peach rings.

He reached for the bag without thinking too hard about it. They looked like something you’d laugh at, which was reason enough.

At the counter, the cashier looked at the collection of items and then at Joel.

Joel met his eyes.

The cashier wisely said nothing.

Joel paid, gathered the bag, and headed back to the truck. Once inside, he set the juice in the cup holder, tucked the snacks on the passenger seat, and took out his phone to text you.

On my way.

Your reply came a few seconds later.

YAY

Then:

put my songs on please

Joel shook his head.

Already did, he typed, even though he had not yet.

Then he opened your playlist, the one you used when you were getting ready, when you were cleaning, when you were happy enough to sing without shame. The first song spilled through the speakers as he pulled back onto the street, and for a second he heard you in the bathroom again, voice too loud, bracelet catching the light, turning in front of the mirror while asking him which version of yourself the night wanted.

He had never understood men who complained about waiting.

Not when this was what waited at the end.

The first thing Joel saw was your smile.

Not the dress, not the heels, not the little purse hanging from your shoulder or the way your friends clustered around you beneath the yellow glow of the bar sign. The smile reached him before the rest of you did, bright and loose and impossibly open, the kind of smile you wore only when the night had been good to you. It hit him through the windshield with such force that he eased his foot off the brake a little too slowly and had to remind himself he was still in the middle of the street with another car waiting behind him.

He pulled up to the curb, hazard lights blinking softly, and there you were.

You turned at the sound of his truck like your whole body knew it before your eyes confirmed it. One of your friends said something, probably teasing you, because you laughed and swatted at her arm without looking away from him. Joel saw the moment you decided not to play it cool. You never played it cool very well after a girls’ night, and he had long ago stopped pretending he didn’t love that. You came toward the truck with a little too much enthusiasm and not quite enough caution, heels clicking unevenly on the pavement, one hand raised in greeting as though he were much farther away than ten feet.

Joel put the truck in park and got out before you reached the passenger door.

“Hi,” you said, breathless and delighted, like you hadn’t been the one to summon him.

Joel shut the door behind him and let himself look at you properly.

You were still in the dark denim dress he had chosen without needing to think about it, but the night had softened you around the edges. Your gloss was worn down at the center from drinks and laughter. Your hair had loosened a little at your temples. The bracelet he’d fastened earlier still circled your wrist, catching light when you lifted your hand toward him. Your eyes were bright, not dangerously drunk, not gone from yourself, just warm with the kind of tipsiness that made you affectionate and honest and entirely without patience for distance.

“Hi, darlin’,” he said.

You stepped into him without hesitation.

Joel caught you with one arm around your waist, steadying you before you could pretend you didn’t need it. Your hands landed on his chest, fingers curling into his jacket, and you tipped your face up with such immediate expectation that he bent and kissed you because there was no other reasonable thing to do. It was meant to be quick. A greeting. A soft thing. But you made a small pleased sound against his mouth, and Joel had to pull back before the curb, your friends, and the driver behind him all became problems he was expected to care about.

“You came,” you murmured.

His thumb brushed once against your side. “You asked.”

“That’s sooo romantic.”

“That’s transportation.”

“It can be both.”

He huffed a laugh despite himself. “You have a good night?”

“The best.” You turned halfway toward your friends, still holding onto his jacket like you intended to keep him anchored there. “Tell him I had the best night.”

Pat lifted her hand with the solemnity of a witness in court. “She had the best night.”

Nat added, “She also stole half my fries.”

“I shared my dip,” you protested.

“You licked the spoon.”

“It was my spoon.”

Joel looked down at you. “Was it?”

You blinked up at him, considering. “Not really.”

That made your friends laugh, and Joel felt his mouth move before he could stop it. He liked seeing you like this with them: silly, adored, unguarded. There was something generous in the way women gave each other permission to be loud. The whole group seemed warm from it, eyes bright, coats half buttoned, conversations still overlapping even as they said goodbye.

“You got her?” Pat asked Joel, smiling.

Joel tightened his arm around your waist. “I got her.”

“You always say that like I’m luggage,” you complained.

He looked down at you, deadpan. “Luggage usually walks straighter.”

Your mouth fell open at his words then you turned to your friends with great dignity. “My husband is bullying me.”

“Your husband got here in under ten minutes,” Nat said. “I’d let him.”

Joel pointed toward the truck. “C’mon, baby. Before your friends start makin’ too much sense.”

You accepted a final round of hugs, promises to text when everyone got home, and one whispered comment that made your eyes widen and your cheeks warm. Joel pretended not to hear it, partly because he hadn’t caught the words, mostly because he understood from your face that it was not intended for him and would likely have made him grip the steering wheel too hard.

He opened the passenger door for you.

You stopped and looked at the seat.

Then at him.

Then back at the seat.

The gas station bag sat there, carefully placed beside the cold juice in the cup holder.

Your face changed completely.

“You got me snacks.”

Joel reached past you, picked up the bag, and held it until you climbed in. “Move your feet in.”

“You got me snacks,” you repeated, softer this time, like this was not a practical arrangement but a marriage vow renewed beneath fluorescent streetlight.

“Seatbelt.”

“I know.”

“Do it.”

“I am doing it.”

“You’re lookin’ at the chips.”

“Because you got me chips.”

“I also got you water.”

You wrinkled your nose. “That was less romantic.”

“That was necessary.”

You finally clicked the seatbelt into place, then looked up at him with such open affection that his chest did something inconvenient. “Thank you, handsome.”

Joel paused with one hand on the door.

There were versions of that word he could handle. Teasing. Casual. But this one came warm and tipsy and sincere, wrapped around the sound of his name without using it, and for a second he had to look away toward the street just to keep his face in order.

“Yeah,” he said, voice a little rougher. “You’re welcome.”

He shut the door, walked around to the driver’s side, and climbed in.

You were already digging through the bag.

Joel put the truck in drive. “At least wait till we’re movin’.”

“I’m assessing.”

“You’re rummagin’.”

“I’m a woman with needs.”

“I’m aware.”

Your head snapped toward him. “Joel Miller.”

He did not look at you, but the corner of his mouth betrayed him. He pulled away from the curb while your friends waved from the sidewalk. You waved back so enthusiastically that your bracelet slid down your wrist, and then you immediately returned to the bag with the focused determination of a treasure hunter.

“Oh my God,” you said.

Joel glanced over briefly. “What?”

“You got barbecue chips.”

“Mmm-hmm.”

“And vinegar.”

“Wasn’t sure which version of you I was pickin’ up.”

You clutched the bag to your chest. “You know me so well.”

“I try.”

“No, you do.” Your voice turned soft enough that he looked at you again. “You really do.”

The light ahead turned red, and Joel stopped. The truck idled quietly beneath you both, music playing low through the speakers; your playlist, the one you had asked for, the one he had put on before he left the gas station. You noticed it then, properly, your eyes going wide as the opening notes of a familiar song rose in the cab.

“You put my music on.”

“Asked me to.”

You stared at him for a second, and he could feel the look even without meeting it.

Then you leaned across the center console as far as your seatbelt allowed and pressed a kiss to his shoulder. “I love you.”

His hand tightened briefly around the wheel.

“Love you too,” he said.

The light turned green.

You settled back only because the belt gave you no other choice, unscrewed the cap on the juice, and took a long drink. Joel watched from the corner of his eye as your shoulders relaxed in immediate satisfaction.

“That’s the good one,” you said.

“Mango.”

“Mmm.”

“You always want somethin’ cold after.”

“I know.”

“You say that like you’re the one who bought it.”

“I manifested it.”

Joel let out a low laugh. “That what we’re callin’ it?”

“Yes.” You took another drink, then pointed the bottle at him. “I thought about it, and then my husband appeared with juice. That's Magic”

“That’s not manifestation. That’s me stoppin’ at a gas station.”

“My husband is my manifestation.”

Joel gave you a quick, dry look. “You been drinkin’.”

“Yes,” you said happily. “That’s why I’m so insightful.”

He shook his head, but there was no hiding the smile now.

The city moved past in streaks of late night light, shop windows dimmed, traffic thin, sidewalks carrying the last loose clusters of people spilling from restaurants and bars. Inside the truck, the world felt smaller. Warmer. Your playlist filled the spaces between you, one song sliding into the next while you alternated between sipping juice, opening the barbecue chips, and telling Joel a story about your friend’s coworker that began with “you remember the one with the weird boyfriend?” and offered him absolutely no names he could use to place anyone.

“Which weird boyfriend?” he asked.

“The weird boyfriend.”

“That narrows it down.”

“You know. The one who brought his own fork to the wedding.”

Joel frowned. “What wedding?”

“You remember.”

“I do not.”

“You do. I told you.”

“Darlin’, you tell me a lotta things.”

You gasped and pressed a hand to your chest. “You don’t listen to me.”

“I listen plenty. I just need characters introduced before chapter five.”

You laughed, nearly dropping a chip, and Joel reached out without looking to steady the bag before it could spill into your lap.

“There,” you said, pointing at him. “That. That’s why I married you.”

“Because I saved the chips?”

“Because you support women.”

“That too.”

You leaned back against the seat, pleased. “Anyway, the weird boyfriend was there tonight.”

“At girls’ night?”

“No, at the place.”

“Existing?”

“Suspiciously.”

Joel nodded with all the gravity the story apparently required. “Can’t have that.”

“And he saw her, and he acted like he didn’t see her, which is so much worse than seeing her.”

“Sure.”

“Don’t say sure like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like you’re lost.”

“I am lost.”

You laughed again, brighter this time, and the sound filled the cab so completely that Joel missed half the next turn in his own head and had to refocus before he drove past it. He liked your stories even when he couldn’t follow them. Maybe especially then. The point was not always content. Sometimes the point was the way you came alive telling him, hands moving, eyes bright, outrage and delight trading places across your face. Sometimes love was listening to a plot with no structure because the person telling it was the only part that mattered.

Then the song changed and you froze.

Joel saw it happen in real time: the first dark, pulsing notes, your instant recognition, the gasp you gave like the universe had personally handed you a gift.

“Oh my God, Joel.”

He braced himself. “What.”

“This one.”

“I know.”

“No, no, this is my favorite.”

“You got about forty favorites.”

“Not like this one.” You reached for the volume before he could stop you. “This one is sacred.”

Then Enjoy the Silence filled the truck, low and hypnotic, turning the cab into something smaller and darker and warmer than before. You started singing almost immediately, not loudly at first, but with that pleased, dreamy confidence you got when a song caught you exactly right. One hand wrapped around the juice bottle like a microphone, your shoulders moving with the beat, your face lit by passing streetlights and pure, ridiculous joy.

When the line you loved came around, you pointed at him with the bottle and sang only the first few words before letting the rest dissolve into a dramatic hum, because even tipsy, even glowing, you knew Joel would pretend not to like it if you gave him too much of the performance at once.

“Sing,” you ordered.

Joel’s eyes stayed on the road. “Absolutely not.”

“Joel.”

“Song’s called Enjoy the Silence, baby. I’m just respectin’ the title.”

You burst out laughing. “That is such a dad answer.”

“That is a correct answer.”

“You know the words.”

“Unfortunately.”

“Then sing.”

“Ain’t happenin’.”

“For me?”

His jaw tightened just slightly.

“That ain’t fair.”

You kept singing anyway, leaning into the rhythm as if the truck were a stage built for an audience of one. Joel lasted longer than you expected. Almost impressively long. Then, right when you glanced at him with that wide, shameless smile he had no defense against, a few low words slipped out under his breath, more spoken than sung.

You stopped instantly.

He regretted everything.

“You sang.”

“I did not.”

“You sang part of the chorus with me.”

“I breathed near the melody.”

“That’s singing.”

“That’s just me, survivin’ you.”

You twisted toward him, delighted. “You like this song.”

“I like quiet.”

“The song is literally about that.”

“Then let’s honor it.”

“No. Now you have to sing more.”

He looked at you once, quick and helplessly fond. “You gonna finish the song or not?”

Your smile turned enormous, and then you did finish it, but this time softer, looking at him more than the road, like the fact that he had given you even that reluctant little piece of the song had meant something far bigger than it should have.

It probably did.

By the time the song ended, you were flushed from laughter and effort, your hair falling a little more out of place, your gloss almost gone. You took another drink of juice, then reached across the console and rested your hand on his thigh.

Joel glanced down.

Then at the road.

Then back down, briefly.

Your hand was warm and careless, fingers spreading over denim with no real agenda at first. Just contact. Just I’m here, you’re here, I missed you, isn’t that enough? But you had a way, especially like this, of turning tenderness into trouble without changing much at all. Your thumb moved once. Slowly.

Joel inhaled through his nose. “Baby.”

“What?”

“That hand got a plan?”

You looked out the windshield with exaggerated innocence. “No.”

“No?”

“I’m just… appreciating you.”

“Appreciate higher up.”

Your gaze dropped to your hand. “This is your thigh.”

“I know where it is.”

“So it’s fine.”

“It’s gettin’ less fine.”

You laughed softly and leaned closer, the seatbelt catching you again. “You’re very handsome when you’re trying to be responsible.”

“I am responsible.”

“Mmm-hmm.” Your fingers squeezed gently. “Veeery.”

Joel’s jaw ticked once, though the rest of his face stayed calm. “You’re gonna sit back and eat your chips.”

You made a small sound, thoughtful and dangerous. “Yes, sir.”

He glanced at you then, and the look on your face was enough to make him regret the entire conversation.

“No,” he said.

You blinked. “I didn’t say anything.”

“You didn’t have to.”

Your smile came slowly. “Joel.”

“Not in the truck.”

“I’m not doing anything yet.”

“No, but you’re thinkin’ about doin’ somethin’.”

“You don’t know that.”

“I absolutely know that.”

You leaned closer, as close as the belt allowed, and lowered your voice near his shoulder. “What if I just missed you?”

Joel’s fingers flexed on the steering wheel. “Then you can miss me from your seat.”

“That’s mean.”

“That’s drivin’.”

You giggled, soft and delighted, then pressed a kiss to his shoulder again. Then another, higher, near the seam of his jacket. Joel kept his eyes on the road with the grim concentration of a man navigating far more than traffic.

“Darlin’.”

“What?”

“You are gonna make me pull over.”

“You say that like it’s bad.”

“It is if we wanna get home.”

You hummed near his ear, and the sound slid straight down his spine. “Do we?”

Joel exhaled slowly. “Yes.”

“You sure?”

“Very.”

“You don’t sound very sure.”

“I am tryin’ to keep us alive.”

That made you laugh properly, and the warmth of it broke some of the tension before it could sharpen too far. You sat back at last, mercifully, and shoved a chip into your mouth with the offended dignity of a woman denied mischief.

“Fine.”

Joel glanced at you. “Don’t pout.”

“I’m not pouting.”

“You’re crunchin’ aggressively.”

“These chips deserve passion.”

“They’re normal chips, baby.”

“They’re barbecue chips you bought me because you’re in love with me.”

He couldn’t argue with that, so he didn’t.

For a few minutes, the ride softened again. You ate chips, drank juice, and narrated fragments of the night in a rhythm that made more emotional sense than literal sense. He learned that someone named Beth had cried in the bathroom but “in a healing way,” that your friend Pat had declared war on a man named Oscar, that the cocktails were “too expensive but aesthetically correct,” and that at some point all of you had danced to a song of Bad Bunny that Joel definitely would have hated and you definitely expected him to hear later.

“You’ll like it,” you insisted.

“I won’t.”

“You don’t know.”

“I know myself.”

“You like my music.”

“I like you.”

“That’s basically the same thing.”

Joel smiled despite himself. “Dangerous logic, darlin’.”

“Well, I’m very smart tonight.”

“You’re very somethin’.”

You looked at him, delighted. “Say pretty.”

He didn’t hesitate. “Pretty.”

Your face softened at once, the teasing dropping away so quickly it almost hurt to watch. “You think so?”

Joel’s chest tightened.

He hated that there were still moments when you asked it like a real question. Not as play. Not fishing. Just some small old doubt slipping through the alcohol warmed looseness of you. He reached across without thinking, took your hand from the chip bag, and brought it to his mouth. His kiss landed against your knuckles, slow and certain.

“I know so,” he said.

You went quiet.

The truck moved through the dark with the music low now, the sweetness of juice and salt of chips in the air, your hand still caught in his. Joel kept driving one handed longer than he needed to.

After a while, you said, “I like when you pick me up.”

“Yeah?”

“Mhm.”

“Why’s that?”

You looked out the windshield, thinking about it with an earnestness that told him the answer mattered to you even if the words came slowly. “Because everyone else is still loud, and then I get in here and it’s quiet. But not boringly quiet.” Your fingers shifted around his. “You quiet.”

Joel swallowed.

You continued, softer, “Feels like getting tucked into bed.”

He stared at the road because looking at you just then would have been too much.

“Baby,” he said, and the word came out rough.

“What?”

“Nothin’.”

“No, what?”

He shook his head once. “Just love you.”

You smiled down at your joined hands, almost shy now. “I know. I love you too”

He squeezed your fingers.

Then you ruined the tenderness, because of course you did, by lifting his hand and kissing the back of it before saying, with solemn tipsy sincerity, “And you have very hot hands.”

Joel barked a laugh.

“What?”

“Hot hands?”

“Yes.”

“That’s what you’re goin’ with?”

“They’re big and competent.”

“Competent.”

“You know what I mean.”

“I’m afraid I do.”

You turned his hand palm up and examined it like evidence. “They can build houses.”

“Sometimes.”

“They can fix things.”

“On occasion.”

“They can open jars.”

“High praise.”

“And they can finger—”

“Finish that sentence carefully.”

You grinned, wicked and sweet at once, and Joel felt his pulse kick even before you said anything.

But you didn’t finish.

You only kissed his palm and placed his hand back on the wheel with exaggerated politeness.

“There,” you said. “Safe.”

He shook his head, but the smile stayed.

Home came into view a few minutes later, porch light glowing where he had left it on, the driveway empty. Joel pulled in, put the truck in park, and shut off the engine. For a moment neither of you moved. The sudden quiet after the music felt intimate, almost too close. You looked at the house, then at him, then down at the snack bag in your lap as though remembering you had been entrusted with treasure.

“We’re home,” you said.

“We are.”

You turned toward him with bright, affectionate seriousness. “Thank you for coming to get me.”

Joel’s expression softened. “Always.”

“No, I mean it.”

“I know you do.”

You leaned across the console, slower now, and kissed him. This one was different from the curb. More warmth. More wanting tucked beneath the gratitude. Joel let you set the pace for a few seconds, his hand coming up to cup your cheek, thumb brushing the corner of your mouth where the last of your gloss had faded. You sighed into him, sweet and tired and still electric with the night.

Then your hand found the front of his jacket and tugged.

Joel broke the kiss with effort. “House first.”

You made a disappointed sound. “Joel.”

“House. Water. Shoes off.”

“You have so many rules.”

“Somebody’s gotta.”

“I’m not that drunk.”

“I didn’t say you were.”

“Then why are you using the voice?”

“What voice?”

“The grumpy husband voice.”

Joel tilted his head. “That the voice that got you home in one piece, baby.”

You considered this. “Maybe.”

“Then listen to it.”

You stared at him for a beat, then smiled in a way that made him instantly suspicious.

“Okay,” you said sweetly.

Joel narrowed his eyes. “That was too easy.”

“I’m being good.”

“Now I’m worried.”

You opened the passenger door before he could come around, which made him swear under his breath and get out faster. By the time he reached you, you had one foot on the pavement and one still in the truck, clutching the snack bag like a prize.

“I can walk,” you announced.

Joel looked down at your heels, then at the driveway. “Can you?”

“Yes.”

You stood.

Then your ankle wobbled once.

Joel caught you immediately with a hand at your waist.

You looked up at him. “The ground moved.”

“Sure it did.”

“It did.”

“Mean old driveway.”

“Exactly.”

He took the bag from your hand despite your protest, tucked it under one arm, and bent slightly. “C’mere.”

Your eyes lit. “Are you carrying me?”

“Looks like it.”

“I told you I can walk.”

“You also accused concrete of movin’.”

“It was!”

Joel shook his head, but he was smiling when he lifted you, one arm under your thighs and the other secure around your back. You went easily, immediately looping your arms around his neck, your face tucking into the warm place beneath his jaw as he kicked the truck door shut with his boot.

“You like carrying me,” you murmured.

“Don’t start.”

“You do.”

“You’re light.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“It’s the one you’re gettin’.”

You kissed his neck.

Joel stopped walking for half a second.

Then he kept going toward the porch with a slower breath and a firmer grip.

“Darlin’,” he warned.

You smiled against his skin. “What?”

“We are very close to makin’ it inside without incident.”

“That sounds boooring.”

“That sounds successful.”

You hummed, fingers playing with the hair at the nape of his neck. “I missed you.”

His face changed in the dark where you couldn’t see it.

“I missed you too,” he said.

And then, because you were you and the night had clearly not finished testing him, you lifted your head and whispered against his ear, “Good. Because I’m not done with you yet.”

Joel closed his eyes for one brief second on the porch step.

“Jesus,” he muttered.

You laughed softly, victorious and warm in his arms, while he carried you inside with the snacks, the juice, and the certain knowledge that the hard part of his night had only just begun.

Apparently, Tumblr won’t let me post everything in one single post? So here’s the second part!

⋆♱ Beautiful dividers from @saradika-graphics and @thecutestgrotto