****

You watch Jesse’s back retreat down the stairs, a little wobbly on his feet but determined. Fueled by something other than just booze. Like he’s been waiting for this, waiting to catch you out on something that drags you down to his level, smears you with the same brush that branded him when his own cheating blew up. 

You’re not even sure when it happened, how the sweet, easygoing guy you knew in college hardened into someone unrecognisable. Someone who twists the knife just to watch you flinch. Someone who seems to think it’s fun.

A wave of nausea washes over you, and it’s got nothing to do with the champagne buzzing through your system. 

“Jesse!” you call after him, starting down the stairs—

A hand closes around your wrist. Firm. Warm.

“Darlin’, wait.” Joel’s voice is quiet,  urgent, right at your back.

You whirl on him. “Joel, he’s gonna—”

“What?” His gaze locks on yours. “Tell everyone?” There’s a flicker of pain in his expression before it flattens into something softer. Resigned. “Is that such a bad thing?”

For a second you just stare, sure you’ve misheard him. You must be drunker than you thought, because there’s no way he just suggested that. 

He scrubs a hand down his face, sighing. “I just mean… if this thing between us is real—and I think it is, I know it is—then it’s gonna come out eventually. I didn’t want it like this, not tonight, but—”

“Joel, this isn’t—” Your voice catches, frustration pushing up against the edges of your chest. You don’t have time for this, to hash out the reality of your relationship with him right now, not with Jesse two seconds away from detonating in the middle of Dina’s wedding. You yank your arm free and barrel down the steps, the sound of the party swelling the closer you get. Music, chatter, the familiar thrum of too many people in one space.

By the time you reach the living room, Jesse’s already drawing a crowd in the backyard. He’s moving through it with purpose, calling your father’s name, scanning for him like it’s his life’s purpose.

“Hey!” Dina yells once she catches sight of him. “I thought I told you to get the hell out of here, Jesse.” With the tulle of her dress scooped over one arm, Dina quickly finds you when she gets no response from the intruder, her dark eyes briefly catching on Joel over your shoulder.

“What the fuck is going on?”

“He just caught me and Joel,” you bite out, voice strained.

Her eyes widen. “Oh, shit.”

Oh, shit, indeed.

“Yeah. And now he’s gonna tell my dad.”

Leaving your best friend by the patio door, you shoulder past a couple of people, Joel shadowing every step of your own, close enough behind you that you can feel the heat of him at your back.

Jesse’s still making a scene—now in the middle of the dancefloor—his pleas for everyone to come closer soundtracked to curious murmurs from the rest of the guests. You make your way to the front of the crow, foolishly hoping your body alone can block the worst of it from spilling further as you say, “Jesse, stop. This isn’t appropriate.”

The irony spreads bitterness over your tongue.

An incredulous laugh barks out of him, loud enough to draw the last of the eyes that managed to remain distracted up until this moment. Jesse turns in a half-circle, gesturing to nobody in particular, a twisted look on his face as if to say, are you guys hearing this?

His eyes pin you when you earn his attention back. “You want to get on your moral high horse, huh? Wanna talk about what’s appropriate?” “Jesse—”

“What would your daddy say if—”

Blood thuds in your ears. “Jesse, please don’t—”

“No. No, really.” His eyes flick over your shoulder to Joel. “What would your daddy say if he knew his little girl was such a slut, whoring herself out to his best friend?”

You flinch at the words, at how vile—how simple—it makes the situation out to be. You don’t want to look, but your gaze betrays you, flicking to where your dad stands to the right. His brows are pinched as the weight of Jesse’s reveal cuts through the haze of alcohol. You shrink into yourself as you watch the confusion flickering behind his eyes turn to realisation, which turns them to black. His mouth parts and—

A weight slams past you, shoving you sideways, and you turn just in time to see Joel’s fist connect with Jesse’s face. The crack of knuckles on bone cuts through the music that’s still playing, followed by the collective gasp of onlookers. Jesse’s head snaps back, a spray of spit and blood catching the light before he stumbles onto the floor. You lunge forward, grabbing at Joel’s arm, planting yourself between him and Jesse as murmurs turn to shouts around you. His muscles are tight, steel under his shirt, breath coming hard through his nose, his eyes locked on Jesse like he’s ready to take another swing the second you let go.

Joel steps toward him anyway, looming, voice low but razor-edged. “You ever talk about her like that again,” he says, freakishly calm, “I’ll put you in the fucking ground.”

Jesse, still down, clutches his jaw, a bitter laugh dying in his throat.

“What the hell is he talking about?” Your dad’s voice cuts through the noise as he says your name, then, “Joel?”

He doesn’t answer, and neither do you. You just stand close to him, almost without thinking. His arm is shot out in front of you, protective, his half brushing against the front of your hip like he’s not even aware he’s doing it.

The weight of it, of everyone watching, knowing, presses down until you can feel it in your teeth. You’re not ashamed of Joel. Definitely not ashamed of how you feel for him. It was never about that. You’re only ashamed it’s spilled out like this, so messy and uncontrolled, wrung out of you in the worst possible version of events.

No, you’re embarrassed you were so careless tonight. Embarrassed that these past couple of weeks of getting away with it, with late night and stolen moments, had tricked you into thinking you’d always get away with it.

Of course it was going to come out. Of course.

A shiver zips through you, and your pulse drums in your palm, thrumming where Joel still holds you back, the steady wall of him both a comfort and a cage holding you to this moment. To your consequences.

“I knew it.” Tess’s voice, sharp and almost triumphant, slices from somewhere in the crowd. “I knew something wasn’t right when I saw you two at the diner and—”

“Enough.” Joel grits the word out, flickering her an icy look that keeps her from saying anything more. But your dad’s not letting it go. His gaze keeps dropping to where your fingers curl lightly at Jol’s side, to the way Joel’s stance shifts just enough to keep you shielded. His jaw works once, twice—then he steps in, face red, eyes blazing.

You stagger backwards, gasp still whole in your mouth where your hands hold it in as he swings. Unlike Jesse, Joel doesn’t move to defend himself. Doesn’t even lean away. He just takes it—your dad’s knuckles slamming into the side of his chin with a sickening thud. His head turns with the impact, lip splitting under the force.

Still, he barely flinches.

“She’s a fucking kid!” your dad roars, whole body vibrating with rage.

Joel wipes the blood from his mouth with the back of his hand, breathing slow, shaking his head. “She’s your kid,” he says, voice rough but steady. “But she ain’t a kid. She’s…” He risks a glance at you, and the look there is so soft, so unguarded considering everything going on around you, it almost knocks the breath from your lungs.

It doesn’t soften your dad, though. If anything, it makes him explode harder—ranting about trust, about disrespect, about how Joel was supposed to be the one person he could rely on. His words spit and snarl, tangled with the betrayal of a man who thought he knew the values and ground he stood on. 

“You were meant to look out for her,” he fires at Joel. “Not—” He cuts himself off, dragging a hand through his thinning hair, then pointing at him like the gesture might land harder than anything he could say. “Not this. Not sneaking around like some goddamn—”

“We didn’t want—” Joel starts quietly.

“Don’t,” your dad bites. “I trusted you. I let you in my home. I told her you were—hell, I told myself you were a good man.” Joel’s jaw tightens, but he doesn’t fire back. “I’m tryin’ to explain—”

“Explain?” You wince at the unruly laugh that cracks from your father. “Explain what? How you’ve been lying to my face for god knows how long? How you’ve been…” His face contorts at whatever image of you and Joel he’s conjured in his mind. “She’s young, Joel. And you’re—” He doesn’t finish the sentence, but Joel feels the implication of it all the same.

Too old. Should’ve known better. Should’ve walked away before it got this far.

He’s always tried to be a good man. A good father. A good friend. A good partner. But when those things pull him in opposite directions—when being one means failing at the others—what’s left? 

Joel doesn’t have an answer. Only has the throb in his jaw where it’s locked tight, the sting in his lip where his best friend hit him, and the ache in his ribs where your dad’s words have landed and stuck.

You watch as Joel takes it. Just…takes it. His chest rises, falls. A muscle jumps in his cheek, but he doesn’t try to argue. He nods once, slow, letting your dad’s verbal blows sink in before he speaks.

“I care about her,” he says eventually, the words deliberate, like he’s making sure they can’t be mistaken. “That’s the truth. You can hate me for it… but I care about her.”

“Care?” your dad repeats, quieter now, but there’s no mistaking the edge in it. His gaze cuts to you and you go rigid, bracing yourself for what’s to come.

“Do you have any idea how ridiculous this is? What it looks like? I didn’t raise you to sneak around. To lie. To hide things from the people who’d do anything for you. You think this—” he gestures between you and Joel, a flick of his hand like the words themselves are distasteful “—is worth throwing that away?”

Around you, the party is still there, but it doesn’t sound like it. You can’t hear the music anymore. Can’t hear the judgemental chatter. Just the three of you, suspended in this narrow, airless space.

“Dad,” you try, fighting to keep your voice from breaking. From sounding weak. “It’s not—”

“It’s not what?” His voice is almost venomous now, and you struggle to think of a time you’ve ever heard him so incensed. So…broken. “Don’t stand there and tell me it’s different. I’m disgusted. In you.” His eyes slice to Joel. “And in you.”

You open your mouth. God you want to tell him, to make him see what this really is, but before you can, another voice edges in.

“Alright, that’s enough.” Dina’s dad is there, planting himself between you and your dad, his tone the kind that leaves zero room for argument. “Everyone needs to cool off. Now.” He clamps a hand on your father’s shoulder, steering him toward the house, his own voice dropping low as he mutters something only your dad hears. Two of Dina’s cousins have Jesse by the arms, hauling himself out the side gate. 

And just like that, it’s as if someone hits play on the night again. The hum of the party swells back in again—music lower than it was but enough to break through the awkwardness, laughter itching at the edges of the yard. People are staring, whispering, shifting their weight like they’re trying not to look but are failing. You can feel the judgement crawling along your skin, itching there, hot. Damp.

You’re already turning to Joel. His cheek is swelling, and the split at the corner of his lop is dark and wet under the fairy lights. “Are you okay?” you breathe, hands already hovering near his jaw.

He studies you for a beat, brows knotted together. “Are you?” You frown up at him before he adds, “Darlin’, you’re crying.”

Your hands fly up to your cheeks. Oh. They’re wet. You hadn’t noticed. Joel’s mouth parts, arms shifting slightly like he might reach for you right there in front of everyone. But he stops himself. His eyes stay on you though, heavy and with intent, even as Dina saddles up beside you like a lifeline.

“You okay?” she asks, close as she scans your face. “Do you need anything?”

You blink, surprise catching your breath. You’d half-expected her to lose her shit at you for causing such a scene. “I…I’m sorry,” you manage. “I ruined your wedding.”

Your best friend waves it off with a quick shake of her head. “Don’t be silly. You didn’t ruin a thing.” She glances affectionately at where Ellie is dancing with Dina’s nephew. “Nothing can ruin a day like this—but you’re not the problem. Jesse is. He shouldn’t have been here.” “I know but we—”

“Don’t worry about it,” Dina says, voice sharp despite the calm she’s trying to keep. She forces a tired smile, but you still see the warmth in it. “Joel, you think you can get her home?” He meets your eyes and nods. “Whenever you’re ready.”

You take another glance at your dad through the open patio doors. He’s leaning against the counter, plastic water pressed to his lips. He shakes his head, one arm gesturing angrily as he talks to Dina’s dad—about you. 

About Joel. 

You can’t imagine whatever he’s saying could be worse than what he’s already thrown at you in front of everyone. But the not knowing still stings. Still presses down on your chest, where your heart feels wedged in your throat, beating hard and uneven.

You turn back to Joel, eyes still a little glassy. “I’m ready. Take me home, please.”

***

The hum of the engine fills the cab. There’s no music, no laughter like there was while the two of you trekked around town. It still smells like Joel, leftover cigarette smoke and the copper tang of blood. He’s got one hand on the wheel, the other pressing a handkerchief to his split lip, and you keep thinking he’s going to say it.

That this was too much trouble. That you’re not worth it.

You’d thought, maybe naively, that once it was out there, once everyone knew, the weight on your shoulders would ease. That you’d feel lighter. Instead, it’s like you’ve traded one burden for another. One from where you’re not sure your relationship with your dad can be salvaged. You picture Joel backing away. Deciding it’s too messy, too ugly, too costly. You brace for it, for the way you’ll nod, make it easy for him, pretend you didn’t want him to fight harder for you. But he doesn’t speak. He keeps his eyes pinned to the road, jaw tight as he takes note of every shift you make in your seat, every little intake of breath. He holds the wheel like it’s the only thing keeping his hands steady. Wondering if you regret it. Wondering if this was supposed to feel like relief, and why it doesn’t.

It’s not long before Joel’s pulling up in the middle of your street, between your two houses. The engine ticks to silence. Neither of you moves. You fold in half in your seat, press your face into your palms as you let out a strangled scream. Joel reaches over, hand finding the back of your neck, thumb rubbing slow circles into the hair there. It’s simple. Comfort—without words.

“I don’t know what I’m supposed to do,” you say finally, sitting up.

“What do you want to do?”

You shrug, even as you answer, “I need to talk to my dad. Without the crowd. Without the fucking theatrics.”

“You want me to come inside and wait with you?”

You look at him—really look at him for the first time since getting into the truck tonight. His mouth is still bloodied, jaw shadowed with the promise of a bruise, and there’s a smear of red just beneath his chin he hasn’t noticed. The collar of his shirt is crooked, hand now on the back of the bench seat, tracing the same patch of fabric like he’s keeping count of your breaths. Joel’s completely steadfast, even after the verbal lashing he’d taken at the wedding. Even after all of it. 

Of course you want him to come in. But you need to do this yourself. Need to show your father you’re not some little girl being led astray and taken advantage of.

You shake your head, the decision firm even as uncertainty gnaws at you. “No. I think I need to talk to him alone.” You force a small, wry smile. “Plus, I’m scared of what he might do to you when there’s not a crowd of witnesses around.”

Joel lets out a half-grunt, half-chuckle. Then his voice drops. “Whatever he does, I deserve it.” There’s no anger in his words, no bitterness. He’s just resigned, like he’s already accepted the bed he’s made and knows he’s got to lie in it.

A few beats roll past as you hesitate, words caught somewhere between your chest and your lips. Eventually, you say the only thing you can for certain.

“I fly back to Charlotte on Monday. First thing in the morning.”

Joel’s jaw tightens, ticks, a flicker of something unreadable—regret? Longing? Maybe both. His dark eyes drop, searching for answers you don’t have, can’t give.

“Hell,” he mutters roughly. “That soon, huh?”

You nod, biting back the ache that blooms in your throat. “Yeah.”

The silence swells between you, grows legs, slaps you about like it’s a living thing. Neither of you knows what comes next. Without another word, he pulls you closer, his lips crashing against yours. It’s desperate—rough, urgent, tasting of blood and stale beer. It’s a kiss loaded with everything left unsaid, like neither of you knows when—or if—you’ll get this chance again. 

When Joel finally pulls back, his breath ragged, he murmurs against your skin, “It’s gonna be alright, baby.”

Whether that’s true or not remains to be seen, but in this moment, wrapped in his arms, it feels like it could be. Like maybe there’s something steady beneath all this shit.

You pull back just enough to catch your breath. Joel reaches up, brushing a stray lock of hair behind your ear, his fingers lingering as he swipes gently over your cheek. His eyes catch the faint glow of the dashboard, amber glowing in the dimness. They hold you steady—fierce, warm—and he gives you a short, reassuring nod.

“You should head inside,” he tells you. “You need anything, you know where to find me, alright?”

You want to say something more, something that could make this moment less fragile. Less…unfinished. Maybe thank him for being here, or tell him you’re scared, or just ask him to stay a little longer. But the words never eventuate, just stay tangled up with everything else you’re feeling. So instead, you just nod and force a shaky smile. Hope it’s enough for now.

“’Night, Joel.”

He swallows hard, offers a half-smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “’Night, darlin’.”

You climb out of the truck, your breath hitching in the cool night air. Once inside, you barely manage to lock the door behind you before your knees give out and you slump against it, the floodgates finally opening. The tears come fast and hard, wracking sobs shaking your body as you finally let the night break you down. 

Across the street, Joel pulls into his driveway, the quiet inside his truck stretching thick. His teeth crunch down on each other, the strain tweaking a headache in his temple. He slams his fist into the steering wheel, the horn yelping sharply in protest as raw frustration tears from his throat.

“FUCK!”

***

It’s nearly two A.M. by the time you hear keys fumble at the front door.

You’ve been curled up in your dad’s armchair in the living room for the past hour—freshly showered, pyjamas on and knees drawn to your chest while you mulled over what you’d say when he came home. The door swings open and closes, but not with the sharp slam you’d braced for, but a slow, measured push.

A good sign, you tell yourself. Maybe.

You get up when he comes into the room, all your muscles pulled taut while you watch as he drops his keys on the kitchen counter with a metallic clatter. His movements are sluggish—shoulders slumped, feet dragging like he’s being charged per step. His coat hangs off him half-buttoned. He doesn’t look at you if he notices you standing there, gaze fixed somewhere ahead.

“Dad—” you start, but he only shakes his head, still not meeting your eye. “Dad, we need to talk about this.”

He holds up a hand, palm out, a blunt stop. Then he walks past you without a word, giving you nothing, heading straight for the stairs. The silence is worse than the shouting at the wedding, worse than the snap of his fist on Joel’s face and the red-faced rage. This is colder. Final.

Upstairs, the floorboards groan under your dad’s weight, and then it’s just the hum of the fridge and the sound of your own breathing, suddenly too loud in the stillness.

***

Joel barely sleeps. He lies in bed staring at the ceiling, phone up on the nightstand, half-expecting to see your name pop up, glowing in the otherwise dark room. His mind runs loops so tight he feels dizzy as he turns over the last couple of weeks. Picking apart every moment like they’re old wounds. Where he could’ve handled things better. Could’ve kept his distance. Where he could’ve betrayed people—your dad—less. It’s no use though. Truth is, that lie was crossed the moment he saw you in The Rusty Antler, your laugh across the bar sparking something in him he had no business feeling. Not for you. That first trip of his heart—that was the real betrayal. Everything that came after was just the echo of it.

By the time the first streaks of dawn are creeping through his blinds, he’s already in the kitchen with a mug of coffee he can’t stomach, bitterness sliding down the back of his throat. He’d been up for a cigarette first—couldn’t help it, not after the night he’d had—leaning against the pillar on the back deck with smoke curling in the half-light, trying to settle the restless thrum in his chest. Now the smoke’s gone but the ache’s still there. He doesn’t know if he should wait to hear from you, or head over to your place himself. Try and hash it out with your dad in the sober light of day.

Turns out, he doesn’t have to decide, because the knock comes just past seven. Hard and deliberate. Not a morning, neighbour knock. 

Joel already knows who it is.

He opens the door to your dad, standing there in a T-shirt and jeans, jaw tight. He’s not sheepish, but not lunging for a second punch either. His eyes rake over Joel like he’s studying a stranger. There’s no warmth in it, no easy familiarity. Just an eerily measured assessment, like he’s stripping Joel down to the bones to see what’s changed.

He feels it too, that strange tilt in the air. Almost like he’s just been called into the principal’s office. Despite towering over your dad, he feels a hell of a lot smaller in this moment. He’s braced for the kind of dressing-down you get from a father, not a best friend.

He steps back, holds the door open. “Coffee’s cold, but it’s all I got.”

“Not thirsty.” Your dad’s voice is gruff, tired, as he steps inside, scanning the place like he’s looking for evidence, like the whole place is a crime scene.

“Look, I owe you an apology. For hittin’ you.”

Joel shakes his head. “Don’t worry about it.” “I ain’t worryin’ about it,” your dad makes clear, eyes narrowing again as he looks up at Joel. “But I mean every word I said last night.”

Joel leans against the kitchen counter, mug in hand, waiting.

“How long?”

“It’s not—”

The cut-off is sharp when your dad grits, “Don’t you lie to me, Joel. I want the truth.”

Joel nods, silently cutting that deal.

“Not long. Just since she’s been back,” he says quietly, adding: “It’s not like we planned it.”

Your dad exhales hard through his nose, pinches the bridge like it stings to hear it. “Jesus. You know she’s not that much older than Sarah, right? In the scheme of things?”

Fuck. Sarah. Joel knows, without a doubt, she’ll hear about last night—about you and him—soon enough, what with the way gossip spreads like wildfire through this town. He’s not sure he has the answers ready for the questions he knows she’ll ask, for the potential teenage judgement she’ll sling his way. Hell, he doesn’t even have answers for the questions he has for himself.

Still, he doesn’t bother arguing semantics with your dad. To him, the difference in age between you and Sarah doesn’t matter. In his mind, you’re both just girls, daughters. 

Your dad shakes his head again. “What the hell were you thinking?”

“I wasn’t,” Joel tells him plainly. “That’s the truth. I wasn’t thinkin’. It just happened”

“Just happened.” Your dad scoffs. “You think that makes it better? You’re my best friend, Joel. You’ve been sittin’ at my dinner table for years. And now—” he waves a hand in the air, frustrated, “—this? I don’t get it. Don’t get you.”

That last part cuts deep. Scrapes along Joel’s lungs. 

You dad goes on: “I know things haven’t exactly been busy for you in that department. I know things with Tess—hell, she was right there, and you didn’t—” He cuts himself off again, pushes a heavy breath out. “But my daughter?”

Joel stares at the floor, at the small hole in his socks, fingers flexing around his mug.

“She’s got a whole life in Charlotte that she’s going back to. Friends. A job. You’ve got yours here,” your dad outlines before fixing Joel with a hard look. “One that includes me, and the last thing I want is to spend the next twenty years lookin’ across the street and hatin’ what I see.”

The words stick in the air like barbed wire before Joel’s voice comes out quieter than your dad’s ever heard it.

“I wouldn’t hurt her.”

“Yeah, not on purpose, maybe,” he bites back. “But it’ll happen. And if you care about her at all, you’ll let her go back, let her get on with her life without this hanging on her. You’ll give her space. Do the decent thing.”

Joel stays silent, watching as your dad makes for the door. His boots scrape against the threshold before he pauses, hand braced against the frame. He turns, eyes hard but tired in a way Joel hasn’t seen before.

“Don’t let her tie her future to yours,” he says, unflinching. “You’ll drown her.”

And then he’s gone, and the house seems to shrink around Joel, every wall an inch closer. He stares at the closed door for a long while, your dad’s voice on a loop.

She’s got a whole life… Do the decent thing… You’ll drown her.

He wants to stand up to your dad. Wants to march straight over to your place, say it doesn’t matter what anyone thinks—that his feelings haven’t changed, won’t change. That he wants you just as much as he did yesterday. But your father’s words dig into the fears Joel’s been keeping quiet, pry them open, shine a hard light on truths he’s not naive enough to deny.

Last night, he told you everything would be alright. He meant it. But now he’s not sure what alright even looks like now. 

Or if it’s something that still has him in it.

You’re leaving tomorrow. Heading back to your life. And your dad… he’s Joel’s best friend. His neighbour. Years of history in that friendship, the kind you can’t rebuild once it’s broken. 

The kind he’d like to salvage, if your father will let him.

The coffee in his mug is cold. He tips it down the sink and doesn’t make more.

When your text comes in just after eleven—can I see you?—he can’t bring himself to type a lie, or the truth. Can’t seem to figure out the difference.

So he flips the phone over and leaves it there, screen dark. Message unanswered.

***

You don’t sleep. Tossed and turned until the sheets were twisted around your legs, the events of last night, of the past few weeks scratching at every edge of your brain.

Every sharp word, every flicker of Joel’s face in the dark, the way your dad had looked at you like you’d grown two heads.

Every sound felt louder in the dark. The distant hum of cars drifting over from the highway, a party from a couple streets away, the first chirps of morning birds. Your own heartbeat, thudding in your chest like it’s sole purpose was to keep you awake. When you finally give up on sleep, you swing your legs out of bed, push the blinds open just in time to see your dad striding back across the street from Joel’s place. His hands are shoved deep into his jean pockets, shoulders shoved to his ears.

You’re halfway down the stairs before your brain catches up to your body, fuzzy socks thudding on each step. You skid on the hallway rug, catching your dad just as he’s stepping in the front door.

“Please tell me you didn’t hit him again,” you plead, the words tumbling out before you can temper them. He looks up, sighs, like the sight of you is already exhausting.

“I didn’t hit him.” A beat. “And even if I did, that’d be me being kind.”

A small pinch of relief nips at the edges of anxiety roiling in your chest. It doesn’t last though. He shoulders past you toward the kitchen, muttering under his breath.

“What the hell’s going on with you?” he says a moment later, spinning on his heel to face you. “Have you lost your damn mind, girl?”

“Nothing is—I’m fine.”

Your father shakes his head. Seems to be a reflex now when it comes to you. “You’re not fine. If you were fine, you wouldn’t be actin’ out, sneakin’ around—”

“I’m not acting out,” you snap. “I’m an adult, remember?”

“An adult who thinks it’s wise to be sleeping with my best friend. He’s old enough to be your father,” he seethes, disbelief bleeding into his voice. The corner of his eyes crinkle at the mention of you and Joel being intimate.

Your spine stiffens. “Who I am or am not sleeping with is none of your business.”

“The hell it isn’t.” His face twists. “It is when it’s happening right under my nose. When it’s the two people I care about most.”

“You think I set out to make a whole mess of it, of—”

“I think you didn’t think at all,” your dad grits. “It’s not just you and Joel in this. Other people get hurt. Did you even think about Sarah? She’s your friend. What do you think she’s gonna say when she finds out? What do you think she’s gonna think of you?” The mention of Sarah hits harder than you want it to. You picture her face—the easy smile, the late-night talks you used to have—and it niggles at something in your gut. 

“Sarah will understand,” you lie. You don’t believe it.

Neither does your dad, voice rising when he confirms, “No, she won’t. And you’re too wrapped up in whatever this is to see it.” “It’s not some fling,” you fire back. “It’s not—”

“It is,” he interrupts. “It’s some misguided rebound after Jesse, after what he did to you, and I get it, okay? I’d get why you’d want some validation, especially from someone who isn’t a young kid with no idea. But this—” He gestures vaguely, frustrated.

“It’s not a fling,” you repeat, louder now as heat burns behind your eyes.

Something in your dad’s expression shifts—not softer exactly, but almost weary, like he’s looking at a puppy that’s been kicked one too many times. “Sweetheart, come on.” His voice dips for the first time, gentler, almost pitying. “You can’t really think this is going anywhere. You and Joel don’t have a future.”

“Maybe we don’t,” you admit, voice trembling. “But you don’t get to decide that.”

He shrugs. “Maybe not, but I know Joel a hell of a lot better than you. He’s not a man who chases after anyone. Once you’re gone, you’re gone. He won’t come after you. Better get that through your head now and save yourself the heartbreak.”

Your head jerks back, your dad’s words hitting as hard as a lashing. Tears prickle hot and insistent at the corners of your eyes, and you bite down hard on the inside of your cheek to keep them from spilling over.

The Joel your dad knows isn’t the Joel you know. He doesn’t know the man who smooths his palm over your hip until your breathing events out, who murmurs things he’s too proud to say in daylight. Who looks at you like you’re the only steady thing in a world that won’t stop shifting.

Your Joel wouldn’t lie to you. He wouldn’t fill you with promises he had no intention of keeping.

He asked if he could come visit you in Charlotte. You can still hear him saying it over the sound of the chatter and coffee machine in the diner, rough and almost shy, like he wasn’t sure he had the right to ask. But your dad’s voice is there, rattling around in your head, and suddenly there’s a small, ugly curl of doubt threading through your chest.

What if Joel was just saying it to make leaving easier?

What if the asking was the closest he’d ever come to actually doing it.

You force yourself to shove the thought away. Straighten your spine, lock your jaw. 

No. He meant it. You know he did. Whatever your dad thinks he knows about Joel, he doesn’t know this—doesn’t know the Joel who’s yours.

You glare at your dad, voice steady but sharp. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Without waiting for a response, you turn and head for the front door. You step into whatever shoes you’ve left lying there, then pull your coat from the rack and shuck it on over your pyjamas. 

As you push the door open, your dad’s voice cuts through the otherwise quiet morning. “You’re not going to Joel’s. Not today. Or any other day while you’re under this roof.”

You stop for a heartbeat, eyes flicking across the street to Joel’s house, feeling the pull of everything you want to run toward. But instead, you turn away and start down the sidewalk, each step deliberate as you try to ground yourself. You focus on the cold air filling your lungs, steadying the tremble in your chest. 

One foot. Then the next.

You wander for God knows how long as the cool fall morning seeps through your coat. Passersby throw sidelong glances your way. Some are likely curious about your ad hoc outfit. Others you suspect have heard about last night, about the catastrophe at Dina’s wedding. You wonder how fast the news spread. Maybe someone snapped a photo, fired off a text at the exact moment it all blew up. Or maybe they held off, waiting until morning to start making phone calls. You wouldn’t be shocked to see an alert pinned in the neighbourhood watch Facebook group by now.

Despite the weight on your chest, walking helps. Your thoughts slow, and by the time you loop back toward your street, you feel steadier, even if it’s only slightly. You’re still in a bit of a fog, however, so you don’t notice that you’re nearing Tess’ house, where she’s standing out front, reaching for her Sunday paper. But she clocks you immediately—eyes sharpening, a flicker of something unreadable crossing her face. Her lips press into a thin line before offering a tight smile that doesn’t reach her eyes. 

“Mornin’,” she says. Her voice is light, but you know better, already bracing yourself. “Walk of shame, huh?”

You hold her gaze, waiting for her to finish, knowing she’s far from done. 

“I always thought you were a sweet girl growing up. Even at dinner the other night. Polite, kind,” she sighs dramatically. “Never pegged you for someone who steals other people’s men.”

There’s hurt, jealously tangled up in her words.

“I didn’t steal anyone,” you say. You try to sound strong, but your voice betrays you, coming out barely above a whisper.

She scoffs and crosses her arms, a hint of smugness tugging at the corner of her mouth. “Men these days can't resist young, easy things like you, can they?”

She’s trying to get a reaction out of you, to make you feel bad, as if the fallout from last night hasn’t marred you already. “Tess, I don’t want any trouble.”

“It’s a bit late for that, though, isn’t it?” she asks rhetorically. Then, she tilts her head, sluices her eyes over you. “Ever since you’ve been back, I keep catching him watching you, you know. Thought he was just keeping an eye out for his best buddy’s daughter. Didn’t realise you were out here doing him favours when no one was looking.” You keep your gaze steady, refusing to give her the satisfaction of looking rattled as she goes on. “Honestly? I’m surprised you’d go for your daddy’s best friend. Bold move. Guess you could’ve done worse… like some married guy, right?”

That triggers you, your voice coming out brittle when you say, “You don’t know a thing about me and Joel.”

Tess shrugs, smug edge still there. “Sure, say I don’t. But Joel? He’s not built for anything serious. I’ve seen it myself—handsome, brooding, but blind when it comes to what matters.” You open your mouth to respond, but she interjects, cold when she says, “But he sees you, I suppose.”

It’s clear what she’s getting at.

You don’t matter.

You let the words hang between you, aware that across the street, Mr and Mrs Lynden are watching the pair of you from their porch swing. Great. How long until the rest of town hears about this, too? Angst boils in you, and you consider snapping back at Tess, something cutting, but the fight suddenly feels pointless. So instead, you give a small nod, resign from your post outside her fence as you say, “Okay, Tess.”

Your feet carry you down the sidewalk, the burn of Tess’ eyes at your back. The impulse to knock on Joel’s door grows with each step, but when you get there, his truck is gone. The weight in your chest tightens.

Back at home, the day passes by in a blur of routine. You pack your things without much thought, folding clothes and stuffing bags while your mind drifts elsewhere. Every item packed feels like a step closer to leaving this whole mess behind, but also a step away from Joel, at a time where there’s already more distance than you can stand. He hasn’t replied to your earlier message—or the follow-up: Saw you’re not home. I can come meet you somewhere? Every now and then, you think you hear your phone buzz. Your heart jumps. But the screen’s always blank. You check your messages again, scroll back just to be sure, then keep staring, waiting for it to light up. It doesn’t. You keep an eye on the window too, on his driveway,  where his truck never pulls in. Maybe he’s at a job. Maybe with Tommy. Or maybe just avoiding you.

You’re sitting cross-legged on the bed, organising the last of your clothes, when your phone finally buzzes for real. The sound is sharp in the quiet, jolting through you until you’re standing.

You snatch it up too fast, and your foot catches the edge of your bag—you stumble, heart in your throat when you see Miller on the screen.

But it’s not Joel.

It’s Sarah.

Your fingers hover a second before you swipe into the message.

My dad??!!!

Two words. Three exclamation marks. Enough to tell you she knows.

The message gives nothing away—no hunt if she’s furious, hurt, or just plain confused. You don’t ask. Not yet, just set the phone facedown on the bed and let it buzz once more against the covers before falling silent. Downstairs, the smell of beer and the low drone of the football on the TV pull you into the living room. Your dad hasn’t said a word to you since you got back from your walk this morning. Now he’s planted on the couch, bottle in hand, eyes on the screen but his jaw set like stone. The room feels emptier than it should. Joel isn’t here—no half-heard mutter of his voice from the kitchen, no extra beer sweating on the coffee table. You’re not surprised, but the hollow space where he should be still makes your stomach dip. Part of you had hoped—stupidly—that for some reason, he’d be here. 

You linger in the doorway a moment, then step in far enough to lean on the arm of the couch. “Dad.”

He doesn’t look at you. Just takes a sip of his drink, eyes still fixed on the game.

“Can we—”

A sharp shake of his head cuts you off before you can finish. Whatever conversation you’d been hoping for isn’t happening tonight. Your stomach growls, a hollow pang serving as a reminder that you haven’t eaten since… Well, all day. You think about grabbing something from the kitchen, but the air in here feels too tight, too sour. You can’t stay.

You climb the stairs again, two at a time, snatching your phone up from where you left it on your bed. One name stands out in your messages, their texts still unanswered as you hit call.

Dina answers on the first ring.

“Oh good, you’re alive. I was about two texts away from thinking your dad had you buried under the shed. That, or you and Daddy Miller were off to Pound Town in some kind of severe, spite-fuelled defiance.”

You huff out a laugh. “I know. I’m sorry I haven’t responded.”

“How is everything?” “A fucking mess.”

“Oh, babe.” There’s a few moments of compassionate silence before you continue.

“ I know you and Ellie are in, like, newlywed bliss, but—”

“What do you need? Whatever it is, I’m there.”

Fuck, Dina’s a good friend.

“I could really go a margarita and two-dollar spicy wings.”

A couple of beats pass before Dina’s grin is audible down the line. “Coincidentally, that’s exactly what I was craving. I’ll pick you up in twenty.”

***

At The Rusty Antler, Joel sits hunched over his beer, elbows on the worn bar. The place is quieter than usual—just a low hum of conversation, the occasional burst of laughter from the corner table and barely decipherable music from the jukebox. Nothing like the last time he was here, when the air was loud and close, you throwing flirty glances his way before the two of you made out of here together.

Now it’s all space. Space between him and the rest of the crowd. Space between then and now.

Tommy’s beside him, nursing his own drink, letting the silence between him and his brother breathe. He doesn’t push. Not right away, at least. Just takes a slow slip, eyes scanning the half-empty room. Eventually he leans in slightly and says,” So, you wanna talk about whatever we’re drinkin’ about, or d’you wanna keep sulkin’ in silence?”

“I ain’t sulkin,” Joel tries, but one slice of Tommy’s eyes has him backtracking. “It’s complicated.”

Tommy nods, like that somehow explains everything. Takes another sip. Then, without changing his tone, “More complicated than fuckin’ your best pal’s daughter and everyone findin’ out about it?”

Joel’s head snaps toward him. He sets his beer down with a solid thunk.

“How the fuck did you hear that?” Tommy doesn’t flinch. “Maria’s sister is friends with Tess, remember?”

Joel huffs through his nose. “Of course she fuckin’ is.”

His brother turns on his stool to face him fully, hand still clasped around his bottle. “So… it’s true, then?”

Joel takes his time answering, lifting the beer to his lips, swallowing slow. “Depends what you’ve heard.”

“Just that. That you and her got somethin’ goin’ on.”

Joel exhales, scrubbing a hand over his face. “Look, it ain’t like—” He stops to search for the right words. “It just happened.”

He’s very aware that seems to be the go-to explanation for this, for you, but it’s the only one he can scrounge to give it meaning.

“Uh-huh.” Tommy tips his beer, watching his brother over the rim. “What does just happened mean, exactly?”

Joel shakes his head, more at himself than at Tommy. “Means I didn’t plan it. Means she didn’t either. We were just… there. Together.”

Tommy leans in, voice lower now. “You’re not dumb, Joel. You knew what this would look like. What people would say when they found out.”

“I know.” Joel’s tone is clipped, but there’s no real bite behind it. “I just never figured it’d get to a point where anyone had to find out. Thought it would be one and done, between us. I didn’t expect it to carry on.”

“But it did,” Tommy says flatly.

Joel stares at his beer. “But it did. And… I don’t know how I’m supposed to let it go.”

“Shit.” Tommy leans back, studying him as it clicks. “You actually care about her.”

Joel sits up straighter on his stool. “Yeah, I do,” he admits. “And her dad’s given me a hell of a dressin’ down—”

“And a hell of a shiner,” Tommy adds, gesturing to the stormy bruise on Joel’s chin.

“Yeah, well… He’s my best friend, Tommy. I fucked him over. Bad. He wants me to end it. I know I should end it. But she’s…” Smart. Quick as a whip. Laughs ‘til it gets in your damn bones and stays there. “She’s goin’ home tomorrow. And I don’t know if it’s for better or worse.”

Tommy swirls the last of his beer, eyes still on Joel as he knocks it back in one swallow. “I’m not sayin’ what you did was right,” he says finally. “But I ain’t sayin’ it’s entirely wrong either. I get not bein’ in control of your feelings. Hell, I didn’t expect to fall for Maria, but I did—and I had to fight like hell to keep her, to make her see I was in this. In it for her.”

Joel huffs, a humorless sound. “And now look where you are.”

“And look where we are,” Tommy agrees, shrugging. “I’m not tellin’ you what to do, Joel—you’re a big boy. But if what you’re feelin’ for this girl is anything like what I feel for Maria, you’d be an idiot to let her go without at least tryin’. Without tellin’ her, plain and simple, how you feel. I don’t give a fuck whose daughter she is.”

Joel doesn’t answer right away. He peels at the label of his beer, turning Tommy’s words over like a stone in his hand, feeling every jagged edge. The idea of telling you—really telling you—makes his chest tight. Not because he doubts the truth of it, but because he doubts what good it’d do now. You’re leaving. Your dad’s pissed. And Joel’s already burned more than one bridge in this mess.

“I don’t even know what I’d say,” he mutters.

Tommy smirks. “Try startin’ with the truth. Works better than you’d think.” Joel’s about to reply when a sound cuts through the low hum of the bar—a laugh he knows better than he would’ve expected just a few short weeks ago. Warm, unguarded, and sharp at the edges, like it’s always half a dare. His head snaps toward the door before he can stop himself.

There. You. Are.

Backlit by the burnt-orange smear of sunset through the entryway, you stand with Dina, both of you grinning about something. Your hair’s a little wind-tangled, your cheeks flushed from the walk in. You look like you’ve got no idea you’re walking into combative territory—and yet, to Joel, you look like you belong here more than anyone. He goes still, every muscle braced, his eyes locked on you like he’s afraid you’ll vanish if he blinks. Tommy follows his gaze, then lets out a low whistle. 

“Well, I’ll be damned,” he says under his breath, somewhere between amusement and oh-shit realisation.

You and Dina are still laughing about the guy in the parking lot who tried to flirt with her while holding a bucket of live crabs (romance isn’t dead, she’d said), when you step inside. The bar’s dim after the light outside, your eyes adjustinslow—until they snag on a shape at the counter.

Joel.

You stop like you’ve hit a wall, the sound of your laugh catching in your throat. His face is half shadowed by the pendant light hanging above him, but you can see the set of his jaw, the way he’s looking at you.

Like you’re the last thing he expected and the only thing he was hoping for.

The air between you feels immediately thick, charged. Dina glances at you then to where you’re looking, and makes a quiet knowing ohhhh.

Your pulse jumps. He’s here. You’re here.

Dina tilts her head toward the far side of the room. “I’ll get us a table,” she says, already moving.

You murmur back something resembling sure, though you’re already halfway somewhere else—drawn forward, unthinking, like your feet know where they’re going before you do. Joel’s standing by the time you reach him, as if the same magnetic pull’s working on him too. It’s only when you’re close enough to touch that you clock the man beside him.

Tommy. He’s looking between the two of you with a spark of amusement, like he’s watching a particularly tense tennis match.

“Hey, Tommy.” Your smile is soft, a little embarrassed, already guessing he knows what everybody else does.

Your name is warm as he says it. “Long time no see.” There’s an awkward beat before he pushes up from his stool, hiking a thumb over his shoulder. “I’m gonna head home. Joel—call me later.” His eyes flick between you both one last time as he tacks on to his brother, “And remember what I said.”

Then he’s gone, leaving you in the static of Joel’s silence.

From the corner of your vision, you can see Dina settling in near the empty stage, her coat shrugged off and tossed across the back of a chair. She’s watching the two of you with a kind of lazy curiosity, like she’s just been handed front-row seats to a slow-burn drama she’s been tracking for weeks.

Joel’s the first to break the silence. His voice is low, careful. “Thought you’d be busy. Packin’ or somethin’.” “Too busy to notice you ignoring me?”

His mouth twitches, jerking the day-old wound of your dad’s punch, like maybe he’s about to argue, but all that comes out is, “Darlin’, I’m not ignoring—”

You pin him with a look that’s sharp enough to cut through whatever excuse he was about to spit out. 

“I’m not ignoring you,” he says again, this time quicker, like getting the words out faster will make them sound truer. His jaw flexes. He looks… uncomfortable. Unsteady in a way that’s not like him. “It’s just—”

“Holy shit.” The words spill before you can stop them, and they taste acidic on your tongue. “He got to you, didn’t he? My dad actually scared you off.”

Joel’s eyes flicker—just for a second—but it’s enough. “That’s not entirely—”

“What did he say?” Your voice is sharper now, pushing past the tightness in your chest. “Seriously, Joel. What could he have said that—” You stop, because you can hear yourself, but it’s too late to reel it back in. “You told me last night that everything was going to be alright. Was that just something to make me feel better at the time?”

You’re borderline shrill now, voice carrying down the length of the bar. The bartender glances over, a little wary, and some guy nursing a beer at the opposite end tilts his head just enough to watch you. Joel looks down at you—something fond erring in his eye—and it knocks the wind out of him. Hair scraped up in a messy bun that’s pulled together with the remnants of your wedding updo. No makeup tonight. A green knit sweater and jeans, simple as anything. There’s a faint shadow under your eyes that matches the bags under his own. And fuck, if you aren’t the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen.

You stare back up at him, eyes wide and a little panicked, and every second he doesn’t speak sends another bolt of frustration snapping through you. “So you ignore me over text, and now you’re just gonna ignore me to my face? Joel, what the fu—”

“Hey.” His hands come up without thinking, cupping your face. Warm and steady, the breadth of them framing you like they could block out the rest of the room if he pressed close enough. He feels the tiny shift in you, the way some invisible tension eases just from his touch.

It’s not like this with other people.

He knows it. You know it.

“Hey,” he says again, softer now. “I didn’t mean to ignore you. I don’t ever want to ignore you.”

You blink, caught between anger and the instinct to lean into him. Joel’s gaze flicks toward Dina, still perched at her table, doing a terrible job of pretending she’s not watching every second of this.

“We need to talk,” Joel says finally, voice low enough that it’s meant for you and you alone. “But I don’t wanna do it here. Not with half the bar listenin’.” Your frown lingers, but his hands are still on your face, stabilising you in a way you hate to admit works. “Go,” he murmurs, nodding toward Dina. “Enjoy your time with your friend. Come by my place when you’re done. We’ll talk then.”

Your mouth opens, ready to protest, but before you can he dips forward and presses a firm kiss to your forehead. It’s brief, but enough to leave your skin buzzing. Then he lets you go, stepping back toward the door, the space between you suddenly colder.You watch him disappear through the door, the sounds of the bar closing back in around you.

By the time you make it to where Dina’s set up camp, you’re still buzzing—equal parts irritated and restless. You drop into the seat across from her with a sigh you don’t bother hiding. She eyes you for all of two seconds before flagging down the bartender with a lazy wave. “Seriously,” she says, deadpan: “If you guys don’t fuck and make up before you go home, it’s going to be such a waste.” 

You huff out a laugh despite yourself, rolling your eyes as you wave her off. “Shut up. Let’s just get some food, okay?”

***

By the time you both have eaten your combined weight in two-dollar wings, and you’ve had one margarita too many for courage, the sharp edges of your run-in with Joel have dulled into something you can almost laugh about on the drive home. When Dina pulls onto your street, you point out Tess’ place, and having already told her about your encounter with her this morning, Dina flips the bird in the direction of her house without hesitation. You snort a laugh, the lingering tequila in your system sending a surge of giddiness through your body. She eases to a stop in front of Joel’s place, headlights spilling over his front porch. She twists in her seat and pulls you in for a tight hug.

“You’ve got this,” she says firmly. “I love you. Text me later, tell me how it goes. And if you chicken out, I’m coming back to drag you in myself.”

You laugh again, shaky but grateful, and promise her you won’t.

The Jeep rumbles off down the street, and you’re left standing in the cool night air, facing Joel’s porch. You barely make it to the top step before the front door swings open. For a second you think it's a coincidence—until you see the look on his face, the way he’s already filling out the frame like he’d been standing there well before you turned up.

Which he had been.

Joel had spent the last hour pacing between the living room and the front window, eyes flicking from his driveway to your house’s front door, ready to run interference if your dad decided to wander out at the same moment you showed up. His chest had been tight with a nervous, restless energy that reminded him of waiting for a first date. When Dina’s Jeep finally rolled to a stop outside, Joel’s breath caught. He’d been pacing, not because he was worried someone might see, but because he was itching to have you to himself again, uninterrupted.

He swung the door open as soon as you were on the other side of it.

“Hey,” he says, trying to sound cool as he’s anxious. He scans your face, eyes bouncing over your features, like he’s making sure you’re really here.

“Hi.”

“Come on in.” His hand finds the small of your back as you step inside, heat blooming again at his touch while the door clicks shut behind you. For a moment, he doesn’t move away from the entrance, just watches you like he’s trying to figure out where to start. Then he huffs out a breath. “I was being a coward. And you were right, I was avoidin’ you. I didn’t mean to, didn’t want to, but yeah, your dad did get to me.” 

The way he says it knocks you off balance. Like he’s been carrying them around, worn smooth from turning them over again and again in his head. Your gut draws tight. You’re not sure whether this is the start of him letting you in, or the start of him letting you down.

Joel continues: “He said every fuckin’ thing I was worried about to start with. All the ways this could go wrong. And I—” his mouth twists, “—I let it stick.”

“I told you,” you say, sharper than you mean but fuck, if it doesn’t frustrate you, “those things don’t matter to me.”

He nods, just once. He believes you but hates himself for not being able to shake it. Your dad’s words wormed their way in, grapple hooks latching themselves to Joel’s conscience. “Maybe not to you. But I don’t wanna be the thing that holds you back.” He pauses before adding, “Thing is, I don’t want to let you go either.”

You pick at the dry skin at the corner of your thumbnail. “My dad… He said you’re not capable of chasing people. That once I’m gone, back to Charlotte, that’ll be it. This’ll be done.” Your eyes drop to the floor. “Tess seemed to think the same.”

Something flickers across Joe’s face but it’s gone as quick as it comes and is soon replaced by a tight set of his jaw. “Tess doesn’t know a damn thing about this,” he tells you firmly. “And your dad—Maybe I didn’t chase in the past. But that’s because there wasn’t anything worth chasin’.”

The words land like a punch and a balm all at once, your chest tightening around them. He takes a slow step closer, his voice softening but not losing its edge. 

“I didn’t go lookin’ for any of this. Hell, I wasn’t even thinkin’ about somethin’ like this anymore. But now…” He shakes his head, a faint, almost incredulous smile ghosting over his mouth. “Now I can’t picture not havin’ it. Not havin’ you.”

You hadn’t noticed him drifting closer, or maybe it was you, moving towards Joel in some inevitable gravity pull. And now, he closes the last of the gap between you, hand coming up to cup your jaw. His thumb brushes over the swell of your cheek as he studies you with dark eyes.

“I don’t care if I have to fly, drive or fucking hitchhike to Charlotte every damn weekend to see you,” he tells you, all rough drawl. “If all I get for now is phone calls or weekends, whatever scraps of time you can give me…” His gaze flickers over your face like he’s taking note of every inch. “I’ll take whatever I can get. If you’ll have me.”

Your throat works, bobbing tightly under your skin, but the words don’t eventuate. Not when he’s this close, not when his sincerity hits you like a tight hug after being away from home for a while.

“Joel…” you whisper. Whether it's thanks, confession or a plea, you’ll never know, because his mouth is brushing against yours, almost clumsy in its urgency. It deepens just as quickly—his lips parting, catching yours again and again until you’re gasping into the heat of his. One hand paws at the back of your neck, tilting your head just where he wants it, while the other fists gently at the knit at your hip, holding you flush against him. It’s the kind of kiss that steals your balance but you don’t mind because you get something better in return.

His breath mingling with yours. The faint scrape of stubble on your skin. The low, unhinged sound he makes when your fingers curl into his shirt.

When you finally break for air, your lips are swollen, pulse rapidly high—and Joel’s looking at you like you’ve just answered him without saying a single word.

And you know then, with absolute certainty.

Of course, you’ll have him.

You always will.

***

masterlist

Beautiful, but a brat.

That was the rundown.

Joel Miller had heard worse. Much worse. He’d worked protection for senators, oil tycoons, A-list musicians with egos bigger than their tour buses. But it was the beautiful part that made him hesitate. Beauty was trouble in this line of work. Not because it distracted him – he knew better than that – but because it tended to come hand in hand with problems. People noticed. People wanted. People threatened.

And in your case, people had already tried. It wasn’t anything you’d find on Google, or in blind items on DeuxMoi, but Joel had read the police reports. Letters intercepted by security details, phone calls made in the dead of night where there was nothing but breathing on the end of the line, shadows that lingered too long on the other side of velvet ropes. Enough to escalate. Enough to make your father decide he wasn’t going to take a chance with his only daughter.

So Joel was here. A hired impenetrable shield, paid to shadow your every step until the threat was neutralised. But he already knew, just from the dossier Ray—an old army buddy and now the head of your family’s security detail—had passed over, that you weren’t going to make this easy. You were in your twenties, the only child of one of the most famous actors alive and an equally famous former supermodel, raised on red carpets and private jets, with a reputation for being sharp-tongued and at times, impossible to corral.

Joel was from a small town in Texas, signed up to the army the day he turned eighteen, fought for what was right and didn’t care for fanfare or drama or the kind of pampered life where consequences were optional.

A job’s a job, he reminded himself. Babysitting a nepo baby with a chip on her shoulder shouldn’t be a hard gig. Except Joel was privy to the other part of the file. The part not on paper, the one that came from Ray with a shake of his head.

She won’t like this, Joel. She thinks her daddy’s just being overprotective. She doesn’t know the half of what’s really going on.

Joel wasn’t in the habit of wanting to be liked. Didn’t give a damn if you stamped your feet, threw tantrums befitting of a toddler or tried to send him packing. But a hostile client made everything more complicated.

Dangerous. Hard to protect if they don’t have a clue what they’re being protected from.

Still, he’d signed the contract. He was in it now, and it was simple: keep you alive, keep you close, and keep you from realising just how real the threats against you were.

Just thinking about it made Joel shake his head. He fucking hated this.

Gravel crunches on the driveway outside your family’s Bel Air mansion, and Ray’s radio crackles, one of the outside guards announcing that you’ve arrived. Joel rolls his shoulders, crosses his arms and fixes his face into something blank. Impartial. Just another wall you’ll eventually have to get used to.

Then the double doors opened, and Joel immediately knew that the rundown he got was right on both counts.

He’d been around plenty of stunning women before – his job having taken him everywhere from Cannes to Capitol Hill – but there was something about you that snagged sharply in his chest. Maybe it was the way the light caught your hair and eyes, and for a moment, the room only seemed to revolve around you. You barely look at him when you stride by, dress pale and gauzy, skimming your body like it was meant to be touched, bare shoulders gleaming under the hall light, leaving behind a trace of vanilla and warm skin. Joel kept his stance neutral, bar a brief dip of his chin. His voice followed, low and brushed with Texas gravel.

“Ma’am.” You don’t want to be here. That much is obvious in the sigh that pushes out of you, the roll of your eyes as you scan the room, taking in your parents seated on the vintage sofa, perched next to each other, waiting. You’d been dragged into this gathering without explanation, summoned like a child being called down for family dinner. They’re lucky you were already in the area, otherwise it would’ve had to wait for your actual family dinner, pencilled in for every Thursday evening. You, your mother, father, Ray, one or both of their personal assistants. And now, there’s a stranger by the fireplace, broad-shouldered and stone-faced, addressing you like you’re some southern belle’s grandmother.

“Who the hell is this,” you blurt, “and why is he calling me ma’am?”

Your parents exchange a look that they pass to you—the look. The one that says behave, though you’re never quite sure if they mean it for you or each other. Your father’s gaze shifts towards Ray, who’s posted next to the newcomer. His sight on you is softer, almost indulgent, the kind of quiet fondness that’s more family than formality. He’s always been that way—hovering at the edges of birthdays, cookouts, even study sessions at the kitchen table when you were younger. The sort of man who’d sneak you a soda when your mom said no, but still glare daggers at anyone who teased you too hard. More overprotective uncle than security detail.

Your next question: “Is this an intervention?”

It wouldn’t be the first. You’ve had three, technically, though none of them were about drugs or alcohol. No, your “interventions” were about attitude. About being difficult. About refusing to smile for the cameras when you didn’t feel like smiling. Or being truthful when you told press that you thought the last two films in your father’s Shadow Protocol series were pure dogshit.

Your parents always swore it came from a place of love, but to you, it always felt like an ambush. Granted, it’s been a few years since you last met under these circumstances, and while you’d argue you’ve cleaned up your act in recent times, tried your best to go about your life, minding your own business, you wouldn’t put it past your parents to have nitpicked their way into finding something that could warrant the theatrics of this living room tribunal.

“Sweetheart,” your mother says carefully. It’s a soft, placating tone that instantly sets your teeth on edge. “This is Joel. He’s your new bodyguard”

You blink at her once. Hard.

Your what?

“Sorry,” you say slowly. Did you hear correctly? “I think I just hallucinated. I thought you said bodyguard.”

Your father doesn’t flinch. Just tilts his head in that manufactured, PR-trained way and fixes you with the subtle look you’ve been getting since you were old enough to discern expressions. The one that says enough. The one that warns you, wordlessly, not to push.

“You heard correctly.”

And there it is. The ambush. The overprotective parents pulling rank.

A bodyguard. A live-in one apparently, if the two duffle bags by the door are anything to go by.

Hell no.

You can already feel the heat of your indignation crawling up your neck and it eventuates in a sharp laugh. “Are you guys serious?”

Your mother says your name gently, but you cut her off with a shake of your head.

“Nope. This is insane. It was bad enough you wanted security stationed outside my house,” you snap, words gathering speed with your temper. “That was already embarrassing, by the way—like I’m some sort of prisoner in my own home. But this?” You jab a finger towards Joel, still a silent mountain in denim and leather. “This is too far.” Your dad’s stare bores into you but you barrel right past it, ignoring its warning. “Why the hell do I need a live-in guard anyway?”

Your father clears his throat. “We’re upping security across the board. Everyone’s doing it. You know the Woodrows had that break-in last week and—“

“So what? So what if the other Hollywood darlings are doing it?” you snipe. “You’re really going to have some random middle-aged dude move into your daughter’s house, no questions asked? Do I even get a say in this?” Your mother moves to respond but you throw up a hand. “Actually, don’t answer that. I don’t get a say. I never do.”

The words echo back at you in the cavernous room like a resounding gong. For a moment, no one moves. No one says a thing.

Then Ray pushes off the wall with the same patient sigh you’ve been hearing from him for the better part of two decades. “Listen, kid. I know this feels like overkill, but Joel’s the real deal. I can vouch for him. I worked with him back in the forces. He’s got the discipline, the experience. The kind you want in someone watching your back. He’s not here to boss you around. Just here to keep you safe. For all intents and purposes, Joel’s a friend of the family.”

You swivel to him, eyes narrowing. Ray’s the closest thing you’ve ever had to an uncle-the man who taught you how to throw a punch when you were thirteen and swore you’d never need to use it—which almost makes the sting worse. Usually, he’s on your side.

“Sorry, Ray, but I’m having a hard time finding the correlation between war-torn Middle East and y’know, me. Living my life. Going to parties. Drinking overpriced lattes on Melrose.”

From the corner of your eye, you catch it—just the smallest twitch at the corner of Joel’s mouth, like he’s fighting the urge to smile. Almost a smirk as his voice rumbles low, dry as whiskey. “Yeah, you’re right. No correlation.” His gaze finds yours, eyes molten, unreadable, even though that flicker of humour doesn’t fade. “Six months in the Middle East was a hell of a lot easier.”

Your breath catches—not that you’ll admit it. Not that you’ll let him see how easily that one line unsettled you. So you scoff, masking the jolt in your chest with bravado. “Charming. Really building my confidence here.”

Maybe he shouldn’t have said it. Loose words had no place in this job. Seen and not heard type of thing, He knew that better than most. But hell, it had almost been worth it for the way your big eyes snapped up to meet his, surprises flashing like struck flint. For the way your chest rose and fell under that theatrical sigh you’d heaved.

Beautiful.

Brat.

Dead-on.

Before the silence can stretch too long, your father clears his throat. “This isn’t up for debate.”

You let out another scoff before plastering on a brittle smile, the first you’ve summoned since getting here and shit. If it doesn’t have Joel unsteady on his feet.

“So glad we had this nice little family chat.” You glance down at your phone, already moving towards the door. “But I better get going. I’m late for something.”

Your parents share another one of their tight looks, but you don’t give the satisfaction of pausing, the space for them to butt in again. You backpedal a few steps, locking eyes with Joel. “This better be the last time I see you. Sir.”

That final word drips with sarcasm, your own little jab at the way he’d addressed you. Then, with a flourish, you snap a salute—two fingers at your temple before dragging your hand down into a bold middle finger.

You hear a sharp gasp from your mother and a low chuckle from Ray as you pivot on your heel, your boots carrying you back through the house with an echo.

Behind you, the room falls quiet. Joel exhales slow through his nose, shoulders still squared. And damned if he doesn’t feel the ghost of a smile still tugging at the corner of his mouth.

By the time you push through the doors of your house later that afternoon, childhood best friend-turned-full-blown influencer Abby in tow, your throat is scratchy from all the venting. Hours of it, pacing her apartment, replaying every damn second of this morning. The ambush at your parents, Ray’s betrayal, Joel Miller posted up like some hired executioner by the fireplace. Abby had been smug about it, sipping her Diet Coke, occasionally laughing when you got too animated. Now, walking in, you almost convince yourself to leave it at that. Let the day die. Almost.

Then you hear it—the faint creak of footsteps. The scrape of weight on wood. Your gaze flicks through the glass doors leading to the deck. And there he is. Joel. Standing with his hands braced on the railing, shoulders set, staring out at the city spread below like he’s memorising every entry point, calculating every little thing that could go wrong. His stance is all habit, control, yet something about it makes your breath catch like a hitch in the gears.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake.”

Abby collides with your shoulder, then follows your line of sight, letting out a low whistle when she sees what’s on offer outside. The grin that spreads across her face is infuriating. The sound draws Joel’s head around. Instinct sharpens his posture, that automatic readiness. His eyes sweep the room. They land on Abby, flick past her like she’s been catalogued and dismissed, and then fix on you. He feels it, that flicker from earlier. The annoyance in your eyes is obvious, but there’s something else threaded through it. He takes a few long strides to step over the threshold and back into the house, large hands finding his hips when he asks you, “Can we talk? Privately.”

You cross your arms, planting your feet. “Whatever you have to say to me, you can say in front of Abby. You know, since you’re just letting yourself into my house and all, why not make yourself comfortable?” Your voice is icy, testing.

Joel’s jaw flexes, a muscle ticking under his greying scruff. For a second you think he’ll push back, insist Abby take off or you find somewhere else to chat. But he just nods, one firm tilt of his head. “Alright then.” He takes a step close, voice level as he whirls a finger in the air, gesturing around you. “I’m not too crash hot on all of this either, darlin’, but this is the way it is. Whether we like it or not.”

The word darlin’ slips out like he doesn’t even notice it, like it’s a southern habit as natural as breathing. But you notice. It makes your stomach flutter against your will. Joel notices it too, the faint shift in your expression. He drags a hand across the back of his neck.

“I ain’t here to run your life. I’m just here to make sure you still got one.”

The words sink deeper than they should, tugging at a part of you you’d rather keep boarded up. Your shoulders sag, just barely. “Fine. Just… stay out of my way, okay?”

Joel studies you for a beat longer. There’s a lot he could say. A dozen things he should, including why staying out of your way is at the bottom of his to-do list on this jon. But he just nods. Again.You’re not sure why the curt movement bothers you so much, curling underneath your skin as he steps past you, boots heavy on the wood floors, disappearing down the hall towards the guest wing of your home.

You keep your eyes fixed forward until he’s gone. Until you detect the devious tone in Abby’s voice when she says, “I thought you said he was old. He’s actually kind of hot. In a retired GI Joe kinda way.”

You whip your head towards her. “No.”

Her brows life, eyelashes flutter, all mock-innocence. “What?” 

“You know what.” Her little sly smile curls wider. “You are not allowed to sleep with my bodyguard.”

“Five minutes ago you didn’t even want him here!”

“Not the point,” you tell her, heat flaring red across your cheeks before you can smother it. “He can’t protect me if he’s too busy fucking you, okay?” It comes out clipped, harsher than you mean it to, the words dropping into the air like stones. Abby’s brows pinch, her gaze sliding over to you. Studying. Like she’s trying to piece together how you’ve gone from absolutely not in the car to… whatever this is. 

You fold your arms, bristling under her look. “I just mean, it’d be a conflict of interest. That’s all.” 

At least, that’s what you tell Abby. What you tell yourself.

***

It doesn’t take long—less than a week—for the novelty of Joel in your house to sour into irritation. He’s everywhere. Always in the corner of your eye.

On Tuesday, you attempt sneaking out to grab a coffee on your own. Joel’s already leaning against the hood of your car when you leave the cafe, his own takeaway cup in hand like he’s been waiting for you.

“You install a tracking device in me while I was sleeping?” you snap, shoving past him toward your car. You pull your sunglasses down over your eyes, spotting two paparazzi across the street with their hellishly inconspicuous cameras. You’re really not sure why they bother. You’re really not sure why they bother. Your life’s not exactly headline material, but some of them are banking on catching a lucky moment, a misstep, anything to sell.

“I didn’t. But that’s a damn good idea,” he tells you, climbing into the passenger side of your Range Rover like he was invited. “Might have to try it if you keep actin’ up.”

It was said like a joke, a glimmer of mischief laced in with his drawl, but the way his eyes linger on you as you pull out of the parking space makes it feel like a warning. You ignored Joel all the way home.

On Friday, you text your parents for the fiftieth time: Fire him. I don’t need a babysitter. I’m fine. 

The reply came back faster than you expected—short, clipped, final. Not an option.

By day seven, it’s worse. You’d moved out of your parent’s place at twenty because you couldn’t deal with the house constantly teeming with people. Cooks, assistants, massage therapists, actual therapists, security details. So, having to share living quarters with someone else, someone you don’t even want here, gnaws at you like a relentless itch. You bump into Joel in the kitchen, by the laundry, brushing past him in the hall. He moves through the house like he belongs here, even though you remind him—often—that he doesn’t.

The only plus side? He’s strong enough to do the little things you can’t. Like tonight: you’re glaring at a jar of pasta sauce, twisting until your palms burn. Joel ambles in, fresh out of the shower, hair damp, faded grey t-shirt just faintly sticking to his chest. He pauses, tilts his head.

“Y’strugglin’?”

“No.”

He reaches over anyway, plucking it from your hands. And with one effortless twist, the lid pops open. His bicep, a little tanned, flexes, corded muscle shifting beneath cotton. You don’t look away. Not fast enough, anyway, because Joel notices. Of course he does. But he doesn’t comment, just sets the jar on the counter and hums as he wanders off—some Eagles tune you grew up hearing in the backseat of your dad’s car. 

Joel’s always playing some sort of music: Hall & Oates in the morning, Linkin Park if he’s out by the pool, Fleetwood Mac drifting from his room at night. It should grate on you, and sometimes it does, but there are moments it feels like home in a way that makes your whole body ache.

Not that you’d admit that out loud.

You don’t fit neatly into each other’s space, not by a long shot. Joel’s regimented, a creature of habit—dishes washed as soon as he uses them, boots lined up by his bedroom door, shirts folded like he’s still living out of a rucksack. You, on the other hand, live in a kind of half-chaos. Coffee cups scattered across side tables, makeup crowding the bathroom counter, cereal bowls left in the sink to “soak.”

“Christ, you ever clean as you go?” he muttered one morning, scrubbing out a pan you’d abandoned after frying eggs. 

“I was gonna come back to it,” you lied from your stool at the counter, popping a grape in your mouth. He didn’t believe you for a second, but he finished the job anyway, shaking his head like you were a storm he’d been forced to weather.

And Joel has other gripes, too. Aside from you being stubborn as all hell, it isn’t the big things that get to him. It’s the little ones. The floral pyjama shorts that show more leg than you seem to realise. The oversized t-shirt that hangs off one shoulder, the bike pants you tug on without thought. Nothing intended to draw the eye, but Joel’s snag anyway. He finds himself looking too long, catching himself too late.

Like this morning in the gym. You’d been on the treadmill, hair tied up messily, sweat dampening the back of your neck. He’d been at the weights bench, pressing slow, steady reps. You didn’t speak much, didn’t need to aside from an obligatory grunt hello when you’d walked in and noticed him already halfway through a set and shirtless. There was a practical kind of power in him, in his muscles—the sort that came from experience, from survival and necessity. Not flashy, not sculpted for vanity, but capable. Attractive, too, if you were to toe the line. But every so often you’d glance sideways and there he was, chest slick, veins standing out along his forearms. 

You told yourself you were just checking the digital clock that hung above the chest press. He told himself he was just keeping an eye on you to make sure you weren’t about to faceplant. Neither of you had the conviction to believe your own excuses.

Eventually, you pulled your headphones out, slowing the treadmill from you’re being chased by a serial killer speed to aimlessly wandering. “Do you seriously have to sweat all over every piece of equipment?”

Joel grunted, lowered the bar into its hold with a clank. “I wipe it down.”

“Not good enough. Some of us like to work out without slipping on testosterone.”

That earned a rough laugh, quick and sharp that went straight to your core. “You’re complaining a lot for someone who doesn’t even use these weights.”

“I might,” you shot back, but it was weak, and he knew it.

“Uh-huh,” Joel mumbled, towel slung over his shoulder, eyes dark on yours when he said, “Sure thing, darlin’.”

Your pulse tripped. You hated that it did. Because for all the ways he drives you insane—for always being two steps behind you, for popping lids you didn’t ask for, for just existing in your space—there’s something about having him here that you can’t quite bring yourself to hate.

Someone who doesn’t want anything from you. Who doesn’t try to use your name, your family, your money. Someone who just…is.

Even if he does your head in. Even if you do his.

And maybe that’s the most dangerous part of it all.

***

A month in, the house has settled. Or maybe, you have. Joel still shadows you—it is his job, after all—but for the most part, your resentment has dulled into routine. You roll your eyes less when he checks all of the locks at night, huff less when he tails you to the grocery store. He still drives you crazy, but at least it’s a familiar kind of crazy now.

Joel’s used to it too, which is why, when Abby suddenly shrieks from the couch one night, he doesn’t even flinch. He still hasn’t quite figured her out—your best friend, your shadow more often than not. Half the time she feels more like an audience to herself than company to you, always quick with a selfie or a snarky one-liner meant to land like a punchline. Joel can’t tell if it’s just her age showing, or if she’s genuinely that wrapped up in her own little spotlight to care about anybody else in the room.

“Oh my God, you’re on DeuxMoi again!”

Joel only lifts his head from his phone when she bounds across the room to perch on the arm of the chair you’re sat in. Abby grins like she’s struck gold, reading aloud: “Spotted waiting in line at Grady’s. Didn’t see whether she was with anyone but can confirm she is even more gorgeous IRL than in pics.”

You shriek, half-laughing, half-mortified, and launch yourself at her, wrestling the phone out of her grip. A smile breaks wide across your face when you see the grainy shot. “No way. That’s like, what? The third time this month? Oh my God, my hand looks so weird in this picture, doesn’t it? Does it look weird to you?”

“Shut up, you look perfect as usual,” Abbie groans, rolling her eyes.

“Joel, have you seen this?” You hold the phone up, giddy as you wait for a reaction.

“Seen what?”

You pip up from her seat, and saddle up to where he’s sitting at the bench. Taking the phone from your hands, Joel narrows his eyes on the screen. It’s a photo from a couple of days ago when you’d made the trek to some TikTok famous cafe. Your hair’s in a messy ponytail and you’re sporting baggy jeans and a white tee that slips off one shoulder. He recognizes the moment. He remembers standing there in the heat, watching your neck glisten, remembering the small sigh you’d made about the line being too long.

And then his gaze shifts. He’s in the photo too. Lurking just behind you, arms cross, jaw set, sunglasses shielding half his face. “Jesus.”

You nearly squeal, jabbing the screen with your finger. “Joel, that’s you. You made your DeuxMoi debut.”

He hands the phone back like it might burn him. “Am I supposed to care about that? Is that meant to be some kinda honor?”

“Oh my God,” you laugh, shaking your head, “I forgot you’re a hundred years old. This is like—huge.”

“Mm.” His mouth twitches, beard scratching under his hand as he looks anywhere but at you.

Abby cackles, tossing a pillow at him. “Congratulations, Joel, you’re famous.”

Joel shakes his head, but the back of his neck burns as the image lingers. Not of him, but of you. Jeans, white tee, hair caught up like you didn’t try at all, and somehow that’s what makes people stop and look.

Later, when the house has gone quiet, he washes the day off and sits on the edge of the bed that isn’t his. He still isn’t used to this—these high corniced walls, the too-soft mattresses, the city lights bleeding in around blackout curtains. He’s used to deserts, dust, nights broken up by the sound of men shifting in their bunks. Not this.

He scrolls his phone absently, half-expecting to pass out mid-swipe, until the name catches him. DeuxMoi.

He clicks before he can stop himself.

And there you are. That same shot outside Grady’s, your hand caught in your hair. People watching. People noticing. People dissecting. His stomach knots, the sour taste of it sharp in his mouth. You’re not just his responsibility—you’re public property now, chewed up and spat out on gossip blogs.

He tells himself not to, but his thumb taps the tag anyway, and your profile floods the screen. Somehow, it’s worse.

It’s you, smiling wide, sun-soaked and dazzling. You at dinner with Abbie, chin tipped toward a wine glass. You on the beach, hair tangled, eyes lit from within. Little clips of your life, flung open to strangers. To him.

And then—your latest post. One that sucks all of the air out of his lungs at once.

You. In lingerie. Black lace clinging, silk straps slipping off your shoulder. A pose that’s supposed to look casual, careless. But Joel sees the thought in it—the light, the angle, the way your hip tilts, the deliberate arch of your spine.

Posted 11 minutes ago.

He goes rigid. Eleven minutes. Meaning you’re still awake, still flushed from adjusting the straps, still fixing your hair in the mirror. Just two doors down. He drags a hand over his face, but it doesn’t stop the images that crowd in—your body in that outfit, your laugh muffled through the wall, the knowledge that right now, you could be lying in bed scrolling the same app, waiting to see who bites.

And then his eyes catch on the thing that undoes him most: your gaze. Direct, unflinching. You’re looking down the barrel of the camera, chin tucked, eyes dark and knowing. For your followers, it’s a tease. 

For him, it feels like a challenge.

Like you’re looking right at him. The idea knots hot and ugly in his chest. 

Who the hell are you posting this for? Friends? Followers? Some faceless bastard in your DMs? Or worse—someone you actually want? Joel’s jaw tightens until it aches. The thought of you handing that softness over to anyone else makes his blood run mean.

The guilt comes crashing in just as hard, because fuck—what the hell is he doing even thinking like that? He’s not some college kid with a crush. He’s your fucking bodyguard. Old enough to know better. Paid to keep you safe, not sit here with his pulse hammering over the idea of your skin against black lace. He’s seen you in a bikini before, lingering on the outskirts while you enjoy beach days with your friends. That’s one thing—public, harmless, a girl on the beach. But this? This feels different. Intimate. Intentional. Like you’ve peeled back a curtain and let strangers into your bedroom. And now what? How the hell is he supposed to keep a clear head, supposed to keep you safe, when a single photo on a screen has his cock pressing thick against his zipper? How is he meant to look you in the eye tomorrow morning, knowing you snapped this picture just minutes ago, knowing he’s lying here hard as a teenager over it?

Restless, he tosses the phone aside, but it doesn’t matter. The image burns behind his eyelids anyway. You—looking like sin, looking like trouble, looking like you know exactly how badly someone could want you.

And he hates himself for wondering if that someone is supposed to be him.

***

It’s a Thursday afternoon when Joel gets the call, leaning against the kitchen counter, voice low so you don’t hear.

“Another one? Sent where?”

Ray’s on the other end, his tone sharp enough that Joel can picture the lines cutting into his friend’s face.

Your parents’ house. A letter, like the others. This one worse—graphic, vile, every word a blade pointed at you. Joel’s hand curls into a fist so tight that his knuckle spring up white against his jeans. They’re nowhere near close to finding out who’s behind all of this. No evidence left behind on the letters. No way of tracking the phone calls coming through.

“What’re her movements for the next few days?” Ray wants to know, a rustle of papers on the other end of the line. 

Joel huffs, rubs a hand over his jaw. “What do you think I am, her secretary?”

Ray chuckles. “So she’s still trying to run loose on you, huh?”

“Not so much anymore,” Joel admits, eyes flicking towards the deck where you’re sunbathing with Abby. “But she’s not exactly givin’ me a detailed itinerary. Got some big party tomorrow night, though.”

There’s a beat of silence before Ray’s voice turns flinty. “I don’t need to tell you this, but stick close. That party’s gonna be mayhem, and we still don’t know what we’re looking at with this threat.”

“Copy that,” he says. Then your laugh—bright, careless—bubbles through the open door, and something in Joel knots tight. He squints against the late afternoon sun filtering in, watching you in your orange bikini, slick with sunblock, catching the light in a way that makes him look away fast. His throat works as he ends the call, slipping his phone into his pocket just as you walk inside.

“Everything all good?” you want to know.

Joel straightens. “Yep. All good.”

You pop a hip, and the movement presses a curve into your side that he pretends he doesn’t notice. Narrowing your eyes, you jeer back: “Tell that to your face.”

He doesn’t answer, just lets the corner of his mouth pique. Giving up on digging deeper, you sigh and toss him something unexpected—an olive branch. “You can come hang out with us, if you want. You don’t have to lurk in corners all the time.”

Joel just blinks at you. For a second, he almost says no. But then you disappear down the hall with a be back in a sec, hips swinging, perfect sunkissed crease where the top of your thigh meets the curve of your ass, and his brain shortcircuits so hard that he doesn’t realise he’s outside until he’s lowering himself into a wicker chair opposite Abby’s lounger.

Her grin is in full force when she sees him join her. She’s been circling him ever since she first dropped by—little touches on his arm, long glances she thinks are sultry, but ones Joel brushes off without thought.

Today, she’s bolder.

“You can sit closer,” she tells him, shifting her sunglasses down her nose. “I don’t bite. Unless you ask nicely.”

Joel’s brows lift. Is she for real?

“I’ll manage just fine from here.”

He’s not sure what’s funny, but Abby lets out a flighty bout of laughter at his response, leaning back and crossing one leg over the other in a way he assumes is supposed to be sexy.

That’s the scene you walk back into. Abby with her sights set on Joel, giggling at something he’s said. Something twists in your gut, sour. Sharp. You know what Abby’s like with men. It’s fine. You know her well. But your bodyguard? Really?

You don’t even know what Joel’s like in that way. Not really. Not outside the stiffness of his job, not beyond clipped orders and silent observation. Does he have a girlfriend? A wife tucked away somewhere? A family? God knows how he’d manage it in this line of work. He doesn’t leave your side. No days off. Maybe he doesn’t have attachments. Maybe he’s one of those men who leaves nothing but ghosts behind.

The thought sticks.

Later that night, you find yourself in your usual unspoken ritual: you on one end of the couch, him on the other, Netflix humming in the background. Somewhere around the three week mark you’d started your annual rewatch of The Office. Joel had never seen it before, and he started lingering on his way through the living room, chuckling under his breath at Michael Scott’s jokes. A couple days later he moved to the arm chair, but it was at an awkward angle to the TV and you could tell he was having a hard time folding his huge frame into the small seat. So, you offered for him to move to the couch about a week ago.

Neither of you ever calls it a habit, but it is.

Your head turns as the theme song starts up. “So… You ever gonna tell me anything about your life? Or do you just sit there like a brick wall forever?”

Joel snorts, not looking away from the TV. “What d’you wanna know?”

“Anything. Start with the basics. Family? Girlfriend? Secret wife?”

That earns you a real look, sideways and sharp. “That’s the basics?” You raise an eyebrow, not letting him skirt around the question. “No wife. No girlfriend.”

“So what, then?” you wonder. “Nothing.”

Joel runs his tongue along the back of his teeth. He could leave it there—should leave it there. But something about the quiet, the way the glow from the screen softens your edges, the way you’re looking at him like you actually want to know—it cracks something open. “I was in the army, as you know,” he says finally. 

“With Ray.”

“With Ray,” he confirms. “After that, did some contract work in DC. Had a fiancée back then.”

That perks you up, and you swivel to face him. “Fiancée?”

Joel nods once. “Didn’t end well.”

You wait for him to elaborate. He doesn’t, just allow his attention to flick back to the TV, but his shoulders are tense, lifted a couple inches shy of comfortable.

Because Joel Miller has rules. Don’t share too much. Don’t get caught up in details. Details lead to attachments, attachments—fuck, they get people killed. He’s lived by that code for years, walls stacked high around every memory that could bleed if touched. So why does he still feel like he’s fighting the urge to spill his guts to you? Why does it suddenly feel like more is at stake? And why does it feel like it has nothing to with the threat outside these walls—but because of the pull inside them.

Despite the sitcom playing out on the screen, silence still stretches, completely weighted.

And for the first time since being here, Joel wonders if maybe it’s not the letters, not the stalker, not even the party tomorrow night he should be worried about.

Maybe it’s you.

***

Joel calls out the next evening when the clock edges closer to the time you swore you’d be ready. It’s some publication party—a magazine or website celebrating the top 20 Hollywood hotties of the year or something Joel would find equally as ridiculous. 

“You’re going to be late.” His voice carries down the hallway. It’s clipped, sharp enough to pass for professional, but softer underneath. And when did it start sounding less like orders and more like nagging? Like a boyfriend waiting in the living room, impatient but invested, rather than a bodyguard just trying to get his client to where she needs to be on time.

“I’m coming!” you respond, checking yourself in the mirror before joining him. The sound of your heels clicking against the hardwood pulls his head up from the email he’s reading on his phone. 

And then he sees you, breath stuttering for a quick second. It’s not the first time he’s seen you dressed up—hair smoothed, lips painted, skirts cut short for cameras. He’s supposed to be used to that. But tonight’s different. The dress hugs your frame in a way that feels like it was sewn to test him. The grin you throw his way when you catch his eyes lingering feels hotter, hungrier, like maybe you know exactly what you’re doing. And yet his face hardens, a frown pulling across it before he can stop himself. 

A reflex. A shield.

The weight of it lands straight in your chest. He looks…unimpressed. Like the cut of the dress, the shine of your lips, the two hours of effort you’d put in to look like this wasn’t worth the time. He doesn’t like it. Doesn’t like you like this. Maybe doesn’t like you at all. You force your shoulders straighter, scolding yourself for even caring. For letting Joel Miller of all people have that kind of power, when you’ve shrugged off critics and cameras for years. 

Still—you care. More than you should.

“What?” you toss it out as you shove your lipstick into your purse, trying to sound breezy. “Never seen a woman in a short dress before, Miller?”

It’s meant to be a jab, light, teasing—but it falls flat when he doesn’t bite. His jaw just shifts, a tic of muscle in his cheek, and then his voice is flat again. Professional. Remote.

Because while he’s plenty of women in plenty of dresses, none of them have ever managed to look as good as you.

“We’re taking the driver tonight,” he says cooly. “I’ll ride in the back with you.”

It’s not the smartest decision. The car smells faintly of leather and cologne, tinged with whatever florally scent you’ve picked out for the evening. You cross one leg over the other, the hem of your dress sliding higher with the movement, a sleek line of muscle flashing in the dim light. Joel shouldn’t notice, shouldn’t care—but the sight itches under his skin. Joel shifts like he can shake it off, leather creaking beneath him, knee brushing close enough to yours that the contact zings sharp through him. You press yourself against the door, and it feels like retreat. Space he forced you to take. He tells himself that’s good—better for both of you—but it does nothing to fan away how your presence burns hot and insistent beside him.

As you near the club, Joel clears his throat, voice pulling your attention to inside the car, instead the whir of lights whipping past your window. It’s that steady rasp you’ve come to know by heart, even when it’s doling out rules.

“You don’t leave without tellin’ me. Don’t wander off. If someone pushes in too close, you let me handle it. You don’t—”

“—have fun. Yeah, yeah, I get it.” Your eyes flip, a grin tugging at your glossy mouth as you cut him off.

His gaze flicks to you, unimpressed, the faint furrow between his brows making it clear he doesn’t think you’re funny. “I’m serious.”

“Oh, I know you are, Action Man.”

Joel rears back a tad. “Action Man? How old do you think I am?”

You roll a few potential answers around, bite the inside of your cheek as if it’s going to stop you when you tell him, “Old enough.”

You don’t mean for it to sound so…Abby. Suggestive. But Joel feels it like a bolt straight to his crotch all the same, and immediately hates himself for it.

He shifts in his seat again. You do the same, as much space between you on the leather as the car allows. The hum of tires rolling into the parking bay outside the club fills the void until Joel says your name, in a quiet way you’ve not heard before that has your head turning before you think better of it. His eyes hold you there, unwavering as they flit over every one of your curious features. The car grinds to a halt, the glow of camera flashes already crackling white through the tinted windows. Joel leans closer, voice dropping even lower.

“I mean it. I’ll be close by. If you need me—”

“I know where to find you,” you finish, a little softer than you meant to. For a second, the tension hums between you, something finicky and laced with something else you can’t quite touch. Then the car door swings open, the shouts and flashes flooding in, and Joel’s presence beside you is just another anchor you don’t want to admit you need as you make your way into the party.

The club swallows you whole the second you step inside. Bass thrums through the floor, gold and violet lights cutting through the haze, the air thick with perfume, alcohol, and money. Joel’s body moves on autopilot—slightly behind you, his shoulders squared to shield, gaze cutting sharp angles across the room. He’s already done the walkthrough twice tonight. Once with your family’s team, once with the club’s own security detail. Exit routes memorised. Points of cover, choke spots, stairwells—all catalogued and filed away. He’d checked the headcount of every guard, gone over the list, made it damn clear: if a name’s not on it, they don’t get within ten feet of you. No exceptions.

Still, habits die hard. Even with the protocols executed to the highest extent, his eyes keep moving. Back entrance tucked behind the bar. Fire exit just beyond the DJ booth. He marks the men by the ropes, the two stationed at the stairs, one already looking a little too lax with a cocktail in hand. 

Joel files his face away. Weak link.

You don’t notice any of it, not really, already used to the way Joel obsesses over the finer details. You still think it’s overkill, unnecessary, but you’ve learnt that arguing with your parents—with Joel—doesn’t get you anywhere. A remixed Dua Lipa track whumps over the speakers as Abby comes charging through the room like a freight train in Jimmy Choos. She’s already drunk, hiccupy laughter spilling out as she latches onto you.

“You look soooooo good,” she slurs, clinging to your arm. “Oh my God, we’re getting so fucked up tonight.”

Joel’s jaw flexes, watching as she nearly sloshes her drink across your dress. He doesn’t step in, but he has no problem removing your friend if she gets too much. Then Abby’s turning, arms thrown towards him before he can sidestep. She smells like cheap gin and expensive perfume. He lets her hug fall flat, arms locked at his sides as she asks, “Is that a gun in your pocket or you just happy to see me?”

He stays rigid, throwing a look of disapproval down at her as he grits out, “Neither.”

Abby just giggles, clearly not taking on anything of value as she sways back to you casually. He’s already scanning again. Counting heads, checking angles. Faces. A waiter too close, lingering with his tray instead of moving on. Joel’s eyes narrow, shoulders angling, weight shifting just enough that the guy clocks the warning and retreats. It’s second nature by now. Keep the perimeter tight, keep your eyes sharper than the noise and lights. He knows the team outside is running interference with the paps—he’d already spoken with the driver, mapped out the side alley escape if the front is blocked. All watertight. And yet, standing here with the bass rattling his chest and Abby draped over you, Joel feels a kind of unease that’s got nothing to do with weak points in security, all because his focus keeps circling back to you. Not the exits or the shadows—you. Laughing under Abby’s arm, dress slicing risque lines against your legs, every brush of your bare shoulder against his jacket sleeve striking a match he’s not supposed to notice.

The night unfurls in fragments—music vibrating through your veins, competing with champagne bubbles, neon lights bleeding into your skin. You let it happen. Drink in hand, head thrown back, hair frizzing and sticking to your neck as you move to the beat. You don’t think about the rules, or Joel, or the way his voice had sounded in the car when he’d told you not to wanter. You just let go.

Joel doesn’t, though. His eyes never leave you. From his place against the wall—one hand hooked on his belt, the other nursing a glass he hasn’t touched—he’s watching. Pretending he’s just another body in the dark, but he’s counting every step you take, every face too close to yours. His gaze flicks constantly: exits, staff, crowd swell. But always back to you. He doesn’t like the way Abby clings to your arm, doesn’t like the sloppiness of the men circling the dancefloor, the cameras flashing through the tinted glass upstairs. And he really doesn’t like the way your laugh cuts through all the noise, straight through him, bright and reckless, loosening something in his chest he’s spent years binding tight. You catch him once. Through the strobe, across the dancefloor, his eyes locked on you. Instead of looking away, you lift your glass in a mock toast, smirking before Abby pulls you back into the fray. He shakes his head, mutters to himself, but his mouth betrays him with the faintest twitch of a smile he can never help but give up to you.

Hours blur. Drinks come and go. Sweat dampens your dress at the spine. At some point you slip from Abby’s grip and weave toward the balcony doors for a break. The rush of night air is just steps away when someone cuts across your path.

A waiter. At least, that’s what he looks like at first glance—vest, tray balanced easy in one hand. But there’s nothing on it. And there’s nothing easy about the way his beady eyes pin you in the walkway.

“Been a long time waiting to see you up close,” he says. 

Your brows pinch, disoriented. “Sorry—do I… know you?”

His smile is thin, stretched too tight. “Of course you do. Don’t play coy. All those words I wrote you—you must’ve read them. Every one.”

The back of your neck prickles. “Letters?”

He shifts closer, crowd surging behind him, his tray dipping slightly like he’s forgotten it. “I thought maybe you didn’t answer because you were busy. But then I saw the pictures—parties, friends. You had time. You just didn’t care.”

Your stomach turns. He smells faintly of sweat and a cheap drugstore cologne, too close, boxing you against the wall. “Look, I think you’ve got the wrong—”

“No, I don’t,” he bites, more abrupt now. More aggressive. “I know you. Your beautiful smile, always teasing me in the pictures. On your Instagram. You know the ones. And do you think anyone else notices the way you touch your wrist when you’re nervous? I do. I see it all.” Then he says your name, and you blanch at the poisonous way it sounds coming from him.

The air leaves your lungs in a jolt. Panic flares hot, hands gripping the clutch at your side. You flick your gaze past him, desperate—and there. Joel, storming through the crush of bodies, eyes zeroed on you. The man leans closer, voice sickly soft. “They don’t protect you the way I could. You’ll see, one day. You’ll understand we’re meant for each other.” You press yourself back against the wall, searching for space that isn’t there. His breath fans hot against your cheek. “Every night I waited for you to write back,” he whispers. “And when you didn’t… well. It hurt. But I forgive you. I’ll always forgive you.”

Joel barrels through the knot of bodies, too slow, always too slow. By the time he breaks free into the space where you’re pinned against the wall, the son of a bitch is gone. Just a tray left abandoned on a side table, like he’d shed his skin and slipped into the shadows. But you’re there. Pressed flat against the plaster, chest heaving, eyes wide and glassy. And Joel’s gut twists hard because you’re shaking.

“Who was that?” His voice comes out harsher than he means, gravel edged with panic. He grips your arm—gentle, but firm enough to pull you out of the trance you’re in. “What did he say to you?”

You shake your head, words mangled on your tongue. “He—he said he’d written me letters. That he’s been watching me. That—” Your voice breaks, just for a second. “Joel, he knew things. About me. About how I move, how I—”

The sound that rumbles out of Joel’s chest isn’t human. It’s closer to a growl, pure fury simmering too hot to leash. He wraps a hand around your waist, pulling you off the wall and into him like he can shield you with his body alone. His eyes dart over the crowd, looking for that bastard. Knowing he’s gone. Hating himself for it.

“For fuck sake,” Joel mutters. He thought he’d had this place, this scenario on lock. Watertight, he’d told himself.

And still.

He steers you toward the side exit, ignoring the pulse of music and laughter behind, ignoring the curious glances as he shoulders through. His hand never leaves your back. You don’t want it to.

Outside, the night air is cool against your skin. Joel all but shoves you into the waiting car, scanning every shadow before sliding in after you. Only when the door shuts does he finally look at you, and it floors him. The shake in your hands. The smear of fear still clinging to your face.

“You shouldn’t have been alone,” he bites out, low and dark, more at himself than at you. His jaw aches from how tight he’s clenching it. “I should’ve been right there. Should’ve—fuck.” He unlocks his phone, hits Ray’s contact before the driver can even pull away from the curb. His voice is clipped.

“We’re out. He was here. Heading back to the house now.”

You’re still trying to get your breath back, shallow breaths wracking your chest, hands trembling against your knees. “Joel—”

He talks right over you, shakes his head while he listens to Ray on the other end of the line. “Don’t ask me how. He got close. Too close.”

“Joel!” you snap, the panic sharp enough to crack through his focus. “Who the fuck was that? What’s going on?”

“Ray, it’s too dangerous,” Joel grits, ignoring you once again. “I said this at the beginning. She needs to be in the loop. We can’t keep it from her.”

Your pulse spikes. “Too dangerous?” you echo, staring at him. “Too dangerous what? Joel! Can’t keep what from me?”

You hear it then, Ray’s voice carrying tinny from the speaker. “We’ll meet at HQ. I’ll call her parents.”

The line clicks dead. 

Your stomach drops. Joel won’t even look at you, jaw tight, hand flexing uselessly against his thigh.

Back at your place, it’s chaos. Your family is already in the living room, Ray pacing with his phone in one hand, barking orders to someone else on the line. There’s a random police detective scribbling in a notepad. Joel closes the door behind your and the sound swells—voices layers, sharp, all of them rising over each other.

“Security detail doubled—”

“Where the hell were you—”

“She’s not stepping foot outside until—”

“You should’ve told us sooner—”

It builds until it’s just noise, a crush of words that only make your skin crawl tighter.

“Stop!” you scream, the sound cutting hard and high through the mess. Everyone freezes. Even Ray’s phone drops from his ear. You’re shaking, but it’s fury now, white-hot and acid in your chest. “Somebody tell me what the fuck is going on. Now.”

Joel steps forward first, and somehow that makes it worse. His voice is steady but you can see the storm under it, the anger he’s choking down. “It was a breach. Shouldn’t have happened, but it did. My job—”

“Your job,” you cut in, voice splintering. “You mean the job you’ve been lying to me about? About what you’re really doing here?”

His brows stitch together. “I’ve never lied—”

“You think keeping things from me isn’t lying?” Your throat burns. “You made me think—I don’t know, Joel. That maybe we were in some kind of good place. That I could trust you. Turns out you’re just like the rest of them. A liar.”

Joel flinches at that, just barely, but enough that you get a weird sense of satisfaction. That he’s hurt. Even if it’s just a fraction of what you’re feeling right now.

Ray steps in then, voice smoother, softer, trying to douse the flames. As usual. “Listen—we’ve got photos of every waiter, every staff member who set foot in that building tonight. If you can identify him, we’ll have a lead. That’s what matters.”

Your laugh is sharp, bitter. “You want me to play police lineup right now? After that?” You gesture wildly, the smear of fear and adrenaline still hot under your skin. “I still have no clue what the hell is going on! Who was that guy?”

Everyone looks anywhere but you, and that’s the last straw. They don’t want to fill you in? Fine. You turn, shoulders tight as you storm down the hall. Joel’s already moving before he can catch himself, following the sound of your steps—heels abandoned, bare feet slapping against the floor. His hand lifts, almost ready to reach for you, to get you to stop. To listen.

But halfway there he freezes. The slam of your bedroom door cuts him off. It’s final and blunt, rooting him in place. He allows his breathing to slow, fighting every nerve that buzzes for you, before he turns back to the living room. Ray’s gaze flicks to him when he returns, but Joel doesn’t meet his eyes. His fists curl tight, nails carving crescents into his palms. Every choice he’s made tonight replays in jagged flashes—the frown he shouldn’t have let slip, the hesitation that gave that man room to breathe near you, the way your eyes burned when you called him a liar. He lets the shame settle, heavy and deserved. But under it, something colder forms, a vow.

Despite the weight on your chest, walking helps. Your thoughts slow, and by the time you loop back toward your street, you feel steadier, even if it’s only slightly. You’re still in a bit of a fog, however, so you don’t notice that you’re nearing Tess’ house, where she’s standing out front, reaching for her Sunday paper. But she clocks you immediately—eyes sharpening, a flicker of something unreadable crossing her face. Her lips press into a thin line before offering a tight smile that doesn’t reach her eyes. 

“Mornin’,” she says. Her voice is light, but you know better, already bracing yourself. “Walk of shame, huh?”

You hold her gaze, waiting for her to finish, knowing she’s far from done. 

“I always thought you were a sweet girl growing up. Even at dinner the other night. Polite, kind,” she sighs dramatically. “Never pegged you for someone who steals other people’s men.”

There’s hurt, jealously tangled up in her words.

“I didn’t steal anyone,” you say. You try to sound strong, but your voice betrays you, coming out barely above a whisper.

She scoffs and crosses her arms, a hint of smugness tugging at the corner of her mouth. “Men these days, can’t resist young, easy things like you, can they?”

She’s trying to get a reaction out of you, to make you feel bad, as if the fallout from last night hasn’t marred you already. “Tess, I don’t want any trouble.”

Joel isn’t a fan of weddings. 

It’s not that he’s a cynic, not really. It’s just that most of the ones he’s been to have ended in divorce—including his own. So, no, he didn’t exactly get all soppy and starry-eyed over vows and floral centrepieces. Speeches always dragged, the food was no better than the dinner service at the local bar-and-grill—even though everyone liked to pretend it was—and someone was always crying for some reason not to do with the day. It’s not that he doesn’t believe in love. It was just… He’s seen too much of the after. The unravelling of a relationship. The resentment. The cold silence where warmth and happiness and laughter used to be. He’s lived it. So no, weddings aren’t his thing.

Then there was the dressing for them.

The stiff collar of the blue button-down itches at his neck as Joel tugs at it, scowling into the bedroom mirror. It fit fine, looked good, even. But something about it makes him feel like a fraud. It’s too crisp, too polished, almost like he’s trying to be someone he isn’t—and he’d spent too many years trying to stop doing that. He drops the empty hanger on the bed beside the softer, worn in olive shirt he often gravitated towards for more serious events. Not fancy, but dependable. Like him. Only problem was that it didn’t feel like enough.

And that was a stupid thought, wasn’t it?

You’re not even going with her, he reminds himself. Just a guest. A seat-filler. The guy who showed up a with a drill and saved the bride’s ceremony vision.

Still, he doesn’t want to rock up and look like shit. Especially not if you’re going to be there in whatever dress you had picked out—something he is trying really hard not to think too much about. Because if he does, he’ll start picturing the way you looked with the shower steam still clinging to your skin a couple of days ago, how your mouth had opened when he—

Joel exhales hard through his nose and grabbed his phone.

He hasn’t seen you since he left Dina’s parents’ house yesterday, after you helped him clear up the mess of offcuts and tools. Not that he hadn’t kept an eye out. He’d lingered by the front window longer than he should have when he heard a car door slam outside. Caught himself scanning the aisles at the grocery store this morning, ears pricked for your laugh like some lovesick teenager. And he was still thinking about that message he’d sent you the other night after you’d slipped out of his place and made the roundabout trip back to your’s—Sweet dreams. It was still sitting there in your text thread, painfully neat, excruciatingly unsatisfying. Too short. Too impersonal. But the truth was, anything longer had felt dangerous.

But he was still about to call. Over a shirt. 

At least, that’s what Joel tells himself it’s about. He hovers over the call button on your contact card for a few long seconds before finally pressing it. It rings once. Twice. A third time long enough that Joel feels the relief and disappointment snipe his shoulder blades together. The phone rings again when—

“Hello?”

Your voice is a little breathy, warm, and behind it, Joel catches the sound of running water—followed by a sharp squeak and the stream cutting off.

He freezes.

He can see it far too easily: steam curling around your shoulders. Water dripping down your back. The memory of your bare skin soapy under his palms in a similar setting just a few days prior. Joel clears his throat.

“Hey. Uh. Hope I’m not botherin’ you.”

“Nope. Just hopping out of the shower.” A beat. “And you could never bother me, Joel.” He huffs out a short laugh, ignoring the way his whole chest goes warm and oozy. “What’re you doing?”

“Tryin’ to figure out what the hell a man wears to a wedding these days. Dina didn’t exactly say what the dress code was.”

“Is Joel Miller asking me for fashion advice?”

“Well, I was hopin’ for a bit more tact than that, but yeah. Guess I am.” There’s a pause, and the sound of bare feet padding across the floor before you ask, “What are the options?”

Joel stares down at his bed at his lacklustre options. “Blue shirt. Bit too…ironed? Makes me feel like a lawyer,” he jokes. “Then there’s a green one.”

“You like green,” you offer, smiling down the line.

“I like green,” he confirms.

You hum, and he can hear the smile in your voice now. “Go with the green. And maybe a jacket. You’ve got a jacket, right?”

“I have—”

“The Carhartt doesn’t count,” you interrupt, even though you won’t lie—you do love that Carhartt. 

“Watch it, darlin’. I’ve got a jacket. Wedding appropriate, don’t you worry.”

The conversation is so simple, but still, his veins vibrate. His cheeks hurt. He tells himself it’s just the shirt. Just the call.

But it isn’t. It never is with you. 

He contemplates saying something else—something about how he was looking forward to seeing you on Saturday, about how he’d been thinking about the other night a little more than he probably should’ve—but he didn’t. Doesn’t get a chance to, because you ask him to send you a photo.

“Just so I can confirm my expert opinion,” you say.

“You want me to send you a photo? Of me?”

“Do you want my help or not?” you jest, perching on the edge of your bed. 

Joel sighs. “Alright. Give me a second, need to change m’shirt.”

There’s a beat of silence, then some rustling, a muttered goddamn collar and a grumble about the buttons. “Christ. How the hell do you young people do this all the time?”

You’re still giggling to yourself when the photo of Joel lands on your screen—half his head cut off, his shirt collar sitting slightly askew. Free arm bent at a weird angle. It’s endearing in that very Joel kind of way.

“Don’t laugh,” he grumbles in your ear, even though your laughter is already slipping past your lips.

“I heard that.”

You bite your lip, try to tone it down. “It’s just… You look like you’re being held at gunpoint.”

Joel breaks, and you hear the quiet chuckle through the phone. “I’m gettin’ on in years, darlin’. I ain’t out here taking selfies every other day like your generation.”

The conversation halts there and you settle back on your bed, still wrapped in your towel, skin warm and still a tad damp. Neither of you say anything for a moment, just listen to each other’s breath on the other end of the line. Nothing about it is awkward. It’s almost… comforting.

A minute later, you break the silence. “How was your day?”

Joel shrugs and you practically hear it through the phone. “Not bad. Stopped by a kitchen remodel a couple of the guys are doing in Westwood. Spent half the morning chipping old grout off tile.” And he’s paying for it tonight. His lower back is screaming with a deep throbbing ache that made standing up after the task feel like unfolding rusty hinges. His shoulders burned from the hours spent hunched over. It was shit like that that made Joel realise he wasn’t getting any younger. 

“Sounds thrilling.”

“Tell that to my back, baby,” Joel jeers, then: “Almost stopped by your place actually.”

Your heart trips. “Yeah?”

“Had some long-forgotten stuff of your dad’s layin’ around. Figured I could drop ‘em back. Y’know… as an excuse.”

There’s no use fighting the grin that cracks over your face, or the heat that sizzles through your body. “You miss me, Miller?”

It’s meant to be a tease. Light. But something about the way it lands—hushed, suspended—makes it feel heavier than it should. 

Joel doesn’t laugh. 

“Yeah,” he says finally. “Somethin’ like that.”

Your throat goes a little tight. You shift where you’re sitting, towel tugged snug across your chest. You hesitate, fingers curling a little tiger around your phone. “What if… you could see me?”

“Whaddya mean?”

“Well,” you murmur, your voice soft but steady, “you sent me a photo. Seems only fair I return the favour.”

“What kind of favour we talkin’ about here?” he wonders, cautious but curious. Like he’s not sure if you’re kidding—and not sure if he wants you to be.

You rise to your knees on your bed slowly. The towel slips lower on your chest, the tight pull of it accentuating the swell of your tits. You bite your lip again, adjusting yourself so one arm braces behind you while the other angles the phone. Your striped towel clings to where you’re still wet from the shower. Pushed high on your thighs, the material teases more than it hides. Your skin glows, flushed and dewy under the light.

You take a snap.

Delete it.

Try again, with a tilt of your chin, arch of your back.

No. That’s not it.

Another pose that comes out too stiff. Too try-hard mannequin.

Then finally—heart galloping—you let go of trying to be perfect. Stop posing. Just smile up at the camera, completely you, and hit send.

It takes a second. Maybe two. Three. Then you hear it—a loud clatter, something skidding across hardwood, followed by a muffled string of curses and the rustle of movement.

“Joel?” Silence. Then a stern, almost anguished, “Darlin’.” You hold your breath. “You can’t spring somethin’ like that on me,” he says, voice hoarse and thick. 

You reply, smug. “You liked it though.”

Joel breathes out a soft laugh. “Liked it? You nearly sent me into cardiac arrest.”

“So you don’t want more?”

There’s a pause. Not because Joel’s unsure—but because he’s trying not to sound too desperate, too pussy-whipped when he answers.

“Don’t play with me, baby,” he says, all strained. “You know damn well I do.”

Your cheeks pinch, heat blooming everywhere, legs pressing together beneath your towel.

“So ask,” you say quietly.

Joel groans. Quiet—but you hear it. Feel it in your core, where the sound pulses, clenches, begs for more. You can almost picture the way he’s dragging a hand over his face, trying to keep it together.

Because honestly? He’s barely hanging on by a thread. Sneaking around has been risky enough. Ducking glances, half-truths, stealing away moments you shouldn’t even have in the first place. But this? Pictures? Cold, hard proof? That was a whole other kind of danger. Joel knew that.

And yet, he doesn’t tell you to stop. Can’t bring himself to. Not when you’re offering yourself up like this, so willingly. Which is why, when he finally speaks, it comes out fractured. Gravelly. Almost painful. 

“Send me another,” he says. “Please.”

Your breath catches, lungs suspended, frozen, like they’ve forgotten how to function. Until they do, and you lower your towel completely. Let it slip down your sides and puddle at your hips. The camera captures the top of your thighs, the slope of your waist, your bare chest, how your nipples peak from either the cool air, or anticipation of what comes next. Maybe both. You try not to overthink it. Just snap the photo fast before your courage wanes, and hit send.

The silence that stretches after the small delivered lands under your photo feels endless.

A hiss from Joel’s end comes sharp and unfiltered. You can hear fabric shifting—his weight repositioning with the groan of his mattress, a shaky inhale through his nose. You can almost picture him. Reclined against the headboard, bedside lamp casting a glow across one side of his face. Shirt hitched up, maybe, jeans unbuttoned but still on, the curve of his cock unmistakable beneath denim.

Meanwhile, you shift back against your pillows, body warming even more under the pull of his breath through the one, the rough edges of it catching in your chest. You part your legs slowly, letting the towel fall open. One hand cradles the phone at your ear, the other grazing across your torso—over the curve of your tits, your fingertips dragging down your navel, dipping into the crease where your thighs meet your hips. You arch into the touch, even though he’s not here.

“Joel?”

“Mm, darlin’?”

You dig your fingertips into the flesh of your thighs. “Wish you were here.”

“Oh yeah?” His voice is scratchy, underscoring the trepidation that lurks on the other end of the line.

You nod, forgetting he can’t see it. “Wish you were touching me.”

Joel doesn’t answer right away, and the pause has your pulse skittering. You’ve never said anything like that before, never asked for someone like this. Definitely not in this way, over the phone, mewling for validation while your hands explore your naked body. Despite the newness of it, it doesn’t feel scary. But then again, when it’s with Joel, nothing does.

His words are frayed when they eventually filter down the line. “Jesus, baby. You got any idea what that does to me? Hearin’ you beg for me when you know I can’t do anything about it?”

“Yeah,” you whisper through a smile. “That’s kinda the point.”

That yanks a choked laugh out of him. “You’re killin’ me.”

You allow your eyes to flutter closed, let your hand drift slower, everything unrushed and warm where your fingertip traces the seam of your folds. “Tell me what to do.”

Joel exhales, your name wrapped up in his breath. As if he’s been waiting for you to ask just that. “Start slow, just like I would. Pretend I’m there. Pretend my hands are yours.”

Your lips part.

You imagine his hand cupping you, middle finger strumming over your cunt with purpose until it dips into your wet flesh. You jolt when you come in contact with your clit, your bundle of nerves already throbbing, sensitive with anticipation. You must make a noise, because Joel hums.

“That good, baby?”

“Yeah,” you sigh. You circle your clit, pressing into your bed as if you had the shape of him behind you. The idea makes your breath stutter. Makes you whimper his name as you sink your finger into yourself, right to the last knuckle but it’s not enough.

You’re no match for Joel’s thick fingers. You can’t even scrape your g-spot with the precision he does, arching into your touch, chasing the satisfaction you know—you know—only he can give you.

Joel should’ve known the second that first picture landed that he didn’t stand a chance. He’s barely breathing, hand resting over the waistband of his jeans, fingers twitching with restraint. This is about you, not him, but fuck if he doesn’t get up off his bed and storm over to your house right now and fuck the life out of you, your dad be damned.

You’re not helping the cause, with your soft little pants, a broken sigh. A whimper that’s barely there but enough to unravel him completely. It’s the kind of sound that feels too intimate for a phone call. The kind of sound that burrows under his skin and blooms alight in his chest like a fuse.

You hear him swear under his breath.

It’s not just the noises you make while you fuck yourself with your fingers, it’s what they mean. That you trust him. That it’s him you’re thinking about. Him you want. So when you gasp out his name again, all breathless and aching and on the brink, Joel finally gives in. Shoves his jeans and underwear halfway down his thighs—thick, weeping cock grasped in his fist in an instance. It only takes three pumps along his length to know it’ll take the same amount for him to come.

“Darlin’, I’m—”

Your pending orgasm tugs low in your belly. “Me too,” you breathe. It’s all you can manage before your back bows and the heat you felt a moment ago splinters apart in your core. Your hand clams over your mouth as your body pulses through it, the phone sliding out from your grip onto the mattress beside you. Even though it’s no longer at your ear, you can still hear him—his voice breaking, the sharp exhale, your name groaning low like it’s being dragged from somewhere dark inside him.

That was—

You can’t even think, eyes still slammed shut as the last wave rolls through you, tingles fading. Your chest rises and falls like you’ve run a mile. Eventually, you blink up at the ceiling, the world soft around the edges.

“Jesus,” you say into your phone.

Joel chuckles. It’s low. Fond. “Ain’t the name I heard you say a minute ago.”

You roll over, groan into your pillow. “Don’t.” But you’re smiling. You know he can hear it.

Joel basks in the feeling for a moment longer before his voice drifts down the line again. “That was okay, right?”

Your cheeks are warm against the cotton pillowcase. “Of course it was. I started it, didn’t I?”

He’s quiet for a second, then: “I know. Just wanted to make sure.” “You’re sweet sometimes, you know that?” you tell him. Genuinely.

He grumbles a soft protest under his breath. “Don’t go spreadin’ lies like that,” he nips back playfully. “You get some rest now, y’hear?” You roll your eyes, tut softly. “Always so bossy.” You catch another huff of laughter before you tell him, “Night, Joel.”

“Yeah. Night, darlin’.”

***

You wake late. No alarm, no rush. Just golden fall sun peeking through the gap in your curtains. You planned to have a lazy day before you needed to be at Dina’s parents' house for a wedding eve dinner with the bridal part,y followed by an old-school slumber party complete with rom-coms and all the sugary treats that dentists tell you’ll rot your teeth. 

Maybe today you’ll finally catch up on Real Housewives. Go for a big walk. Take one of those long everything showers. Shave your legs. Wash your hair. Lather up in that expensive lotion you never make time for. The kind of day you never let yourself have in Charlotte.

But then: a text from Dina.

I love you sooooooooo much. And I need a favour. Can you pls do a grocery run for tonight? Get the lot. All the chocolate your heart desires.

Another one three seconds later that says, and those white choc covered pretzels I love.

A third a few moments after that.

Oh and can you plssss pick up the flower wall? And did I mention I love you?

You blink. The flower wall. Six feet of silk peonies and foam backing. Your dad isn’t home and there’s no freakin’ way that’s fitting in an Uber. You sigh, because of course you’ll do what Dina’s asking, you just need to figure out the execution. You pad downstairs in your pyjamas for a glass of orange juice and a piece of toast, swearing to yourself you’ll do the least stressful, minimalist version of a wedding when the time comes. If the time comes.

But when you glane through the kitchen window—there it is.

Joel’s truck, parked neatly in his driveway across the street, and an idea begins to take shape. 

Fifteen minutes later, you’re in activewear: black flared leggings and a skintight zip-up jacket, the kind that hugs every curve enough to grab plenty of attention on your walks to and from pilates classes back home. You tie your hair up in a messy ponytail, swipe on some tinted lip balm and march across the street.

It’s not a big deal. Just a neighbour asking for a favour. You’re not doing anything wrong. Still, your eyes flick left, then right, back again as your knuckles rap against the Millers’ front door.

Joel answers a few moments later, eyebrows raised in surprise. Surprise that softens almost immediately when he sees you.

“You busy?” you ask with a tilt of your head. Try not to sound too hopeful.

He leans on the doorframe, crosses his arms. You don’t miss the way his biceps strain against today’s chosen flannel. “Not really. Got some paperwork to get through before I swing by a job later.” His gaze drifts—just for a second—down your figure and back up. “Why?”

You lift your phone, show him the instructions from Dina. “Dina needs this stuff—the groceries I can handle, but the follower wall’s the size of a damn mattress. My dad’s out and Uber’s not an option. Any chance you could…?”

He grunts. “So what you’re askin’ is, can I be your chauffeur?”

You grin. “Something like that.”

He nods, just once. “Alright then.” But what he doesn’t say—what flickers behind his eyes—is sure, if it means spending time with you. Time that’s already tick, tick, ticking down.

“Great!” you chirp, already turning on your heel and heading down toward Joel’s truck when you hear—

“Hold up.”

His hand, warm, firm, catches your wrist. You stop, barely have time to turn your head to look at him before he pulls you through the door, shuts it behind you, and presses you up against it.

His mouth is on yours before you can speak—rougher than you expected. Like he needs the connection to keep himself together. Like he’s gone too long without you.

You gasp against him, startled, but your body melts into him on instinct, hands sliding beneath his shirt as his fingers find your waist. He kisses you again, deeper this time, and you make a sound you barely recognise—it’s belly-deep. Hungry.

“Joel,” you say against his lips, dizzy from the pace of it. 

“M’supposed to be keeping my hands to myself,” he pants, already searching for the zip on your jacket.

You laugh, already breathless. “Yeah, since when?”

“Since thirty seconds ago,” he says. “Didn’t last.”

Your jacket’s open. Gone. Pants follow. You straddle him on the couch moments later, hips bracketed by large palms as he guides you, up and down frantically on his pillar of a cock as you both hurtle quickly towards release. You’re not sure how long you’ll be here, or how long he’ll let you stay like this, but for now, you stop caring.

You’ve got errands to run. Eventually. 

But not just yet.

***

The air-conditioning in Joel’s truck fights off the sweat left on your skin, dried from the mad tangle you’d both fallen into on his couch. You still feel the aftershocks curling low in your belly as you tick off Dina’s list one item at a time. 

You’ve been bouncing around town for an hour now. Three different stores just to track down the specific chocolate-covered pretzels Dina wanted for tonight. Joel didn’t complain once. Just drove wherever you pointed, quietly amused. You’ve got music on—his kind and yours. Keith Whitley, Kenny Rogers, a little Chris Stapleton, then a newer one from Wyatt Flores that Joel pretends not to know but taps along to anyway. You queue up Fleetwood Mac, the Eagles, something familiar that makes Joel hum low under his breath.

He watches you from the corner of his eye as you sing softly to yourself, head turned toward the window, breeze catching wisps of hair that have fallen out from your ponytail. Your fingers drum against your thigh in time with the beat of whatever song filters through the speakers.

He wants to touch you. So he does. 

A handle settles there, palm wide over the curve of your thigh. He doesn’t squeeze, no lingering like he wants anything. Just rests it there, and you don’t flinch. Don’t even turn to look. You just smile—faint, barely there—and keep your attention on the trees whipping past, the hum of tires and music filling the truck’s cab. It all feel so…natural. Like this is something you’ve done before a hundred times. Something you just do. Joel’s thumb begins to stroke slowly over the fabric of your leggings mindlessly, his other arm hanging lazily off the steering wheel as he pilots the truck down the highway like he doesn’t have a care in the world.

To Joel, you look unbothered. Carefree. Stoic in that way you get when you’re deep in a thought, unreachable for a minute. But inside? Inside, your nerves are rattling. Because what used to feel stolen, those unhurried, breathless moments in the dark, fumbling in the cab of this very truck, now feels startlingly simple. Wholesome, even. Like this is all normal. Like you belong here. His hand on your leg, the radio on, groceries in the backseat, the day stretching out quietly before you.

And maybe you do belong.

But neither of you says it. Not yet.

Not until you’re parked at Helen’s Diner on the edge of town. The one you used to come to after school and after football games with your faces painted in team colours following a win. The one with checkered floors, red vinyl booths and a waitress named Margie who calls everyone honey and has worked here since before you were even born. The scent of grilled onions and grease hangs in the air, mingling with the hum of rock from the jukebox in the corner.

You and Jole sit across from each other in a booth near the window, sunlight slanting in across the table. Half-eaten burgers and fries sit between you, condensation dripping down the sides of your Coke glasses.

“You’re leaving soon,” Joel says. It’s not a question. Just a fact. But still, your stomach turns over, unsettled by the way he says it. Quiet. Weighted.

“Yeah, I—” You pause. Pick up a fry, set it back down before settling on, “Yeah.”

Joel nods slowly. Wipes his hands on a napkin he never fully unfolds. “So… we should probably talk.”

You try to deflect. Try to tease, even though something in your chest pulls tight. “You’re not gonna give me the same we’ll be better as friends line you gave Tess the other night, are you?”

Joel’s eyes flick down to his place.

“Oh, shit.” You slump back against the fake leather with the tears in it. “You totally are.”

“No. No, it’s not that,” he says quickly, shaking his head. “I mean—it kind of is. Or, it was. I don’t know.”

“Joel,” you cut in, gently. “Just spit it out. I’m a big girl.”

He hesitates. Then finally: “Thing is, I like you. A lot more than I wanted to.”

It takes effort for him to admit that. You can tell. Joel Miller, who never says anything he doesn’t absolutely have to. He doesn’t even remember the last time he told a woman he liked her. With his wife, it was just understood. Expected. With you it feels like saying it wrong might mess everything up.

You look down at your drink. Swirl the straw around a half-melted ice cube. “I’s not just sex. At least, it doesn’t feel like it on my end,” you say, voice barely above the hum of conversation around you. “I didn’t think it would get this far.” You almost shrug. “But it did.” Obviously, you can tell by the strain in your voice, by the tension that locks Joel’s shoulders an inch away from his ears.

Joel sighs. Scrubs a hand over the hair at his jaw. “I don’t know what I’m supposed to do in a situation like this. I don’t have a blueprint for this, for… us. You’re there, I’m here. You’ve got a whole life. I don’t even know what I’m asking for, I just—”

You stop him with a soft shake of your head. Push your feelings aside, your pride, for the sake of his when you tell him, “This doesn’t have to be anything, Joel. We can wrap it up in a neat little bow. Leave it as this little moment in time. No pressure. No dragging it out.”

Joel’s eyes flick up. There’s something sharp in them now. Not anger—something else. Frustration? Annoyance?

“And then what?” he says, voice gritty, low. “We pretend like we’re strangers every time you visit home? Act like we weren’t doing what we were doing? Like you don’t mean nothin’ to me?”

You blink. “What do you want me to say? I don’t have the answers. All I know is what I feel and—”

“And what?”

Your throat works around the lump. Close your eyes for a second, will away the tears. “It’s gonna be hard to give that up.”

Joel leans back, exhales slow. Like that admission settled something inside him. Not fixed it—but acknowledged it. There’s a beat of silence between you, long enough for you to take a sip of your drink. He finishes the last bite of his burger.

Then, finally, Joel says, “Guess what I’m sayin’ is… would you mind if I came and visited you up in Charlotte sometime?” Your head lifts. “I think… I’d like to see you again. Once you go home.”

A smile breaks slowly across your face. He’s fighting for you. You’re about to answer, about to tell him you’d like that, when a shadow falls across the table.

You glance up. Freeze.

“Tess?” Joel says, eyebrows climbing.

Fuck.

She’s standing there in a denim jacket and sunglasses perches on her head, a to-go coffee in one hand, confused smile on her face like she’s trying to piece together what she’s seeing. It feels a little eerie, this encounter, a flip on last Friday night when it was her and Joel—a pair, seemingly—sitting across from you while you seethed silently. And now, it’s—whatever you and Joel are—then Tess, removed. Curious.

“Hey,” she says slowly, eyes flicking between you both. “Didn’t expect to see you two here… together.”

Joel clears his throat.

You scramble. “Oh—yeah. I, uh… needed help picking something up for Dina’s wedding. Joel was the only man in a two-mile radius who wasn’t busy on a Friday morning.”

Tess hums, clearly unconvinced. “Right.” She takes a sip of her coffee, eyes still trained on Joel. “It’s bound to be a beautiful day tomorrow. Weather’s supposed to hold up.”

Joel nods, polite but a little stiff. He won’t quite meet her gaze. “Yeah. Looks like it.”

“I heard you saved the day yesterday, Mr. Contractor.” Her tone is almost… adoring.

It’s your turn to stiffen.

Joel rubs at the back of his neck. “Ain’t no Superman, Tess. Just doin’ a favour.”

“A favour that earned you an invite, I hear.”

Her eyes flick to you now, just for a second—but long enough. Long enough to stir something hot and sharp in your chest.

“See you both tomorrow,” she says, stepping back, resting a hand on Joel’s shoulder as she tells him, “Save me a dance.”

You give her a smile that’s more teeth than anything else. It drops the second she turns her back. Joel chuckles under his breath.

“What?” you ask, still watching her retreat through the diner's glass door.

“Your face,” he says, shaking his head like he can’t help himself.

“What about it?”

He lifts a shoulder, shrugs. “It’s beautiful. But it ain’t got a way to hide its jealousy.”

You roll your eyes, huffing. “Whatever. Let’s just go get this flower wall, alright?”

Joel only grins, biting back something smart as he tosses a few bills on the table and follows you out.

***

The morning of the wedding is a flurry of organised chaos. The house is filled with hairspray mist, the smell of warm curling irons, clinking champagne flutes, and the occasional bark of someone looking for the florist or a bobby pin or a phone charger. A playlist blares softly in the background—Whitney, then Beyoncé, then some overplayed Harry Styles song everyone sings along to. Miraculously, only one shoe goes missing—a right heel, nude satin, nearly caused a full-scale meltdown before it was found beneath a mountain of bags in the guest room. You snatch it up and toss it to Molly like a damn hero, all without Dina’s knowledge. She’d have combusted. Your own dress is powder blue—soft and romantic, strapless with a fitted bodice that hugs your waist and flares at the hips. The skirt’s light and airy, split high enough up your thigh to make you self-conscious if you stand wrong. Your hair’s swept back in a curly updo with a few loose strands around your face. By the time your makeup’s done and someone pins the corsage at your wrist, you actually feel ready. 

Almost.

Because now the nerves hit, and it’s not even your wedding. 

You know he’s out there.

Joel.

You can feel it.

He arrives just before the quartet starts playing, slipping into a spare seat halfway down the aisle with a quiet precision that’s almost suspicious for a man his size. He nods a curt hello to the guy sitting next to him—a dark haired kid he’s never seen before—and settles in. Your dad had offered to drive them both, but Joel declined. Didn’t want the awkwardness. The guilt. They hadn’t spent much time together lately—not since, well, you. And today wasn’t the day to start.

He’d thought about not coming at all. God knows it might’ve been easier.

But then again…it would’ve been rude. Not after the invite. Not after Dina was so insistent. And truthfully? He couldn’t bear the idea of missing it. Of not seeing you in your dress. Of not knowing what you’d look like walking down the aisle—glowing and gorgeous, warm light slanting over your shoulders.

And fuck, was he glad he came, because when you appear at the top of the aisle in Dina’s parents’ backyard—gripping your bouquet with fingers that tremble just slightly, the blue dress cascading around you like water, your smile soft and a little shy—it knocks the damn wind out of him. His breath catches. You’re glowing. Angelic, almost. A little champagne-braver than usual, because when your eyes find him—there on the end of the row in a green shirt he ironed just for today—you wink. The corner of his mouth tugs up, but he doesn’t dare move, doesn’t dare blink in case he misses something.

After the bridal party, Ellie walks first, eyes sparkling with emotion. She’s wearing a classic suit with a shirt that’s open at the collar, hair pulled back in its signature bun. She looks equal parts excited and terrified. But then Dina steps out—radiant. Veiled. A little unsteady on her heels, but beaming, and suddenly the entire lawn shifts into admiration. Everyone rises.

You don’t think about your thighs or your split or the wind playing at the hem of your skirt. You just take your best friend in as she marries the love of her life. It’s like watching her falling in love all over again in real time.

Sometime during the ceremony, your eyes drift. Back to where you know Joel’s seated. He’s still there, watching you adoringly, dark eyes dancing in the afternoon light. But he’s not alone.

The breath catches in your throat before you can stop it.

Jesse.

Sitting right next to Joel.

What the fuck?

Your feet root to the ground. There he is—like it’s nothing. Like he didn’t lie to your face. Didn’t cheat on you. Like he’s supposed to be here.

But he isn’t

He shouldn’t be. It should’ve been obvious—crystal clear, actually—that when you broke up, he broke up with Dina too. That his invite got revoked the minute he blew up your life. But apparently not.

The ceremony blurs after that. You try to stay present. You try to lock in and focus on Dina and Ellie, on the vows that are the perfect blend of hilarious and tear-jerking. You laugh when you’re meant to, smile when you feel people’s eyes on you, but your stomach is in knots. The liquor in your gut churns. The back of your neck feels hot. Joel’s face is unreadable beside Jesse, completely unaware of who he’s sitting next to.

You don’t know what you’re feeling exactly, but you know something’s brewing. 

You’re just not sure what yet.

***

When Dina and Ellie break away for photos after saying I do, the guests spill across the lawn into cocktail hour, chatter and laughter floating into the air along with the soft pluck of the string quartet. Glasses clink, heels clack on concrete on the patio while you drift through the party. Say hi to a few people who went to high school with. Kiss your dad on the cheek when he passes, grinning, proud, as if you were the one who just tied the knot. Pose for a few group shots with various family members. All the while, your mind swims, unable to fully grasp onto any one thing happening. You head straight for the makeshift bar set up in Dina’s parents’ kitchen, your shoes clicking on the tiled floor. There’s a line, full of people ready to get their buzz on, but it moves past. You shoot back a whole glass of champagne like it’s a shot and are two sips into the next when you hear it behind you:

“Well, that’s number… what, four?”

You turn. Joel’s standing on the outskirts of the kitchen, away from the crowd, watching, one hand tucked into his pocket while the other curls around a sweating beer. His eyes—god, those eyes—are crinkled in amusement.

“Three,” you reply a little too sharply, mentally taking inventory of the drinks you’ve had over the day. Then, with a sigh, “Maybe four.”

He raises his brows but doesn’t press further. Just takes a sip while you look away, trying to shake the prickling under your skin.

“You look stunning, by the way,” Joel says, voice dipping.

Your throat catches. You glance down at your shoes like they’re the most interesting thing you’ve seen all day. “Thanks,” you murmur, then nod toward his shirt. “You clean up alright yourself.”

You look up again just in time to catch a flash of movement over Joel’s shoulder. Jesse, still here, still talking, hand gesturing animatedly to one of Dina’s uncles outside. He laughs at something. Looks up. Manages to meet your eyes. Smiles, tight-lipped. Waves.

You go absolutely rigid.

Joel’s brow furrows. “You okay?”

You don’t answer. You’re staring so hard it feels like maybe—just maybe—if you focus enough, Jesse might disappear into thin air. Like if you will it hard enough, he’ll vanish, dissolve, walk out of your life again like he should’ve done for good.

Joel turns now, following your gaze, squinting in the direction of the patio. “That guy… I was sittin’ next to him during the ceremony. You know him?”

You say nothing. Just stare, grip tightening on the champagne glass. Joel turns back to you, concern lining his face now, voice dropping to something meant just for you. 

“Darlin’, what’s wrong?”

Your eyes are still locked. You whisper, barely audible when you say, “That’s my ex. Jesse.”

Joel blinks. Straightens a smidge. “The one who—”

“Yeah,” you cut in, sharp. “The one who cheated on me.” The air around you thickens, champagne no longer light on your tongue. Joel’s knuckles flex around the neck of his bottle.

Jesse breaks away from the group he’s chatting with, eyes trained on you like he’s been waiting for the right moment. You spot the casual confidence in his stride, the easy way he navigates the crowd like he’s supposed to be here. He’s halfway to you when you shove your half-empty glass into Joel’s hand.

“Darlin’, I don’t think—” he starts, but you’re already moving. You ignore Joel completely, the hem of your dress brushing the tops of your feels as you cut across the kitchen and through the sliding door. Jesse smiles, too wide and too eager, lifting his hand like he might go in for a hug.

A fucking hug.

“Hey,” he says, chipper, like he didn’t blow up your life a few short months ago. “You look gre—”

“Out front,” you cut in, voice icy. “Right now.” You don’t wait to see if he follows, just push through the house and out onto the front porch, arms folding tight over your chest as soon as the door clicks shut behind you. The noise of the party fades, the music faint hum now, dulled by distance and insulation.

Jesse steps out after you, lingering just far enough to feel casual, like none of this is a big deal.

“You look great,” he tries again, softer this time.

You get to the point. “What the hell are you doing here?”

His hands go to his pockets. “I was invited”

“Yeah—when we were a couple,” you snap. “Cheating on me kind of cancels that out.”

“I said I was sorry.”

You can’t help but laugh, and the sound that expels from you is completely bitter. “You said a lot of things, Jesse. And guess what? They don’t mean shit.”

He says your name, and you flinch. God, you hate the way it sounds coming from his mouth now.

“I want you to leave,” you say, jaw tight.

“That’s not happening,” he responds with a lift of his chin. “I had to move a lot around to be here, so I’m going to stay. Enjoy the party.”

“Jesse, I’m being serious.”

“So am I—”

“Everything okay out here?” Joel’s voice cuts clean through the tension. You don’t even turn to look at him, just hear the creak of the porch as he steps out. Jesse, though—he turns. Smirks.

“Yeah,” he says, too bright. “Everything’s great… pal.”

Joel’s head tilts a little, one eyebrow lifting. “Pal?”

You wince, and Joel steps forward, just enough to place himself halfway between you and Jesse. Not blocking, not yet. Just…present. A warning. Your mind briefly flits back to the night at The Rusty Antler when you put yourself between him and those other guys. Now, he’s the one protecting you.

“I think you should head out,” Joel tells Jesse, calm but unflinching. “Don’t reckon you’re wanted here.”

Jesse laughs, scoffs really, hands coming out of his pockets. “And what, you get to decide that?”

Joel tilts his head. “Don’t need to. Pretty sure she already did.”

“I’m not talking to you,” Jesse snaps, jerking his chin toward you.

Joel doesn’t move. “No, but you’re standin’ awful close to her for someone who ain’t welcome.”

Jesse’s eyes narrow. “Who even are you?”

You cut in before Joel can. “He’s Joel. My dad’s friend. I’ve mentioned him.”

Joel’s jaw works, something tightening beneath the words. Dad’s friend. Logical. Safe. True. Doesn’t mean it doesn’t sting. 

For Jesse, the comment should be neutral. Harmless. But the way his eyes dart back to Joel, something in him flares.

“Joel.” He says it like it’s a punchline, like a name he’s trying on and finds amusing. “Right. You’re the one who pops up in all those little stories. Always fixing something. Always hanging around.”

Joel crosses his arms, presses his weight into his left leg. “That bother you?”

Jesse smiles, all teeth. “Should it?”

Joel doesn’t smile back. “Maybe not. But if I were you, I wouldn’t be worryin’ about me. I’d be worryin’ about how long I’ve got before the bride figures out she’s got a rat sneakin’ champagne in her backyard.”

“Man, you think you’re real tough, huh?” Jesse takes a step closer, no longer bothering with subtlety. “Walking around like you’re someone important.”

Joel doesn’t bat an eye. “Don’t need to be important. Just need to be here. Which is more than I can say for you.”

“The fuck that’s supposed to mean?”

Joel shifts his weight forward, leisurely. Deliberate. “Means you made your choice, son. And it wasn’t her.”

Jesse’s jaw tightens. He looks to you now, like you’ll step in. Like you’ll defend him. You don’t. 

Because he doesn’t deserve it. But also, because you can’t shake how it does something to you—seeing Joel like that. Calm, immovable. Not puffing up, just there. A wall between you and Jesse without you ever needing to say so. It makes something flicker deep in your chest, something that feels a lot like safety. Like being seen. And when Jesse takes a step back—not because of you, but because of Joel—you feel it again. Gratitude. Relief.

And maybe something darker. Satisfaction. Joel didn’t flinch. Didn’t look to you for permission. He just stood up. Like it was the most natural thing in the world to protect you.

Like it wasn’t even a question.

“What the fuck is going on?”

Dina. 

Storming out of the house, heels in one hand, veil tucked under her arm, eyes blazing. Jesse takes another step away immediately, like her fury is physical, before saying her name. It’s too soft, too rehearsed, and she’s not interested. Not even close.

“You’re not welcome here.”

“Come on, I was invited—” “Yeah, by mistake,” she snaps. “Back when we thought you were a decent human being. Then you cheated on my best friend and somehow still have the balls to show your face at my wedding?”

Jesse looks like he might protest again, but Dina steps closer, fury radiating off her in waves.

“You either leave right now, or I have no problem going full bridezilla on your ass. Like, I will scream. I will ruin you, Jesse. Try me.”

The silence that follows is thick.

Jesse’s lip curls. “Whatever. You’re all fucking crazy.” He backs off the porch and disappears down the driveway. The tail end of his muttering carries faintly on the wind but whatever he’s saying, you don’t care enough to take it in.

For a second, no one says anything. Then Dina exhales, mutters asshole and ducks back inside without waiting for a reply.

Joel glances over at you, holds out your glass. “Still want this?” You take it. Down the rest of it in a single go. “Fuck.”

Joel’s still watching you, expression creasing an eleven between his brows, like he’s waiting to see how rattled you really are.

“I’m good,” you assure him, preempting the question. “Let’s just go back to the party.”

The celebrations have rolled on without a hitch. Guests are scattered around the yard and kitchen, drinks in hand, someone’s uncle trying to start a conga line to Superstition. You blend back in, shoulders relaxing with every step away from the front porch, every sip of champagne, every smile that meets yours. You take a few more photos, hug Ellie so tight she squeaks, even let Dina drag you onto the dancefloor, your heart finally unclenching.

***

It’s late now, the sky inky black, fairy lights strung up around the yard blinking soft gold. The playlists’s fused from carefree sleeper songs to old school bangers ranging from LMFAO to Usher to Nelly Furtado. You’ve changed into a shorter dress, still blue, but lighter, clingy in the right places and airy in the ones that matter. Your sneakers—swapped from your strappy stilettos—are grass-stained and your hair’s a little wild from the hours of dancing, 

Joel’s on the outskirts of the party, chatting to your dad and a few others, Beer bottle in hand, green shirt unbuttoned two down from earlier. He’s laughing at something your dad says, but his eyes keep slipping to you—like he can’t help himself. 

You plop into the seat beside him, a little breathless. “You good, hiding over here all night?”

Joel glances at you, then says deadpan, “Someone’s gotta keep your dad from trying to wrestle the DJ for the aux cord.”

You snort, remembering Fourth of July the summer after you graduated high school. “You know what an aux cord is, old man?”

Joel takes a swig of his drink. “How many times do I gotta tell you to watch your mouth?”

“I dunno,” you say, egged on by the few drinks you’ve had since your encounter with Jesse on the porch. “If I recall, you kinda like it when I use my mouth.”

You make a point to keep your voice down, keep it between you two, but it still earns you a side-eye from Joel. You roll your lips in, try to keep your smile at bay. A quiet stretch passes, the hum of the party buzzing around you both.

“Y’ever want all this?” Joel asks, nodding toward the dancefloor, where Ellie and Dina are pressed together, faces glowing, giggling into each other’s necks.

You shrug. Then sigh. Because truth is, “I used to. Thought I did. Thought it would be with Jesse. Now… I don’t know how to explain it. It all feels… foggy, I guess? Like I’m looking at my future through someone else’s eyes.”

As you watch the newlyweds, something twists in your chest before you turn to Joel.

“Would you ever do it again?”

Joel straightens in the plastic lawn chair. “Do what?”

You gesture loosely to the floor. “Get married.”

He leans back a little, eyes scanning the crowd like the answer might be out there somewhere. “Haven’t really let myself think about it in a long time.”

“But if you did?”

Joel’s mouth shifts, like the words are there but he’s not sure if they should come out. Eventually, he says, “Maybe. If it was the right person. If it felt easy. Quiet.” He looks at you. “You know what I mean?”

Your heart swells. You nod. “Yeah, I do.” He holds your gaze for a beat, like he might say more, but then just hums low in his throat and looks away. The playlist suddenly softens and a slow song hums to life, something dreamy and syrupy and so far removed from the last two hours of music. The high energy, dancing bodies split, giving way to swaying couples. Arms around waists, heads on shoulders.

Love, suddenly visible.

You nudge Joel, a glint in your eye. “Dance with me.”

His brows lift. “Is that smart?”

You grin, because it certainly isn’t. “Definitely not.”

Joel tilts his head, amused.

“Come on,” you press, eyes warm. “It’s a wedding. Everyone’s drunk and blissed out. No one’s gonna notice.”

Joel watches the couples swaying out on the dance floor, then glances back at you. You’re tapping your foot to the slow beat, a little tipsy glow on your face, eyes soft and a little hopeful. He leans back in his seat, gives a small huff of consideration. Then he pushes up off the chair with a grunt, holding a hand out toward you.

“Come on then,” he says, voice low, with a ghost of a smile. “Before I change my mind.”

You blink, surprised. Then your mouth curls. You slip your hand into his, and he tugs you gently to your feet.

“You sure?” you tease, fingers threading through his.

“I ain’t exactly known for my moves, but I’ll risk the embarrassment,” he says, then: “For you.”

In the middle of the dancefloor, you slide your arms around Joel’s neck. His hands settle respectfully at your waist, unsure how close he’s allowed to be when you’re on display for the whole goddamn wedding. There’s space between you, just a smidge, but it’s enough to make your chest ache. 

Not close enough.

Joel feels it too, his fingers twitching, then relaxing. You smell like champagne and flowers and something that’s just so you wishes he could bottle it. It takes every ounce of discipline he’s trained himself to have to not pull you flush against him. You tilt your head slightly and peer up at him.

“Hey.”

He hums, and you feel the vibration of it where you touch, but his eyes stay trained over your head as you rock side to side.

“You can touch me, you know,” you say, adding: “Properly. Not like we’re sixth graders leaving room for Jesus at a middle school dance.”

That earns a chuckle, then an exhale as Joel’s hands shift—one to grab one of your own, the other splaying across your ribs. He brings you closer, so slowly it’s like he’s savouring every last inch.

The sway of your bodies is gentle, slow—but inside, it’s anything but. The press of Joel’s hand, warm through the fabric of your dress, makes your lungs feel too tight, like you could drown in the closeness and never come up for air. You lean into it, into him, greedily. His thumb traces patterns that shouldn’t be allowed in public, each pass lighting a fuse that curls deeper and lower. Realistically, you’re barely moving.

But everything feels like it’s changing.

Joel wants to dance with you at every party, sit and laugh with you at every barbecue. Wants to hold you like this with nothing hidden, no porch light guilt or secret glances or texts that should probably be deleted after they’re read.

He wants it to be known. Wants people to see. To know.

He wants you to look at him the way you’re looking now. Like it’s just the two of you and the rest of the world can fuck off.

Your fingers flex behind Joel’s neck, fingers trilling over the curls that brush his collar. He shifts closer, and your stomach flips when your thighs brush, when his belt grazes you. The way he’s looking at you, with that lazy smile, eyes laser-focussed on you, warming you from top to toe… It’s too much and still not enough. You want him so badly, all the time, and the restraint you’re exercising hurts—like your skin is too sizes too tight. The feeling rises in you and it’s getting impossible to ignore. Arousal, yes, but it’s more than that, too. 

The ache for him. For all of it.

Your gaze falls to his mouth without meaning for it to. Joel notices.

Then—

The song shifts. A familiar beat drops—one of those songs people can’t help but scream-sing to. Cheers erupt across the room, whoops and laughter, glasses clinking on the sidelines. 

This moment between you and Joel is supposed to break. But he leans in instead.

His mouth brushes your ear, the warmth of his breath leaving goosebumps in its wake. His voice is rough, fractured.

“Meet me upstairs in the bathroom. Five minutes.”

Your breath catches in the hull of your throat. He pulls back like nothing’s changed, giving you a soft, almost teasing smile. Then, casually, he steps away, disappearing into the crowd as people surge toward the dance floor.

You stand there for a beat, heart rattling underneath your ribcage like a trapped bird. Someone bumps into you from behind, murmurs an apology that you hardly register because you’re dazed, honed in on Joel’s broad shoulders as he cuts through the party and disappears into the house. You should step off the dancefloor but your feet are rooted to the spot, the air thick with the ghosts of his hands. You touch your waist like you’re afraid the warmth might’ve faded already.

Five minutes. It’s not long but the time seems to stretch like a day.

You exhale and start moving—not toward the stairs, not yet. You weave your way back to the kitchen where the makeshift bar has been left unattended, and bottles of every alcohol imaginable have been left to self-serve. Your pour a splash of vodka into a tumbler, top it up with even less soda water and sip it. It’s for show, really, but the slight burn of it comes in handy when you see her.

Tess. She’s standing in the yard with your dad and Dina’s mom, who you now remember works with her. She’s half-smiling at whatever story your dad’s telling, egged on by copious amounts of beer. But she’s also watching. You. Not obviously, not enough to make a scene, but it’s there. The flick of her eyes as her gaze ghosts Joel’s movement down the hallway. Then right back to you.

It’s sharp. Inspecting, and a weird, crawling sensation settles beneath your skin. The memory of yesterday bubbles up—the diner, her eyes bouncing between you and Joel, that subtle crease between her eyebrows. She didn’t have to say much because the scepticism bled off her in waves.

You hadn’t talked about it after. Joel had steered the conversation elsewhere as soon as you were back in the truck.

You blink hard, shake the attention off like cold water. Maybe she’s just curious. Protective, even. Or maybe it’s just you—overthinking things when it’s not necessary. You tell yourself it’s fine. Just in your head. 

Still, it’s not until you’re halfway up the staircase.

Halfway to Joel.

Upstairs, the music dulls to a soft throb that pulsates under your feet. The hallway stretches familiar and strange, lit golden by the same sconces that have been here for as long as you and Dina have been friends. You walk slowly, past half-cracked doors and the spare bedroom where coats are piled high on the bed. It hits you then, that jarring sense of nostalgia. You’ve walked this hallway a hundred times—barefoot, tipsy, laughing with Dina as you fixed your eyeliner in the upstairs bathroom mirror. You know the shape of the floorboard that always creaks, the one corner where the paint never quite took. You and Dina used to sneak in and out through the side gate, end up here in the middle of parties, whispering secrets down this very hallway. Her house was always easier than yours. Her parents slept like the dead and well, your dad perpetually slept with one eye open when you were a teenager.

Now you’re here with the weight of five minutes ticking in your blood, your body electric with anticipation, knowing what you’re likely about to do. In the same space where you once curled your lashes and borrowed your best friend’s perfume.

You hesitate at the bathroom door.

Raise your hand. Two quiet raps.

There’s a beat of silence.

Then the latch turns.

Joel opens the door.

He stands just inside, one hand braced above the frame. His jacket his gone and the sleeves of his shirt are rolled to his elbows, forearms bare. He doesn’t speak. Just watches you. And somehow, that silence says more than words could. His molten eyes rake over you. Nothing about it is lewd or possessive like they’d been in the past. He’s just…hungry, you guess. Almost like he’s spent every one of those five minutes thinking about this. About you.

You step past the threshold. He closes the door behind you.

And just like that, the party disappears.

“That was the longest five minutes of my life,” Joel jokes, scratching through his hair. “Felt so long I thought… Thought you weren’t gonna show.”

His hand leaves his head and comes to grip the back of yours to tug you to him in one swift movement until your mouths crash together, hot and teeth and breath and want. His other hand fists in the silky fabric at your lower back, dragging you flush against him like he can’t stand the space anymore, and you let him. Kiss him back like you’ve been waiting years, not just five minutes. It’s messy, full of tongue and the kind of ache that flares deep in your belly and seeps into the cotton of your panties. Joel breaks the kiss with a gasp, forehead pressed to yours when he tells you, “Turn around.”

You do.

“Hands on the counter,” he grits, and you obey, palms flat against the cool ceramic, breath catching as he steps up behind you, chest to your back. Your eyes meet his in the mirror. That look—fierce and wanting and reverent—cements you to the floor. He runs his hands up the length of your bare arms in lazy but firm strokes that pull hair to its ends. You shiver beneath his touch, head titled with a moan when he leans in and presses a hot kiss just below your ear. 

“Fuckin’ gorgeous girl,” he murmurs, the scruff of his beard scratching your cheek. He nips at your earlobe, sucks lightly. “Fuckin’ mine.”

His claim on you makes you whimper, and he smiles deviously against your skin before mouthing down your neck. His tongue drags the expanse of your skin there before he bites once, low, where your shoulder meets your throat. The sting is just as quickly soothed with another kiss. You press up onto your tip-toes, chasing Joel’s mouth while his palms span your ribs, dip to your hips. He’s everywhere—exploring, worshipping—and then he sinks to his knees behind you.

The hem of your dress rises until it’s resting above your ass, and a low curse escapes him.

“Jesus,” he mutters, more awe than filth. He’s thumbs graze the crease of your thighs. “You’re already a mess f’me. You’re fuckin’ soaked, darlin’.”

A red flush creeps over you at his words and still, your body rocks toward him instinctively. You’re met with Joel’s lips pressing a kiss to the well of one ass cheek, then the other. One mammoth hand squeezes while the other traces light, maddening lines along the edge of your underwear. He doesn’t rush. Doesn’t speak. Just takes a second to look. To commit you to memory.

“Look at you,” he breathes, then says again, under his breath, to himself: “Fuckin’ gorgeous.”

Then he rises. His belt clinks open. Pants shoved low enough to free himself, you hear the sound of him dragging a palm up your thigh, the thick rasp of his voice right behind your ear again.

“Eyes on the mirror, baby.”

All you can do is nod, chest rising and falling in shallow bursts.

“I want you to watch.”

Joel presses the head of his cock against the soaked fabric of your panties. You tremble at the sensation, at the way he groans low at the heat of you on his head, already weeping with precum. “Want you to remember this, every damn second of it,” he growls, pushing the damp cotton aside. “When you’re on that plane. When you’re back in Charlotte. When you’re lyin’ in bed at night… I want you thinkin’ about how I had you right here.”

And then he’s inside you.

You cry out, chasing his barbaric grunt with an arch of your back, palm pressing into the counter to stop yourself from faceplanting into the basin. Joel pants behind you, one hand locking around your hip while the other grips your shoulder. “Fuck—darlin’, you take me so fuckin’ good.” His thrust are slow, deep, then harder—each movement yanking a new sound from your throat.

The party downstairs thumps, laughter and voices and music muffled on the other side of the door, beneath the thunder of your heartbeat. Up here, there’s only this. Only him. Only the desperate slap of skin and the frantic rush of your breaths and the filthy, whispered way Joel says your name.

And you doesn’t tell you to stay quiet. Not once.

Your body burns. Nerves alight and trembling under every little sensation. You can feel Joel in every inch of you, dragging you open, filling you so deep you don’t understande how your knees haven’t given out yet. 

"Fuck," you gasp, breath fogging the mirror. “Joel—”

That’s mostly all you can manage as you lean over the counter. Your voice keeps snagging on whimpers, broken moans that rise every time he grinds deeper, every time his hips snap to yours in perfect rhythm.

You blink up, eyes locking on him in the reflection of the mirror. He looks totally wrecked. Brow furrowed, jaw clenched, cheeks matching the flush in your own. His hair’s a little wild, lips rolled in with focus, a vein pulling tight in his neck. His eyes stay locked n yours in the glass, and the look in them—ravenous, tender, like her could live here in this moment forever—makes your stomach flip. Joel leans in, presses his chest to your back. His stubble scrapes your shoulder as he grits against your skin, “You feel what you do to me, baby? You feel that?”

You nod, barely. Another moan punches from your throat.

“I ain’t gonna last,” he breathes, thrusts stuttering now. “You’re gonna make me—shit—”

Your legs tremble. The heat coils low in your belly, tight and unbearable until your cunt clenches around Joel’s cock, your orgasm hurtling through you.

You cry out his name, loud, desperate.

Joel groans, hips jerking once, twice more before he stills, letting the hot seed of his release empty into you.

The mirror fogs. Your skin shines with sweat. His forehead drops to your shoulder.

You both stay like that for a while. Bent, breathless. His weight warm against your back, one hand still on your hip like he can’t bear to let go just yet. Your heart is pounding. Ears ringing. Legs shaking. Joel eventually shifts, easing out of you with a quiet groan. You hiss at the loss, at the oversensitive throb between your thighs, and brace yourself on the counter. Your dress shimmies itself back to appropriateness.

“You good, darlin’?” Joel wants to know, his voice roughened by exertion.

You nod, still trying to get your breaths and heartbeat to a pace that wouldn’t set off a blood pressure monitor. “Yeah. Just… give me a second before a try to walk.” He huffs a lugh, presses a kiss to the top of your spine. Then he steps back and tucks himself away, fiddles with hit belt, and leans against the doorframe as he checks his watch.

“S’almost midnight,” he notes. “How ‘bout I get you home? Your dad, too.”

You take in your form in the mirror—cheeks pink, hair untamed and frizzing with sweat at your temples, eyes still glassy—and exhale through a smile. “I should probably stay a little longer. Help clean up. Be a bridesmaid and all that.”

Joel raises a brow. “You’re a good friend,” he says. “You’re a good…” He falters. Swallows. Then shrugs like the words got away from him. “You’re just good. Period.”

You smirk. “That your big heartfelt post-sex compliment? You’re just good, period?”

He gives a helpless, crooked grin. “Hey, just be grateful. Ain’t nobody else in my life gets that many words from me. Let alone compliments.”

You laugh softly and wet your fingers under the tap, dabbing under your eyes, fixing your hair with your fingers. Of course you feel grateful. You feel a lot, but you don’t know how to say any of it out loud, so yeah, you get where he’s coming from. You get him, and for you, maybe for him too, that seems to be enough.

You glance at Joel in the mirror one last time before he unlocks the door. The hallway outside is quiet. Empty. You both slip out—cautiously. Casually. But as you round the corner towards the stairs, you feel the weight of a stare. 

And when your eyes adjust, your heart sinks to your gut.

Jesse.

Lurking in the dim light of the hallway. Leaning against the wall with crossed arms, mouth twisting into a wicked concoction of a smirk and sneer. 

You freeze as he pushes out of the darkness, gaze flicking between the two of you. Joel shifts subtly behind you, hand coming to comfort you at your hip.

“Well, ain’t this something,” Jesse slurs. He’s drunk. You’d know it anywhere.

You square your shoulders even though your stomach is in knots. “I thought you left.”

“I did, for a bit.” He shrugs. “Then decided to come back. And boy, am I glad I did.”

“Jesse—” “I was just sitting along the fenceline, mindin’ my business when I saw the two of you sneak off. Thought I’d see what was going on.”

Your jaw clicks. “So what—you just stood out here and listened? What the fuck, Jesse?”

“Sick fuck,” Joel seethes under his breath.

Jesse snorts. “Old men, huh? That what you’re into now?”

You don’t dignify his question with a response. It doesn’t matter though, because Jesse’s grin sharpens all the same, like a wolf that’s caught the scent of blood. “Your dad know about this?” A sharp laugh. “Of course he doesnt’ Guess we should go let your old man in on this little secret, huh?”

And just like that, it begins. This whole thing—you, Joel—splintering outward, carrying you toward the backyard, toward the unavoidable blow-up, toward every painstaking thing that comes next.

***

masterlist

The air-conditioning in Joel’s truck fights off the sweat left on your skin, dried from the mad tangle you’d both fallen into on his couch. You still feel the aftershocks curling low in your belly as you tick off Dina’s list one item at a time. 

You’ve been bouncing around town for an hour now. Three different stores just to track down the specific chocolate-covered pretzels Dina wanted for tonight. Joel didn’t complain once. Just drove wherever you pointed, quietly amused. You’ve got music on—his kind and yours. Keith Whitley, Kenny Rogers, a little Chris Stapleton, then a newer one from Wyatt Flores that Joel pretends not to know but taps along to anyway. You queue up Fleetwood Mac, the Eagles, something familiar that makes Joel hum low under his breath.

He watches you from the corner of his eye as you sing softly to yourself, head turned toward the window, breeze catching wisps of hair that have fallen out from your ponytail. Your fingers drum against your thigh in time with the beat of whatever song filters through the speakers.

He wants to touch you. So he does. 

A handle settles there, palm wide over the curve of your thigh. He doesn’t squeeze, no lingering like he wants anything. Just rests it there, and you don’t flinch. Don’t even turn to look. You just smile—faint, barely there—and keep your attention on the trees whipping past, the hum of tires and music filling the truck’s cab. It all feel so…natural. Like this is something you’ve done before a hundred times. Something you just do. Joel’s thumb begins to stroke slowly over the fabric of your leggings mindlessly, his other arm hanging lazily off the steering wheel as he pilots the truck down the highway like he doesn’t have a care in the world.

To Joel, you look unbothered. Carefree. Stoic in that way you get when you’re deep in a thought, unreachable for a minute. But inside? Inside, your nerves are rattling. Because what used to feel stolen, those unhurried, breathless moments in the dark, fumbling in the cab of this very truck, now feels startlingly simple. Wholesome, even. Like this is all normal. Like you belong here. His hand on your leg, the radio on, groceries in the backseat, the day stretching out quietly before you.

And maybe you do belong.

Over the years, there’d been countless Sunday afternoons exactly like this—football blaring on the TV, halftime pizza, your dad and Joel squabbling over whether an offside call was legit. And yet, there’d been exactly none like this one, either.

Because now you know the sound Joel makes when he’s about to come. How his voice drops when he’s wrecked and trying not to be loud. You know what he tastes like with your slick still on his lips. And every time you shift on the sofa, you can still feel the ache of his hands, his mouth. The solid weight of him pressing you into that workbench like he was scared you’d disappear if he didn’t press bruises into your hips. So yeah, this Sunday looks the same on the surface, but hums underneath. With glances that last too long, with his gaze flicking to your mouth when you chew your crust. With yours dropping to his hands every time he fidgets with the peeling label on his beer. He’s quiet, as usual. But he’s not cold or distant—not like after the truck. He’s thoughtful, maybe, almost watching you like you’re something fragile and breakable and his.

Your dad doesn’t notice a thing. Still hollers at the TV, still argues with Joel as if contentious ref calls are the only wedge in their friendship. He’d be a helluva lot less relaxed if he had even a sliver of a clue that less than twenty-four hours ago, his best friend had you bent over his workbench, in his shed, grunting your name into the crook of your neck before your panties were shoved in his pocket like a souvenir for the rest of the night. 

You press your thighs together and reach for another slice of pizza, trying not to squirm.

Last night, it had taken everything in you to act normal after what unfolded in that shed. To walk back into the party, arms full of firewood, pretending like Joel Miller hadn’t just tilted your world on its axis. Again. You’d taken the long way up the side of the house, brushing your dress free of any stray wood shavings, tucking away any sign that Joel had been balls deep in you moments earlier. The fire was still going, your dad laughing with Tommy. No one the wiser. Not even Sarah, curled up on the lounger, her cheeks tinged pink from cider and the heat of nearby flames.

Joel didn’t come back the same way.

He’d circled the entire property—full stealth mode, like a goddamn action hero—so he could slip back through the front gate unnoticed. By the time he appeared again, he had a beer in hand, slight sheen of sweat across his brow. For a second, you thought maybe the guilt of what you’d been doing had settled in. But then his eyes met yours across the yard, and it didn’t look like guilt. It looked like possession. Heat.

Like a secret he didn’t mind keeping if it meant he got to have you like that again.

You’re chewing on the last bit of crust from your pizza when your dad shifts in his armchair and glances over at you.

“So,” he says casually, like he hasn’t already asked you the following question. “You enjoy yourself last night?”

You freeze mid-bite. There’s a split second before you answer, your eyes pulling to Joel on instinct. He doesn’t meet them. Doesn’t even flinch. Just keeps his attention on the TV as Texas scores another touchdown. For all appearances, he’s not listening. Or he’s pretending not to. You’re not sure which is worse.

“Yeah,” you say finally, light. “It was fun.”

Your dad nods, satisfied, then looks to Joel. “How about you, Miller?

Joel’s grunt is more of a sound than a word. “Sure,” he says. “Always enjoy it when you’re on the grill.”

You almost want to laugh at the way he skirts the obvious.

Your dad leans back with a beer sigh. “Ran into Tess this morning at the market, actually.”

That gets Joel’s attention. Subtle, but you see it—the way his jaw stutters, the pause in his fingers on his bottle.

“Oh yeah?” he mutters, still not looking your way.

“Yeah. She mentioned you broke it off with her last night.”

Joel exhales through his nose. “Wasn’t much to break off.”

Your dad lets out a low whistle. “That’s a shame. Thought you two were really hittin’ it off.”

The silence that follows is somehow louder than the TV. Your skin prickles. You feel exposed, raw, even though no one’s looking at you, because in some ways, it is your fault. You’d watched Tess fawn over Joel, laugh at his jokes, arm looped through his, and still let him back you into the shed and fuck you senseless. 

You should feel worse about it than you do. And maybe you would if he hadn’t looked at you the way he does now. Like he’s not sorry. Like you’re the only one he sees. Still, you can’t push away the discomfort that curls in your chest. A slow, simmering twist of something that has you pushing up from the couch before the silence can stretch too long. You grab the empty pizza boxes and stack plates, busying yourself with the mess like it’s an urgent task when really, you just need an excuse to leave the room.

In the kitchen, you wash a plate under the tap, stare out the window, but all you can think about is the man sitting beside your dad in the living room.

You can’t walk in here without seeing him. Without feeling him—beer bottle in hand, up your dress, voice gravel-thick in your ear demanding to know whether your outfit was for him. In the last twenty-four hours, every time you grab a snack, or wipe down the bench, or rinse a damn glass, it’s like your body remembers it before your mind does. The press of his hand, the weight of him, the way your knees nearly buckled when he whispered your name. 

“Need a hand?” his voice cuts in low behind you, startling you from the memory. You glance over your shoulder, heart skipping. Joel’s already at the sink beside you, sleeves shoved up, taking the dish from your hand like he’s done it a hundred times. He doesn’t look at you at first. Just rinses the plate, stacks it.

But then—softly, like he’s trying not to sound as desperate as he is—“When can I see you?”

You give a little laugh, light, testing. “You’re seeing me now.”

Joel’s quiet for a beat, then he huffs something like a laugh, something that barely hides the strain in his jaw when his eyes flick to yours. “Don’t be a smartass.” He dries his hands on the dish towel that hangs off a drawer handle, his voice thickening around a no in a way that’s far hungrier than you’ve heard him all evening. “When can I see you?”

And then here’s there. Brushing up behind you, hips pressed to yours. Hard length unmistakable against your ass through the worn denim of his jeans.

Your breath hitches, and you immediately start taking stock. “Joel—”

“Don’t worry,” he mutters, already sensing your concern than your dad’s still in view. “He’s outside. Got a call.”

You swallow, turning your head slightly until Joel’s breath fans over your cheek. “Still, you can’t just—”

“Come over tonight.”

“What—” “I mean it.” His hand comes down firm on your hip, thumb just slipping under the hem of your t-shirt to graze the skin there. “No more fuckin’ about in cars. Or sheds. Or wherever else we end up when I’m losing my mind over you.”

You turn in his grip, back pressing to the counter now. His eyes search yours—frenzied, frustrated, sincere in a way that makes your chest feel like it’s caving in on itself.

“Let me take my time,” he says. Almost begs. “Need you in my bed. Can’t stop thinking about it. I can’t stop.” A beat, then, “I’m not gonna stop.”

You swallow hard. Joel’s thigh brushes yours and your breath shivers, wracking your whole body.

Joel’s barely been hanging on since last night. Since he had to walk back into that party with your taste still on his tongue and pretend like he hadn’t just ruined himself for anyone else. And then today—sitting next to your dad like he wasn’t fantasising about stripping you out of the threadbare t-shirt and sweatpants you’re currently sporting. Watching you lick pizza sauce off your thumb like it’s nothing while his blood burns hot and low. 

He respects your dad. Has for years. That man’s his best friend. A constant in his life when everything else went to hell. But tonight? He wishes he weren’t here, because Joel’s tired of pretending this doesn’t mean something. Tired of biting his tongue and keeping his hands to himself. You’ve already let him in, clawed your way under his skin and left marks he’s not sure he’ll ever come back from. All day—through breakfast with Sarah and chores and paperwork—he’s been picturing how it could be different with you. 

Not rushed. Not secret. Just you, in his bed. Nothing between you but heat and time.

He wants that tonight. No—needs it, more than he cares to admit out loud. So when he asks you to come over, what he really means is please.

What he means is I’m not gonna make it through another night if I don’t have you.

So when you whisper back okay, Joel swears he feels it in his chest. And even though he knows your dad is outside, he doesn’t kiss you. Doesn’t say anything sweet. He just steps back, like he’s afraid he might take you right here if he doesn’t, heading back to the living room just as the sliding door to the patio rattles open.

***

A few hours later, your dad’s half-asleep in front of the TV as a Law and Order rerun plays, and you’re pulling the door shut behind you with a quiet click. You’d told him you were heading to Dina’s to help with some last-minute wedding stuff. A simple, believable excuse, one that didn’t require too much eye contact or follow-up questions. Your dad had just grunted in his half-conscious state, murmuring for you not to stay out too late.

Now you’re moving quickly down the front porch steps, hands tucked into the pocket of your hoodie. The air is cool with a hint of dampness that settles in your lungs. The neighbourhood has settled into a late Sunday night hush, porch lights flicked off, most windows dark. You slip into your dad’s truck—the one you’re borrowing while your car waits in Charlotte—and back out slowly, headlights off, tyres squeaking on the drive. You drive just enough that your dad won’t notice you haven’t gone far, rounding the corner and pulling into the curb on the next street over. Killing the engine, you sit in the dark for a few long minutes. Your heart’s going a mile a minute. Sneaking over to Joel Miller’s house might just be the most reckless thing you’ve done in a long time. Maybe ever—aside from letting him fuck you over your own father’s workbench mid-party. That probably still takes the cake.

Readying yourself, you climb out of the truck and start walking. It’s only a few minutes to Joel’s place but every step pulses with something electric. Your ears throb with the thud of your heartbeat. The quiet of the street feels loaded, like it knows what you’re doing. Like the whole neighbourhood might wake up and point fingers if you walk too loudly. You pass Tess’ house, porch light out like the rest of the street, but a muted glow flickers behind her curtains—probably the TV left on low. Maybe she forgot to turn it off before heading to bed. Or maybe she’s still up, curled up on the couch with a blanket and that ache in her chest that only shows up after rejection. You wonder if she’s sad, sat there replaying last night in her head, pining after Joel. Something turns over in your stomach. Tess hadn’t done anything wrong. Her only real crime was liking Joel, and you’d both be guilty of that.

When your phone buzzed earlier and you saw Joel’s name, your breath hitched. The last message from him was eight years ago—a lone thumbs-up emoji in response to you texting him that you were taking Sarah for ice cream after picking her up from soccer practice. Since then? Nothing. Until tonight.

come through the side gate

That’s all he’d written. No punctuation. No pleasantries. Just direction.

And so, you follow. Slip down the side of his house, careful not to be too heavy on the gravel or brush too hard against the jasmine climbing the fence. The gate creaks—because of course it does—and you wince, freezing mid-step, looking around like the cops are going to jump out and bust you for breaking and entering. They don’t though, obviously, as you keep moving again. Light filters through the windows, casting a warm glow on the backyard. You spot the slow shift of Joel’s shadow inside. He’s not pacing. Not restless. Just waiting.

You exhale shakily. You haven’t been inside the Miller house in, god, years. You don’t really know what you’re walking into, if you’re being honest. All you know is it’s him, and you know that whatever this is, whatever this becomes, you want it. Even if it’s messy. Even if it’s risky. Even if it’s just for tonight.

You step onto the back porch, and your eyes catch the faint ember of a cigarette still smoldering in the ashtray. Smoke curls lazily into the air, pale against the dark. The butt’s burned nearly down to the filter, still warm, still bleeding orange at the tip. You pause, think back to the night you found him with a cigarette hanging from his lips outside The Rusty Antler.

Just when I need to take the edge off, he’d said.

Your pulse ticks a little faster.

The back door slides open with a whoosh before your hand even touches it. Joel stands there—barefoot, in the same henley and jeans he’d been wearing just a few hours ago. His sleeves are pushed up, revealing tanned, veiny arms smattered in dark hair. His chest rises steadily, no match for the abnormal way his heart thunders against his ribs, eyes already locked on yours. He doesn’t say anything. Just steps aside to let you in and the soft zip of the door closing seals the night out behind you. Joel lingers for a beat before moving past you through the house, his musky oak scent hanging around even longer.

“Can I get you a drink?” he asks over his shoulder, voice scratchy. 

You shake your head, toeing off your sneakers by the mat. “I’m good.”

When you meet him in the kitchen, your eyes catch on the lowball glass sitting on the counter, a faint amber sheen clinging to the bottom. Joel follows your gaze, then glances down at the glass like he’s surprised it’s still there.

“Was nervous,” he says with a shrug, like it doesn’t matter. Like it doesn’t explain everything.

Raising an eyebrow, a soft laugh escapes you. “You, nervous? I didn’t think that was even in your DNA.” And it’s true. Joel always seems so sure of himself—stoic but steady, the kind of quiet confidence that wears like armour. The kind people mistake for arrogance if they don’t know him, if they haven’t seen the way he softens for the people he actually cares about. You’ve seen it. Felt it. And still, hearing he’d been nervous waiting for you tonight knocks something loose in your chest. 

Joel leans his hip against the counter. He tilts his head, watching you with a look that makes your stomach tighten. “Me neither,” he confesses. “Not ‘til you showed back up.” 

You stay quiet for a second, watching how his shoulders stay a shrug higher than relaxed, the way his jaw ticks as he works it, waiting for your response.

“That explains the cigarette out there.” The corner of his mouth lifts. You noticed the cigarette. That shouldn’t mean much. Definitely shouldn’t carry the weight it does, but it makes his gut flip anyway because it means that you’ve been paying attention. That you know him, better than you should considering his friendship with your father. But you’re still reading him. Watching him.

Even though you’re not his. Not really. Not officially. 

You’re not anything, he’s been telling himself all day, when he catches himself thinking about your smile, or how easy and at home his name sounds coming from your mouth. Still, the words ring hollow. Whatever this is, it stopped being nothing the second you clocked that cigarette on the porch and understood what it meant. That kind of observation, that intimacy, feels like more than he has a right to, and that terrifies Joel. Because he hadn’t expected this to turn into something. Of course he didn’t. How could he? He’d been so quick to dismiss you as drunk, trying your luck, pushing his buttons, but fuck, you got under his skin almost immediately. This was supposed to be a one-time exhaustion of late-night tension, hands fumbling in the dark. A stupid, misguided thing he could contain if he didn’t look at it too hard.

But… the shift. He feels it. In the air, in the way you’re watching him. Like you’ve been walking this edge too, wondering if what’s brewing between you could be more. If it should be.

Is that even an option? Could he be someone who gets something like this? Someone like you?

Fuck knows. But the thought’s there now, burning slow and steady in his chest.

“Yeah,” Joel says eventually. “Needed something to do with my hands.”

You smile, and your eyes light up. “I’ve got a couple of ideas.” He huffs something that resembles a laugh but doesn’t quite make it out. Truth is, he’d had a few—more than a few—ideas too. All of them circling one thing, one person. And they only worked if you showed up.

If.

But now you’re here, standing in his kitchen, watching him like you want the same damn thing he does. 

You don’t say a word, even as he pushes off the counter and closes the distance between you slowly. As he moves, you’re aware of every step, every breath. He doesn’t lunge for you, doesn’t crowd your space. Just reaches for your hand and walks you backwards until your spine meets the wall beside the hallway opening. His fingers lace through yours like it’s second nature, palm hot against yours, and his free hand comes to rest at your waist again.

“I’m glad you’re here,” he murmurs.

“Me too.”

The exchange is soft. Earnest. Yeah, this isn’t the first time you two have been intimate. But it is the first time it isn’t rushed, nor stolen. No one’s a room away, no one’s waiting for you to come back with an excuse. No car windows fogging up, no holding your breath in case you get caught. Just this: four walls, quiet, him. Joel.

He presses you into with his body, his cock already hard—or, likely, still hard from that moment in your kitchen—against your thigh. Nothing about it’s forceful, just firm. Grounding, even. There’s barely time to catch your breath before his hands slide under your thighs and lift. You react instinctively, arms looping around his neck, legs snaked around his hips. He carries you like it’s nothing, like you weigh nothing. Like he’s carried you in a hundred different ways before now, while he weaves through the house towards the staircase—towards his room. The anticipation sweeps deep in your belly, cracks fire through you, heat swelling underneath the goosebumps that rouse on your skin. You’re too wrapped up in Joel to notice much—the creak of a stair, soft thud of each footfall—but just for a second you register the blur of old family photos as you pass them on the wall. One even has you in it, younger, smiling alongside your dad and Sarah. 

A snapshot of a time before this ever seemed possible.

In the darkness of the stairwell, his features shift so he’s more edges than soft touches. His cheekbones are sharp in the dim light, casting shadows down to the strong curve of his throat. You watch it bob as he swallows, his molten eyes flicking between yours and the steps over your shoulder, cautious not to drop you. Then he’s setting you down on the edge of his bed and the table lamp clicks on beside you, softening everything. The glow spills over his face, all warm golds and ambers that let you notice things that time hadn’t allowed you before. A tiny scar at his temple. The way one one of his wiry eyebrows arches a smidge higher than the other. His nose, uneven at the ridge. Completely imperfect and somehow, and you feel it deep in your gut, perfect for you.

Joel’s room is warm, clearly lived-in. The navy sheets, solid timber headboard, Tom Clancy book on the bedside—all of it feels like Joel. Smells like him, too. Woodsy, clean. Familiar. You let your gaze drift across the dresser, to the flannel shirt tossed over the chair, sweatpants puddled in the doorway of his ensuite. You’ve never been in here before. Not even when you were younger, sneaking glances whenever you were on your way to or from Sarah’s room. And now that you’re here—now that he’s watching you from the foot of the bed, eyes dark and burning with strangled restraint. His hands are warm when he moves closer and cradles your face, rough pads of his thumbs sweeping the blush blooming in your cheeks. He doesn’t speak at first, just looks at you, and you feel every lick of his gaze across your face.

His mouth opens, then shuts. Opens again.

“You’re so fuckin’ beautiful,” Joel says at last, voice barely there. Rough, jagged, like it’s caught on something sharp in his chest. “What the hell are you doin’ here… with me?”

He doesn’t quite say it to you. It’s quieter than that—like it slips out before he can stop it, like it was meant to stay in his head but found its way past his lips anyway. You blink. The question still lands heavy. Not because it demands an answer, but because it doesn’t. Because it sounds like he’s already decided there isn’t one that makes sense. Not to him.

You’re about to speak, but his hands drop from his face and he straightens up as he takes a small step backwards, as if the distance might make his thoughts clearer.

He swallows thickly. “I’m too old for this. For you. You know that right?” You shuffle your body onto his bed, pull your knees beneath you and kneel so you’re at his eye level, forcing him to meet your gaze. “You think I don’t know what I’m doing?”

“I just…” he trails off. Hands flexing at his side like he doesn’t know what to do with them. “You could have anyone. Someone your age. Someone who’s not—”

“My dad’s best friend?” You say it without flinching, chin tilted just enough to show you’re not ashamed. Not regretful.

“I just mean—you sure this isn’t just somethin’ else? Like, maybe your ex. Maybe this is about him. Gettin’ back at him. Gettin’ even.”

The words sting, all over, like tiny pin pricks deep enough to draw blood. Your spine straightens, jaw tightening as defensiveness curls in your chest. “Is that what you really think this is?” you ask, voice low. “You think I’d use you like that?”

Joel’s mouth parts, like he’s about to take it back—but he doesn’t. Just scrubs a hand over his face and exhales. You blink, breath catching as your voice lowers to be just above a whisper. “You invited me here. I didn’t chase you down, Joel. You told me to come.”

He doesn’t argue. Won’t meet your eyes either.

“I’m not playing games” you continue. “And I sure as hell didn’t come here to prove something to someone else.”

That lands, and you can see it in the way Joel’s shoulders settle. Realisation. That he was being unfair. That he was this close pushing you away. He eventually looks at you again, eyes raw, searching.

So you spell it out for him.

“I want this. No one else. Not Jesse, not someone my age. You. Right now.” 

Your posture shifts to be straighter as you sit up taller on your knees. You don’t break eye contact when your fingers tug at the hem of your hoodie, catching the t-shirt beneath it too, and peel both over your head in one smooth motion. The cotton hits the floor in a soft pile, but the sound seems so loud in the otherwise quiet room. The heating’s on, but the change in temperature still brushes goosebumps across your skin, pebbling your nipples, yanking a sharp gasp from the hull of your throat. 

You don’t move again. You just wait. Let Joel sit in it. Let him choose how this goes. You can see him warring with himself, teeth trilling over his bottom lip, hands still restless at his sides.

Then he cracks.

The gap between you no longer exists after a breath, his palms sliding up to cradle your face. You lean into his touch, allow your eyes to flutter closed as he holds you there like he needs the simple contact to keep himself anchored. His left hand moves—down, languid, dragging the heat of his palm over your throat, thumb grazing your collarbone as he splays his fingers across your chest. Wide, rough fingers skim the swell of your tits, your nipples screaming to be touched.

“Christ,” Joel murmurs, his voice frayed. His eyes lift to meet yours again. “You’re fuckin’ perfect.”

And then he kisses you. Finally. It’s not soft nor sweet, but deliberate. Slow, controlled. His mouth moves with purpose, like he’s tasing every second he’s gone without you and is trying to make up for it in one long drag of heat and pressure. You kiss him back, hard, arms winding around his neck, fingers sliding into his hair. You grip tight at the curls at the base of his skull, holding onto him like it’s the only thing keeping you upright. Joel’s hand remains flat to your chest, unmoving under the kiss shifts. Deepens.

His tongue slides against yours, and you taste remnants of the whiskey and nicotine he’d indulged in downstairs. The way he kisses you is sure, because by now, he knows exactly how you like it. Figured out the things that make you tremble, which is why his hand moves down your sternum to trace a line from your ribcage to your waist and back again until he’s skimming the underside of your breast and lingers. Testing. Appreciating, before he pulls back. His hand ghosts down your arm as he steps away before he reaches for the back of his neck, grabs a fistful of his shirt and yanks it over his head in one clean motion. It joins your clothes on the floor with a quiet thud.

You press your shoulders back. It’s not like you’ve never seen Joel shirtless. You’d been around him sans shirt plenty of times in the past, at neighbourhood pool parties or on the few occasions you and your dad went up to the lake with Joel and Sarah in the summer. Still, you’ve never seen him like this. Not under the glow of the lamp where there’s nothing left to distract you. The hair on his chest is dark and coarse, trailing over his stomach—softening slightly at his centre. He’s broader than he looks in a flannel. He’s thicker now than he probably used to be, but it suits him. All of it does.

You’re staring, obviously, because Joel raises a thick brow and tilts his head. “You want a picture or somethin’? Might last longer.”

It’s a joke—but you consider it. A photo wouldn’t be so bad, would it? A keepsake, a memento. No, you couldn’t, you tell yourself, distracting yourself with an exhale, try not to smile at being caught out. “Sorry. Just realised we’ve never actually seen each other.” You shift on the mattress. “Like this.”

Joel doesn’t answer. He doesn’t have to, not really, not when you see the way his expression softens, mouth twitching in the corners when the realisation hits him too.

You stand slowly, feet quiet against the hardwood, and hook your thumbs in your waistband. You peel your sweatpants down and step out of them, taking your panties and socks with them too, and let them lay with the rest of your abandoned clothes. The air ripples against your skin, and Joel’s gaze drops just for a second before finding your face again. He reaches for his jeans, but your hand comes up, stilling him.

“Let me.” You step closer, press up onto your toes to kiss the side of his mouth, the harsh line of his jaw. His hand moves instinctively to your lower back, to steady you. To ground him. You trail kisses down his chest—over the ridge of his sternum, to the slight curve of his belly—until you’re kneeling in front of him. Your hands rest lightly at his belt buckle, cool on your palm, and you look up.

“Is this okay?” you ask softly. 

For a second, all Joel does is stare at you—like he’s trying to commit this very image to memory. Then a low chuckle works its way up from his chest.

“Darlin’,” he says, the word crunching on gravel. “If I ever say that ain’t okay, I want you to slap me. Hard. Somethin’s clearly broken.” It makes your mouth twitch—a glimmer of a smile—but he’s already curling a hand around the back of your head, his gaze still locked on yours like he can’t look away. “Go on then, baby. Take it out.”

You swallow, the pet name thrumming low in your belly. Your fingers move before your brain does and you make quick work of Joel’s belt. It gives with a soft clink, leather through denim loops, and you don’t miss the way the man in front of you tenses ever so slightly at the action. His dick jolts against his jeans, the thick imprint of him unmistakable as his length begs to be freed from the fabric. He’s barely keeping himself from snapping as your fingers find the button next, pop it open with a flick, the zipper following with a groaning pull. He watches the whole time—jaw locked, breath shallow, eyes so heavy with heat that you actually feel it coat your skin.

You curl your fingers into the waistband of his jeans and drag the the material down his legs, your gaze following as you reveal strong, hairy thighs, scarred knees, the tent in his black underwear where his cock stands at attention, a small dot of precum attaching the thin fabric to its head. His jeans puddle at his ankles, and soon after, his briefs join them too as he springs free. He’s thick, flushed, heavy at the base, already leaking at the tip. 

And you bristle.

He’s huge. Girthy, which you knew, you’ve felt it, thought about it—too much—but somehow he looks monstrous when you’re level with it, flush against his stomach. When you’ve done this in the past, your partners haven’t been anywhere near the size of Joel. It never occurred to you that he might not fit.

He notices the way you freeze, how your fingers still where they rest at his hips. You’re not trying to hide your hesitation—and even if you were, he’d still see right through you. Joel murmurs your name quietly, and his hand, still at the back of your head, splays gently through your hair. No pressure, just reassurance. His voice rakes out, low, while his thumb strokes a line along your scalp.

“Hey. S’just me. You go slow, alright, darlin’? We’ve got time.”

You glance up at him once more, a tiny smile pulling at your lips as you plant your hands on his outer thighs, dig your nails in just enough, drag your touch down the muscles that ripple in his legs. Joel groans, his hips tipping forward just slightly, egging you on until your hand wraps carefully around the base of his cock. The coarse, dark hair there scratches the side of your fist. He’s warm, twitching in your grip, and the moment you press a featherlight kiss to his weeping head, Joel breathes out hard—almost like he’s been holding it in since the moment you dropped to your knees. “Shit.”

You lick next, slow, getting your bearings. He tastes salty, clean. Makes you wonder if he showered before you got here. You trace him tip to base with the end of your tongue, only flattening out when you’re back at his head and sink his cock into your hot mouth, easing him in inch by inch. You take him until the stretch makes your jaw ache and your eyes start to water at the corners. You’re halfway, maybe, when you pull back with a soft gasp, catching your breath, and Joel’s voice is ragged when it breaks through the haze of intimacy.

“Don’t worry, baby,” he tells you. It’s tender, the way his thumb brushes your temple. “If you can’t take it all, s’alright. I don’t need—”

You don’t let him finish. Your eyes lift, locking on his, and there’s something challenging, fire-bright in how you shift, how you take him deeper now. The pressure builds in the stretch of your mouth, the ache spreading, but you don’t stop. Not until your nose brushes the hair curling at the base and your throat tightens with effort.

A wrecked sound shakes out of Joel. His fingers tighten in your hair, not harsh. Just stunned. “My stubborn girl… So good. Always so good for me.”

You hum around him, proud. Determined to make him feel good. The vibration adds more burden to the heaviness already weighing down Joel’s balls, his head tipping back and chest rising with shallow breaths as he lets you continue. You start to bob your head, drag him out an inch, suck him back in, cheeks hollowing until you’re sealed around him. Your movements grow more confident, quicker, with every small reaction from him—the fractured swearing, the flex of his fingers, the tension in his thighs. All of it feeds into the heat blooming between your legs, into the electricity in your chest. Peering up at him through damp lashes, your view of him is slightly blurred, but you can still make out the lines that contort Joel’s face as his eyes clamp shut, hips twitching, his body right on the edge of losing its rhythm.

“Fuck—darlin’, if you keep goin’ like that—”

So you do, one hand leaving his leg to work in tandem with your mouth, spreading your saliva all over his throbbing cock before taking him all the way to the back of your throat, swallowing, gagging as you suck him impossibly deeper. Joel’s breath catches, he stiffens, mutters your name. For a moment, everything goes quiet—just the sound of your breathing and the faint creak of the floorboards under his shifting weight, his jeans brushing against his ankles. 

Then he exhales, long and broken as hot ropes of cum hit the back of your throat. You swallow, staying close as the tension bleeds out of his body, his hips gently rocking into you as the last of his release seeps out. When his hand moves to cup the side of your face again, it’s gentle. Thankful. You can feel him softening in your mouth, so you draw backward, lapping up any leftover cum as you pull off him with a pop.

Joel chuckles, still a little dazed. “If I don’t survive this, you’re givin’ the eulogy.”

You snort, eyes dancing. “I’ll make sure to say nice things. Make sure everyone knows how well endowed you are.”

“Watch it,” he says—warning, teasing— with a roll of his eyes as he helps you off the floor.

And maybe it is a little deadly, this thing you’re doing. But it’s alive, real. You can feel it in the way he kisses you—hard, consuming the second you’re upright. Like he needs to stake a claim. His mouth slants over yours, not the least bit shy about tasting himself on your tongue. If anything, it makes him hungrier knowing what you can do to him, how much you liked doing it to him.

Joel’s hands are greedy, gripping at your waist, your ass, your ribcage, dragging you flush against him, and you feel the urgency vibrating beneath his skin, like he can’t decide where he needs you most. He kicks his jeans and underwear the rest of the way off, muttering under his breath as they tangle around his foot.

“Jesus,” he grunts. “Can’t even get my damn pants off right.”

You giggle against his chest, and that—that, out of everything—makes him pause. 

“Keep laughin’, sweetheart,” he drawls, brow cocked, eyes hooded and heated. “You’re the one that’s gonna be beggin’ in a minute.”

You open your mouth, something clever ready, but Joel doesn’t give you the opportunity to try it out.

“Get on the bed,” he demands, no room for argument. For testing. Backing up, you climb onto the king-sized mattress with your eyes locked solely on him. And God, he’s fucking beautiful like this—naked, chest heaving, cock already stiffening again, like his body and age couldn’t care less that it just came two minutes ago. The second your spine hits the pillows, he’s on you—none of that slow, measured patience he talked about earlier. That we’ve got time line doesn’t stand a damn chance now. Not when he’s pawing at you, pushing your knees apart with a hand that spans too much of your thigh, kissing you with teeth, with tongue, with intent as his cock drags against the arousal already leaking from between your folds.

“Always such a wet mess f’me,” he whispers into the crook of your neck, biting then soothing the blooming red mark with a kiss. Joel’s weight settles between your legs and your body arches into him instinctively, heat pooling low as the mattress whines beneath you. He palms your breast roughly, thumb circling your nipple, and you gasp into his mouth when he shifts just enough to slide right into you with a grunt. Your body opens for him like it’s been waiting for this exact stretch, this specific pressure. Joel buries himself to the hilt and holds there, forehead against yours for a few beats while his breath comes out his sharp pants.

“You good, baby?”

You nod, barely managing the next few words out of your mouth: “Yeah. Move, Joel. Please.”

Guess he was right about the begging.

He slides deeper, excruciatingly slow at first with steady thrusts that make you clutch at him, nails digging into his shoulders. The sound of your bodies meeting, all wet and heavy and rhythmic, fills the space between his quiet groans and your broken mewls. The bed creaks under you, marking every little deliberate motion. Joel grabs under your knee to hook your leg higher around his hip, his fingers pressing delicious pain into your flesh. The new angle punches a feral sound from you, something that falls somewhere between a yelp and a sob.

“Fuck,” Joel seethes. “Right there. You feel that, darlin’?”

Your head drops back against the pillow, jaw slack. “Mmm. Don’t stop.”

As if he ever could.

It’s relentless, the drag of Joel’s thick cock, in and out. It’s a little rough, a little raw. The friction’s perfect. Just enough rough to sting. His hips drive forward again and again, setting a rhythm that feels endless and overwhelming all at once. You try to hold on—try to stay in the moment—but the knot in your belly’s already pulling taut, sparks rippling through you every time his pelvis grinds against yours. 

His hand finds its way between you, thumb pressing down on your clit firmly, working in lazy circles that sends your spine arching off the bed. His mouth finds one of your nipples, suckling and licking and flicking as he picks up his pace, and all of a sudden, every touch, he’s lick, every fuck of his hips is too much.

“Joel—” you gasp, clawing at his back. “I’m gonna—”

“I know,” he pants. “Go, baby, I’ve got you.”

Your orgasm crashes over you, your body locking up around him with a cry that’s impossible to muffle. Your back bows off the bed, mouth falling open, fingers gripping Joel’s arms like they’re the only thing keeping you tethered to reality. Your shaky breaths jiggle your tits against Joel’s chest, the air biting your sweat-slicked skin. Your climax is still wracking through you when Joel lets out a deep and guttural sound into your collarbone. There was no way he was lasting long after you. He couldn’t, not with how tight you are around him, still fluttering from your high.

His thrusts falter. Stutter. Then he chokes out a strangled Christ. One bearish hand fists in the pillowcase beside your head, the other curls around your jaw, holding you in place like he needs to feel every second of his orgasm anchored in your skin. Then he lets go. His hips jerk once, twice, then he groans again—louder this time—as he spills inside you, his body going rigid before melting against you. You hold him close, fingers threading into the damp curls at his nape. His lips brush your skin in broken patterns across your throat, your jaw, the curve of your shoulder. 

He’s heavy. Hot. Perfect, like he belongs here. 

And maybe he does. 

Maybe just for now.

Maybe longer than that.

Your head lolls to the side, eyes flicking to the digital clock on the bedside. Red digits blur in the low light. It’s getting late.

“I should probably get back,” you murmur despite making no move to do so.

Joel lifts his head from the crook of your neck slowly. “Stay a little longer,” he says quietly. Then, brushing it off, not wanting to come across as eager as he is: “If you want.”

You study him for a beat. There’s something in the warm honey of his eyes that stalls you—he’s uncertain, scared a bit. Joel’s had one-night stands before. A fling or two even. Over the years, there've been women who came and went, who left before sunrise without fuss, and he liked it that way. Always told himself he needed the space. That it was simpler. Cleaner. But now, with you beneath him, your hands still gentle in his hair, the idea of you slipping away feels…wrong.

He draws in a breath. “Let me clean you up.”

Before you can answer, he’s already easing himself off the bed. A moment later, he returns with a warm, damp cloth in one hand and a glass of water in the other. He presses the rim of the glass to your lips first, watches you take a few sips before setting it aside. Joel stays quiet as he wipes you down, careful and precise as he drags the cloth between your legs, soaking up the mixture of your orgasms. It’s not clinical or distant, just present, and when he’s done, he places a hand on your hip and murmurs c’mon.

You follow him, even though your legs protest as they stretch their way to the bathroom where the shower is already running, the hum of water and steam filling the space and fogging the mirror. Stepping in, the heat hits your skin and rolls down your back and shoulders like balm. The ache Joel left between your legs flares under the scalding water and you relish in it, allowing a moan to echo into the air.

Joel steps in behind you a moment later. You feel him before you see him—his warmth pressed along your spine, his hands spanning your waist. He doesn’t say a thing, just reaches for the body wash and begins to lather your shoulders, your arms, down your back. His hands are steady. Familiar, and when he pulls you against his chest, water cascading over both of you, it’s not about sex. He holds you like he’s scared you’ll disappear—like the steam might swallow you up and carry you down the drain if he lets go.

***

Twenty minutes later, the two of you are standing at Joel’s back door again. Your hair’s frizzy from the steam of the shower, the night air cool on your skin, and your hoodie clings a little to your slightly damp skin. You won’t lie, it feels awkward now, standing here like this with the porch light buzzing above, both of you suddenly terrible at eye contact. 

Eventually, you glance up at him. “See you soon?” The question is quiet, like you’re not sure if you’re allowed to want that. It’s obvious there’s more to say, but neither of you reaches for it.

Joel’s mouth twitches with a sliver of a smile, nodding once. Slow.

“Text me when you get home,” he tells you. The request is lax, almost offhand, but there’s nothing casual about the way it makes you feel—wanted, looked after.

You smile. “I will.” Then Joel drops his head, presses a kiss to the spot just above your right eyebrow, and your skin hums at the affection. You step back and he watches you pad into the garden, hoodie sleeves pulled over your hands against the chill. He doesn’t go back inside—not right away—not until he hears the clink of the side hate latch. Only then does the door close behind him.

The house is quiet when you let yourself back in. Lights off. Your dad’s already gone to bed, the flicker of the TV replaced by silence. You climb the stairs slowly, every tread a little reminder of the ache in your body, the press of Joel still lingering on your skin. You don’t bother turning the lights on. Just change into fresh underwear and a clean shirt, brush your teeth, fall into bed.

Then, true to your word, you unlock your phone and tap out a one-word text: Home. 

You don’t wait for the reply. You’re half-asleep already, the pillow cool beneath your cheek, body still humming in the places he touched. 

You don’t see his message until morning.

Sweet dreams.

***

On Wednesday afternoon, you’re actually heading to Dina parents’ place to deal with an actual last minute crisis.

“Another one?” your dad asks, not even looking up from his laptop as you pop your head into his office on the way out. “How many crises can one wedding take?”

“Unsure,” you laugh, adding: “But by the way things sounded on the phone, this might be the last straw.” The comment was meant to be dramatic, but turns out, you were right to be concerned.

You find Dina in the middle of her parent’s yard, arms crossed, glaring at what is very clearly the wrong arbour for the ceremony. You know this because you’d been party to a two-hour back and forth over whether she and her wife-to-be, Ellie, had a diamond-shaped arbour, or a circle. They’d landed on the diamond, but the ceremony piece sat at the far end of the garden was not that. Dina doesn’t say anything when she sees you, just gestures to the very standard, underwhelming arched wooden frame.

“Technically, an arch is just a very lazy diamond,” you offer.

She shoots you a look. “We’re three days out. THREE! I can’t even find it in me to scream about it properly because I screamed for like forty-five minutes yesterday because the florist said because of the time of year, the peonies are gonna be more coral than blush.”

“Well… coral is just a really confident blush.”

Dina says your name once. Firm. “Stop.”

You try and wrangle a smile. Growing up, Dina was never the girl who dreamed about her wedding day. She was lucky if she could decipher a daisy from a sunflower, and now here she is sweating over every minute detail. You kind of love it.

“Okay, okay,” you say, holding your hands up in surrender. “What do you wanna do?”

Dina gnaws on the frayed skin around her thumbnail. “We need a new one. Or we modify this one, make it look like what I ordered. Can we do that?”

“I don’t think we can. You’re talking about the girl who nailed her top to the table in Junior shop class,” you point at your friend, then to yourself, “And the girl who would rather take three AP trig programs than turn in any art class assignment. We are not doing shit with this.”

Dina turns her face to the sun and exhales. “God, you’re so right.” 

You’re already scrolling through Google on your phone, looking for local companies with next-day delivery on arbours (funnily enough, there aren’t an abundance of them) when you see her head tilt out the corner of your periphery. Dina’s eyes narrow. She’s got an idea.

“Joel Miller.”

That’s all she says. The air in your lungs short-circuits for a second.

You blink. “What about him?”

“He’s a builder, right? He could help. He could totally help.” She points a finger at you. “You used to babysit his daughter. So you’d have his number somewhere?”

It’s cool out, but you’re sweating anyway.

“Uh, somewhere, maybe? Probably. But I’m sure he’s really busy, my dad said he—”

“Busy with what? Building things? Perfect! This is a thing that needs building,” Dina says with a clap of her hands. She’s practically vibrating. “Please call him.”

“On second thought, I can probably fix it—”

“Call. Him.”

“Dina—

“Fine, I’ll do it.” Your phone is out of your hand and into Dina’s before you can say stop, and two seconds later the dial tone sounds through the speaker.

You haven’t seen or spoken to Joel since you left his place a few nights ago. That awkward porch-light goodbye still clings to your skin like static. You don’t even know what this is between you, not really, and now you’re calling him on speakerphone with your best friend watching? Great.

It rings once. Twice. 

Then: “Uh, hello?”

You flounder, unsure what to say as Dina jerks the phone in your direction, urging you to say something.

You don’t, which proves stupid when Joel speaks again.

“Darlin’? Everythin’ okay?”

Your stomach drops. Dina’s eyebrows shoot into her hairline. Darlin’? she mouths.

Snatching your phone back, you take it off speaker before waving her off. Once you’re a safe distance away, you speak into the phone, your hey too fast, too bright.

“Sorry. Dina took my phone because she wanted to ask a favour.” “Uh, right.”

Wait, does he sound disappointed?

“Something wedding related, I’m guessin’? Your dad said they’re facing a whole hell of problems over there.”

“Yeah, well, she got sent the wrong arbour. It’s an arch instead of a diamond and apparently that’s a big deal.”

There’s a pause. A puff of air that slightly resembles laughter. “You want me to build one.”

“Could you? I mean—I know you’re super busy and I told Dina you probably wouldn’t be free and—”

“Darlin’.”

“You are good with your hands,” you tease, trying to play it light, play off the rambling.

He chuckles. “Uh-huh. You payin’ me in compliments, or…?”

“I wouldn’t be opposed to a trade,” you tell him, voice low. Suggestive.

“I’m listenin’.”

You straighten your spine, try and quell the grin on your face when you notice Dina watching. “So you’ll do it?”

“Anythin’ for you,” he tells you, and he means it. Clearing his throat, Joel adds: “Send me a photo of what she originally wanted. I’ll swing by the hardware store.”

An hour later, Joel pulls up, toolbox and supplies in the back of his truck, and steps into the chaos that is Dina’s parents’ backyard—a minefield of drop sheets, crates of candles and at least three half-assembled centrepieces.

“You got here quick. Thank you so much, Mr Miller,” Dina says, extending a hand.

He shakes it. “Call me Joel, please. And it’s no problem. You got a good friend here. Real persuasive.” His eyes flick to you, and you catch the glimmer of amusement in them. “So, where can I set up?”

Dina waves a hand. “Wherever you can find a spare spot. Thanks again, Joel. Seriously.” He offers a tight-lipped smile and gets to work, unloading timber and tools on the other side of the yard. You watch him for a minute—his sure hands, the ease in his movements, how the sun hits the back of his neck just above the collar of his flannel. As if he can feel you, Joel glances up. His eyes meet yours. Just for a second. And something warm flickers there.

Dina leans into your side and slaps your arm. Hard.

“You little liar.”

You flinch. “Ow! What?!”

“You two totally fucked.”

Your eyes bulge. “We did not—”

“Oh my god, don’t lie to me now,” Dina warns. “That was a darlin’ with seasoning. And I saw those eyes you two were making just now. Those were looks that scream I know what you look like naked.”

Fuck. You hate how she can read you like a book. “Dina—”

“He’s your dad’s best friend.” You wince, brace for judgement, but all you get is: “That’s kinda hot.” A pause. “Was it?” Your face heats like you’re holding it over the open flame on a stove. You glance towards Joel—whose focus is solely on his measuring tape and mercifully out of earshot—and mutter, “Yeah… every time.”

Dina balks. “Every—you mean you fucked him more than once?!”

A couple of nearby family members helping out with wedding preparations turn to stare. You and Dina both flash tight smiles and disappear into the house, where, once inside, you spill everything—well, almost everything. By the time your best friend is finished squealing and asking for intimate details, Joel is halfway done putting the diamond frame together.

By the time he’s done, the new arbour is tenfold better than anything Dina could’ve ordered. She’s so impressed that she insists—

“You’re coming to the wedding.”

Joel shakes his head, already refusing. “Thanks, but I don’t wanna intrude.”

“No, please, you literally saved it,” she says. “Plus, we’re down a seat since my cousin caught the flu. Come, eat, do a little dance.”

Joel opens his mouth to protest again, but Dina cuts him off with a don’t fuck with me look that darts from you to him. “Seriously. It’d mean a lot.”

She walks off before either of you can argue, but not without tossing you a sly smile. You know that look. It’s the same one she gave you when she set you up with your high school crush. She’s doing you a favour, in some roundabout best friend way.

Joel leans in to you, voice low, amused. “Does that mean I get to go home with a bridesmaid?”

You peer up at him, flutter your lashes and smile sweetly. “Only if you’re lucky, Miller.”

***

masterlist

In the kitchen, you wash a plate under the tap, stare out the window, but all you can think about is the man sitting beside your dad in the living room.

You can’t walk in here without seeing him. Without feeling him—beer bottle in hand, up your dress, voice gravel-thick in your ear demanding to know whether your outfit was for him. In the last twenty-four hours, every time you grab a snack, or wipe down the bench, or rinse a damn glass, it’s like your body remembers it before your mind does. The press of his hand, the weight of him, the way your knees nearly buckled when he whispered your name. 

“Need a hand?” his voice cuts in low behind you, startling you from the memory. You glance over your shoulder, heart skipping. Joel’s already at the sink beside you, sleeves shoved up, taking the dish from your hand like he’s done it a hundred times. He doesn’t look at you at first. Just rinses the plate, stacks it.

But then—softly, like he’s trying not to sound as desperate as he is—“When can I see you?”

You give a little laugh, light, testing. “You’re seeing me now.”

Joel’s quiet for a beat, then he huffs something like a laugh, something that barely hides the strain in his jaw when his eyes flick to yours. “Don’t be a smartass.” He dries his hands on the dish towel that hangs off a drawer handle, his voice thickening around a no in a way that’s far hungrier than you’ve heard him all evening. “When can I see you?”

And then here’s there. Brushing up behind you, hips pressed to yours. Hard length unmistakable against your ass through the worn denim of his jeans.

Your breath hitches, and you immediately start taking stock. “Joel—”

“Don’t worry,” he mutters, already sensing your concern than your dad’s still in view. “He’s outside. Got a call.”

You swallow, turning your head slightly until Joel’s breath fans over your cheek. “Still, you can’t just—”

“Come over tonight.”

“What—"

“I mean it.” His hand comes down firm on your hip, thumb just slipping under the hem of your t-shirt to graze the skin there. “No more fuckin’ about in cars. Or sheds. Or wherever else we end up when I’m losing my mind over you.”

You turn in his grip, back pressing to the counter now. His eyes search yours—frenzied, frustrated, sincere in a way that makes your chest feel like it’s caving in on itself.

“Let me take my time,” he says. Almost begs. “Need you in my bed. Can’t stop thinking about it. I can’t stop.” A beat, then, “I’m not gonna stop.”

You swallow hard. Joel’s thigh brushes yours and your breath shivers, wracking your whole body.

Joel’s barely been hanging on since last night. Since he had to walk back into that party with your taste still on his tongue and pretend like he hadn’t just ruined himself for anyone else. And then today—sitting next to your dad like he wasn’t fantasising about stripping you out of the threadbare t-shirt and sweatpants you’re currently sporting. Watching you lick pizza sauce off your thumb like it’s nothing while his blood burns hot and low. 

He respects your dad. Has for years. That man’s his best friend. A constant in his life when everything else went to hell. But tonight? He wishes he weren’t here, because Joel’s tired of pretending this doesn’t mean something. Tired of biting his tongue and keeping his hands to himself. You’ve already let him in, clawed your way under his skin and left marks he’s not sure he’ll ever come back from. All day—through breakfast with Sarah and chores and paperwork—he’s been picturing how it could be different with you. 

Not rushed. Not secret. Just you, in his bed. Nothing between you but heat and time.

He wants that tonight. No—needs it, more than he cares to admit out loud. So when he asks you to come over, what he really means is please.

It’s been a week.

Seven full days since Dina’s bachelorette party. Since the storm. Since Joel’s mouth was on your throat, his hands on your hips, and his voice in your ear telling you to come for him. A week since his weight pressed you into the worn leather of his truck’s bench seat like he was trying to carve himself into your skin.

And then he drove you home.

The ride was quiet. Awkward. Joel tried to make it normal. Failed.

“Storm cleared up nice,” he said as he turned into your neighborhood. It might’ve sounded casual—if not for the fact that you’d had your hands all over each other less than ten minutes earlier. If not for the way his come was still warm between your thighs.

You didn’t respond. Just gave a tight-lipped nod, even though Joel hadn’t looked at you since he merged back onto the highway, not even to check for oncoming traffic when it was time to pull off it. He didn’t say anything else until the truck rolled to a stop in the middle of the street—parked between your dad’s house and his, the engine ticking in the quiet.

“That was—” he started, then broke off, scrubbing a hand over his face with a ragged sigh. “We shouldn’t have… Sorry. That was—”

You cut in before he could unravel it further. “It’s fine. Really.” Then, with a strained chuckle: “You never had a one-night stand before?”

He finally looked at you. Briefly. He’d had his fair share. Wanted this thing between you two to be just that—just two people getting their fix and moving on.

He nodded slowly. Hit unlock on the door.

“Right,” he said. “See you around, kid.”

Kid.

Not darlin', like in the truck when his voice sank as low as his hands on your body. Not your name. Just kid. 

The moniker hit hard. Lodged behind your ribs painfully. You smiled halfheartedly like it was fine—just like you’d told him. Like you hadn’t been waiting, stupidly, for something. A look. A word. Anything that hinted at him knowing this wasn’t as simple as a one night stand.

But he just watched you go, shoulders tense, hands still on the wheel like they had nowhere else to be—no apology. No wait. No darlin’.

The morning after, Dina called. Too early, too chipper considering her state when she left The Rusty Antler—wanting to know every messy detail.

“So, you fucked him, right? Please tell me you fucked him,” she probed down the line.

You lied to her. Maybe for the first time in your whole friendship. Said Joel just dropped you off. That nothing happened.

“He’s my dad’s best friend,” you reiterated. “That would be…weird.”

She bought it. Or let you have it, at least. And still, through everything else—through final bridesmaid dress fittings, venue walkthroughs, and seating chart hell—you’ve been spiraling quietly, secretly. 

You’ve tried to shove it down. But your body still remembers, more than you’d like. Your thoughts keep circling back to him without permission at the most inconvenient of moments—at the checkout at the grocery store, when you’re sitting down for breakfast with your dad, while you’re showering. When you see the bruises on your thigh when he hooked you around him as he pummelled into you. The marks are fading now, from dark purple fingerprints to yellow smudges you keep hidden under jeans or sports leggings. You can’t help but relive the rasp of his voice, the look on his face when you came apart in his hands. The guilt and wonder that warred behind his eyes like you were something he never should’ve toyed with.

Maybe that’s why you haven’t seen him since. No appearance for Sunday football. No midweek drop-ins for an after-work beer. Just…nothing. You’d half expected your father to be suspicious—he and Joel are each other’s lifelines, even more so since Sarah headed off to college—but he didn’t seem phased. Passed it off as Joel being busy with construction jobs or seeing Tess. The latter made your gut churn.

***

Joel’s been keeping to himself.

Outside of work—which, as the director of a contracting business, keeps his days full enough—he doesn’t usually do much but hang out with your dad, drink a couple beers, shoot the shit. But now he’s avoiding that routine like it’s laced with tripwires. Avoiding your dad’s calls, replying only by text. Busy this week. Catch you soon. Which isn’t a total lie. Work’s been steady, there’s a leaky pipe in the basement he’s been meaning to fix. But mostly, he’s been doing everything he can to stay out of sight, to keep temptation at arm’s length.

He’s been heating up microwave dinners he barely tastes. Spoke on the phone with his younger brother Tommy longer than he usually would, pretending the catch-up wasn’t just a way to fill the silence. One night he even rearranged the den furniture, despite the fact he almost never goes in there—always prefers the kitchen counter for his paperwork, within reach of the fridge and the back door light.

He tells himself it’s temporary. Just until Dina’s wedding is over. Just until you pack up and head back to Charlotte. Then he can go back to being your dad’s best friend, the guy who’s always around, always reliable. Not the guy who had you spread out in his truck with your panties shoved halfway down your thighs. He keeps hearing your voice telling him that you don’t care.

Want you.Your legs bracketing his hips. Your breath in his ear. And God help him—he wants more. Which is exactly why he’s staying away.

He almost gets away with it, too. But then your dad calls again. A longer ring this time. Joel lets it go to voicemail, but the message that pings through a minute later hits harder than it should.

Hey, jackass. Don’t wanna hang out with me anymore? You find yourself a new best buddy or somethin’? 

The message is left with a chuckle, but Joel knows him too well. There’s a note of something else underneath. Hurt, maybe. Confusion. That unspoken what did I do wrong?.

Joel swears under his breath. Guilt rises like bile, up his chest, stings at the back of his throat.

So he gives in. Which is why he’s standing at your dad’s front door—your front door—on a Friday night, two six-packs in one hand, sweat prickling at the back of his neck even though there’s a crisp breeze rifling through the fallen leaves along the street.

His heart thunders. Rakes a hand through his hair, trying to steel himself. This isn’t just dinner. Not really.

Not when all he can think about is how you looked half-naked in his truck, tits illuminated by sporadic cracks of lightning.

Not when all he wants to see if that fire’s still burning.

Not when he’s terrified that it is.

Joel pitches a hand up and raps his knuckles on the sage green wood, sucking in a shaky breath. You’re probably not even in. Probably out with your friends. Maybe back at The Rusty Antler. Or perhaps holed up at Dina’s while you help out with final wedding preparations.

But then the door swings open—and you’re standing there. Barefoot, hair tied up in a messy knot, wearing an oversized Volunteers t-shirt and black leggings. He hates that he thinks you look just as good entirely covered up as you did with your skirt around your waist and your tank pulled down.

You freeze when you see him. Thought it was the delivery driver bringing over the Thai food your dad had ordered. Joel shifts his weight, muttering a hey while holding up the six-packs like they’re peace offering. 

You almost laugh. Yeah, alcohol would be good right about now.

“Your dad—he invited me for dinner.”

“Right,” you say, blinking. “I just... I didn’t think—”

“Since when do you knock?” your dad interrupts, voice teasing as he appears behind you. Then, to you: “You gonna stand there and let all the heat out, or you gonna let the man in?”

You step aside, shrinking away from the threshold to give Joel the room to enter. His large frame fills out the doorway, broad shoulders nearly brushing the frame as he passes you, almost sheepish. He's in his Carhartt jacket again. The one he loaned to you that night outside the bar. The one you left in the footwell of his truck. The sight of it has your body wracking with a shiver, one your dad catches as he takes the beers from Joel, sliding two bottles out for the pair of them.

"You cold, sweetheart?"

You shake your head and hold your hand out to him. "Nope, all good. Let me put those in the fridge." Anything to put some space between you and Joel—let your nervous system calm down after the shock of his arrival. You can't seem to shake him though, feeling his gaze hot through the material of your t-shirt while him and your dad trail you to the kitchen, his boots heavy against the floorboards.

"So, where the hell have you been?" your dad wants to know as the three of you walk into the open-plan living area—a renovation Joel and your dad had carried out a few years back.

Joel gives a noncommittal grunt, scratches as his beard. “Like I said, busy week. Spent half the week waitin’ on drywall that never showed, and the other half explainin’ to a twenty-year-old apprentice why you don’t use a nail gun like a damn paintbrush. Y’know it is.”

He sounds normal—too normal—and it grates. The easy rhythm of his voice, the way he jokes with your dad. It’s infuriating, even though you’re doing the exact same thing—plastering on a smile, acting like nothing happened. But the more effortless he makes it seem, the more it needles under your skin. Because if he can brush it off that easily, what does that say about you? That you’re festering in the details—replaying every sound, every touch—while he probably went home, took a shower, and let the night rinse off him without a second thought. Didn’t even look back as it all sluiced down the drain.

You stay quiet as you slide the packs of Bud into the fridge, trying to keep your face neutral. When you turn back, your brow furrows at the number of settings your dad’s placed on the table.

“Four bowls?” You cock your head. “I know you’re getting older but you’re still a few years short of going senile.”

“Ha-a. You think you’re so clever,” he replies, reaching over to pinch the back of your neck like he used to when you were ten. “No, we’ve got another one joining us.”

You narrow your eyes. “You invite yourself a date over?”

“Not a date for me—a date for Joel.”

That stopped everything cold.

“What?” you and Joel say at the same time.

Your dad grins, oblivious, takes a sip of his drink. “I invited Tess. Figured it was time she came by for a proper family dinner.”

You blink, hard, like maybe you misheard him. “Tess?” you repeat. “As in Tess Tess?”

Your dad nods like it’s nothing. You run your tongue along the inside of your lower lip.

Tess. A proper family dinner. 

That didn’t sound casual. That sounded like a step. A step well on the way to relationship territory.

Your stomach flips. Was that all you’d been? Something Joel needed to get out of his system before going all in with Tess? Maybe it was never about you at all. Maybe it was just because you were there.

Was he lying when he said it wasn’t serious? Was he lying when he kissed you like that?

The doorbell echoes through the house and you feel Joel’s eyes on you as your dad ambles towards the front door, whistling like he didn’t just drop a bomb. When you dare to glance his way, his mouth is parted like he wants to say something. To object. To explain.

But you shake your head, once—firm. Don’t.

Then you’re turning your back, focusing on the fridge as if it’s the most interesting thing in the house. A breath shudders out of you just as the front door swings open and Tess’s voice floats in as she tells your dad she intercepted the delivery driver at the letterbox. Her voice is bright, familiar. Like she belongs here.

And so, you steel your spine and paste on a smile that feels like splinters.

***

Dinner is…dinner.

Your dad and Tess hold up most of the conversation: chit-chatting about work—Tess owned the florist beside the local grocer—rehashing some rumour that was doing the rounds among the neighbours. You add your two cents when necessary—try not to roll your eyes when your dad compliments Tess’s blouse and she tells him she chose it because green’s Joel’s favourite colour—but mainly stick to sipping your drink and picking at your food. Joel isn’t much better. He gives the occasional grunt or dry one-liner. Sometimes he goes all in with a chuckle that doesn’t quite sink into the lines at the corners of his eyes.

Tess, in all honesty, is perfectly lovely. You haven’t spent much time with her outside the occasional neighbourhood barbecue over the years, but she’s easygoing, certainly not hard to get along with. The kind of woman who laughs with her whole chest and doesn’t take herself too seriously. You can see why your dad likes her for Joel. Why Joel might like her for Joel.

She fills the silence naturally, poking fun at Joel’s quietness with a nudge of her elbow. “This one,” Tess grins, eyes sparkly as she peers up at him. “Man of few words. So very Joel.” 

You observe quietly as she leans in a little too close when she laughs, and rests her hand on Joel’s forearm whenever she made a point. You notice that Joel doesn’t respond, not really. No touches returned. No lingering looks to match her’s.

But then again, that was just Joel. A little rigid. Not touchy-feely. Except for—

“So, anyone special back in Charlotte?” Tess is asking you now, smiling over her wine glass.

You blink, caught off guard. “I just got out of a relationship, actually.”

“Oh,” she says, her voice soft with sympathy. She means it, too. “Well, I’m sure you’ll be back on the horse in no time. Gorgeous thing like you. Right, Joel?”

Joel looks up from his empty plate like he wasn’t listening. “Hm, what’s that?”

Tess lets out a small laugh, rolling her eyes with endearment before nudging her chin towards you. “I’m just saying she won’t have any trouble dating again.”

Joel’s eyes flick to yours for the first time since you all sat down. The glance licks fire at the base of your belly. He shifts in his seat, scratches his thick fingers behind his ear. “Oh, right. Yeah.”

And you take that as your cure.

You slide your chair back with a soft scrape on the timber floors. “I think I’m going to head up to my room. Lie down. Headache’s starting to kick in.

“That’s not good,” Tess says. “You know what I swear by? Peppermint oil, right at the base of your neck. Should clear it right up!”

You nod, already moving away from the table. “Yeah, I’ll, uh… give it a try.”

As if I just have peppermint oil just laying about, you think as you walk out of the room, but you stop under the archway that leads to the stairs when Tess trills, light and airy, “See you tomorrow!”

You turn back to face your guests. “What’s tomorrow?”

“The barbeque, sweetheart,” your dad clarifies. “Remember? Like old times. Sarah’s even coming down from UT to see you.”

Shit.

You’d totally forgotten. Your dad had mentioned it when you first got in from Charlotte, but with everything going on—with Joel—it had completely slipped your mind.

Your stomach twists. One look at Joel, eyes now back on his plate, and you know it’s going to be one fucking long weekend.

***

The dinner at your dad’s hung over Joel’s head like a bad hangover—pressing, hard to shake. Not to mention, it made him feel a little sick—you sitting across from him with a tight smile. Tess, beside him, chatting like she knew him better than she did, filling in the silences he was more than comfortable sharing with just your dad. The air between you both felt like a live wire as soon  as Tess was drawn into the situation, and he hadn’t known what the hell to say.

He still didn’t.

Now, he pulls his front door closed with a soft click and steps out onto the porch, ready—well, not ready, but willing—to head across the street. Afternoon sun illuminates his face, a warm welcome among the crisp fall air. Wind chimes clink lazily in the distance, oak leaves swirl by on a breeze that carries the smoke already curling from your dad’s backyard grill. It was a perfect October day for a barbecue.

He trudges down his front steps, six-pack swinging in one hand, the other shoved deep in the pocket of his Carhartt. 

It’s gonna be fine, he repeats to himself like a mantra, as if churning it over will somehow make it true. 

Then came the “Hey, Joel!” Tess. “Good timing.”

She’s walking up from the end of the block, a grin breaking across her face so fiercely her eyes devolve into slits. Joel hesitates for half a second, then nods with a smile a fraction of the size of her’s.

“I brought dessert,” she says cheerfully, holding up a paper bag adorned with the logo of a local bakery. “You boys always have the meat sorted but never anything to satisfy a sweet tooth.”

“Great,” Joel mumbles, then stiffens, when Tess loops her arm through his like it’s the most natural thing in the world. His heart lurches when he realises what this looks like.

Something. 

He felt a cold prickle at the base of his neck as he and Tess crossed the street, her wound around his bicep like it was nothing out of the ordinary. He wanted to pull away when he approached your dad’s side gate. Didn’t know how without offending Tess.

Shit. What if you saw? Hopefully you were inside. Hopefully you didn’t see. But gate’s rusted hinge screeched loud and sharp like it always did, announcing their arrival like a fucking parade float to the already bustling party.

Joel winced.

You were already outside, standing near the cooler, mid-laugh with Sarah who’d headed over about an hour earlier. Your head snapped around at the noise, but you didn’t feel like you had whiplash until your eyes locked straight on Joel, then Tess, hanging off him like an accessory.

Your smile faded, and Joel felt the loss of it like a blow to the chest. He dropped Tess’s arm as casually as he could manage, stepping a few feet ahead like that might somehow make it clear that they’re not together. Didn’t matter though. Not when you’d turned back to Sarah a bit too quickly, telling her something that’s swallowed by the music pumping through your dad’s old stereo setup. Then you’re off, crossing the yard to the house, green sundress swaying at your thighs, hair catching in the breeze that was nearing on being too chilly for you to be in such an outfit.

Joel’s gaze locks on you, on the dress that has no business clinging to you like that. Soft cotton stretches across your back, dipping low enough to show off the fading tan line from a summer bikini, the bow of it cinched tight at your waist, accentuating your curves. Every step you take has the hem flicking higher over the back of your thighs, just enough to make his mouth dry. And those legs—Christ. They’d been locked around his hips just over a week ago.

Fucking hell, he thinks, shaking his head like that might unlodge the image from his head. It doesn’t. Not even close. Which might be why he’s suddenly possessed to go after you, before the sense seeps back into his bones.

“Joel,” Tess calls before he’s stepped too far away, drifting over from where she’d been greeting some friends to press the bakery bag into his chest. “Can you pop this in the fridge? Don’t want the cream to melt.”

He misses the sickly smile she tosses up at him when he mutters back a distracted yeah, eyes still locked on the screen door you’d just slipped through. Then, bag in hand, heart somewhere near his throat, he followed you like gravity made the rules.

You’re in the kitchen, back to the party with your hands pitched against the lip of the farm-style sink, telling yourself to get your shit together after the sight of Joel and Tess walking into your yard like a long-term couple drained the colour out of your face. Sarah didn’t notice your sudden change in demeanour, thankfully, too engrossed in a story about a messy love triangle that’s unfolding on the floor of her dorm. Behind you, the screen door shuddered quietly before the floorboards groaned under the weight of someone—him—the static of his presence like a current riding just under your skin.

“Bit cool out for a dress like that, don’t you think?”

You don’t turn around, but Joel can see your shoulders wrack with a huff. “Bit out of your jurisdiction, telling me what I should or shouldn’t be wearing, don’t you think?” You pause, then: “Y’know… especially since you’re here with your girlfriend.”

“Tess ain’t my girlfriend.”

“That’s not what it looks like.” “I know what it looks like. I’m telling you it’s not that.”

“Could’ve fooled me,” you mutter, yanking the fridge door open with more force than it’s made for, the seal breaking with a loud hiss. Bottles rattle on the shelves from the impact, a carton of juice sloshing from left to right.

Joel exhales, the sound harsh, tired—partially frustration at you, part at himself. Because your bratiness, your sharp tongue and narrowed eyes, have a way of stirring something up in him that makes his pulse gallop just that little bit faster. Makes him feel wired and restless in a way he hasn’t felt in a long fucking time.

So he bites. “You always get this pissed off after a one night stand?”

You freeze, knuckles whitening around the necks of two beers—one for you, one for Sarah. One night stand. He throws it back at you like a weapon. It stings. Maybe because you’d said it first when you were trying to play it cool. Now it just feels like a slap.

You straighten, shut the drudge with your hip and finally come to face Joel with your chin tipped high. “Nope. But I usually don’t have to sit across from my one night stands at the dinner table with their—” your eyes slice to Tess in the backyard, laughing with your dad while he flips burgers on the grill, “—whatever-you-want-to-call-her, and play happy families.”

Joel crosses the room until you’re both standing behind the kitchen counter, his voice low, urgent, when he tells you, “I didn’t know she was gonna be there. I swear.”

“Yeah, well.” You stare up at him, already feeling a little weak at the knees when the haze of his cologne hits you. “You sure know how to pick your surprises.”

His eyes dip slow, shamelessly, taking in the swell of your breasts where they rise over the fitted cups of your sundress. He doesn’t even try to disguise it. Just looks, jaw fluttering faintly under his scruff of facial hair before reaching past you for the bottle opener. Joel takes the two beers from your hands and pops them open with an effortless flick. Slides one of them onto the counter and takes a long pull from the other like you’d got it out for him.

You don’t say anything, just watch as he licks a drop of Bud from his bottom lip, leaning a hip against the counter, gaze sweeping lazily over you again.

“”S a nice dress, though,” he tells you, voice low. “I like the colour.”

You’d like to say it wasn’t intentional, that it was just the first thing you’d grabbed out of your wardrobe and thrown on, but it wouldn’t be the truth. You’d sat on your bed that morning in a towel, freshly-washed hair dropping onto your shoulders, starting at your open wardrobe. The doors were ajar, only just, enough to see the familiar chaos of reds and blacks, a hint of soft blue. But no green. Nothing in Joel’s favourite colour. Your stomach coiled. Out of nowhere came this pathetic, sharp urge to donate everything you owned. Burn it all down and start again. Build your closet back up in nothing but shades of moss and sage and pine. 

It was stupid. You knew it was stupid, but the memory had surfaced anyway—Tess at the dinner table, laughing, casually mentioning how she’d started wearing more green because it was his favourite. 

And now here you were, doing the same damn thing. Or wanting to. You never felt like that with Jesse. Never once thought about buying out the denim aisle to appease him, to drown yourself in blue to match him like some second skin.

You look down at your dress, the one you’d yanked out of donation bags that sat in your dad’s spare room, the garment just a smidge too tight on you compared to when you last wore it, probably back in high school.

I like the colour, Joel had said.

I know you do, you think—at least, you think you think it—but the words form aloud. The space between Joel’s eyebrows pinch and a shadow of a smile is gone before he reaches its full potential. The silence in the room sucks the walls inward, so instead of a kitchen, it feels like the pair of you have been shoved into a cardboard box. You watch as he drains the beer until there’s barely two mouthfuls left, throat working in quick swallows like whatever he’s about to do next needs a lick of liquid courage, his other hand hooking a thumb through the loop on his jeans. He takes one last swig, the weight of his arm tugging the faded blue waist down a notch so it exposes the waistband of his grey underwear.

Your quiet confession was like silk and barbed wire all at once. He shouldn’t want this. Not here, not like this, not ever, really. But fuck, if the idea didn’t sink its teeth in: you choosing that dress. That fit. That neckline. All of it with him in mind. It lights a slow burn in his chest that works its way lower, heat pooling behind his belt.

The muscles in Joel’s arm flex like an elastic band as he twists to put the empty bottle next to the sink, and your eyes train all the way up his neck to where the tendons pinch there, too.

“Did you wear that dress for me?” His tone dips with the question, thick with something you can’t quite put your finger on.

Your response rouses as a scoff at the back of your throat—yeah right—but it comes out as a strangled sort of whine, giving away that whatever excuse it was preceding would’ve been a blatant lie. “Get over yourself,” you tell him anyway, shoving back towards the fridge to grab a beer to replace the one he’d stolen from you. Joel follows suit to retrieve another, too, rivers of condensation running down its sides. He doesn’t move to clean the droplets that plummet to the floor. The galley in your dad’s kitchen isn’t that wide, so you and Joel are just about flush against each other when he turns back to face you. He doesn’t attempt to dissect your response to his question, just lilts the hem of your sundress with the bottom of his bottle.

A sharp breath shoots past your lips when it hits the inside of your thigh, the path of skin beside your knee igniting despite the bottle’s icy exterior.

“Don’t react. People are watching,” he tells you, eyes catching something over your shoulder. The kitchen counter is high enough to hide anything below the waist, so anyone looking on from the backyard would just see Joel and you in what would appear to be a casual conversation.

The idea that this is casual splits your nerves.

“When I ask you something, I want a simple answer.” He’s slow. Precise. The kind of voice that leaves no room for argument. “Yes or no, got it?”

You nod, your attention stuck on the rivulet of condensation tracking a glistening line down your calf. The room is suffocating, all the walls pressing inward under the weight of his stare.

Joel doesn’t let your silence slide. He lifts the cold bottle just a fraction, pressing it higher on your thigh, and the jolt of sensation is instant—your hips flinch, back hitting the edge of the counter as the bottle skims closer to heat. His voice slices through the static buzzing in your head.

“Yes or no?” It’s not a question anymore. It’s a command.

“I…Yes.” The word breaks out after several aching beats. And like a switch flipped, the tension in his shoulders unwinds. You watch the muscles above his collarbones loosen, the sharp edge of his jaw unclench.

“Good girl.”

The praise slams into you, pumps your chest with something dangerously close to pride, and you’re filled with the urge to please him, succumb to him, whatever him, so long as he’s this close.

Good girl.

His good girl.

A sudden laugh explodes from outside, a burst of normalcy that cuts through the fog. The reminder that you’re mere feet from the gathering—your dad, Tess, Sarah—has you instinctively pulling back, but Joel’s hand is already there, his fingers locking firm around your friend, calloused and warm and unyielding.

“I said,” he growls, voice molten and ragged, “Don’t. Move.”

The barrel of his bottle lands again—harder this time on your opposite thigh with a wet clink. Your legs almost betray you at the shock of the cold glass, but it’s the suggestion of what could come next that undoes you. The backyard fades into background noise again, muffled like you’re submerged underwater. Your heart pounds frantically, the only thing anchoring you now is Joel’s body on yours.

His stare on you like a weight, and the sear of his hand where he holds you.

“I’m going to ask you again,” he says, more frayed this time. “Did you wear this dress for me?” 

You both know you did. It’d be easy to admit. But the way his pupils have swallowed the colour from his eyes—wide, dark, hungry—tells you you’ve got him. And you’re not giving that up so easily.

A smirk threatens to crack across your face but you wrangle it down before telling Joel: “Not everything I put on is for your benefit, you know.” The sass has his dick kicking against his thigh, and you catch the flare of his nostrils just before he takes your wrist and guides your hand down, pressing your palm to the heat straining behind his zipper. “That benefit, you mean?”

Your breathing stutters and you swallow thickly at the weight of him, the barely-restrained hardness, how he feels hot and solid and real beneath your fingers. A flush shoots through you, fast and unrelenting, before Joel peels your hand away. The loss of him under your palm feels like a punishment, but for Joel, it’s his only line of defense against blowing his load in his pants like some touch-starved teenager. 

A light sweat pricks at your heaving chest and you cast your sight down, inviting Joel to follow. If he does, you don’t notice, because the beat blocking his next movement is almost non-existent as he jerks his beer upwards so it’s pressing against your centre, the thin material of your panties the only thing keeping your last shed of control in.

You both know how wrong this is—family feet away, a house full of noise—but neither of you moves to stop it. The thrill is the point. The push and pull, the control, the loss of it.

Joel dips close, his mouth nearly brushing your cheek. And then, he whispers his trump card, soft and lethal.

“Darlin’. Come on, you can tell me. You wore this dress just for me, hm?”

You press your tongue to the inside of your cheek. Each second that ticks by without a response earns you a fresh surge of pressure between your thighs. The icy bottle finally catches the swollen nub of your clit. You buck your hips forward, chasing the feeling. If Joel were to peel your dress up now, you’re certain he wouldn’t be able to tell where the condensation ended and your arousal began. Your breaths are jagged, fingers curling tight against the edge of the counter to keep you from melting into a heap at his feet. The kitchen stretches quiet and thick with tension as your gazes remained locked, challenging each other.

He wants submission.

You offer defiance. 

And he gets off on it.

Joel nudges the bottle up again, insistent. Daring. You dig your heels in, refusing to let up. Until—

“God, I was wondering where you went,” Sarah says from behind you, her voice slicing the moment in half. Joel yanks the bottle back so fast it tinkers against the counter, backing away from you like he’s been shot. Annoyance at Sarah’s interruption flares through you for a brief moment, then it’s chased by shame as you avoid looking at her out of fear that you have your dad just hand his hands up my dress written on your forehead in red ink.

She snags the original beer off the counter and sucks down a sip. 

You and Joel don’t speak. Just exchange a tight glance. Relief. Guilt. Something worse.

“Shit, this stuff’s good,” Sarah says with a dramatic lip smack, none the wiser.

A beat passes. Two.

Then she glances at her father with a raised brow. “Hey, what’s going on with you and Tess, anyway? Are you like… together now?”

The words hit you square in the gut. You blink, the haze of heat and touch and Joel’s voice still echoing inside you—Darlin’. But it fades fast. Like a splash of cold water, Sarah’s question brings it all back. The way Tess had walked in with her arm looped through Joel’s. The way she’d touched him like she had every right. Laughed at things only a couple could laugh about. The way you’d let yourself forget. You grind your teeth together.

What the hell are you doing? He’s not yours. And you’re not some girl who loses her sense over a little touching and a good girl. You’re smarter than this. You’ve got better boundaries than this. Or at least, you used to. Now, all you feel is a hot flush of shame—not just at Joel, but at yourself. 

For giving him the power. For liking how it felt.

You reach for your own beer with a forced smile and take a long, bracing sip. Joel still hasn’t answered his daughter’s question, so she looks to you, like you have some sort of in on the situation.

“No idea,” you tell her, voice clipped. “Not my business.”

But it is. It was. It shouldn’t be.

***

The fire pit crackles in the dark, casting long shadows across the yard, flames snapping at the logs like hungry mouths. Joel sits in a camping chair, one ankle hooked over his knee, a half-finished beer in hand. Tommy had rocked up a little while ago and dropped into the seat beside him, laughing about something Joel didn’t entirely hear. His thoughts kept drifting.

You.

He hasn’t looked your way since the kitchen. Not properly. Not when Sarah reappeared beside you, not when everyone lined up to serve themselves up for dinner, not even now, when you’re stretched out on a blanket across the yard, head tilted back as you talk quietly with his daughter. Joel’s still half-hard in his jeans. Still feels like a fucking idiot. 

“Someone forgot to put these in the fridge,” Tess’s voice chimes from behind him before appearing at his side, holding up the bakery bag he’d completely forgotten on the kitchen counter earlier.

Joel stands automatically, rubs the back of his neck. “Shit. Sorry, Tess.”

“You’re lucky you’re so handsome,” she jokes, nudging his arm lightly, but Joel doesn’t laugh. He stiffens instead, setting his beer in the mesh cup holder in his chair. “Hey,” he says quietly, jerking his chin towards the edge of the yard. “Mind if we talk for a sec?”

Tess studies him, something flashes behind her eyes. Then she nods. “Sure.” 

His hands are in his pockets, shoulders set tight by the time they’re standing by the oak tree by the fence. “Look, I ain’t good at this kinda thing,” he tells her. “So, I’ll just say it plain.”

Tess waits, arms crossed. Her brow’s already lifted when Joel tells her, “I think we’re better off as friends.”

You clock it all from across the yard. Joel and Tess are locked in a quiet conversation, voices swallowed by the rest of the noise rousing from the party. Tess isn’t touching him, for a change. She’s touched him in some way every moment she’s been near him tonight. A hand on his arm. A shoulder pressed too close. A whisper with a hand curling around his elbow.

Not that you’d been paying that keen attention. No.

Now Tess is still. Arms folded. Her posture shifts slightly before she lets out an awkward laugh, the kind people use to save face. She reaches out, pulls Joel into a hug. It’s brief. Polite, measured, and when she pulls back, Joel doesn’t follow. You watch him track her retreating figure back into the throng of guests, to where she sits down gingerly to join a conversation with Tommy’s wife, Maria, and a couple of other neighbours. Meanwhile, Joel is unmoving under that tree, like its roots have grown right over his feet, keeping him stuck in the shadows beside the tyre swing.

Then his eyes find you. 

Half-lit by the flicker of the fire. Blanket pulled over your legs. Your face giving nothing away while you watch him suck in a deep breath. There’s a slight tilt of his head, the damn furrow in his brow that he gets when he’s working something out. You expect him to look away. But he doesn’t.

For the first time all night, Joel doesn’t look away. And neither do you, until your dad shouts your name from where he’s sat beside Tommy, hand pitched in the air to grab your attention.

“Mind getting some more wood for the fire, sweetheart?” he asks. “We’re gettin’ a little low over ‘ere.”

You throw him a thumbs up back, message received. You flip the blanket off your lap and head around the side of the house, firelight fading behind you.

The shed waits at the back fence line, its grey tin frame pretty much black in the shadows. You make your way down the gravel path, cold nipping at where your bare skin meets the air. 

Fucking stupid outfit for this weather, you decide, chastising yourself.

You’re reaching for the she’d latch when you hear the slow crunch of boots behind you. You don’t turn. Don’t need to.

“Fuck off, Joel.”

There’s a pause. Then his voice, that same rough rasp that somehow always manages to find the softest part of your spine. “Just seein’ if you need a hand.”

“Don’t need anything from you.”

You yank the shed door open and pull the dangling chain connected to the old bulb that flickers then hums to life, casting everything in a jaundiced yellow. You step inside and crouch by the woodpile, blowing a sheet of cobwebs off it. Joel lingers in the doorway, one shoulder leaned into the frame. The night breathes between you as you reach for a small shaft of timber at the top of the pile. 

“Told Tess we’re better off as friends,” he says. It makes you pause, even though you’d gauged as much from the awkward interaction you’d witnessed just minutes ago. 

“Congratulations,” you mutter, grabbing at the log harder than necessary. A sharp sting punches into your forefinger. You his through your teeth and yank your hand back, sucking at the blood already welling around a splinter lodged into the supple skin there.

Joel is on you in two strides.

“Let me see.”

“No.

“Darlin’—”

“I said I’m fine.”

But then his hand wraps around your wrist in a maddingly gentle way, the heat from his palm warm, sure. You try to shake free from his grip but it’s a half-hearted attempt that Joel clocks, but doesn’t make a deal of. “Just gimme a look.” There’s less grit in his voice now. More gravity, and you don’t fight it again.

Joel steps into the shed fully now, easing the door half-closed behind him, shutting out the party, the noise. It’s just you two now, with the hum of the lightbulb and the thud of your heart trilling at your ribcage. He brings your hand up under the light, turning your finger delicately between his own as he inspects the wound. Then—without warning—he brings it to his lips. Your lungs blaze somewhere high in your chest.

Joel’s mouth parts around your fingertip, warm, wet, and he sucks. It’s methodical. Deliberate. A few pulls of his lips and the splinter unlodges from your finger, tongue brushing your skin with a softness that doesn’t match the hungry way he looks at you.

You’re frozen. Breaths shallow. Joel picks the miniscule shard of timber off his tongue, which then darts out to flick the taste of your blood from his lips, eyes steady on yours. He hasn’t let go of your hand. Not yet. Just allow his thumb to drag slowly over the pad of your finger for a moment until he says, just as gravelly as the stones stuck in the tread of his boots: “You gotta do a favour for me now.” You cock your head, suspicious. “Yeah?”

His eyes, looking more amber than brown in the dingy light, stay fixed on yours, voice thick with whatever the result is of defeat and desire combined. “Tell me you wore that dress for me.”

You let his words hang there, let him stew, before your defiant side claws up in a soft whisper. “And what if I did?”

“Then, darlin’—” he shakes his head, jaw flexing in that incredulous way. “Then I’m fucked.” He steps in closer, crowding your space like he had back in the kitchen, your bodies nearly touching. The shed should feel cold, but the air is hot and heavy around you. “You’re drivin’ me outta my damn mind,” Joel mutters. His fingers graze your hip now, fingers trilling the tie at your waist. “Can’t stop thinkin’ about you. Hate how much I want you. It—it feels sick, needin’ you like this. Can’t shake it.”

The confession slops out like it’s been waiting in his throat for days. You don’t even have the time to answer before his mouth is on yours, starved while he pulls you to him like he’s afraid you’ll vanish. The shed door groans on its hinges as Joel reaches back and slams it shut behind him, muting the party completely. You taste blood—yours, from the splinter—and beer, cold and bitter on his tongue, and it makes your knees give out.

Joel doesn’t let you fall.

His hands are everywhere—palming your hips, sliding between your thighs, pawing at your tits—and in one clean, hungry movement, he lifts you up. Your legs wind around his waist like a habit as he carries you to the other side of the shed, never breaking the kiss. Joel sets you down on your dad’s workbench with a thud, and guides himself between your thighs as they hang off the edge. His large hands splay across the tops of your legs as he pulls back just enough to drink you in, pupils blown wide, lips red and raw, the makeup under your nose scrubbed clean off thanks to his facial hair.

“Say it,” he rasps, chest heaving. “Tell me you wore that dress for me.” You nod before the words even form, of course I did, slipping out on a sigh. It’s barely a whisper, barely a confession. But it’s all Joel needs to start kissing you again, rougher now, deeper. One hand buries in your hair, the other grips your thigh where it’s hooked around his waist, fingers digging in like his grounding himself in the feel of you.

“Christ,” he moans into your mouth. “Knew it. Knew it the second I saw you.” Your head tips back as he licks down your throat, beard scraping against the sensitive skin just right, just enough to make you whimper. The bench creaks under your weight, shifting with every movement. 

“Joel,” you breathe, hands tangling in his dusty waves as he trails brandishing kisses to your breasts, yanking the cups of your dress down. Free in the air, your nipples draw to impossibly hard peaks, flushed and aching to be taken into Joel’s mouth. Like he can read your mind, he licks at one, then the other, tongue working in circles over the pebbled flesh. His fingers pay attention to whatever one he’s not suckling at, twisting and tugging at them like it’s his expertise. And with the way a strangled moan yanks from your throat, it just might be.

Your fingers tighten in his hair, hips rolling forward for more friction. Joel hums in approval, the buzz of his lips on your breast zipping under your skin there. His mouth trails lower, kissing over the thin material of your dress on your stomach, hands swiping up your thighs to push the fabric of the skirt to your hips as he sinks to his knees in front of you like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

Your breath catches as his fingers hook into your white panties—lace with a floral pattern—dragging them away from your centre achingly slow. His dark eyes stay locked to yours the entire time like he’s daring you to look away. You don’t.

And then his gaze dips, a growl wracking his body when he finally sees you bare. “Jesus Christ.”

You’re already so wet, slick and aching, residual arousal lingering from the encounter in the kitchen. Your thighs instinctively spread for Joel, allowing him to lean in and press a kiss just above your clit. Then another, lower. His breath is hot. You twitch under it, again when his tongue parts you, slowly, sinful. You press a palm into the benchtop, steading yourself while a strangled moan escapes you. “Fuck.” Joel licks into you with a flat tongue and rapid pace, groaning deep when your thighs clamp around his head. He’s quick to correct that though, gripping your knees without losing tempo, shoving them wide so your calves dangle over his shoulders, your sneakers leaving damp dirt on the back of his jacket. He continues working you open with his mouth, broad strokes turning precise as he zeroes in on your clit. You writhe on the bench, every nerve ending alight, skin flushed, jaw slack.

“Tase so fuckin’ good,” Joel groans into your cunt. “So sweet. Could stay right here all night.

You believe him, and God help you, you want him to.

You sink your teeth into your bottom lip, eyes squeezing shut as you try to keep quiet—but then Joel sucks your clit into his mouth and the cry that leaves you in anything but subtle. 

He doesn’t stop. Doesn’t even pause, just grins against you and keeps going while sliding a thick finger into your hot, aching center. The stretch makes you jolt, eyes rolling as he curls it just right—then another joins it, pumping in tandem with the slow, deliberate strokes of his tongue over your clit.

“Oh, God,” you whine, holding Joel’s head to you as his tongue drags messy patterns over your swollen bundle of nerves. Very swipe, every thrust, every graze of his scruff against your inner thighs sends sparks licking up your spine. Your breath comes in broken gasps, the heat curling tighter and tighter. Joel pulls back for just a second, lips glistening, to drink in the sight of you—chest heaving, tits bouncing slightly with each sharp pump of his hand, back arched, head tipped back in abandon. But when he doesn’t return his mouth to you right away, you blink down at him all wide-eyed and wrecked, a painful ache in your voice as you grit, “Joel—please—I’m gonna come.”

Your thighs quake around his shoulders while he stares at you a beat longer, eyes burning with hunger and something just shy of worship. “Yeah?” he murmurs, thumb brushing featherlight over your clit. “Then give it to me, darlin’. Show me how much you wanna come on my tongue.”

And just like that, he dives back in with feverish speed, trilling over your clit relentlessly, fingers pulsing deep into your cunt in perfect rhythm—again, again—until you shatter into a million pieces, pleasure crashing through you as you yelp Joel’s name, the sound bouncing off the tin walls of the shed while you come hard against his mouth. Your body trembles uncontrollably, but Joel doesn’t let up, just keeps working at you until the aftershocks roll through you like thunder and your hand pushes lazily through his hair with something between desperation and praise.

Eventually, Joel pushes up from the dusty floor, his middle-aged knees screaming in protest, but he doesn’t care—not when his mouth is still wet with you. The glow of the low-hanging bulb glints off the slick coating his lips and chin. He doesn’t wipe it away. Just leans in and kisses you, your taste between your tongues making you mean into his mouth. Hips shifting like they’re already searching for him again.

You suck in a shaky inhale. You don’t know how long you’ve been gone from the party. Minutes? Longer? The crackle of fire feels a hundred miles away now. You pray it’s still burning, that your dad hasn’t sent Sarah or anyone else to find you. That no one’s wandered down the side of the house, curious or looking to help. There’s a pang in your chest where heat blooms.

The thought of being caught tangled up with Joel Miller should terrify you. But it doesn’t. The idea sends a fresh, dangerous thrill through your body. 

He’s all you can think about. All you can feel.

His hands find your waist, grip tight enough to bruise. Fuck, you hope it does.

“That wasn’t enough,” he rasps against your lips. His buckle rattles as he wrestles with it between your bodies. “Need more. Need to fill your hot cunt with my cock again. Been thinkin’ about it every damn day. How tight you are. How good you take me.” 

You’re still trying to breathe properly when he hooks his arm around you and lifts you down from the bench like you weigh nothing at all. You hardly have time to find your balance before he turns you, palms heavy at your hips. Then your back. One hand anchors itself at the nape of your neck, folding you down until your bare chest meets the cold, splintered surface of the workbench. You gasp at the sudden change in temperature, in texture—soft skin against worn wood. Blink as your eyes fall in line with scattered tools. A screwdriver. A roll of duct tape. Cracked plastic box of nails. All of it blurs as Joel steps in behind you, and your body flexes to meet him. Rising on your tiptoes, arching, pressing yourself back, desperate and unthinking.

Joel groans low in his chest, the sound almost feral as he watches the bare bulbs of your ass keen towards him. With his jeans and underwear shoved down to his knees, his veiny cock stands flat against his stomach, rock hard and begging to sink inside you. He skims one hand over your ass and down to your thigh, hitching it higher so you slot against him just right while the other hand drags his weeping head through your folds. And you—body flushed, mouth open against the bench, can’t find words anymore. Just want. Just him.

“I know, baby,” he mutters when his tip meets your entrance, already pulsating, trying to grip onto him, onto anything to chase what you’re needing. “Don’t know if I can go slow this time,” he says, hoarse, near your ear. “Need t’ feel you. That okay?”

You nod frantically, offering a choked sound that barely resembles anything but Joel understands. Takes it for what it is: permission.

He hands slaps against your ass once, the sharp sting left in its place already forgotten when Joel pushes into you with such force that your knees nearly buckle. You gasp, half a sob, reaching your arms backwards to anchor yourself at his thighs. But he quickly gathers your hands in one of his own and holds them there at the base of your back, locking you there. The rhythm he sets is punishing and relentless—like he’s making up for every second he couldn’t have you. The shed trembles around you. At least, it feels like it does, the world narrowing to the scrape of wood, the faint swing of a chain overhead, the shudder of breath between you and—

Shouting. Your dad. Distant, but approaching. Joel stills for only a beat, working fast to reach up and yank the light’s chain. The bulb flickers out, plunging you both into darkness.

“Be quiet f’me,” Joel breathes, barely audible even though his lips brush the shell of your ear. You nod again, frozen in place. He doesn’t pull out, try and shove his cock back into his pants. No, he doesn’t even slow, just shifts his grip to your waist, his pace so deep, so steady. All you can hear now is the thud of your heartbeat and the near-silent rasp of Joel’s breath on your cheek.

Your dad’s voice rings out again, closer this time, Gravel crunches under boots on the other side of the tin wall. You bristle. So does Joel. But you still clench around him, unable to help it. 

A quiet laugh puffs against your skin. “My filthy girl,” he whispers, affection and wickedness blurring together in his words. “You like the risk, don’t you? Like the idea of bein’ caught.” Your eyes roll back, mouth slack with a soundless plea. 

Footsteps pause just outside the shed. You brace for the rattle of the door. For the blinding flood of light and the horror of being caught with his best friend buried deep inside you. But the moment never comes. You hear him mutter something you don’t catch under his breath before the sound of retreating steps. Back down the gravel. Back towards the fire pit.

You’re not sure why he doesn’t open the shed. Why he doesn’t grab the firewood he’d asked for. Maybe he forgot. Maybe he got distracted. But you don’t let yourself question it too much. You’re just thankful. Grateful for the silence. For the reprieve. And Joel, his body pressed against yours, his breath at your neck, takes that silence and fills it with the slap of skin on skin. Continues hammering into you, worshipping you with every motion, like he couldn’t stop now if he tried. 

Your hands are back bracing against the bench, palms damp with sweat when Joel leans forward, clothed chest warm at your back when he tells you he’s getting close. “You gonna come with me, darlin’?”

You nod, helpless, leaning into the pressure curling tight inside your belly. Every movement he makes coils it tighter. You gasp his name again, and Joel moans like it wrecks him. Like his name on your tongue undoes him the most. Legs shaking, you’re right there on the edge. The sound of Joel’s breath, the feel of his hands, his body completely too much and not enough at once.

“Almost there, baby,” he whispers, teeth nipping at your skin. “Just give it to me. Let go.”

And you do. The orgasm tears through you in waves, silent at first before a sharp gasp as your body tightens around him. Joel follows, groaning one long low sound, surrendering as he falls apart with you. Hips stuttering, arms wrapped around your waist as he buries himself to the hilt at stills.

For a long moment, there’s only breathing. Your own, sharp and uneven. His, rasping against your skin. Joel’s the first to move. He presses a line of slow, reverent kisses down your spine, gently pulling out with his hands holding your hips steady. Wordlessly, he tugs the light back on and you turn to face him, taking in the lax look on his face, the way sweat gleans in the aging divots of his face. You watch him while he repositions your dress on your torso with care, smoothing the fabric down over your legs. It’s more tender than you were expecting, especially when you consider the cold and distant aftermath when you’d finished up that time in his truck. You’re still catching your breath when Joel bends to retrieve the small scrap of fabric that had been discarded earlier. 

Your panties.

He holds them up between two fingers, eyes glimmer in the low light as he meets your gaze.

“Here,” you say, reaching for them, but Joel just shakes his head. Smirks.

“Nah. These are mine now.”

“Is that right?” “Mmhmm,” he hums. Tucks them into his back pocket. “Means you’ll have to come find me if you want ‘em back.”

You shake your head with a snort as you smooth down your hair. “You’re such an asshole.”

Joel grins, grabs your hand before you can push past him, presses a soft kiss to your knuckles like he’s sealing some kind of deal. “Yeah, but I guess that makes me your asshole, right?”

The words hang there—teasing, sweet if you squint—but his eyes are serious when they meet yours. They dance with a promise. A question. A start.

And this time, he doesn’t turn away.

***

a/n: okayyyy so i'm sweatinggggg after writing this one!! it's the last planned part for this fic, but I'm not opposed to jumping in at a later date with a drabble or two for this duo. as always, let me know what you think!!!!!!

It’s nearly nine and The Rusty Antler is buzzing, content chatter battling with the speakers blasting a mix of pub classics and country hits. It’s unsurprising for a Friday night. The dive has always been the perfect place for locals to drink away the stresses of the week and get geared up for the weekend, everyone from tradesmen straight off the job to moms gone wild and newly twenty-one-year-olds filling up the high tops and dance floor. There’s smoke filtering in from the front deck where patrons have slipped out for a cigarette, the smog creating a haze through the bar that’s backlit but the neon beer signs hooked up on the walls. The antique Shiner sign hanging above your booth table casts a green hue over Dina, making her white Bride sash appear minty under the light.

You’d flown into Austin barely twenty-four hours ago, ready to celebrate your high school best friend’s bachelorette party, along with a couple other childhood friends and two women from Dina’s job at City Hall. You spent the bulk of the day at the local spa, getting pampered with everything from massages to manis and pedis, blowouts, the works. Dina didn’t want anything fancy for her send-off into married life.

“Just wanna do what I love, with the people I love,” she’d told you when preliminary plans were being discussed a few months back. And what Dina wants, Dina gets, which is how the six of you ended up at The Rusty Antler, the one bar that had always been your favourite since you were old enough to drink — and maybe for a few years beforehand, when you’d been able to distract the bouncer from the dodgy, fifty buck fake IDs Dina had bought from some stoner under the school bleachers. There was nothing like a night out with your girlfriends at a cosy dive with drinks and music — something you’d missed whenever you returned to Charlotte, where you’ve lived the past three years since graduating on scholarship from Duke.

You readjust the pink Bridesmaid sash that’s slung across your body, surveying the crowd.

“You got your eye on anyone special?” Molly, one of your high school friends, asks, jostling your shoulder.

“Nope,” you say, popping the p when you turn back to face the table. “That’s not what tonight’s about. I’m happy hanging with my girls and our bride-to-be.”

Dina flutters her eyelashes while she sips on her margarita. “You know, you hooking up with someone tonight would be the best wedding present you could get me.” “Your wedding’s still not for another two weeks,” you remind her. “Plus, I don’t think I’m ready for that yet.”

Dina rolls her eyes. “Babe, I know what Jesse did was God-awful. I fucking hate him for doing that to you. But you know what they say: the best way to get over someone is to get under someone else.” A chorus of totally and you’re so right rouses from the rest of the group. You shake your head, heart clenching like someone has a fist around it at the mention of Jesse. Sure, it’d been a couple months since he’d confessed to sleeping with a colleague, since you’d kicked him out of your apartment, since you’d broken up, but it wasn’t that easy to just move on. It’d been a four-year relationship. You’d seen each other through your Junior and Senior years at college and into navigating the real world together. You couldn’t just turn that part of your life off. 

“Hey,” Dina’s co-worker Reese says, interrupting whatever conversation had taken over from your love life. “Do any of you know that guy? He keeps looking over here.” You follow the manicured finger she’s pointing across the room, to where a man sits at one of the bar stools, attention currently on the bartender who’s pouring him a drink. Dark, wavy hair. Carhartt jacket fighting the wide breadth of his shoulders, green flannel poking out from underneath. Worn boots rest on the foot rail that runs along the length of the rickety bar, living up to its name.

Yeah, you know him.

“Hold this for a minute.” 

You palm off your tequila soda to Molly before pushing out of the black vinyl booth, just as Dina asks, “Wait, isn’t that Joel Miller?”

Your dad’s best friend. He moved in across the street the summer you returned sixteen, after his divorce and with a bubbly, curly-haired eleven-year-old daughter in two. He and your father bonded quickly over single fatherhood and sports. They were always at one or the other’s houses, cheering on game days, grilling up regular barbecues for the neighbours, drinking beers. Now that you were well into your twenties and living interstate, you couldn’t visit home as much as you’d liked, but it gave you peace of mind knowing your dad had Joel to keep him company. It’s been a couple years since you’ve seen him, and God — what’s that saying about aging and fine wine? He must be in his early forties now, at least, about a decade younger than your dad. Time has been nothing but kind to the contractor, whose skin glows with a tan from years of working on sites in the sun. 

As you cross the bar towards him, you notice the silvery strands in his hair, almost metallic under the low lights, that sprout at his temples and weave their way through the waves he’s running a bearish hand over.  The colours match the coarse scruff that hugs his jaw and chin, patchy in places, but not unkempt.

You slip between Joel’s barstool and the next one before saying, “You spying on me, Miller?” 

He doesn’t startle, just rolls his eyes up to meet yours like he was expecting you. “Define spyin’,” he responds flatly, but you don’t miss the tilt at the corner of his mouth. “You use a fake ID to get in ‘ere tonight?”

You try to quell a grin by pushing your tongue to your cheek. It was a couple of weeks before your eighteenth birthday, your dad was out of town and you and Dina thought you’d try your luck at The Rusty Antler. The IDs had worked. You just hadn’t factored in the possibility that your dad’s best buddy would be there, too. He hadn’t ratted on you though, not in the time since, and for that you were grateful. “That was one time.”

“Mmhmm,” Joel tuts, unbelieving.

You glance at his glass. “Drinking alone?”

“Just finished up with a couple of guys from the crew. Might stay for one more,” he says as his eyes rake over you, gaze stalling at the sash draped over the swell of your breasts in a low-cut, blank tank. “S’who’s getting married?”

“Dina,” you tell him, chin jutting in the direction of where your friend is using a penis-shaped straw as a microphone while she sings along to Mr Brightside. “From high school. Don’t know if you remember her or—”

“I remember,” he cuts you off. “She babysat Sarah with you a coupl’a times.” Joel shakes his head, a stray curl falling onto his forehead. “God, can’t believe y’all are at the age where you’re getting married.”

“Well, some of us.” Jesse flashes across your mind.

“Your dad mentioned you and your fella broke up. Sorry to hear.”

You shrug. “It is what it is. Wasn’t meant to be.”

“Is anything?” Joel scoffs.

Your dimple dips into your cheek at his cynicism. “You’re telling me.” A few beats pass as you watch Joel take a languid sip of the amber liquid in his glass before he clears his throat, focusing on the scratched timber countertop. You lean backwards, elbows resting on the bar, hoping to appear nonchalant despite the weird shift you immediately felt in his presence. “And what about you?”

He looks at you sidelong. “What about me?”

“You seeing anyone?” It’s none of your business, but you’re not ready to cut the conversation short just yet.

“Don’t have time for that, darlin’.”

Darlin’. Your body tingles at the nickname.

“That’s not what I heard.”

He quirks an eyebrow. “And what did ya hear?” “Dad said you’ve been out a few times with Tess from down the street.”

“Did he now?” Joel chuckles to himself. You feel the rumble of it in your own chest. “It’s nothing serious.” “Nothing serious,” you regurgitate. Then, egged on by the alcohol in your system: “So, you’re just fucking each other, then?”

He splutters over his glass, hissing your name with a reprimanding lilt. 

“What?” you ask, voice laced with innocence.

“Just never heard you talk like that. Swearin’ and all.”

“Then you ain’t spent enough time with me. I’m all grown up now, you know.”

“I noticed,” he grits, voice so low you don’t hear what he says over the whump of the music.

“What’s that?”

“Nothin’.” He glances over your shoulder, nodding in the direction of your group. “I think your friends are looking for you.” He’s not wrong. Dina and the other girls are waving you over as Brooks and Dunn’s Neon Moon begins to filter out over the speakers. 

You should want to join your friends. You should want to celebrate Dina’s last official night out before she becomes a wife. But your feet are lead, keeping you stationary on the sticky barroom floor next to Joel—your dad’s best friend, you have to remind yourself, though the title feels redundant with the way his molten eyes pour over you when he thinks you’re not paying attention. But you feel it, every lick of his gaze over your bare skin branding you under the neon bleating on the wall.

“Okay, well,” you straighten up, push your chest out proudly in a way that pulls Joel’s attention to your breasts again. “It was nice to see you, Joel. Might see you around at my dad’s. I’m down for a couple of weeks, ‘til after the wedding.”

“Yeah, sure,” Joel nods curtly. “Have fun. Don’t get into too much trouble tonight.”

A light laugh bubbles from you. “Of course,” you tell him, resting a palm on his shoulder. “I always behave myself.” You push away from the bar without a second glance, but Joel’s focus is on you as you fight through the crowd that occupies the dance floor stretching between him and your friends. His eyes remain trained on the way your body swings with each step, your hips straining against your impossibly short leather skirt, the muscles in your legs rippling as your red Tecovas carry you across the room. Joel shifts on his stool. Drains his glass. Tries to ignore the fact that his faded Wranglers feel like they’ve tightened across his crotch, before flagging down the bartender for another drink. God knows he needs it.

Ten minutes later, a server appears and plants a tray of shots on the table. Dina immediately reaches for a glass of the clear liquid while one of the other girls tells the worker that you didn’t order them.

The server shakes his head. “It’s on that guy at the bar. He says congratulations.”

He’s gesturing to where Joel is perched on the peeling leather barstool. He smiles, only just, holding his neat glass of whiskey in the air with a cheers, his eyes locked on yours. You return a tight-lipped smile, holding his gaze as you throw the shot backwards, acidic heat trailing down your throat. Vodka. A shiver wracks your body before fire burns at the pit of your stomach, but whether it’s from the straight alcohol or the feeling of Joel’s eyes on you as you swallow it down is anyone’s guess. 

“Thank you, Mr Miller!” Dina screeches over the music, to which he responds with a two-fingered wave. Then she turns to you, head ducked as she says, “God, I haven’t seen him in years. When did he get so hot?”

No shit, you think, then suck down the rest of your lukewarm tequila soda and push Joel Miller to the back of your mind.

***

The night quickly progresses from slamming shots at your table in the corner to dirty dance moves on the tacky floor in the middle of the dive. The bar must be at capacity, with the way that you can barely sway your hips without bumping into another patron and how the line for drinks is four people deep the whole way along the counter. Right now, Dina is at your back, an arm slung around your middle as you jump in tandem to Luke Bryan’s Country Girl (Shake It For Me). Your heart thumps to the beat of the song, cheeks aching from smiling and the joy of spending time with your best friends after so long. You’re not thinking about much aside from making sure Dina has the night she deserves, your whole body feeling featherlight under the haze of alcohol, but there’s a niggling at the back of your mind, and a heat that sears your skin like you’re being watched. A heat that has your eyes darting around the room, searching for dark eyes and a square-set jaw that belongs to a man you have no business worrying about, let alone thinking about. 

Joel fucking Miller. 

And there he is, on that same barstool—though his back is to the bar now so he has full sight of the room—watching you through the ever-changing gaps in the crowd. 

Even from where he’s sitting, Joel notices the way your breathing hitches when you spot him, how sweat prickles just that little bit extra across your chest, his own breath catching when the light hits the bead that slips into the valley between your breasts. He knows he should look away. Hell, he should’ve walked out of here the minute he saw you barrel into the bar with your girlfriends, bridesmaid sash slung across your pert, young body—far more womanly than he remembered, or cared to notice, the previous times you’d visited home. But your dad is his best buddy. Joel owes it to him to keep an eye on his daughter, make sure she doesn’t run into any trouble. At least, that’s what he’s telling himself as your earlier declaration that you always behave toys on his conscience. Still, the angelic look that accompanied that confession is long gone as Joel watches you grind against your best friend in time to the music. A smirk tugs at your glossy, full lips, and the devious undertone of it sends a hot strike through his body, stirring his cock in its already half-hard state. Joel drops his free hand over himself, hoping to hide his arousal while the other fists his whiskey glass. With a quick glance around the room, he quickly realises he’s not the only one enjoying the show. Almost every man in the bar has his attention turned on you and Dina, watching keenly as the pair of you drop your bodies low, asses gyrating to the beat. 

The song crossfades into another upbeat country hit that has the crowd hollering in approval and dividing itself into rows for line dancing. The corresponding combination begins facing away from Joel, and you lose yourself in the side steps and heel taps, clapping along to the rhythm when the routine calls for it. When the song hits its second chorus, you swing your body around to face the bar, restarting the combination, but your feet falter when you notice the loss of Joel’s attention. Now, it’s turned on a pair of men a couple of feet away from him, tension thick as the taller of the two puffs his chest. He says something to Joel that’s completely intelligible to you, but whatever it is has Joel straightening up and his eyebrows drawing together until a divot forms between them. He’s pissed—and your stomach knots. It’s no secret that Joel Miller has a short fuse, and you’ve heard the stories of him getting into bar fights back when he and your dad were young. A few when they were older, too. It’s when Joel stands from his stool, knuckles white around his glass, that you break out of your line, maneuvering around people as they hit the moves to the Big & Rich tune. Your palm hits Joel’s chest—more muscular than you were expecting for a man of his age—just as he begins to move towards the men he was talking to. Confusion crosses his dark features as he peers down at you, eyes flickering from your face to the hand on him.

He growls your name. “Move.” 

You shake your head, press the butt of your palm into him even harder. “Joel, don’t. They’re not worth it.”

“Ah, so the sexy little bridesmaid belongs to you, hey, old man?” a gruff voice pipes up from behind. The comment fills in the gaps that they’ve been talking about you, and it curls Joel’s lips into a snarl. He fights against you, one of his arms shooting over your shoulder. 

“I told you to watch your fuckin’ mouth.” The gravelled edge to his voice shouldn’t make your thighs press together, but it does. Your eyes drop from his face to his other hand, and you can’t stop imagining how it would feel on you instead of clenched at his side. Keeping your palm on him, pressure hard with warning, you shift so you can face the other men. 

“I think we’re done here.”

The bald one sluices his eyes down your body and it makes you want to shed your skin. It’s slimy, disgusting—nothing like the way it felt when Joel did the same thing. “Depends. What’s in it for me?” You narrow your gaze. "Not bleeding, if you're smart."

A lax smirk crops up on his pudgy face. “Oh, she’s got a mouth on her. I like that.”

You can feel Joel stiffen against your hand. He’s practically vibrating, like a raging bull waiting to be let out of his pen. You stick a finger in the guy’s face, voice steady when you tell him to fuck off, aware that one of the bar’s security guards is circling close by in case the situation gets out of hand. The bald man’s friend seems to have noticed him too, because he nudges his head in the guard’s direction and suggests they move along. And they do, thankfully, but not without another snide comment under the bald guy’s breath. Whatever.

Joel’s chest heaves, your hand rising and falling with his breath as his eyes stay stuck over your head. His heart thunders through his flannel and pulses against your palm. This is the closest the pair of you have ever been. You’ve never even hugged, in all the years you’ve known each other. Not on birthdays. Not during goodbyes. A cedar scent imbued with cinnamon radiates from Joel, and for a brief second you're compelled to shove your face into his chest and inhale. To commit his smell to memory, maybe feel what it's like for him to wrap his corded arms around you and hold you to him.

Are you good?, you call yourself out, blinking yourself back to reality, the one where Joel is still rattling with anger.

“Earth to Joel.” You take your hand and click twice in front of his face. “You good?”

Eventually, his dark eyes fall to yours, and he wills himself to not let them stray further down your body. You’re all too close. “I’m fine. I had it handled.”

“Did you?” you laugh incredulously. “Because from where I’m standing, you looked about three-quarters of the way to giving that guy a knuckle sandwich.”

Joel raises a thick eyebrow with a chuckle. “Thought you said you were all grown up. Grown ups don’t call it a knuckle sandwich.”

“Grown ups also don’t try to start bar fights.”

“Touché,” Joel mumbles, and you give him a playful shove that dissipates the last of the tension in the air. You spin on a heel to face the shelves full of liquor, just as Joel offers you a drink. 

“Tequila soda, right?”

“Someone’s paying attention,” you tease with a wink that goes straight to Joel’s cock. Again. Not to mention what it does to him when you lean forward on the countertop, tits pushed up to the high heavens when your arms cross over your front. 

Snap out of it, Miller, he scolds himself. 

“But no,” you continue, glancing down at his glass. “I want what you’re having.”

“You want a whiskey?”

“What, you don’t think I can handle it?” Your eyes sparkle with a challenge. 

“Go on, then.” Joel tilts his glass towards you, inviting you to a sip of his drink. Goosebumps nip at your skin when your fingers graze when you take the whisky from him, a shock travelling from your fingertips to a heavy place at the pit of your stomach. You could blame the booze, but the way your body reacts to him feels far too real to be just a buzz.

His features are soft while you take a sip and let the whiskey coat your tongue. It’s sharp, smoky. A tinge of sweetness as it sweeps to your throat and burns its way down. The warmth of the liquor seems to flood through your veins, heating your entire body from top to toe, but your face remains unreadable to Joel when you put the glass back on its cardboard coaster. You’re unaffected, like the whiskey had no taste at all. He focuses on the golden sheen of liquid coating your full bottom lip, and he can’t help but imagine what it’d be like to take it into his mouth, to tug it with his teeth. What noise you’d make when he did—would you moan, whine? Hiss his name so he’d be forced to swallow it with a kiss? His breath catches again—fool, he thinks—when your tongue darts out and licks your lip clean, and somehow that tiny gesture is better than any intimate act he’s ever had any part of in his entire life.

“It’s good,” you confirm. Joel gives a barely-there smile and nods. “Best on the shelf.”

“I’ll take your word for it.”

“So, are you—“ Having fun, was his question, but a wall of orange appears beside you in the form of a younger guy in a Longhorns tee and backwards cap. 

“Can I buy you a drink?” he beams down at you, all perfectly straight white teeth and confidence. You return the smile but falter on the response, your eyes quickly flitting to Joel. You’re not sure why. For permission? Maybe. But there’s a dull tug in your chest, willing him to butt in, to tell the stranger that you’re busy and to get gone.

But Joel doesn’t even move. He’s not even looking at you, for Christ’s sake, just rolls his glass around in his palm, checks his watch like he’s got somewhere to be.

Fuck it. Your smile stretches into an inviting grin in spite of the sullen mood that’s taken over the man next to you. “I’m all good for a drink but I’ll take a dance!” you tell the stranger, who introduces himself as Drew when you start leading him back towards the dancefloor. Dina and Molly hoot and holler when they notice your new addition, your best friend patting you on the butt in encouragement as you begin swaying to a half-played out Miranda Lambert track. A couple more songs pass in a blur of casual dancing and half-shouted small talk with Drew, the kind that won’t matter tomorrow when you’re both long gone, a blip on each other’s radar. You’re laughing, swaying, letting his hands find polite places to land—but the whole time, you feel it. Joel. Watching. Seething. And you don’t know why, but it irks you—that scowl he wears like it’s his birthright, the way his eyes darken as they track your every move from across the bar. So you spin around, lips curled into something just shy of a dare, and press closer to your stranger, winding an arm over your head to loop around his neck. You lean in, slow and deliberate, hips swaying in time with the music, letting yourself laugh too easily when he dips to whisper something in your ear. Joel’s jaw ticks. Blood thrums in his ears, a low roar, drowning out everything but the sight of you wrapped around someone who isn’t him—someone who can touch you without consequence.  His fingers curl tighter around his glass, the strain in his hand matching the heat rising in his chest. 

Are you doing this on purpose? he wonders. Trying to torture him?

Then the kid that stole you away from Joel flips you around, hands bold on your hips, ducking his head like he’s about to claim your mouth right there on the dance floor. 

That’s enough. 

Joel shoves his stool back and it screeches against the timber flooring. He doesn’t wait to see what happens next—can’t. He’s done, stalking through the crowd and pushing through the front door before he says or does something he can’t take back.

He doesn’t see you pull away. Doesn’t hear you mutter not tonight to Drew as you edge out of his grip, turning back toward your friends, now dancing together in a tight, giggly circle. That’s when you see him—Joel—out of the corner of your eye, disappearing into the night, shoulders drawn tight. The tension in your chest eases, but in its place comes something heavier.

Not relief. Not really. Just the hollow ache of missing the burn of his attention—like standing in the cold after stepping out of the sun.

***

Time slips by in flashes—more drinks, more music, the bass thudding through your chest as you jump and sway with your friends. Laughter comes easier, limbs looser, heat blooming beneath your skin from the mix of liquor and motion. Eventually, it’s too much—the press of bodies, the stifling air, a light dizziness creeping behind your eyes. You slip away from the noise, pushing through the door and out onto The Rusty Antler’s redwood deck, chasing the cool air as your hot breath forms in a cloud in front of your face. You gather your hair at the nape of your neck and hold it away from your skin, letting the cool air pacify the sweat sticking there as you sidestep a drunk couple filtering out of the bar behind you. You watch them cross the parking lot, zigzagging, before they disappear past a beat-up Bronco. The low whine of a heavy weight on wood snaps your head to the right and your heart leaps when you see the shadowed figure looming at the other end of the building. 

He’s still here.

Your boots on the timber echo into the night as you cross the deck to where Joel stands by the railing, surveying the lot with a hand deep in the front pocket of his jeans. His other hand busies itself at his mouth, and it’s only when a plume of smoke stretches in front of him that you realise he’s got a cigarette at his lips.

Joel smokes? 

"I thought you left," you say, falling into step beside him. The charred smell of burnt paper fills your nose.

"Thought you were busy," Joel bites back on an exhale. A flicker of irritation sparks under your skin at his words, but you brush it off with a shrug. 

“Needed some air. I didn’t know you smoked.”

“Don’t so much anymore. Just when I need to take the edge off. Usually try’n hide it from the kids, though.”

You grit your teeth. “Don’t see any kids around here.”

Joel glances sideways at you, eyes darkening for a heartbeat, then quickly clearing as if chasing away a thought. “S’pose not. You’re someone’s kid, though.” 

“My dad’s kid, you mean?” You’ve always been proud of being your father’s daughter. Wore it like a badge of honour. But right now, as you watch Joel swallow thickly, you’re not sure you want the title.

“He’s a good man. A real good friend.” The words linger, heavy in the air. You can see the quiet conflict etched across his face—the tug between loyalty and this crackling, unsaid thing between you. Joel takes another drag of his cigarette, then nods toward the parking lot. “You still got that old Jeep you used to peel around town in?”

The tension loosens slightly as you glance into the night. “Only just. I’m probably due for a new one. The thing’s a fucking relic.”

He lets out a humorless chuckle, the corner of his mouth twitching. “Like me, huh?”

You almost smile back, but the moment splinters as loud laughter filters into the night, followed by your friends barrelling onto the deck in a flurry of heels and half-shouted inside jokes. Molly and Reese are struggling to hold up Dina, who’s draped between them like a ragdoll, giggling uncontrollably.

“She needs fries and a bed—now,” Tana, Dina’s other colleague says.

“You coming?” Molly wants to know, attention flicking to where Joel hangs a few feet back, your own gaze following suit before returning to your friend.

"I might hang out here a little longer,” you tell her. “I’ll grab a ride with Joel.”

His heart stalls when he overhears this, logic grinding against the heat crawling up the back of his neck. He should say he’s leaving too, tell you not to wait, to go home with your friends. But the words don’t come. They falter, thick on his tongue, swallowed down with the acrid burn of smoke.

A drunken laugh bubbles out of Dina, lazy eyes sweeping over you and Joel. "You know when I said you need to get over that asshole Jesse by getting under someone else?” she whisper-shouts. “I wasn’t talking about your dad's DILF-y neighbour.”

"Dina!" you hiss, red creeping up your neck. You're not sure what embarrasses you more—Dina calling Joel a DILF right in front of him, or the fact that the thought of getting under him had crossed your mind a few too many times tonight for your sober self’s liking.

“I’m just saying,” she slurs, hiking a thumb over her shoulder, “that cute guy you were dancing with is still in there.”

“Not gonna happen,” you shut her down, before planting a kiss on her cheek. “Call me tomorrow, okay?”

“Yeah, yeah,” she waves you off before addressing Joel. “I know who you are, Miller, so if my best friend turns up missing tomorrow, I'm telling the cops to come for you, handsome."

Joel barks out a genuine laugh at this, cropping his fingers in the air in salute. "You got it, Dina. See you around, girls."

Girls. It lands like a warning. You hate how it brands you, how it tries to shrink you back into something smaller, younger. But maybe it’s not for you at all—maybe it’s for him. A last-ditch effort to redraw the line he’s toeing in his head.

You watch your friends climb into a taxi at the curb before joining Joel again.

“You don’t mind, do you?” It’s too late to ask, but you do anyway.

“Not at all,” Joel lies on an inhale. He tilts his head back, blowing smoke to the ceiling of the verandah, watching until it fans out in a thin cloud against the tin roof.

“You got another one of those?” You gesture to his cigarette. He looks from you to the burning nub, trying to piece together when the hell you picked up the habit. You expect him to pull another out of the packet that’s sat beside his wallet on the railing. Instead, he doesn’t hesitate to hold out the one he’s already got lit in the small space between you. The air’s already so charged, you’re surprised the burning cigarette doesn’t set the night alight in an explosion of flames, taking you and Joel with it. You pinch it between your thumb and forefinger, conscious not to touch Joel again after the bolt of heat you felt when he handed over his whisky back inside. His eyes track your movements as you bring the cigarette to your mouth and take a long drag. As your pale pink lips fit around it naturally, your cheeks hollowing out just slightly. The thought of putting something else in its place causes Joel to shift from one booted foot to the other. You pull it back to reveal lipstick stained on the foot of the cigarette before handing it back to the man next to you.

“I didn’t know you smoked.” Your question from earlier sounds different in Joel’s gruff drawl. And honestly, you’re not really one for the habit, but after a few drinks, you don’t mind pretending for a while.

You don’t tell Joel this, though, just throwing out: “I’m an adult now, remember? I do a lot of things I didn’t used to.”

“Guy in the Longhorns tee included in that?” Joel throws back. He knows he shouldn’t have said it but fuck, if it didn’t make him see red, that kid’s hands on you, only chasing his own high. He wouldn’t have looked after you. Not like Joel wants to. Not like he could… Like he shouldn’t.

You don’t answer right away. Not when you can see it written all over him—the bite in his voice, the flash across his eyes. He’s jealous. And trying like hell not to be. And God help you, but you like it. The electric charge, the crack in his armor. It’s raw, unguarded, and only fair that you return the candor.

“I’m kind of over the whole dating thing at the moment,” you confess, taking another drag. “Don’t know if Dad mentioned, but Jesse cheated on me. Some woman from work.”

Joel’s hand flexes at his side. “He didn’t tell me that. Sorry you had to go through that, darlin’.”

“It’s… fine,” you settle on, handing the cigarette back to him.

“‘S not fine. You don’t deserve that. He doesn’t deserve you. If he couldn’t see how good he had it, how beautiful you are…” Joel trails off, takes a puff. Meanwhile, your stomach flips at the compliment, and you’re pretty sure your cheeks are blazing as bright as the pink sash still adorning your body.

“Anyway, that whole situation put me off. Made me realise most guys my age are idiots. So, no, I’m not jumping into bed with the guy in the Longhorns tee,” you tell him, a hint of jest in your voice.

Joel lets out a ragged laugh. “All men are idiots. Doesn’t matter how old.”

You glance at him, taking in his side profile—all harsh lines and facial hair you’d kill to feel brush against your skin. “I don’t think you’re an idiot.”

Flicking ash over the railing, Joel turns his head, just slightly, so his eyes meet yours. “Then you don’t know me very well.”

The conversation ends there, and you both fall into a comfortable silence, passing the cigarette back and forth between unhurried drags for several minutes, set to the sound of the wind in the woods at the side of the bar, and the patrons inside singing along to Closing Time, despite The Rusty Antler still being an hour or so off shutting down for the night. The fall breeze picks and it tugs at your bridesmaid sash, lifting it away from your skin like a restless ghost. A shiver ripples through you, the cool night air pulling at the hair on your bare arms. Thunder rumbles in the distance, and Joel swipes his wallet and cigarette pack from the railing and shoves them into his back pocket before shrugging off his jacket, smoke pitched between his teeth. 

“Put this on, ‘s cold,” he tells you, holding the Carhartt out for you.

“Joel, I’m fine, really—”

“Not an option. Your dad’ll kill me if I bring you home with pneumonia.” You bristle at the mention of your father again, but still slide into the jacket. The sleeves are far too long, the hem falling to your mid-thigh, but it’s warm and smells of Joel.

“We better get goin’. Don’t wanna get caught in whatever storm’s headed our way,” he says around his cigarette, already leading you into the parking lot towards the old half-ton he’s driven for as long as you’ve known him. He holds the door open for you, stamps the butt out in the gravel while you climb in. Then he reaches into the cab without thinking, giving the seatbelt across your chest a firm tug to make sure it’s latched. It’s automatic, protective, and you’re hit with the memory of him doing the exact same thing to Sarah, back when her feet barely reached the floor mats. You watch Joel’s eyes drop, following the path of his own fingers as they flex slightly, knuckles grazing the soft curve of your breast through you top.

Then his eyes lift—slowly—and land on yours. He freezes. 

What the fuck is he doing?

Not just the seatbelt. This. You.

Something raw flickers across his face—guilt, regret, want—all tangled up in one tight breath. “Shit,” he mutters, yanking his hand back like it burns. “Sorry. Force of habit, I just—” He hesitates. “You good? Comfortable?”

You nod, too quickly. “Yeah. I’m good,” you say, but your voice is thinner than you mean it to be. Joel lingers a second longer, Then, without a word, he pulls the door shut with a dull thunk.

***

Any hope of getting home before the storm hits fades fast. Barely five minutes down the road, the sky splits open with a white-hot flash of lightning. Then the rain comes, lashing against the windshield in heavy sheets that blur everything beyond the glass. The wipers on Joel’s truck beat furiously, but it’s like driving underwater. The tail lights ahead of you become smears of red in a pit of black. Joel leans forward with tight knuckles around the wheel, a newly lit cigarette between his lips. “Gotta pull over. Can’t see shit,” he grinds, flinging the wheel to the right until the truck rests in an embankment off the highway. It seems other drivers have had the same idea, because you see the glow of more tail lights a few car-lengths ahead. The radio crackles with John Denver—Take Me Home, Country Roads coming out all staticy no thanks to the signal being interfered with by the weather. 

The window’s cracked on Joel’s side, the rain tapping a quiet rhythm against it. He cranes his neck slightly to blow smoke out into the downpour, careful not to let it drift your way. A few rogue droplets slip in anyway, dotting the fabric of his flannelette sleeve. The cab smells like rain and smoke and him, and the clock on the dash blinks 12:06 AM in soft neon, casting faint shadows over the lines of his face. You unclick your seatbelt and shift in your seat, pitching one foot up on the edge of the bench, knee bent, jacket coming away from your body just enough to expose the smooth line of your thigh. It’s nothing—careless, comfortable but Joel sees it. Feels it. That small flash of skin tightens something low in his gut. The Carhartt swallows you whole, your tiny skirt and tank top disappearing underneath, making it look like there’s nothing beneath it at all. Like you’re naked under there, curled up in his passenger seat like you belong.

He turns his head, molars pressed together when he forces his eyes back to the windshield as the cigarette burns down in his hand. The rain’s still coming down in blinding sheets, hammering the hood, masking the way his breath falters. He stares through it, jaw ticking, and starts praying—quiet, fierce—that the storm lets up. Just enough to get you home. Out of his truck. Out of his jacket. Before he does something real fucking stupid.

“Sooo,” you start after a few minutes, when it becomes obvious that the storm isn’t passing over any time soon. “Tess, huh?”

Joel groans. “Can we talk about something else, please?”

You duck your head, trying to meet his gaze as you tease, "Why? The thought of her getting you all hot 'n bothered there, Miller?"

There’s a whine of leather under his single-handed grip on the wheel, then comes the glare. 

It’s lethal.

There’s nothing going on with him and Tess. Not really. A couple of lowkey dinners. They fooled around once, only barely, because he struggled to get it up. It’d been a while, and in all honesty, the fling—if you could even call it that—was born out of boredom and a little coaxing from your father. Absolutely nothing to get all hot ‘n bothered about.

You pitch your hands up in mock surrender, sitting back against the seat. “No Tess talk. Got it,” you agree before letting out a contemplative hum. You could ask him about Sarah, but you two keep in touch enough for you to know she’s top of her class at UT, killing it on the first-string soccer team and has a boyfriend Joel isn’t privy to just yet. 

"Dad said you caught a nail a few months back," you settle on.

Joel shifts in his seat, taps ash out the cracked window. The truck rocks with the wind.

“Is there anything your old man don’t tell you?” he asks.

You shrug. “Not really. If he’s not talkin’ to you, he’s talkin’ to me.”

He nods, slow. “Yeah. He misses you. Talks about you all the damn time.”

Another gust rattles the truck. You press your knee tighter to your chest for warmth, cheek now resting against it while you egg Joel on. “So, the nail?”

Joel huffs. “You don’t quit, huh?” You don’t dignify it with a response.. “Freak accident. Not as bad as it sounds. Ricocheted off a piece of sheet metal and wedged itself between my bottom two ribs. Just missed my lung."

You sit upright, turning your whole body to face him. “Jesus, Joel. That's what you call not as bad as it sounds?" No wonder your dad hadn’t mentioned the full extent of it. The idea of a nail sticking out of flesh makes your stomach turn over the swell of alcohol still sitting in it.

"It's fine. Had worse injuries."

Your heart thumps once, then—

"Can I see?"

Joel turns the full weight of his attention on you now, flinging the last of his cigarette into the storm, startled. "What?"

"You've got a scar, right? I wanna see it."

He arches a thick brown. "Bit morbid, don't ya think?"

"Please?" you push, dragging the word out with a look that’s all wide eyes and pouts.

Those fucking lips. How could he refuse?

Still, he makes a show of rolling his eyes while he reaches for the hem of his flannel, two fingers crooking under the fabric that he pulls up with the white t-shirt underneath. He moves slowly—intentional. Like he’s giving you time to change your mind.

You don’t.

Inch by inch, Joel reveals skin that’s warm and tan, the flash of abs dusted with a smattering of hair. The muscles there aren't tight like a younger man’s, but sturdy—strong with age and history and years of hard labor. When Joel stops, he’s hovering just above an uneven scar that’s still tinged pink at its edges. While it’s obvious against his bronzed skin, it’s small, so you shift closer for a better view, too honed in on the injury to notice the space closing between you. Joel tenses at your proximity though, every muscle in his body drawing taut like a wire being stretched to its limits.

You reach for him, for the scar, without thinking, your fingers brushing the raised crescent of his skin. It’s ragged and warm beneath your touch—tender in a way that feels too intimate for the cab of an old truck in a thunderstorm. 

For a man and his best friend’s daughter.

Joel hisses at the contact, a sharp sound swiped straight from his chest like you’ve just pressed a hot iron to his ribs. His torso spasms under your fingertips and you recoil, eyes immediately searching for reassurance that he’s okay,

“Does that hurt?” 

He doesn’t answer right away, jaw clenched so tight the muscle flicks. After a beat, his hand comes up to catch your wrist, to stop you. For purchase, maybe. Whatever it is, he just needs a second to collect himself, to steady the tremble running down his spine.

“No,” Joel finally says, voice rough as gravel. “Doesn’t hurt.”

But his face says otherwise. His gaze stays fixed straight ahead, unseeing. Joel knows if he looks at you, it’ll undo him completely. Whole body still, brow furrowed. You can sense it, feel it, the way he breathes through his nose like he’s barely keeping control. His thumb lingers on the inside of your wrist, heat blooming there. It stretches all the way up your arm and burrows under your collarbone, into your skin, until every bit of blood in your body is pumping fiercely, almost like your pulse is chanting Joel’s name until it falls off your lips in a whisper. 

His eyes are turned on you now—dark, torn, hungry. You just stare back at him, held hostage by the way his gaze flicks from your eyes to your mouth and back again, his Adam’s apple jumping with a swallow. The storm still raging outside the truck is nothing compared to what’s building in the silence between you. Still, you can hear your heartbeat louder than the rain, louder than the thoughts telling you this is a bad idea.

“Joel,” you say again, but it’s strangled. Desperate. There’s a second—maybe less—where neither of you move, both of you frozen in the middle of it, on the edge of something irreversible. You know this is a bad idea. The kind of bad idea that doesn’t just unravel nights, but lives.

You don’t know who leans in first. 

Maybe it’s both of you. Maybe it doesn’t matter. 

Joel’s mouth crashes into yours like it’s the last thing keeping him alive. It’s messy, all teeth and tongues, need and no patience. There’s no slow build, no give, just him take, take, taking. His stubble scrapes against the skin of your top lip, his left hand knotted in the hair at the back of your neck like he’s trying to anchor himself to you. He tastes like the culmination of his vices: smokes and whiskey, together creating a flavour that clings to your tongue and makes you dizzy. And underneath it, something else that you can’t pinpoint. It’s warm and wild and so Joel. Not sweet. Definitely not soft, but it’s addictive in a way that makes you lean in harder, mouth open wider, like if you kiss him deep enough, you might finally figure out what it is. With another thrash of thunder, you push up from the seat, hiking a leg over Joel’s body so you’re straddling him behind the wheel, pressing your rapidly dampening core against his growing bulge. He grunts into your mouth at the movement, his tongue circling yours while your hands find the muscular planes of his jaw. You carry on like this for a few moments, grinding and groaning, ignoring the niggle at the back of your mind that tells you this is reckless—wrong, until Joel rears back, tearing his mouth from yours with a sharp inhale. He clamps his eyes shut, panting and shaking his head, like it might rattle loose the want clawing at his ribs.

“Darlin’,” he grits, and the nickname sends a hot strike of lightning through your veins. “We gotta stop. I can’t—We can’t—Your daddy’ll put me in the ground.”

The words come low, strained—like he’s dragging them out from somewhere deep where he’s still trying to do the right thing. And yet, his palm slides up your thigh like he’s already made peace with the consequences, thick fingers curling into the flesh of your ass.

“Don’t care,” you barely get out, peppering light kisses over the swell of his cheeks, trying to draw him back into the moment.

“You should. It’ll kill him,” he mutters, but doesn’t move away. Doesn’t let go. Doesn’t stop you when you shed his Carhartt jacket and let it slip into the footwell. The air filtering in through the cracked window bites at your bare skin but you don’t flinch, just press the weight of your body into Joel’s lap, your legs stretched wide across his on the bench seat. Joel’s eyes drop, and you feel the burden of his stare like a blowtorch—dragging over the curve of your collarbone, the swell of your chest, the stretch of thigh your skirt doesn’t quite cover.

“Christ,” he whispers, then his mouth is back on you, on your neck this time, licking at the pulse beneath your ear. His wiry facial hair chafes the sensitive skin there, like steel wool, before he bites at the dip behind your earlobe. Hard, yanking a high pitched gasp from you. But before the pain sets in he’s sucking the sting away with a kiss, lapping up the salty but sweet residue left over from the sweat that had wicked your skin earlier in the night.

“Do that again,” you plead, rotating your hips to gain friction where you need it most. Joel chuckles at the request, lolling his head sideways to repeat the process at your other ear.

The storm outside intensifies, rain hammering the roof like a warning neither of you heed. Instead, one of Joel’s hands slides one of your tank straps off your shoulder, dropping a quick kiss there, while the other slides from the outside of your thigh to where your panties are sticking to your throbbing core. He presses a thumb down, feeling your warm arousal seep through the thin material. An involuntary whine slips out of you at the gesture, and another flare of lightning illuminates his face just enough for you to see the self-satisfied smirk yank at Joel’s lips.

“Look at you,” he says, his hot breath summoning goosebumps across your chest. “You’re fucking soaked. How long you been like this?”

The motion of your hips is instinctive, need bleeding into your voice. “Since the bar,” you breathe. “When you tried to fight assholes.”

Joel’s jaw clenches, his fingers still slick and patient between your thighs, circling with maddening control. “That why you went after that kid?” he grits. “Needed to let off some steam, huh?” He leans in, nose brushing your jaw. “You have no idea how bad I wanted to lay into him for puttin’ his fuckin’ hands on you.”

You buck your hips forward, silently begging for more. It’s almost sick—talking about another man while this one has you trembling with every swipe of his fingers over your clothed clit—but it only heightens the need, makes the heat lick up your spine like wildfire.

“He kiss you like I do?” he growls.

Your eyes snap to his, almost black in the dark truck, but still you feel the force of them working over every inch of your face.

“Didn’t kiss him,” you pant. “Don’t want him. Only want you.”

The confession frays Joel’s composure, and he’s yanking your panties to the side and sinking his thick middle finger inside you—fuck, darlin’ barely comprehensible around a growl when he feels you flutter hotly around him. 

“Yeah? Show me then,” he seethes, the pad of his finger already gently stroking that spongy wall deep in your core. “Show me how much you want me.” Your forehead drops to meet his, his free hand anchoring your hip. “Think you can come for me right here?”

Your cunt clamps down hard like your body’s answering him before your mouth can. Your breath stutters, thighs already beginning to tremble where they straddle his lap, the tension coiled so tight inside you that it feels like you could snap with just one more word, one more groan, one more look from him. “More,” you plead, eyes half-lidded, fingers finding the mess of curls at the base of his skull. “J-Joel, please.”

He complies by sliding a second finger into you slowly while his thumb meets your bare clit in unhurried circles. 

“Like that, baby?”

You nod incessantly, chasing his rhythm with a circle of your hips. Your head rolls backwards, exposing the column of your throat to Joel, and he wastes no time in latching his mouth, licking hot stripes up the length of it while his fingers pick up speed. He can feel your pussy tightening, your breathing becoming ragged and movements frantic. His voice comes low against your throat, lips only just dusting your skin when he tells you, “That’s it, darlin’. You’re right there. I can feel it. Keep goin’.”

“I’m so close,” you whimper, the roll of your hips faltering when Joel tugs down on your earlobe with his teeth.

“Come on, let got for me,” he spurs you on. “Show me how good I make you feel. ‘S okay, baby, I got you.”

Your body winds tighter, trembling—right on the edge, waiting for that last push. Then, Joel jams his fingers into you that tiny bit deeper, and you seize around him with a sharp cry. Pleasure snaps through you like a rubber band on release—sudden, sharp, and overwhelming. And just as you come undone in Joel’s lap, the sky splits open above you, thunder cracking louder than it has all night, lightning flashing so bright you can still see it, even with your eyes screwed shut. It’s as if the storm had been waiting for you to fall apart, building with you, breaking with you.

Loud. Wild. Merciless.

The large hand that was previously as your hip now rests at the small of your back, Joel stroking over your tank top gently while you come down from your high, murmuring something that resembles good girl under his breath. When you finally blink your eyes open, Joel’s looking at you like he’s never seen anything quite like it. There’s a rawness in his expression—like he’s in awe, like you’ve just undone something in him he’ll never be able to put back together.

“You look so fuckin’ pretty when you come,” he tells you reverently as he slips out of you. You immediately miss the pressure of him there, but their absence is quickly forgotten when his fingers, slick with your release, disappear into his mouth with a satisfied hum. “Taste fuckin’ pretty, too.” And that’s when you feel it, him, thick and straining beneath you, his own arousal hot and urgent even through the thick denim of his jeans.

Joel shifts under you like a man possessed, one arm snaking around your waist, the other bracing the back of your head with a tenderness that steals what little air is in your lungs. One swift motion, and he lifts you off his lap and lays you down across the the worn bench seat, your back meeting the cool leather. His burly body follows, covering yours, and you hear the metallic clank of his belt buckle under the rain still pelting hard against the roof. The air inside the truck is thick now—humid with your breath, his breath, the leftover heat of your oragsm. Even with the crack in the driver side window, the glass is completely fogged, streaked with condensation. There’s a beat of hesitation in his eyes as he hovers above you, while your cunt still pulses with need despite your release just moments earlier.

“I need to feel you,” he rasps, followed by your name, voice tattered and needy. “Need to be inside you, darlin’, but—fuck, you gotta tell me. You want this?”

Your hands find his face again so your eyes are locked, and you nod—once, certain—and that’s all it takes. His hand drops between your bodies. You feel the rough scrape of denim, the tension of his zipper giving way, and then the low sound he makes when he finally frees himself. Another hand finds your underwear, dragging them down just enough to bare you to him, just enough for him to slot himself between your upper thighs, skin to skin, his body shaking with restraint as he lines himself up at your entry.

He goes slow, nudging his swollen head inside you, the stretch of him already greater compared to his thick fingers. He must feel you stiffen at the sensation, because he stalls, eyes darting from where you’re connected to your face, searching for any sign you want him to stop.

“Keep going, Joel,” you breath—beg—ghosting your thumb over his bottom lip. I’m okay, the tiny gesture tells him, and Joel continues to press into you, excruciatingly slow, pleasure chasing away the sting of his girth as he edges closer to where you need him most. He bottoms out with a depraved groan that vibrates through your chest, his hips flush against yours, the full weight of him settling deep inside. Your moan tangles with his in another hungry, messy kiss, mouths moving like you’re starved for each other—like this might be the only time you get. Joel stays there for a beat, buried to the hilt, breathing heavy against your lips before dragging his mouth lower, tracing your jaw, your throat, until his lips find your chest. One hand fumbles with your top, dragging it down just enough to free your breast, his tongue immediately swirling hot and wet around your nipple. The sensation makes you arch beneath him, breath catching as he sucks greedily, the other hand braced under your back like he’s trying to memorise the way your body bends for him.

“Joel,” you whine with your fingers knotted at the crown of his head. Another quick lick of your nipple and he’s peering up at you hungrily.

“What is it, baby?”

You rock your hips as much as you can under his weight. “Need you to move,” you say. Then, more definitely: “Need you to fuck me.”

“Jesus, woman.” The words are aggressive, just like the way his hips snap back before driving into you. Hard. Deep enough to punch the air from your lungs. His fingers press bruises into your thigh as he anchors it high around his waist, and it’s then that Joel becomes a savage—his thrusts relentless and rocking the whole damn truck with every grind of his hips.

“God, you feel perfect. Like you were made ‘f’me,” he grits. “Not gonna last long with your pretty pussy squeezin’ me like that.” Your breathy whimpers, your pleas of yes, right there, Joel, fuck puncutate each collision of your bodies, the base of his cock nudging your clit just so when he bottoms out. That familiar pressure is already building again, your second climax clawing its way from the pit of your stomach, and Joel’s lips slide into a lax smile just before your eyes sink shut.

“Yeah, darlin’, you’re gonna come for me again.” It’s not a question—Joel just knows, and pants at your ear, egging you on. “That’s it, come on.”

You seize beneath him and flutter tightly around his cock like a vise as your orgasm washes over you with a shameleslly load moan. Joel buries his face in the crook of your neck with a grunt, his hips faltering as he fucks you through the tightness around him.

“Fuck, that’s it—just like that, baby,” he rasps against your skin, breath hot and uneven. “Stay with me. Not far behind you.” His mouth finds yours again, hungry and open, as he pistons into you faster now, chasing his own edge. “Wanna fill you up. Will y’let me come in you?” Your answer comes in a breathless moan, a frantic nod against his mouth. “Yes—inside. Please.”

It’s all the coaxing Joel needs, burying himself to to the hilt with a strangled groan, movement stuttering as thick heat floods you. You hold him there with your legs, Joel twitching as he empties every last drop of himself inside you. The pair of you freeze there for a beat, panting into each other’s shoulders before he finally pulls out of you with a low, satisfied grunt. You’re sensitive now after your two shell-shock orgasms, the air cool against the mess he’s left behind. Your skirt’s bunched high around your waist, panties stretched to their limits just above your knees until Joel tugs them back into place. The rough drag of denim on your thighs makes you flinch as he redresses, his belt clinking softly in the quiet aftermath. It’s only when you peel yourself up from the bench do you realise that the storm has rolled on. Rain no longer assaults the truck. The windows are fogged but quiet now, aside from the whoosh of passing cars as headlights begin to reappear on the highway in the dead of night. It’s nearly one in the morning, according to the neon clock, and you follow suit after watching Joel click his seatbelt back over his body. He doesn’t look at you, just fishes a fresh cigarette from the crumpled packet abandoned on the dash. It ignites with a flick of a lighter, and he inhales deeply, the glow burning amber across his face.

The truck chugs to life beneath you, engine grumbling as smoke curls into the stale cab air.

“Let’s get you home,” he mutters quickly, like if he says it fast enough, he might outrun the guilt. And then he pulls back onto the highway—into the night, into whatever comes next.

***

pt. II here

Time slips by in flashes—more drinks, more music, the bass thudding through your chest as you jump and sway with your friends. Laughter comes easier, limbs looser, heat blooming beneath your skin from the mix of liquor and motion. Eventually, it’s too much—the press of bodies, the stifling air, a light dizziness creeping behind your eyes. You slip away from the noise, pushing through the door and out onto The Rusty Antler’s redwood deck, chasing the cool air as your hot breath forms in a cloud in front of your face. You gather your hair at the nape of your neck and hold it away from your skin, letting the cool air pacify the sweat sticking there as you sidestep a drunk couple filtering out of the bar behind you. You watch them cross the parking lot, zigzagging, before they disappear past a beat-up Bronco. The low whine of a heavy weight on wood snaps your head to the right and your heart leaps when you see the shadowed figure looming at the other end of the building. 

He’s still here.

Your boots on the timber echo into the night as you cross the deck to where Joel stands by the railing, surveying the lot with a hand deep in the front pocket of his jeans. His other hand busies itself at his mouth, and it’s only when a plume of smoke stretches into the night in front of him that you realise he’s got a cigarette at his lips.

Joel smokes? 

"I thought you left," you say, falling into step beside him. The charred smell of burnt paper fills your nose.

"Thought you were busy," Joel bites back on an exhale. A flicker of irritation sparks under your skin at his words, but you brush it off with a shrug. 

“Needed some air. I didn’t know you smoked.”

“Don’t so much anymore. Just when I need to take the edge off. Usually try’n hide it from the kids, though.”

You grit your teeth. “Don’t see any kids around here.”

Joel glances sideways at you, eyes darkening for a heartbeat, then quickly clearing as if chasing away a thought. “S’pose not. You’re someone’s kid, though.” 

“My dad’s kid, you mean?” You’ve always been proud of being your father’s daughter. Wore it like a badge of honour. But right now, as you watch Joel swallow thickly, you’re not sure you want the title.

“He’s a good man. A real good friend.” The words linger, heavy in the air. You can see the quiet conflict etched across his face—the tug between loyalty and this crackling, unsaid thing between you. Joel takes another drag of his cigarette, then nods toward the parking lot. “You still got that old Jeep you used to peel around town in?”

The tension loosens slightly as you glance into the night. “Only just. I’m probably due for a new one. The thing’s a fucking relic.”

He lets out a humourless chuckle, the corner of his mouth twitching. “Like me, huh?”

***