take a gamble love exists

Classic slasher from the ‘70s, right?

You’re not all that into it.

As a matter of fact, you’ve only been coming to Joel Miller’s place to watch a movie with him every Tuesday night because the man is lonely. He’s old, and his teenage daughter currently hates his guts. So, you figured you’d throw him a bone and watch his favorite old-timey flicks to be nice and give him company.

You end up getting a lot more than you bargained for.

“You really…want this, darlin’?” Silver-streaked curls dangle down from the face above you, shaking as he speaks. His gut rests heavily against your front, and between your legs, warmth sprouts from the place where his slick, bare cock is pressed to your entrance.

The length of it is still wet with spit from the blowjob you gave him. Earlier, your head was resting in his lap during a particularly violent, gory scene, you got a little scared, and at almost the same time, you felt Joel get hard underneath the press of your cheek. It didn’t take long for you to pull down the zip of his jeans and put him in your mouth. The move wasn’t even especially erotic—just a way to ease your fears in the face of frightening visuals and draw some tension out of Joel as you did. Your hot, soft, drooling mouth bobbed up and down on the old man’s shaft maybe eight or nine times total before you felt ropes spit down your throat.

You swallowed each spurt dutifully, then offered to take things even further by spreading your thighs.

“This won’t make things any different?” Joel continues, concern trickling into his words.

“No, Mr. Miller.”

“Don’t,” he groans, “call me that, please.”

“OK.”

In no time at all, he’s sinking inside you, groaning again—now at the tight, velvety clutch of your walls—and grabbing your hips. A shudder passes through him.

It’s like he hasn’t done this in a decade, at least.

That big and hard and leaking cock attached to this old and needy man must not have known the pleasure of anything but a fist for so long, if he fucks like this. Withdrawing all the way to the tip, sucking in a breath, then shoving back in clumsily and cursing as he does. Rocking his hips out of rhythm, the squelching of your pussy around him an awkward cacophony as it seems the man’s only awareness is in the sensation of you.

“F-Fuck, honey,” Joel grunts, voice tight. “Ain’t—fuck me—been in pussy this good since I don’t know when.”

“Bet it was before I was born.”

You can’t help it. He’s ancient.

This time, Joel doesn’t scold you or deny the allegation. He just keeps thrusting and struggling through breaths and lets you run your fingers through his sweat-dampened grays as he pistons in and out of your pussy. He moans in pleasure. Makes the floral print sofa squeak and groan beneath the two of you.

His chest is a wall of pure muscle above you, broad and impossibly dense with scars of multiple decades past littered across it. You stare at it, feeling the stretch of his girth working in and out of you again and again, and you’re admittedly left in awe of all of this. Your friend’s father—the man you came to cheer up with your company, being somewhat close to her in age—is now working his sexual frustration out on your body. Taking you by the hips and using you like his own personal fleshlight, while he groans and curses and mutters things like, fuckin’ tight and perfect fuckhole.

You aren’t even sure he’s aware of what he’s saying. You just know that he likes what he’s feeling, and the ordinarily sweet and polite old man is probably moments away from getting off inside you.

It’s only been two minutes, you think. Nice.

Guys your age normally aren’t even half as vocal, or needy, as Joel, so you’ll let it slide that you aren’t getting to orgasm yourself tonight. You pull the strands of his hair tighter through your fingers, tilt your hips upward against his thrusts, and then you squeeze.

On the TV, someone gets bludgeoned by a hammer.

Amidst the characteristically piercing screams and cries that ensue, echoing out from the set’s speakers, Joel grits his teeth and lets out a pained hiss of his own as he struggles to maintain composure; he fails.

He paints every inch of your insides and then some with his cum. Even more than what went down your throat before, it just keeps going and going and going, with no end in sight. You think he might start to leak out of your cunt and onto the couch, and then he does, trickling out over the bright and gaudy flower pattern.

A low whimper escapes you.

Slowly, realization dawns.

Shit, shit, shiiiiiiiiiiiiiiit, shouldn’t have done that, shit.

Ellie’s gonna murder you.

You start to try to sit up.

Joel’s body pins yours to the couch, so you can’t.

With words, you venture: “I—I think I should go.”

It’s reflexive; defensive in the way you want to get this man off of you before he can take anything more, maybe make you want something you shouldn’t.

His spend eases the slide of his now-softening cock from out between your legs. You wriggle backward.

“Mr. Miller, it’s been fun, but—”

“What’d I say about callin’ me that?”

Joel snags your ankle before you can get far.

You flop down on your back, acutely aware of how sensitive you are everywhere, and without realizing it, your legs fall open again. Your pussy clenches around nothing, still starved of release, and inadvertently pushes more cum out of that raw, stretched hole.

Joel slides down your front.

It isn’t right; you both know it.

“But I came, and you didn’t. Ain’t fair,” Joel murmurs.

“Thought horny old fucks like you didn’t care about that kind of stuff.” You exhale a breath as the man’s shoulders push your thighs even further apart. The sound hitches when he starts to lower his head next.

“Horny old fucks deserve a taste. Maybe even a chance to make you cum with their tongue, fingers—”

“Fine.”

Fuck it.

“—and my cock, once we wake ‘im back up.”

Joel smirks.

You roll your eyes.

Another unnamed character gets hacked to pieces on-screen, and you get the sense you’ll be lying on this couch, hearing but not really listening to a word of what’s said in another two or three movies, at least.

Gifts weren’t exactly something he knew how to give anymore, and hell, he didn’t even know if it was too early for something like this. A month together wasn’t long, but for Joel, it felt like something impossible.

You had slipped into his life like sunlight, warm and steady, breaking through cracks he didn’t know were there. In just a month, you’d pulled him out of a place he thought he’d never leave, and it scared him sometimes - how much he cared. How much he wanted to hold onto you.

But lately, Jackson had taken up so much of your time. You still saw each other - quiet dinners, soft conversations, and kisses stolen in the fading light of day but that’s all there had been.

Between long shifts, late nights, and endless meetings, you’d been stretched thin, and Joel could see it. He didn’t resent you for it - how could he? You were the heart of this place, keeping everything and everyone steady. It was just…

He missed you.

And tonight, when the clock struck well past 11, and you still hadn’t come home, something in him stirred. Joel wasn’t the type to chase someone down, but tonight, he couldn’t just sit in the quiet house anymore.

With a deep sigh, he grabbed his jacket, stuffing the candle carefully into his pocket. The cold air bit at his skin as he stepped out onto the gravel path, boots crunching softly as he made his way toward the main building where he knew you’d still be.

As he climbed the stairs and spotted the warm light glowing from beneath your office door, he felt some of the tension ease in his chest.

You were safe. Good. But then he heard it—soft voices, yours and another man’s - Paul.

Joel paused just outside, his jaw clenching. He didn’t mean to eavesdrop, but something about it—about how Paul’s voice carried that too-familiar tone, how your own voice stayed calm and professional - made his teeth grind.

Paul. Joel knew exactly who he was, young, good-looking, dependable. Always where you were, always taking up your time. Joel resented him for it. Not because he didn’t trust you, but because he was damn sure Paul wanted you - how could he not? Hell, Joel figured everyone did.

You were strong, beautiful, impossible to ignore.

And Joel? He still didn’t quite know how he’d gotten lucky enough to have you, and it ate at him, hearing Paul’s voice when he wanted to see and talk to you so badly himself.

His brow furrowed, and he stopped just outside the slightly ajar door.

“- appreciate the update, Paul,” you were saying, your voice calm and professional. “We’ll make adjustments to the roster tomorrow morning.”

“Of course,” Paul replied, his tone polite but with a hint of familiarity that set Joel’s teeth on edge.

Joel peeked through the crack in the door and felt his chest tighten.

You were leaning partially against your desk, your posture relaxed but commanding, your sleeves pushed up to your elbows as you gestured toward a stack of papers in front of you.

The soft lamplight illuminated your face, highlighting the curve of your jaw, the way your blouse clung just right.

You looked… god, you looked so fucking good.

Too good.

Joel’s jaw worked as he stepped into the doorway, his hand gripping the frame. He didn’t say anything, just stood there, his presence heavy and awkward.

You glanced up at him, your brow furrowing slightly in confusion. “Joel?”

He shifted on his feet, his gaze flicking between you and Paul, unsure of what to say. His fists clenched at his sides, and he suddenly felt out of place, like he was intruding.

Paul turned to look at him as well, his expression polite but curious. “Evening, Joel,” he said with a nod.

Joel gave a tight nod in return, his lips pressing into a thin line as he struggled to think of something to say. But his gaze kept drifting back to you - your relaxed posture, the slight smirk tugging at your lips as you studied him.

You tilted your head, your eyes narrowing slightly as you read the situation.

“I think we can wrap up for tonight, Paul,” you said smoothly, your voice taking on a sharper edge. “We’ll revisit this tomorrow.”

Paul blinked, glancing between the two of you before nodding. “Sure. Have a good night.”

You waited until Paul had gathered his things and stepped out of the office before turning your full attention to Joel. Crossing your arms, you leaned back against the desk, one brow arched as you studied him.

“Well?” you said, your tone light but teasing. “What’s on your mind, Miller?”

Joel shuffled his feet, his eyes darting to the floor. “Didn’t mean to interrupt,” he muttered, his voice gruff. “Just… you were workin’ late. Wanted to check on you.”

Your lips curved into a slow smile, and you pushed off the desk, stepping toward him. “And here I thought you were giving Paul the stink eye,” you teased, stopping just in front of him.

Joel’s ears burned, and his hand came up to rub the back of his neck. “Wasn’t givin’ him anythin’,” he mumbled, his gaze stubbornly avoiding yours.

“Mm-hmm,” you hummed, tilting your head as you watched him squirm. “Could’ve fooled me.”

Joel’s voice was quiet, thick with a mix of concern and something deeper. “You shouldn’t work so late,” he said, his dark eyes locking onto yours for just a moment before darting away again. “It ain’t good for you.”

You tilted your head slightly, your lips curving into a soft smile. “Baby, I’m alright,” you reassured him, your voice gentle. “You don’t have to worry about me.”

But Joel’s jaw tightened, and his shoulders remained stiff. His hand came up to rub the back of his neck, a clear sign he was holding something back.

You stepped closer, reaching up to cradle his face in your hands, your thumbs brushing over his scruffy cheeks. “Hey,” you murmured, leaning in until your forehead almost touched his. “I mean it. I’m okay. You can breathe, you know.”

He exhaled shakily, his eyes fluttering closed as he leaned into your touch. “Just… can’t help it,” he admitted, his voice rough and low. “You do too much. Somebody’s gotta make sure you take care of yourself.”

Your smile softened, and you pressed a brief, chaste kiss to his forehead. “You’re sweet,” you said, your tone teasing but warm. “But I’ve got this, Joel. I promise.”

With that, you turned back to the desk, leaning slightly as you reached for a stack of papers you’d been organizing before Joel arrived.

Your blouse shifted as you moved, the fabric pulling taut across your back and revealing a hint of the smooth skin at your waist. You pushed up your sleeves absentmindedly, as you flipped through the papers with a focused efficiency that had Joel rooted in place.

Joel tried to focus on your words, on the way you calmly explained whatever you’d been discussing with Paul before he barged in, but his mind betrayed him.

His eyes trailed over the curve of your back, the dip of your waist, the way your pants hugged your hips. His pulse quickened, heat creeping up his neck as he imagined you sitting back on that desk, your legs spread as you guided his head between them.

Fuck.

Joel clenched his jaw, his fists curling at his sides as he tried to shove the thought away, but it was no use.

The image was too vivid—the taste of you, the sound of your breathy moans, the way you’d hold his hair as he worshipped you. He could practically feel the pressure of your thighs around his head, your voice low and commanding as you told him to keep going, good boy.

“Joel?”

Your voice jolted him from his spiraling thoughts, and his head snapped up. You were looking over your shoulder, one eyebrow raised, your lips tugged into a curious smirk. “You okay over there?”

He cleared his throat, forcing himself to look away. “Yeah,” he muttered, his voice rough. “Just… thinkin’.”

“Uh-huh,” you replied, turning fully to face him now.

You leaned back against the desk, crossing your arms over your chest, and Joel’s eyes—completely against his will—dropped for a fraction of a second before snapping back up. Your smirk deepened, and Joel’s ears burned.

“You sure about that?” you teased, tilting your head. “Because it seems like your thoughts might be wandering.”

“I—” Joel started, but the words caught in his throat.

He looked away, his hands twitching at his sides as he fought to regain control. But the way you leaned against the desk, your confidence radiating in every movement, was doing things to him he couldn’t stop.

You watched him for a moment, your eyes narrowing slightly, your smirk softening into something more thoughtful.

Then, you straightened, uncrossing your arms and stepping closer. “Joel,” you said softly, your voice dropping just enough to make his heart skip. “What’s really on your mind?”

His breath hitched as you closed the distance between you, your fingers brushing lightly over his forearm.

He wanted to answer, but the words tangled in his throat, his mind still clouded with the image of you, the way you’d look under him—no, above him.

You tilted your head, studying him like you could see right through him, and your lips curved into a slow, knowing smile. “I see,” you murmured, your voice dripping with amusement.

Joel’s mouth opened, then closed again. He shook his head quickly, his ears burning, but you didn’t let him squirm away this time.

You stepped even closer, your fingers trailing up to rest lightly against his chest. “Come on, baby,” you murmured, your voice soft but teasing. “You can tell me.”

Joel’s throat bobbed as he swallowed hard, his eyes darting to yours, then away again. “It’s… I just—” He stopped, his hands clenching at his sides as he let out a frustrated sigh. “You make it impossible to think, y’know that?”

Your smile widened, your head tilting as you regarded him.

“Oh?” you said, your tone light but edged with something darker, something that made Joel’s stomach flip. “And what exactly are you thinking about?”

Joel hesitated, his gaze flicking to the desk behind you for just a second before he looked away again, his jaw tightening. But it was enough. Your eyes sparkled with realization, and you leaned in, your voice dropping to a near whisper.

“Thinking about me on that desk, baby?” you murmured, your lips curving into a sly smile. “Thinking about how good it’d feel to put that mouth of yours to work?”

Joel’s breath hitched, his entire body going taut as he stared at you, his pupils blown wide. “I—fuck,” he rasped, his voice breaking

Your smirk deepened, and you reached up to brush your fingers through his hair, your nails grazing his scalp. “Go on, Joel,” you murmured, your voice like velvet. “Say it.”

Joel’s breath hitched, his entire body going taut as he stared at you, pupils blown wide, lips parted like he was caught mid-thought.

“I—fuck,” he rasped, voice cracking under the weight of whatever was bubbling inside him.

You smirked, tilting your head, and let your fingers glide into his hair, nails lightly grazing his scalp.

Joel swallowed hard, his hands twitching at his sides. “You’re so fuckin’ sexy,” he finally admitted, the words tumbling out in a rush.

“All day, I’ve been thinkin’ ‘bout you—‘bout gettin’ my mouth on you. Feelin’ your thighs against my face, your taste on my tongue. Can’t stop.” His voice dropped into a low growl, his breath uneven.

“Can’t even fuckin’ think straight when you’re standin’ there lookin’ like that.”

You raised an eyebrow, amusement flickering in your eyes. “Didn’t I take care of you this morning, sweet one?”

His jaw flexed, and he groaned softly, his eyes dropping to your lips, then trailing over your body with an intensity that made your stomach clench.

“It wasn’t enough,” he muttered, voice desperate. “It’s never enough. You ruin me, darlin’. I just… I need you.”

You leaned back against the desk, arms crossed casually over your chest, and his eyes followed the movement, locking onto the subtle shift of your body.

“Take my pants off, Joel,” you said, your voice calm but firm, like it was the simplest request in the world.

Joel’s breath hitched again, his fingers already moving before he could fully process your words.

“Yes, ma’am,” he whispered, his voice trembling as he stepped closer. His hands were unsteady, reverent, as they found the waistband of your pants, hesitating for just a moment before undoing the button and sliding the zipper down.

The air between you crackled as he knelt in front of you, his hands gently tugging your pants down over your hips.

His lips parted, and you heard the faintest gasp as your panties came into view, a darkened spot already visible where your arousal soaked through.

“Goddamn,” Joel muttered, his voice low and wrecked, his hands gripping your thighs. “You’re—fuck, you’re perfect. Don’t even know what you do to me.”

You smirked, leaning forward slightly, one hand brushing through his hair. “I know exactly what I do to you, baby,” you murmured. “That’s why you’re on your knees for me, isn’t it?”

Joel tugged the rest of your pants free, his movements quick and deliberate, pausing only to slide your shoes off and set them aside.

The moment your legs were bare, he hesitated, his eyes darting down to your feet before he leaned in suddenly, pressing his lips to the top of one foot.

The soft, warm press of his mouth sent a shiver through you, and you let out a startled laugh, tilting your head as you looked down at him. “Joel,” you said, your voice low with curiosity and amusement. “What are you doing?”

He didn’t answer immediately. Instead, his lips traveled over the arch of your foot, slow and reverent, and when he finally spoke, his voice was thick and trembling.

“Can’t help it,” he murmured. “You’re so fuckin’ beautiful. Every part of you—” His tongue flicked out briefly, dragging along the delicate curve of your ankle. “—drives me fuckin’ crazy.”

Your breath caught as his hands slid up to cradle your calves, his lips brushing against the arch of your other foot.

“Joel,” you murmured, your voice soft but edged with heat. “Are you a feet-guy now?”

His head snapped up, his cheeks flushed, but his eyes were dark with pure, unfiltered want.

“I’m a you guy,” he rasped, his voice rough and uneven. “I’d worship every inch of you if you let me, ma’am.”

The sincerity and desperation in his voice made heat pool low in your belly, and you smirked, brushing your fingers through his hair. “Every inch, huh?” you teased, your tone sultry. “Guess I should let you, then.”

His lips parted as he stared up at you, his chest heaving like he couldn’t quite catch his breath. “Please,” he whispered, the single word dripping with need as his hands gripped your legs tighter. “Let me.”

Joel didn’t hesitate when you gave him a soft nod, your smirk still firmly in place.

His hands slid slowly down your thighs, reverent and careful, like you might vanish if he wasn’t gentle.

Joels lips parted as he lowered his head, brushing a slow, deliberate kiss against your knee before trailing lower, his breath warm and shaky against your skin.

“Go on, baby,” you murmured, your fingers threading through his hair as you tilted your head, watching him with a lazy sort of dominance. “Show me how much you mean it.”

Joel groaned softly, his hands trembling as they gripped your thighs tighter. He leaned in, pressing a kiss to the inside of your thigh, the heat of his lips sending a shiver up your spine.

His nose brushed against your skin as he moved closer, inhaling deeply like he couldn’t get enough of you.

“Fuck,” he breathed, his voice barely audible. “Smell so good. Always do.”

Your smirk deepened, and you gave his hair a soft tug, guiding him closer to where you wanted him.

“You’ve got a smart mouth when it comes to saying all the right things, Joel,” you teased, your voice dropping to a whisper. “Now, put it to work.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Joel rasped, his voice trembling. He didn’t waste another second, his lips brushing against the damp fabric of your panties.

The first touch made him groan, the sound desperate and guttural as he pressed his face closer, his nose nudging against your clit.

You gasped softly, your fingers tightening in his hair. “That’s it, baby,” you whispered, your tone calm and encouraging. “Yeah, just like that.”

Joel’s tongue flicked out, dragging along the wet patch that had already formed against the thin fabric.

He moaned as the taste of you hit his tongue, and the vibrations of the sound sent a sharp jolt of heat through your core.

His lips latched onto you through your panties, sucking softly as his nose pressed harder against your clit, grinding into you with every movement.

“You’re such a good boy, Joel,” you murmured, your voice like silk. “Look at you, so desperate to please. Bet you’ve been thinking about this all day.”

He whimpered, his hands sliding up to grip your hips as he buried his face deeper against you.

“Every day,” he whispered, his voice cracking. “Think about it every damn day. Wanna taste you, wanna make you feel so good.”

You smiled, the sound low and indulgent as you gave his hair another tug. “Then take them off, baby,” you whispered, your tone commanding but patient. “Show me how much you want it.”

Joel’s hands shook as he hooked his fingers under the waistband of your panties, his lips brushing against your hip as he slid them down your legs.

He didn’t even bother to move them completely out of the way, his attention entirely on the sight of you bared before him. His breath hitched, and he licked his lips, his eyes dark and filled with reverence.

“Goddamn,” he muttered, his voice wrecked.

You chuckled softly, leaning back against the desk and letting your thighs fall open a little wider.

Joel groaned, his hands sliding up your thighs as he leaned in, his lips parting to drag his tongue slowly through your folds.

The first taste always made him moan so loudly you couldn’t help but smile, and his tongue worked with desperate precision, lapping at your entrance before moving up to flick over your clit.

“Fuck, Joel,” you breathed, your nails grazing against his scalp. “You’re so eager, baby. So good at this.”

He whimpered against you, his tongue pressing harder against your clit before wrapping his lips around it, sucking gently.

His nose brushed against you with every movement, the friction sending jolts of pleasure through your body as he lost himself in you.

“Keep going, baby,” you whispered, your tone calm but firm.

Joel moaned again, his hands gripping your thighs tighter as his tongue worked faster, licking and sucking like a man possessed.

He was all-in, his desperation and devotion pouring into every movement, every sound, every shuddering breath.

Joel pulled back briefly, his face slick with your arousal, his breaths heavy and uneven. His thick fingers slid up your inner thighs, his touch featherlight, reverent, like he was handling something holy.

He reached your folds, his large fingers spreading your pussy lips apart, exposing your swollen, glistening clit to his dark, hungry gaze.

“Christ,” Joel muttered, his voice low and trembling as he stared.

His fingers gently held you open, and for a moment, all he could do was look - memorizing the way you glistened, the way your cunt clenched with anticipation.

His mouth opened slightly, his tongue darting out to wet his lips as he bit down softly on the plush skin of your inner thigh, making you jolt.

“Joel,” you warned, your voice thick with arousal. “Don’t just look.”

Slowly, he leaned in to take your throbbing clit into his mouth again. - But then, under his breath, he grumbled,"Bet that asshole Paul ain't ever seen somethin' this fuckin' pretty."

Your brows furrowed immediately, the heat between you both briefly eclipsed by confusion. "Paul?" you snapped, your grip tightening in his hair, pulling his head back roughly.

Joel winced but didn't dare meet your eyes, his cheeks flushed as his lips glistened from where he'd already tasted you.

"You're jealous?" you demanded, a mix of amusement and annoyance in your tone, though there was something undeniably sultry in the way you said it.

Joel stammered, shaking his head, though his guilty expression betrayed him. "I just- he don't deserve to be 'round you like that."

You blinked, momentarily surprised by his audacity.

Then, something wicked curled in your chest, and your smirk returned as you leaned forward, your fingers threading into his hair to tug him to his feet.

Joel stumbled up, flustered, his face red as you pushed him back against the table with a force that knocked the breath out of him.

"You're jealous of Paul," you said again, quieter now, voice dripping with mock disdain as you stepped closer, your hips brushing against his.

Joel swallowed hard, his hands gripping the edge of the table for balance as you caged him in, your body pressing against his like he had nowhere to go.

His lips parting to reply, but no sound came out. His eyes darted to yours, wide and needy as you leaned in close, your lips ghosting over his ear.

"Would I touch Paul like this, Joel?" you murmured, your voice low and teasing as your hand slid down to press against the thick bulge straining in his pants.

Joel let out a strangled whimper, his hips jerking forward instinctively at the contact.

"Answer me," you commanded softly, your fingers tracing the outline of his cock through the fabric, applying just enough pressure to make him groan. "Would he be this hard for me?"

"Fuck-no," Joel choked out, his voice wrecked and trembling. His knuckles turned white where he gripped the table, his whole body tense beneath your touch. "Ain't no one else gets this. Just me. Please - always me, ma'am."

"That's what I thought," you whispered, a smug smile curving your lips as you slowly unbuttoned his pants.

Joel's chest rose and fell in sharp, shaky breaths as he watched your every move, his gaze dark and glassy with need.

"You think Paul could ever handle me the way you do?" you continued, teasing the waistband of his boxers now, your fingers brushing the bare skin of his hips. "Think he'd know how to please me like you do, baby?"

Joel shook his head desperately, his voice barely a whisper as he rasped, "No, ma'am.Never."

"Good boy," you purred, leaning back just enough to look him in the eye.

Joel's hips bucked forward slightly, his cock throbbing beneath your touch, but you stilled him with a firm press of your hand.

"You really think l'd let anyone else have me like this?" you murmured, your tone low and commanding. "You think I'd let anyone but you eat my cunt in this office?"

Joel whimpered, his eyes squeezing shut for a moment as he let out a shaky, broken sound that shot straight to your core.

"Please," he whispered hoarsely. "Please— don't stop."

You smirked, leaning down to press your lips to the corner of his jaw, letting your teeth graze his skin. "You want me to prove it to you, hm, baby?"

Joel nodded frantically, his head falling back as his entire body trembled beneath you.

"Yes," he breathed, his voice raw and needy.

"Please... Show me l'm yours. I'll do anything, ma'am. Anything."

And with that, you sank back down to your knees in front of him, dragging his pants and boxers down in one smooth motion, leaving him bare and vulnerable as you stared up at him, the wicked gleam in your eyes making Joel's cock throb painfully in anticipation.

"Alright, handsome," you whispered darkly, your lips brushing over the sensitive tip of him as Joel let out a desperate groan, his hips jerking forward.

"Be a good boy, and I'll make you feel like the only man in the world."

Joel's head tipped back, his hands scrambling for purchase on the edge of the table as your mouth closed around him, and the only word he could manage was a broken, worshipful, "Fuck."

You kissed along the thick length of his cock, slow and deliberate, dragging your tongue in a wet line up the underside until you reached the sensitive tip.

Joel’s body tensed, and a deep, broken groan tore from his throat as his hips jerked forward, chasing your touch.

“Ma‘am,” he choked out, his voice rough, his knuckles white where he gripped the desk behind him. His chest rose and fell in heavy, uneven breaths, eyes blown wide with need as they met yours.

You smirked wickedly, your lips brushing over his flushed, aching head. “Yeah, baby?” you teased, your voice dripping with dark amusement as you kissed him softly, deliberately avoiding where he wanted you most.

“Looks like you’ve been neglected.” You licked up the shaft again, savoring the way he whimpered, the sound breaking into a low, strangled growl. “But that’s on me, huh? I’ve been so busy…”

Joel’s head tipped back, his throat bobbing as he swallowed hard. “You’re—fuck, you’re what Jackson needs,” he stammered, his voice wrecked and almost pleading. “S’okay. I get it. You—you’re keepin’ us safe.”

His hands shook as he forced himself to look back at you, his eyes glassy with desperation.

“Oh, Joel,” you murmured, your voice like silk as you nipped lightly at the sensitive skin, making him jolt with a sharp inhale.

“Jackson might need me—but I got someone else at home who needs me now too, hm?” You shot him a pointed look, your tongue flicking out to swirl around the tip as Joel let out a wrecked noise that made you clench around nothing.

His breath stuttered, his entire body trembling beneath your touch. “Me,” he rasped, his voice cracking into a whimper, the word soft and desperate as it fell from his lips.

You hummed, lips curling as you dragged your tongue along the sensitive ridge beneath his head before wrapping your mouth around him completely, taking him slow and deep until the tip nudged the back of your throat.

Joel let out a loud, guttural groan, his hips jerking involuntarily as he felt the wet heat of your mouth envelop him completely.

You pulled back just enough to let him slip free, a trail of spit and pre-cum stretching between your lips and his swollen, aching cock.

It twitched violently in the cool air, slick and flushed dark at the tip, thick veins standing out along his length as it oozed a steady bead of milky pre-cum.

Your eyes trailed over it with a wicked glint, drinking in the sight of him—so messy, so utterly ruined—and your lips curled into a slow, smug smile as you lazily pumped him with your slick hand.

The noise it made was filthy, each movement a slow, deliberate glide of your palm over his slicked skin. “Look at you, Joel. You’re already such a mess for me.”

You dragged your thumb over his leaking slit, smearing the pre-cum down the length of him, and his hips bucked sharply, a strangled groan tearing from his throat.

“Christ,” he choked, his head falling back, his jaw slack as his chest heaved. “Darlin’, please - please, I- ”

“Please what?” you teased, your tone light and mocking as you leaned back in, your lips brushing over the tip again, barely there.

Joel’s whole body jolted, and he whimpered—so loudly—as your tongue darted out to swirl around him, gathering the salty slick that had gathered there.

“Wanna fuck my throat, baby?” you murmured darkly, your gaze locked on his as your lips curled into a slow smile.

“Is that what you’re so desperate for? Hm? That big cock of yours buried all the way in, feelin’ me tight around you?”

Joel let out a sound that was somewhere between a groan and a plea, his hands clenching into fists at his sides. “Yes,” he rasped, his voice raw and wrecked. “God, yes, darlin’. I—fuck—please.”

“Then go ahead,” you purred, your hand stroking him with slow, deliberate movements. “Go on, Joel. Take it.”

He froze for half a second, as if the permission short-circuited his brain, before he stepped closer, his hands finally leaving the desk to cradle your jaw.

You let your mouth fall open, your tongue teasing his tip as he slid in, slow and careful, testing the waters. Your eyes stayed locked on his, and you hummed approvingly, encouraging him to move deeper.

“Don’t hold back, baby,” you murmured between breaths, your voice thick with sin. “I can take it.”

Joel groaned, deep and guttural, as he pushed further, the head of his cock hitting the back of your throat.

You swallowed around him, and the sound that ripped from his chest was wrecked, his hips twitching as he fought not to lose control.

Slowly, he rocked forward, fucking into your mouth with careful, shallow thrusts, each movement slick and filthy with spit and pre-cum. You could feel him throbbing, could hear the desperate, broken noises spilling from him every time he hit just right.

“Jesus,” Joel gritted out, his voice low and wrecked as his fingers threaded into your hair, guiding you gently. “Feels so fuckin’ good, ma“am. So fuckin’ perfect—goddamn.”

You let him thrust just a little deeper, taking him until your nose pressed against the dark curls at the base of his cock.

Your throat flexed around him, swallowing him whole, and the growl that tore from his chest was loud and shattered, his control slipping further.

He pulled back, your spit trailing in thick, messy strings along his length, and you let out a satisfied hum as you pulled away completely, your lips wet and slick with him.

But you weren’t done.

Your hands slid up his thighs as you leaned lower, pressing your lips to his balls. Joel’s hips jolted sharply, his legs trembling beneath him as you kissed him softly, your tongue flicking out to trace the sensitive skin.

You smirked against him, releasing him with a wet pop before flattening your tongue and dragging it slowly, teasingly, down the sensitive skin just beneath his balls.

Joel’s whole body jerked, his knees threatening to give out as he let out a choked, desperate shout, his fingers tightening painfully in your hair.

“Yes,” he gasped, the word breaking as it tumbled out of him. “Yes, fuck, yes!” His voice cracked, hoarse and wrecked, as you continued your slow, deliberate path, your tongue barely grazing where he was most sensitive.

The filthy noises spilling from him grew louder, more frantic, his hips twitching uncontrollably as you pushed him further and further over the edge.

“Like that, baby?” you purred, pulling back just enough to whisper against the trembling skin. “Want me to lick even lower, huh? Is that what you want?”

Joel let out something between a sob and a growl, his head snapping back as his mouth fell open, panting for air like a man starved.

His body shook violently, and before he could even get the words out, his release hit - a sharp, shuddering jolt that tore through him like lightning.

“Fuck- oh, ma‘am- fuck!” Joel roared, his hips surging forward as his cock throbbed and pulsed, spurting hot, thick ropes of cum across your face and blouse, the first one hitting so hard you moaned softly at the sheer force of it.

His voice echoed off the walls, a deep, primal sound that he didn’t try to be quiet - didn’t care who heard.

“Shit- oh, darlin’ - fuck, I- ” Joel was lost to it, wrecked and trembling, his hands shaking in your hair as his cock twitched again, more of his release spilling onto your tongue and chin.

You caught as much of it as you could, sucking softly at the head of him as he moaned, loud and shattered, the tension in his body finally breaking.

“Such a good boy for me, Joel,” you murmured softly, your voice thick with satisfaction as you swirled your tongue lazily over his still-pulsing tip, gathering the last drops of him.

His cock was slick and messy now, glistening with cum and your spit, and the sight of him—ruined and trembling, his thighs shaking so hard he could barely stand—made you smirk with pure satisfaction.

Joel’s breath came in ragged gasps as he stared down at you, his face flushed and wrecked, his chest heaving like he’d run for miles.

“Jesus,” he rasped, his voice barely there, as if the words were dragged out of him.

You licked at your lips, smearing a streak of his release off your cheek with your thumb before sliding it into your mouth, sucking softly as you held his gaze.

Joel’s body jerked at the sight, his hands clenching and unclenching as if he couldn’t decide whether to pull you up or drop to his knees.

“Made such a mess, baby,” you teased softly, reaching up to stroke his still-twitching cock, your hand gliding easily over the slick mess coating him.

Joel groaned, his eyes squeezing shut as his hips gave an involuntary jerk at your touch.

“Didn’t even care who heard you, huh?”

Joel let out a low, wrecked sound, his face buried in his arm as he leaned heavily against the desk for support. “Don’t fuckin’ care,” he muttered, his voice muffled and rough. “Let ‘em hear. Let ‘em all know I’m yours.”

You smirked, rising slowly to your feet, your body grazing his as you straightened. Joel’s hands found your waist immediately, his grip still shaky, like he needed to hold on to you or risk collapsing completely.

You leaned in close, your breath warm against his ear as you whispered, low and sweet, “That’s right, baby. You’re mine.”

Joel groaned softly, his head tilting back to meet your gaze, those dark eyes still heavy-lidded, glassy with the remnants of his release.

There was something else there too - something softer, flickering in the depths as he stared at you like you were the only thing keeping him grounded.

“Always yours,” he rasped, his voice still wrecked but thick with something deeper. “No one else, darlin’. Just you.”

Your smirk softened, your fingers sliding up to trace along the stubble of his jaw before you cupped his face gently in your hands. “Yeah?” you murmured.

Joel’s breath hitched as you tilted your head and kissed him—softly, slowly—your lips molding to his in a kiss that stripped away the desperation and left nothing but warmth.

He sighed into it, his arms wrapping fully around you now, pulling you in close until you were flush against him.

You pulled back just slightly, your forehead resting against his as you whispered, “I’m yours too. Always.”

Joel’s chest heaved, his hands tightening on your waist as his thumb traced slow, soothing circles against your skin.

“Okay, baby? No need to give Paul the stinky eye,” you teased softly, pressing a kiss to the corner of his lips.

Joel’s brows knit together, his face shifting into something defensive but playful as he pulled back just enough to look at you.

“I wasn’t givin’ him the stinky eye,” he grumbled, though the way his jaw twitched betrayed him.

You snorted, unable to help the laugh that bubbled up. “Joel,” you teased, your grin spreading wide.

Joel’s lips twitched, the ghost of a smile threatening to break through, and he huffed softly, shaking his head. “You’re seein’ things, darlin’,” he muttered, but there was no heat behind his words.

You laughed harder, leaning your forehead against his as his low, rough chuckle finally broke free, rumbling deep in his chest.

The sound sent warmth flooding through you, and before you could say another word, his lips found yours again.

This kiss was softer now—easy, lingering, the kind of kiss that said I’m here, and you’re mine.

Joel’s hands slid up your sides, cradling you close as you melted into him, the laughter fading into something softer, something sweeter.

When you finally pulled back, breathless and smiling, you brushed your nose against his. “You were totally giving him the stinky eye,” you murmured, grinning.

Joel chuckled again, shaking his head as he pressed another kiss to your lips—soft, deliberate, and warm. “Maybe,” he murmured against your mouth, his voice low and fond. “Maybe I was.”

Smiling, you brushed your fingers along his jaw, your touch gentle, grounding. “You’re the sexiest and most handsome man I have ever laid my eyes on,” you murmured softly, the sincerity in your voice leaving no room for doubt.

Joel froze for just a moment, his brow furrowing slightly like he wasn’t sure he’d heard you right. Then, his face softened, his cheeks coloring just a little as his lips curved into a lopsided smile.

“You really think that?” he asked quietly, his voice rough, almost uncertain, as though he didn’t quite believe it.

You laughed softly, pressing a kiss to the corner of his mouth before pulling back just enough to look him in the eye. “No, Joel. I know that. Don’t go gettin’ all humble on me now.”

Your fingers tangled gently in his hair, your voice a whisper. “No one else could hold a candle to you, Joel Miller. You’ve got no reason to be jealous of anyone.”

He huffed out a small laugh, his hands finding your waist and pulling you closer, like he needed to feel you against him to believe it.

After a minute - you stepped back. “C’mon, handsome,” you teased, your voice soft but playful, “let’s get home, yeah?” You winked at him, your grin infectious.

Joel huffed a soft laugh, his hands still resting on your hips. “Yeah,” he said, his lips quirking into a small, proud smile. “I got somethin’ for you at home. A little somethin’ I found today.”

Your eyes lit up, curiosity sparking as you tugged his hand gently. “Ooh, a present? You’re spoilin’ me, Miller,” you teased, grinning wide.

Joel chuckled, ears red, shaking his head as he let you pull him along.

· · ──𖥸

“A candle?” you breathed, your eyes widening as you turned it over in your hands, the label simple but faintly worn.

The smell of something warm and sweet reached your nose, and you blinked up at Joel, completely caught off guard.

Joel rubbed the back of his neck, his gaze flickering to the floor as a faint pink crept across his cheeks.

“Yeah,” he said, a little awkwardly, his voice low. “Found it while we were out on patrol. Smell reminded me of you… I don’t know, somethin’ soft and warm—real nice. Figured maybe you’d… like it.”

He shifted slightly, his hands fidgeting against his jeans as he added quickly, “I mean, it’s nothin’ fancy. If it’s too much or too soon—”

“Joel,” you interrupted softly, your voice barely above a whisper as you brought the candle closer, inhaling the faint, soothing scent.

Something in your chest tightened, an unexpected warmth spreading through you that made your throat feel thick. It had been so long—years, really—since anyone had given you something just because they thought of you.

Joel paused mid-ramble, his eyes snapping up to meet yours, worry lingering in his expression.

Before he could say anything else, you stepped forward and kissed him—soft, sweet, and lingering.

“Thank you,” you whispered, your voice shaky, tears threatening to spill as you smiled up at him. “Thank you so much, Joel. You don’t… you don’t know what this means to me.”

Joel’s brows softened, his hands reaching out to cup your face gently, his thumbs brushing against your cheeks.

“Hey,” he murmured, his voice warm and low, “you’re welcome, darlin’. I just… I wanted you to have somethin’ nice. Somethin’ that’s yours.”

You smiled, blinking through the tears as you leaned into his touch.

“No one’s given me a gift since I was seventeen,” you admitted softly, a hint of laughter in your voice as you tried to play it off, but Joel’s expression only grew more tender.

“Well, I’m makin’ up for lost time, then,” he said, his voice steady, the corners of his lips twitching into a faint smile.

You let out a soft laugh, pressing your forehead against his, your hand still clutching the candle like it was the most precious thing in the world.

“You’re somethin’ else, Joel Miller,” you whispered, your voice fond and thick with emotion.

Joel chuckled softly, his fingers brushing through your hair. “Yeah, well… you’re worth it.”

Joel couldn’t decide if you reminded him of a soldier or a queen, but either way, it made his chest tighten every time you spoke.

It started innocently enough.

“Joel, we need these supplies moved to the north gate before sundown,” you said one day, standing by the depot, that calm, no-nonsense tone that made Joel’s stomach flip.

“Yes, ma’am,” he replied without thinking, the words slipping out as easily as breathing.

You’d looked up, a flicker of amusement in your eyes. “Didn’t peg you for the ‘yes ma’am’ type,” you teased lightly, your lips curving into that small, knowing smile.

Joel had flushed, shifting on his feet like a boy caught stealing. “Guess it’s just… habit.”

You didn’t push, just nodded and turned back, but Joel couldn’t get the moment out of his head.

Something about the way you spoke to him—firm but never condescending, confident but never overbearing—lit something inside him he hadn’t felt in years. 

Respect, maybe. Or something deeper, darker, and far more dangerous.

The more months you worked together, the worse it got for him.

“Joel, grab the shotgun and cover me,” you ordered one day, crouched behind a rusted-out truck as infected skittered through the woods ahead. Your voice was steady, even in the heat of the moment, and Joel’s chest swelled as he followed your lead without question.

Another time, while patrolling the perimeter, you had said, “Check the west side at dusk. Let me know if anything’s out of place.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Joel had answered automatically, his voice softer, almost reverent.

You didn’t always notice how easily he fell into step with you, how much he craved the way you trusted him to follow through. 

But Joel noticed. Every damn time. 

And it wasn’t just respect—though that was there too—it was something raw and magnetic. Something that made his chest tighten and his cock stir in ways that left him fumbling for composure.

It wasn’t just the way you spoke. It was the way you carried yourself. The way you moved through the world with confidence that was effortless, never forced. 

You weren’t trying to prove anything to anyone—you just were. You called the shots when they needed calling, and people listened, not because they had to, but because they wanted to.

Joel wanted to. And more than that, he liked it.

One night, it all came to a head.

Jackson was quiet, the streets bathed in the soft glow of lanterns strung between buildings. Joel was walking back from the stables when he spotted you on the porch of the town hall, a map spread across the railing in front of you. 

The way the light hit your face, catching on your jawline and softening your features, made his chest ache.

“Joel,” you called, your voice slicing through the stillness like a blade.

He froze for half a second before making his way over, his boots crunching softly on the gravel. 

His pulse quickened as he got closer, his eyes darting over you—your loose hair falling over one shoulder, the curve of your wrist as you held the edge of the map, the faint furrow in your brow that he desperately wanted to smooth away.

“Everything alright?” he asked, his voice rougher than he intended.

You glanced up, your eyes meeting his. “Come take a look at this,” you said, motioning him closer.

Joel stepped up beside you, his shoulder brushing yours as he looked at the map.

The faint scent of soap and leather lingered on you, and Joel had to force himself to focus on what you were pointing at—a marked spot near the riverbank.

“Been seeing signs of movement out here the past couple nights,” you explained. “Could be nothing, but I want to clear it tomorrow. Need someone to back me up. You in?”

“Always,” Joel said immediately, his voice quieter than he intended but no less firm. His fingers brushed yours as he took the map, and he swore he felt a spark.

You smiled then—just a small curve of your lips—but it sent heat rushing through Joel’s chest. “Good. Be ready at dawn.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Joel murmured before he could stop himself.

Your brows lifted slightly, amusement flickering in your expression. “You don’t have to keep calling me that, you know.”

Joel rubbed the back of his neck, his cheeks warming. “Can’t help it,” he muttered, his gaze sliding to the ground. “Suits you.”

Your smile widened just enough to make his heart stumble. “If you say so.”

With that, you folded the map, tucked it under your arm, and disappeared into the town hall, leaving Joel standing there like a damn fool, his chest tight and his jeans uncomfortably snug. 

He swore under his breath, adjusting his stance in a futile attempt to ease the ache building low in his belly.

It wasn’t fair. 

The way you got under his skin without even trying. The way you made him feel… lighter and heavier all at once. 

Joel had spent his whole life being the one people leaned on, the one who carried the weight, and for once, he didn’t mind letting someone else take the reins. 

Hell, he wanted to. 

He wanted to follow you, to listen to you, to give you every ounce of control you asked for.

Joel stayed rooted to the spot, staring at the closed door of the town hall long after you’d gone inside. 

His pulse pounded in his ears, the ache in his jeans growing unbearable as his mind replayed the last few moments—the way your voice curled around his name, the subtle command in your tone when you told him to be ready, the approving smile that lingered on your lips when he’d answered.

It was ridiculous, he thought bitterly, rubbing the back of his neck. He was a grown man, for Christ’s sake, and yet here he was, rock-hard in the middle of Jackson like some lovesick idiot. 

His cock throbbed against the tight denim of his jeans, a constant, humiliating reminder of how badly he wanted you—how badly he needed you.

Joel swallowed hard, adjusting himself as subtly as he could manage, though the motion sent a shiver of frustration through him. 

This was nothing new. 

Every time he was around you, it was like his body betrayed him, reacting to the sound of your voice, the sway of your hips, the smallest flick of your wrist as you gestured for him to follow.

He couldn’t stop thinking about it—about you.

The way you carried yourself, confident and composed, made his chest tighten in ways that were equal parts admiration and raw, aching need.

You were everything Joel wasn’t. Steady. Collected. In control. And fuck if he didn’t crave that about you.

More than anything, he craved the way you made him feel. Like he could just… let go.

The thought sent a fresh jolt of arousal straight to his cock, and Joel bit back a groan, his hand clenching at his side. 

He’d spent years—decades—being the man people turned to, the one who handled the tough shit without complaint.

But with you? He didn’t want to be the guy in charge. 

He wanted to be the one following orders, wanted to be the one looking up at you, waiting for your approval. 

He wanted to make you proud. 

To hear you say his name the way you had earlier, with that faint hint of amusement, like you saw something in him that no one else ever had.

Goddamn it, he was pathetic.

Joel shook his head, muttering a low curse under his breath as he turned away from the town hall. 

The walk back to his house felt like a blur, his thoughts too tangled to focus on anything but you. 

Every step sent a dull throb through his cock, and by the time he reached his front door, his hands were trembling, his jaw tight with restraint.

Inside, Joel leaned heavily against the door, the cool wood pressing into his back as he exhaled shakily. His chest rose and fell in uneven waves, the pounding of his heart loud in the stillness of the house. 

The faint creak of the floorboards beneath his boots reminded him he wasn’t dreaming, though he almost wished he were—wished the memory of you wasn’t so vivid it set his whole body on fire.

His jacket slid from his shoulders and hung limply on the hook by the door, but the ritual did little to calm him. 

His hand lingered against the fabric, fingers gripping tightly for a moment as though holding on to it might anchor him. But there was no escape—not from the way you lingered in his thoughts, the way your voice echoed in his ears like a melody he couldn’t shake.

C’mere, Joel. I need you to check this.

C’mere, Joel….

The words played on repeat, the confidence in your tone, the subtle curve of authority behind every syllable. 

The way you’d glanced at him tonight, your eyes catching his for just a second longer than necessary—it was enough to drive him insane. 

Joel groaned softly, the sound rough and guttural as he pressed the heel of his palm against the stiff, aching bulge in his jeans.

“Jesus,” he muttered, shaking his head as if that might clear it. But it didn’t. It never did. He’d thought about you like this too many times to count. 

Late at night, alone in the dark, his fist slick and tight around his cock, imagining you leaning over him, your voice a breathy, commanding whisper.

“Good boy, Joel. Just like that.”

It was the praise that undid him every time, the approval he ached for, that soft edge of control in your voice that made his chest tighten and his hips buck into his hand. 

Joel’s teeth dug into his bottom lip as he pushed off the door, his steps hurried and uneven as he made his way toward the bedroom. 

His body was hot, his skin flushed as he kicked the door shut behind him and leaned against it, his breath coming fast and shallow.

He didn’t bother with the lights. There was no point when the image of you burned so brightly in his mind.

His hands fumbled with his belt, the leather sliding free with a sharp hiss before he shoved his jeans down his thighs, kicking them aside. 

His cock sprang free, thick and heavy, the tip already glistening with pre-cum.

Joel wrapped his calloused fingers around himself, his rough palm dragging slowly along the length as his head tipped back against the door. 

A soft, broken groan escaped his lips, and he tightened his grip, savoring the sharp sensation.

“Yes,” Joel whispered hoarsely, his hips jerking into his hand as the thought took hold.

The image was so vivid it made his knees weak.

“On your knees, Joel. Let me see how much you want it.”

He imagined you standing over him, your hands on your hips, your lips curved into that wicked, knowing smile.

You’d look down at him like you owned him, and Joel would crumble beneath that gaze, his body desperate to obey.

His hand moved faster, his strokes rougher as his chest heaved. “Fuck,” he muttered, his voice thick and broken. “I’d do it. Anything you want, darlin’. Just… just fuckin’ tell me.”

And then, there was the fantasy he couldn’t shake. You’d guide him down—your fingers tangling in his hair, pulling just hard enough to make him hiss as you tilted his face up toward yours.

“You want to make me feel good, baby? Show me.” You’d press his face between your thighs, your warmth surrounding him, and Joel would lose himself.

He could almost feel it—the softness of your skin, the slick heat of your cunt against his lips. His tongue would trace slow, deliberate circles around your clit, savoring the way your body trembled beneath his mouth. 

You’d moan his name, your voice breathy and broken, and it would be the only thing he cared about.

Joel groaned loudly, his hips jerking off the door as his hand tightened, the slick sound filling the room. “Please,” he rasped, his voice shaking. “Please, darlin’. Let me be good for you. Let me—”

He imagined you grinding against his face, your thighs clenching around his head as you guided him, demanding more. “That’s it, Joel. Just like that. Don’t stop until I come, baby.”

The thought of your approval, of hearing you call him a good boy as he worked tirelessly to please you, made his cock throb painfully in his hand. “I’d do it,” he muttered hoarsely. “I’d fuckin’ worship you, darlin’. Just say the word.”

The tension snapped, his body locking up as his release hit. Hot, thick spurts spilled over his hand, his voice breaking into a low, guttural groan as his hips jerked helplessly. 

Your name fell from his lips, raw and reverent, as the pleasure coursed through him, leaving him trembling and spent.

For a long moment, Joel stood there, his chest heaving, his hand still wrapped loosely around his softening cock. 

The air was thick with the scent of his arousal, the evidence of his need dripping onto the floor, and yet all he could think about was you. Your voice, your smile, the way you made him feel like he could let go of everything and just… be.

Joel swallowed hard, his jaw tightening as he finally pushed off the door and reached for a towel. 

He cleaned himself up quickly, his thoughts still tangled, his body still thrumming with the remnants of his release. But even as the tension faded, the ache lingered—the desperate, aching need for you.

For your voice. For your touch. For your approval.

And Joel knew he’d never stop wanting it. Never stop wanting you.

Because this wasn’t enough. It would never be enough. Not until he had you.

Not until he could hear you say his name the way he’d always dreamed, soft and breathless, your hands gripping his shoulders as you told him exactly what to do.

· · ───

The sun was barely cresting the horizon as you and Joel set out toward the riverbank, the chilly morning air biting at your cheeks. Joel kept a steady pace beside you, his rifle slung across his shoulder, his eyes scanning the dense treeline with practiced precision.

Despite the tension that always came with patrols, there was a comfort in your presence—a grounding force that he couldn’t quite put into words.

The faint scent of soap and leather lingered on you, familiar and steady, and Joel found himself stealing glances at you more than he should.

You walked with such assuredness, each step purposeful, and the soft sway of your hips had him swallowing harder than necessary.

He tried to focus, but your commanding presence made it impossible not to feel both overwhelmed and grounded.

“See this?” you murmured, crouching near a patch of disturbed dirt. Your voice was low, clipped, yet patient as you gestured for him to come closer. “Looks like someone’s been through here recently. More than one.”

Joel crouched beside you, his shoulder brushing yours as he examined the ground.

The way your hair caught the morning light, the subtle curve of your neck—it was too much. His chest tightened as he forced his gaze to the dirt and away from the way your lips parted slightly in concentration.

“Yeah,” he muttered, his voice rougher than intended. “Could be raiders.”

“Could be,” you agreed, straightening and adjusting the strap of your pack. “Let’s keep moving. Stay sharp.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Joel said before he could stop himself, the words slipping out instinctively.

You glanced at him, one brow arching, the barest hint of a smirk tugging at your lips.

You turned without a word, leading the way through the uneven terrain. Joel followed close behind, his pulse quickening with every step. 

You always had this effect on him, like you were a magnet and he couldn’t help but be pulled in.

The ambush came fast. 

Raiders poured from the treeline, their weapons raised, shouts breaking the morning quiet. 

Joel moved on instinct, diving behind a fallen log and returning fire, but it was you who commanded the chaos with sharp, decisive orders.

“Joel! Left flank! Cover me!”

He obeyed without question, his rifle steady as he took down one of the raiders attempting to circle around. 

Even in the heat of the moment, his eyes kept darting to you—how you moved like a ghost through the underbrush, your aim deadly, your composure unshaken.

But when one of them charged at your blind spot, Joel didn’t think. He moved.

The gunshot echoed like thunder as he dropped the man with a single shot. 

You spun to face him, your eyes wide—not with fear but with something else. Relief? Gratitude? Whatever it was, it made his chest swell.

“Thanks,” you said, your tone steady despite the chaos. “But I told you—stay back.”

Joel gritted his teeth but nodded, ducking back behind cover as you finished off the last of the raiders. 

When the dust settled, you stood amidst the wreckage, your rifle slung over your shoulder, your expression calm but sharp. 

You scanned the area one last time before nodding.

“We’re clear,” you said, turning toward him. “You okay?”

“Yeah,” Joel replied, though his arm burned where a bullet had grazed him. 

He shifted, trying to hide the blood seeping through his sleeve.

Your eyes narrowed. “You’re hit.”

“It’s nothin’,” he muttered, brushing it off.

“It’s not nothing,” you snapped, stepping closer. Your hand grabbed his arm, firm but not harsh. “We’re done here. You’re going back to Jackson. Now.”

Joel stiffened, his jaw tightening. “I can keep goin’. I’m fine.”

You tilted your head, the corners of your lips pulling into a wry, almost dangerous smile. 

“Joel,” you said, your voice low but laced with authority that sent a shiver down his spine. “Do I look like I’m asking?”

Joel swallowed hard, his pulse hammering in his ears. “No, ma’am,” he muttered, his voice quieter this time, almost reverent.

“Good.” Your fingers lingered on his arm for just a second longer than necessary, the heat of your touch branding him, before you turned toward the horses. “Let’s move.”

At the clinic, Joel sat on the cot, his shirt discarded, the gash on his arm raw and angry. He winced as the doctor worked, stitching the wound with quick precision. 

But his eyes weren’t on the needle or the thread—they were on you, leaning against the doorway with your arms crossed, your expression unreadable.

“You’ll need to rest for at least a couple days,” the doctor said, tying off the final stitch. “No patrols, no heavy lifting.”

Joel opened his mouth to argue, but your sharp glance silenced him immediately.

“Got it,” you said curtly, nodding at the doctor. “Thank you.”

When the doctor left, you turned to Joel, your arms dropping to your sides as you stepped closer. “Let’s get you home.”

Back at his house, you guided him inside, your hand on his arm, your touch firm and steady. 

Joel sank onto the couch with a groan, his body heavier than he wanted to admit. You moved with purpose, disappearing into the kitchen before reappearing with a damp cloth and a glass of water.

“You don’t have to—” he started, but you cut him off with a look that had him snapping his mouth shut.

“Let me,” you said, your tone leaving no room for argument.

You knelt beside him, pressing the cloth gently to his arm. Joel swallowed hard, his breath catching at the sight of you so close, your fingers brushing against his skin.

The faint scent of you—clean and sharp, with a hint of something sweet—filled his senses, and he had to clench his fists to keep from reaching out.

When you finished, you sat back on your heels, your eyes meeting his. “Joel,” you said softly, “why do you push yourself so hard?”

Joel looked away, his jaw tightening. “Don’t wanna feel useless,” he muttered. “Don’t wanna… be a burden.”

“You’re not a burden,” you said firmly, leaning closer, your voice carrying a weight that made Joel’s chest ache. “You’re the furthest thing from it.”

Joel’s eyes flicked to yours, his breath catching at the intensity in your gaze. “I just…” He hesitated, his voice breaking. “I just wanna be good for you. Wanna make you proud.”

You tilted your head, a slow, knowing smile curving your lips.

“You already are, Joel,” you murmured, reaching out to cup his face. Your thumb brushed over his cheekbone, and Joel leaned into your touch like it was the only thing keeping him grounded.

Joel’s breath was uneven, his good hand curling into a fist on his thigh as he struggled to find the words.

You sat beside him on the couch, quiet and steady, your eyes on his face, your expression calm yet unreadable. It only made him more frantic.

“I—I can’t stop thinkin’ about you,” Joel stammered, his voice rough and breaking. 

He rubbed a hand over his face, his palm trembling slightly as if he was trying to physically hold himself together.

“I need… I need you close. I don’t know what the hell I’m doin’, but I—I can’t keep this to myself anymore.”

Your lips parted slightly, but you didn’t speak. You just nodded slowly, your gaze unwavering, and it made him feel both exposed and comforted all at once. The tension in his chest was unbearable.

“I—dammit,” he muttered, his voice thick, his gaze darting everywhere but your face.

“I’m tryin’ to say it right, but I don’t—I can’t—I need you, alright? I can’t stop thinkin’ about you. About how you—how you’re always so damn steady, and you—”

He sucked in a shaky breath, his eyes finally locking on yours. They were glassy now, his vulnerability laid bare. “You make it easier, y’know? Just bein’ around you… I feel like I can breathe. Like maybe I ain’t so—so broken after all. And I… I need that. I need you.”

You tilted your head slightly, your lips curving into the faintest smile. It wasn’t teasing, wasn’t pitying. It was understanding, warm, and Joel swore it made his chest ache even more.

“Baby,” you murmured softly, the endearment sending a shiver down his spine. “You like me…romantically?”

Joel froze for a moment, his breath catching as your words settled over him. His lips parted, but all he could do was nod, the movement small and jerky, like he was afraid to admit it outright.

“Want to be good for me?” you asked, your voice a low, soothing hum.

Joel’s nod came faster this time, his breathing growing heavier as he leaned into you, desperate for something he couldn’t quite name.

You leaned in slowly, cupping his face with one hand, your thumb brushing over the rough stubble along his jaw. 

Joel’s eyes fluttered shut as you pressed your lips to his, soft and lingering, and the low, guttural sound he made against your mouth was filled with need. 

His hand reached out, gripping your waist as if anchoring himself to you, and his lips parted under yours, seeking more.

But just as he leaned into the kiss, you pulled back, your face still close enough that your breath mingled with his.

“Get better for me first, yeah?” you murmured, your thumb trailing along his jaw.

Joel’s eyes snapped open, his brows furrowing as he shook his head. “No, please,” he whispered, his voice rough and desperate. 

“Please, I can’t—I’ve been waitin’ for so long. Please don’t make me wait anymore.”

You shushed him softly, your fingers sliding through his hair, and Joel practically melted under your touch, his body trembling with the effort to hold himself back.

“You’ll wait,” you said firmly, though your tone was still warm. “Because you’re mine, and I’m not about to let you go. But first, I need you strong, Joel. Need you rested. Yeah?”

Joel let out a shaky breath, his forehead dropping to your shoulder as he nodded, though his grip on you didn’t loosen. “Alright,” he rasped, his voice barely audible. “Alright. But just… just promise me you’ll be safe.”

“Well…you know me, baby,” you whispered, your lips brushing against the crown of his head.

Joel’s breath hitched again, his arms wrapping around your waist, holding you close as if to prove to himself that you were real. And as the weight of the moment settled between you, he felt something he hadn’t in years—peace.

· · ───

Joel had never been good at resting, but being sidelined for days was pure torture.

His arm still kinda ached where the stitches pulled at the edges of the wound, but the pain was nothing compared to the gnawing anxiety that came from not seeing you. 

Three days felt like a lifetime, and every hour that passed without you made his chest feel tighter.

You’d been on patrol since the crack of dawn, and Joel had spent most of the day pacing around his house, every creak of the floorboards setting his nerves on edge. 

He hadn’t wanted to push his luck with the doctor or you, so he’d stayed home, but the absence of your presence was like a physical ache.

He’d heard the patrol schedule—you were checking the area near the riverbank, where the raiders had been sighted. 

The thought of you out there, alone or with someone who wasn’t him, made his stomach churn.

Joel knew you could handle yourself—he’d seen it firsthand—but the idea of you in danger without him there to back you up was unbearable.

By the time the sun dipped below the horizon, Joel couldn’t take it anymore. 

His boots thudded against the wooden floors as he grabbed his jacket and rifle, the pain in his arm be damned.

If he didn’t see you soon, he was going to lose his mind.

The gates of Jackson were quiet, the air cool and crisp as Joel made his way toward the watchtower. A few guards gave him curious glances, but no one stopped him. He wasn’t exactly known for staying out of trouble, injured or not.

“Have you seen her?” Joel asked one of the guards at the gate, his voice gruff.

“Think she’s still out near the west ridge,” the man replied, tilting his hat back. “They were due back an hour ago, though.”

Joel’s jaw tightened. An hour ago. His grip on his rifle tightened as he set off toward the west ridge, his boots crunching against the gravel.

The relief was like a flood when he spotted you in the distance, your silhouette unmistakable against the fading light.

You were walking back toward the gates, your pack slung over your shoulder, your rifle in hand. Joel’s breath hitched at the sight of you, his steps quickening as he closed the distance between you.

“Where the hell have you been?” Joel barked, his voice harsher than he intended as he reached you.

You raised an eyebrow, clearly unimpressed by his tone. “Patrol. Where I said I’d be.”

“You were late,” Joel muttered, his gaze sweeping over you, searching for any sign of injury. “Anything happen out there?”

“Couple of runners,” you replied, brushing past him toward the gate. “Nothing bad.”

Joel followed you, his chest tight as he struggled to find the right words. “You could’ve sent word. Let someone know you were runnin’ behind.”

You turned to face him then, your eyes sharp. “Joel, I’m fine. I’m more worried about why you’re out here when you’re supposed to be resting.”

“I was worried about you,” Joel admitted, his voice quieter now, though no less intense. “Didn’t like not knowin’ if you were okay.”

Your expression softened, and you let out a quiet sigh. “Joel, I told you I’d be back.”

“And what if somethin’ had happened?” Joel pressed, his voice growing rough. “What if—” He stopped, his jaw clenching as he looked away.

You stepped closer, your hand resting gently on his arm. “Hey,” you said softly, your tone soothing. “I’m here. I’m okay. And you need to trust that I can take care of myself.”

Joel’s eyes flicked back to yours, the tension in his shoulders easing slightly at the steadiness in your gaze. “I know you can,” he muttered. “Doesn’t mean I’m not gonna worry.”

You smiled faintly, squeezing his arm. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

Joel huffed a laugh, the sound low and rough. “Ain’t what I meant, but… yeah, take it how you want.”

“Come on,” you said, nudging him toward the gate. “Let’s get you home. You’re not supposed to be out here.”

Joel wanted to argue, but the warmth in your voice and the steady grip on his arm made it impossible.

He let you guide him back toward his house, the tension in his chest slowly unwinding with every step.

The walk back to Joel’s house was quiet at first, the two of you falling into an easy rhythm. But as you neared the porch, Joel’s tongue loosened, and the floodgates opened.

“What was it like out there today? Was it quiet before the runners? Were they close? You eat somethin’? Drink enough water?”

You chuckled softly, glancing at him out of the corner of your eye. “Joel, I’m fine. I promise.”

“I know, I know,” he muttered, rubbing the back of his neck, his steps faltering slightly as you led him inside. “Just… can’t stop thinkin’ about it. About you. Out there without me.”

His voice was rough, his words tumbling out so quickly he barely had time to filter them. “I mean, I know you’re capable—hell, more than capable—but I wasn’t there, and… I hate not bein’ there.”

You stopped just inside the doorway, turning to face him. Joel’s eyes darted over you, like he was trying to memorize every detail, his breathing uneven, his hands twitching at his sides as if he wanted to reach for you but didn’t quite dare.

“You’re rambling, Joel,” you said softly, your voice calm and steady as you reached up to cup his cheek.

Joel froze, his breath hitching at your touch, his wide eyes locking onto yours. “I just…” he began, his voice faltering. “I just—”

“Hush,” you murmured, your thumb brushing over his cheekbone. “I’m here. I’m fine. And I’m not going anywhere for another 4 days.”

Joel exhaled shakily, leaning into your touch like a man starved. “I know,” he rasped. “I know, but I can’t stop—”

You silenced him with a kiss, your lips soft and warm against his, and Joel melted beneath it, his whole body going taut before he relaxed into the moment. 

His hands found your hips, tentative at first, then firm, gripping you like he was afraid you might disappear.

When you pulled back, his lips chased yours for a heartbeat before he caught himself, his eyes fluttering open. He looked dazed, his chest heaving, his pupils blown wide as he stared at you.

You smiled softly, the sound of his uneven breathing filling the space between you.

Joel’s lips parted as if to speak, but before he could, you leaned in and kissed him again, slower this time. His groan was low and deep, the kind that seemed to come from the very center of him, vibrating through your chest.

His hands tightened on your hips, pulling you closer, his need unmistakable.

When your lips parted and your tongue brushed against his, Joel whimpered—a sound so desperate, so raw, it sent a rush of heat straight through you.

You couldn’t help but laugh softly into the kiss, and Joel’s grip faltered for a second, his lips pulling into a shaky smile against yours.

“Why’re you laughin’?” he asked, his voice rough, his forehead pressing against yours as he caught his breath.

“You’re eager,” you teased, your hands sliding to his shoulders, feeling the strength there. “It’s sweet.”

Joel groaned again, his cheeks flushing as his hands smoothed up your sides. “Can’t help it,” he admitted, his voice dropping lower. “You’re drivin’ me crazy, darlin’. Been thinkin’ about this for too long.”

His gaze dropped, and his eyes darkened as they settled on the curve of your breasts, visible through the gap in your blouse.

“Fuck,” he muttered under his breath, his hands twitching like he wanted to touch but didn’t dare without permission. “You’re perfect.”

You raised an eyebrow, tilting your head as you ran your fingers along his jaw. “Joel,” you said, your tone firmer now, and he immediately snapped his gaze back up to meet yours, his breath hitching. “What are you lookin’ at?”

His cheeks went even redder, but he didn’t look away.

Your lips quirked into a sly smile, and you reached up to unbutton the top of your blouse slowly, deliberately. Joel’s eyes tracked every movement, his throat working as he swallowed hard, his cock straining visibly against his jeans.

“You’ve healed up, huh?” you asked, your tone playful, and Joel nodded quickly, his hands shaking slightly.

“Barely feel it,” he murmured, his voice trembling with anticipation. “Please, darlin’. Please let me—”

You sighed dramatically, shaking your head as you pushed the blouse from your shoulders, revealing the smooth curve of your skin.

“Go ahead, Joel,” you said, your voice steady but laced with heat. “If you think you can handle it.”

Joel groaned, his hands finding your waist again, pulling you flush against him as his mouth crashed into yours.

His kisses were messy, desperate, his lips sliding against yours like he couldn’t get enough. His hands roamed your body, shaky but reverent, sliding up your ribs and hovering just below your chest.

“Eager little thing,” you murmured against his mouth, and Joel whimpered at the words, his hips pressing against yours as his arousal became undeniable.

“Can’t help it,” he breathed, his voice shaky and desperate. “Been wantin’ to get my mouth on you for so long. Wanna lick every inch of you. Fuck, those pretty nipples—been dyin’ to suck on ‘em, darlin’. Let me taste you, please.”

The way his voice cracked, the way he clung to you—it was enough to make your resolve waver. But you weren’t going to let him get off that easily. Not yet.

“Bed,” you whispered, pulling back just enough to guide him toward the bedroom. Joel followed without hesitation, his hands still on you, his body trembling with barely-contained need.

“Sit down, baby,” you murmured, your voice firm but teasing as you pushed him gently onto the mattress.

Joel sat immediately, lips wet and swollen from your kisses, his pupils blown wide as he stared up at you like you were a goddess he was desperate to worship.

“Fuck,” he muttered under his breath, his gaze flicking to your chest, his tongue darting out to wet his lips. “You’re so goddamn beautiful.”

You stepped between his legs, running your hands up his thighs, feeling the way they trembled under your touch.

“Is this what you’ve been dreamin’ about, Joel?” you asked, your voice low and sultry as you leaned in close. “Me, standin’ over you like this, lettin’ you look your fill?”

Joel groaned, his head tipping back as his hips jerked involuntarily. “Yes,” he whispered, his voice trembling. “Every night, darlin’. I—fuck—I think about you all the time. Can’t stop.”

You smirked, running your hands higher until your fingers brushed against the hard, throbbing bulge straining beneath his jeans. Joel’s breath hitched, his hips lifting slightly as if to chase your touch.

“Bet you’ve been strokin’ that cock to the thought of me, haven’t you?” you purred, your nails scraping lightly along his thighs.

“Thinking about my tits, my mouth, wonderin’ what it’d feel like to have me all over you?”

Joel let out a broken whimper, his hands gripping the edge of the mattress as he nodded. “Yes,” he rasped, his voice thick with desperation. “Fuck, yes. I think about you all the time—Drives me crazy.”

You laughed softly, Joel’s eyes focused, his chest heaving as he took in the sight of you, his gaze zeroing in on your breasts, the way your nipples pebbled in the cool air.

You reached up, cupping your breasts and squeezing them lightly, your thumbs brushing over your nipples. “Wanna taste them, baby? Wanna feel my tits in your mouth?”

Joel groaned loudly, his hands clenching into fists as his cock strained painfully against his jeans. “Please,” he begged, his voice breaking. “Please, let me—fuck, let me taste them."

You smirked, stepping closer and guiding his hands to your hips. “Go on then, baby,” you murmured, leaning in until your chest was level with his face. “Show me how much you want it.”

Joel didn’t need to be told twice. His hands slid up to your waist, pulling you closer as his mouth latched onto one of your nipples with a desperate groan. 

His lips were hot and eager, his tongue swirling over the sensitive bud before he sucked it into his mouth, his teeth grazing just enough to make you gasp.

“Fuck, that’s it,” you murmured, threading your fingers through his hair and tugging lightly. “Good boy, Joel. Just like that.”

Joel whimpered against your skin, his hands sliding up to cup your breasts, squeezing them gently as he switched to your other nipple. His tongue worked in slow, deliberate strokes, his lips tugging and sucking as if he couldn’t get enough.

“Finally” he muttered against your skin, his voice muffled but no less desperate.

You chuckled softly, grinding your hips against his lap, feeling the hard line of his cock pressing against your thigh. “You’re so needy,” you teased, your voice dripping with satisfaction. “Can’t even keep your hands to yourself, can you?”

Joel shook his head, his mouth still attached to your nipple as he let out a low, guttural moan. His hands slid down to your hips, gripping you tightly as he rocked against you, his cock throbbing beneath the rough denim of his jeans.

“Can’t help it,” he rasped, his voice hoarse. “You’re all I think about. All I want.”

You leaned down, brushing your lips against his ear. “Then be a good boy for me, Joel,” you whispered, your voice low and commanding. “Keep sucking.”

Joel groaned, his hands tightening on your hips as his lips moved back to your breast, sucking and licking with renewed fervor. His hips bucked against yours, his need spilling out in every touch, every sound.

“You like these, baby?” you murmured, cupping your breast and brushing your thumb over your wet, glistening nipples. “My sweet boy likes them, hm?”

Joel froze for a moment, his pupils dilating as the meaning of your words sank in. His hips bucked sharply, and he let out a strangled moan, his whole body trembling beneath you.

“Fuck, I-,” he groaned, his voice cracking as his head fell back against the headboard. “Shit, darlin’, I’m sorry—I can’t… I’m—fuck!”

You felt the unmistakable heat and dampness spreading as Joel’s hips jerked one last time, his moans spilling into the quiet room. His face flushed a deep red, his chest heaving as he realized what had just happened.

“Shit,” he muttered again, his voice thick with embarrassment as he covered his face with one hand. “I didn’t mean to… fuck, I’m so sorry. This is so stupid—”

“Joel,” you interrupted, your voice firm but soothing as you brushed his hand away from his face. “Look at me.”

He did, his eyes wide and vulnerable, his lips parted as he struggled to catch his breath. The sight of him—flushed, desperate, and utterly wrecked—only made you want him more.

“It’s okay,” you murmured, your lips curving into a wicked smile. “I’m flattered, baby. You just couldn’t help yourself, could you? Had to come in your pants for me.”

Joel let out a choked sound, his hips twitching involuntarily beneath you.

“I… fuck, darlin’, you make me crazy,” he admitted hoarsely. “Can’t stop thinkin’ about you. I need you. Please… let me make it up to you.”

Your smile widened, and you leaned down, brushing your lips against his ear. “Still wanna keep going, baby?” you whispered, your voice dripping with mock sympathy. “After you’ve already made such a mess?”

Joel nodded frantically, his hands gripping your hips like a lifeline. “Yes,” he rasped, his voice breaking. “I don’t think I ever wanna stop, ma’am. Please… let me taste you. I’ll be so good for you, I promise.”

You pulled back slightly, tilting your head as you studied him, your expression unreadable.

Then, slowly, you smiled, your fingers trailing down his chest. “Undress me,” you commanded, your voice soft but firm.

Joel flushed, his hands moving to your waist again. He hooked his thumbs into the waistband of your pants, his eyes flicking up to meet yours for permission. 

You nodded, leaning back onto the bed as you let him guide the fabric down your legs, his touch careful but firm.

By the time your pants were off, you were sprawled out on the bed, your back resting against the pillows. 

Joel knelt between your legs, his chest heaving as he stared down at you, his eyes drinking in every detail like he was trying to commit it to memory.

"You're beautiful," he said again, his voice breaking slightly as his fingers slid along the waistband of your panties. 

He paused when he saw a visible wet spot already soaking through the fabric. His breath hitched, and he let out a shaky, “Fuck… look at that. So wet for me, darlin’. Goddamn.”

His hands trembled as he paused, glancing up at you for reassurance.

You smirked, one eyebrow arching as you propped yourself up on your elbows.

"Go on, baby," you murmured, your voice soft and encouraging. "You've got me all to yourself. Do what you've been dreaming about."

Joel’s hands hovered over your hips for a moment before he finally let them settle there, his thumbs brushing against the edge of your panties.

Joel settled between your legs like he was kneeling before an altar, his chest heaving and his fingers trembling as he slid along the waistband of your panties.

His eyes flicked up to yours, dark and wide with need, and you gave him the softest smile, threading your fingers into his hair as you gently tugged him closer.

“yeah, baby” you murmured, your voice dripping with encouragement.

His breath hitched, and he leaned down, his lips brushing against the sensitive skin of your inner thighs.

He kissed you there, slow and reverent, his beard grazing your flesh and sending shivers through you. Each kiss was accompanied by a low, throaty groan, his lips moving steadily closer to the source of your heat.

“Jesus Christ,” he rasped, his voice breaking as he reached the edge of your panties. His nose pressed against the damp fabric, and he inhaled sharply, the sound guttural and desperate.

“Fuck, you smell so good, darlin’. Like heaven—sweet, wet heaven.”

His hands trembled as they gripped your thighs, holding you open as he buried his face against you, nuzzling and inhaling like he couldn’t get enough.

The rough fabric of his jeans rubbed against your calves, a sharp contrast to the warmth of his breath and the wet heat of his mouth against your panties.

“Been dreamin’ about this—about your sweet cunt for so fuckin’ long. Want it so bad, baby. Wanna taste you—wanna lick you, suck that pretty clit between my lips and drink you down till there’s nothin’ left.”

You moaned softly, your fingers threading through his hair and tugging gently, encouraging him.

“Yeah?” you whispered, your voice low and breathless. “You wanna eat me out, baby? Wanna show me how good that mouth of yours is? Then take them off.”

Joel knelt between your thighs, trembling as he slid your soaked panties down your legs.

He didn’t even try to hide the way his breath hitched when your cunt was fully exposed to him, glistening and perfect.

His chest rose and fell in quick, uneven breaths as he just stared for a moment, his lips parting like he wanted to speak but couldn’t find the words.

“You just gonna look, Joel?” you teased, your fingers slipping into his hair and tugging gently. “Or are you gonna be a good boy and show me what you can do?”

That broke him. His head dipped instantly, his breath ghosting hot over your slick folds as he whispered, “Yes… yes, ma’am.” His voice was low, reverent, almost a prayer.

The first touch of his tongue was hesitant but deliberate, a slow drag from your entrance to your clit, as if he wanted to savor you.

He groaned into you, the sound muffled but deep, and then he leaned in further, pressing his mouth to your cunt like he couldn’t get close enough.

“Good boy,” you murmured, your voice soft but thick with pleasure. “Fuck, you’re so eager for it. Just like that.”

Joel didn’t answer—couldn’t answer.

He was too focused, his hands gripping your thighs to hold you open as he worked his tongue through every inch of your folds.

His breath hitched as he tasted you, his lips sealing over your clit for a moment to suck softly before his tongue returned to explore your entrance.

“Oh, baby,” you breathed, your hips arching slightly into his mouth. “You’re so fucking good at that. Look at you, so hungry for me. You love this, don’t you? Love worshipping my pussy.”

His only response was a desperate, muffled groan and moaning as he shifted his grip, spreading your thighs wider. 

His nose pressed against your clit, and he rubbed it there as his tongue delved inside you, slow and deliberate, tasting you from the inside out. 

His breathing was ragged now, warm puffs of air against your heat between each swipe of his tongue.

“Fuck yes,” he whispered hoarsely against you, his voice barely audible over the sound of his mouth working your cunt. “Fuck… taste so good. Yes. Yes, ma’am…”

You tugged his hair lightly, guiding him just where you wanted, and he followed without hesitation, his moans vibrating through your core. 

His nose nudged your clit again, his tongue lapping at your entrance with long, languid strokes, and your moans filled the room, soft and breathy.

“That’s it,” you encouraged, your voice breaking slightly as he found just the right rhythm. “Such a good boy. Keep going, baby. Make me come.”

Joel groaned deeply, the sound muffled as he pressed his face impossibly closer to your core, his lips locking around your clit. 

Each sound he made was guttural, desperate, like he was losing himself in the taste of you.

His hands gripped your thighs tightly, anchoring himself to you as his nose pressed against your folds, adding pressure in all the right places.

“Good boy,” you whispered, your voice trembling as you combed your fingers through his hair, guiding him exactly where you needed him. “Keep going, baby. Suck my clit just like that.”

Joel whimpered against you, the sound low and wrecked, and he obeyed without hesitation, sucking harder, his tongue darting out to flick over the swollen nub between pulls. 

He groaned again, his hips shifting slightly as if he couldn’t help but grind against the mattress, completely undone by the act of pleasuring you.

Your breath hitched, your body trembling as the tension in your core tightened to an unbearable degree.

“Fuck, Joel—don’t stop. Don’t you fucking stop.”

He moaned louder at your words, his hands tightening on your thighs as he doubled down, his lips creating just the right amount of pressure while his tongue worked you mercilessly. 

His nose nudged against your clit in rhythm with his sucking, the sensation pushing you closer and closer to the edge.

“Please,” he murmured against you between strokes, his voice trembling with need. “Wanna make you come, ma’am. Wanna feel you fall apart on my tongue.”

That was all it took. Your body tensed, your back arching as your orgasm slammed into you, waves of pleasure crashing through you so hard you couldn’t even form words. 

Joel groaned against you, his tongue and lips relentless as he rode out your release, his moans vibrating through every sensitive nerve ending.

When you finally came down, your thighs trembling and your breath shaky, Joel slowly pulled back, his lips glistening and swollen, his face flushed and eyes glazed with pure adoration.

He looked like a man on his knees at the altar of a goddess.

“perfect,” he whispered, his voice wrecked, his gaze fixed on your blissed-out expression.

“Did I do good?” he asked quietly, his voice raw and hoarse.

You smiled, brushing your fingers over his cheek. “Better than good, baby,” you murmured. “Fuck.”

Joel’s eyes darted to yours, wide and full of something raw and pleading. 

He leaned in again, his lips brushing against your inner thigh as he spoke, his voice trembling with need. “Please… can I keep goin’? Just a little more. I don’t wanna stop. Wanna taste you again, ma’am.”

His mouth found your clit in a featherlight kiss, his tongue flicking out experimentally, careful and reverent as though seeking permission. 

His hands slid up your thighs, holding them open like you might change your mind.

“Joel,” you said, your voice soft but firm, your hand threading into his hair and tugging just enough to stop him. “No, baby. I wanna feel you now.”

Joel froze, his breath hitching, and he whined softly against your skin, the sound almost pitiful. “But—” he started, his lips pressing to your clit again in a desperate, fleeting kiss. “I can make you come again. Please, I—”

“Joel.” Your voice was sharper this time, not cruel but commanding. His eyes flicked up to meet yours, his lips glistening and his pupils blown wide. “You’ve been so good, baby, but I want you now. Don’t make me ask twice.”

The words sent a visible shudder through him. He hesitated for half a second before pulling back reluctantly, his lips parted as if to protest but no words came out. His hands lingered on your thighs, squeezing gently as he swallowed hard.

“Yes, ma’am,” he finally said, his voice low and hoarse, the respect and submission in his tone sending a fresh wave of heat through you.

He sat back on his heels, his eyes never leaving yours as he waited for your next command.

You leaned up slightly, cupping his cheek with one hand, your thumb brushing over his flushed skin. His lips were parted, breathless, as if he couldn’t quite believe this was happening. 

“You’ve done so well, baby,” you murmured softly, letting your other hand trail down his chest. “But I need to see all of you. Let’s get this off.”

Joel’s breath hitched, his wide eyes locking onto yours as you reached for the buttons of his shirt. “Yes,” he whispered, the words shaky and reverent, like he couldn’t believe he was allowed this moment.

One by one, you undid the buttons, the fabric parting to reveal the broad expanse of his chest.

You slid the shirt off his shoulders, letting it fall to the bed as you sat back to admire him.

Your gaze swept over the planes of his body—the strong curve of his shoulders, the scars that marred his skin, the soft dusting of hair on his chest.

“Fuck, Joel,” you murmured, your voice full of heat and awe. “Look at you. You’re beautiful.”

His cheeks turned a deep red, and he looked away, swallowing hard. “Don’t know about that,” he mumbled, his voice low and unsure.

You leaned forward, your hands sliding over his chest, your thumbs brushing along the ridges of his scars.

“Oh, I do,” you purred, your tone leaving no room for argument. “You’re fucking perfect, Joel. Every inch of you.”

Your fingers grazed his nipples, and Joel froze, his breath catching audibly. The faintest shiver ran through his body, and he let out a soft, shaky, “Ma’am…”

You smirked, leaning in closer. “Sensitive, huh?” you murmured, circling the hardened peaks with your thumbs.

Joel let out a broken gasp, his hips jerking into the air as his hands gripped the sheets beneath him.

“Fuck,” he groaned, his voice low and desperate. “Didn’t… didn’t know I -.”

“You didn’t?” you teased, leaning down to press a soft kiss to one nipple before flicking your tongue over it. Joel’s reaction was instant—a guttural moan that sent a wave of heat straight through you.

“Sweetheart I-” he gasped again, his hands trembling as they hovered near your waist, like he wasn’t sure if he was allowed to touch you. “I—fuck, I—”

“Hush, baby,” you whispered, shifting to his other nipple and sucking it into your mouth. 

Joel cried out, his head falling back against the pillows as his chest arched into your touch.

His hips bucked again, and you could feel how hard he was, straining against the confines of his jeans.

“Fuck,” he whimpered, his voice trembling. “I didn’t know… didn’t know I could feel this good. Please, don’t stop.”

You hummed against his skin, your tongue teasing over the sensitive bud before you nipped at it gently. Joel’s whole body jerked, a sharp gasp escaping his lips.

“You’re so sensitive, baby,” you murmured, sitting back to admire the way his chest heaved, his eyes wide and glassy. “Bet no one’s ever touched you like this before.”

Joel shook his head frantically, his hands gripping the sheets so tightly his knuckles turned white. “No,” he breathed. “Never. Fuck, it’s—ma’am, it’s so good.”

You let your hands drift lower, tracing the sharp lines of his ribs and the soft curve of his stomach. Joel’s eyes fluttered shut, and he let out a shaky moan as your fingers teased the waistband of his jeans.

“You want more, baby?” you asked softly, your voice teasing and full of promise.

Joel nodded frantically, his voice barely above a whisper as he rasped, “Please… please, ma’am. Anything you want.”

You hooked your fingers into the waistband of his jeans, slowly pulling them down along with his underwear, your eyes drinking in the sight of him as he was finally exposed.

Joel’s cock sprang free, flushed and thick, the head an angry, swollen red and glistening with his earlier release.

Pearly streaks of cum had smeared down his shaft, pooling at the base and even dripping onto his balls. You let out a low hum of approval, your lips curling into a wicked smile.

“Such a mess,” you tutted, your voice thick with teasing affection. “You’ve really made quite the mess, baby.”

Joel’s chest heaved, his breath coming in shaky gasps as he avoided your gaze, his embarrassment clear. But his hips jerked slightly, almost involuntarily, at the heat in your voice.

“Aw, don’t get shy on me now,” you teased, your fingers curling gently around his cock, feeling the slickness of him against your palm.

“This is nothing to be embarrassed about. It just shows how much you need me.”

Joel whimpered, his voice breaking as he finally met your eyes. “I… I can’t help it,” he admitted hoarsely, his voice trembling. “You make me—fuck—you make me crazy.”

Your thumb stroked up the length of his shaft, smearing the sticky remnants of his cum before circling the sensitive head.

“I know, baby,” you cooed, your voice softening just a touch. “And I love how desperate you get for me. Let me clean you up first, okay? Can’t leave my good boy all messy like this.”

Joel nodded frantically, his lips parting as a shaky moan escaped him. “Yes, ma’am,” he whispered, his voice thick with submission.

You leaned down, your tongue darting out to trace along the underside of his cock, starting at the base where his cum had pooled and slowly working your way up.

The taste of him was intoxicating, salty and musky, and you let out a quiet, pleased hum as you licked him clean. Joel’s entire body trembled beneath you, his hands gripping the sheets tightly as he struggled to stay still.

“Fuck,” he gasped, his voice barely above a whisper. “Ma’am… oh, fuck…”

You didn’t stop, your tongue swirling around the head of his cock, collecting every drop of his release before moving lower.

Your lips closed around one of his balls, sucking gently as your hand continued to stroke him, coaxing soft whimpers and gasps from his lips.

His thighs trembled, his breath hitching as you moved to the other, lavishing it with the same attention.

“You taste so good, Joel,” you murmured, your voice low and sultry as you pulled back slightly to admire your work. “Such a pretty cock, too. Look at you, all clean and perfect for me now.”

Joel moaned loudly, his head tipping back as his hands clenched the sheets even tighter. “You’re—fuck—you’re perfect,” he stammered, his voice cracking. “I don’t deserve this.”

You grinned, your fingers brushing along the length of his cock, your touch light and teasing.

“You deserve every bit of this,” you said firmly, your voice dipping into a commanding tone. “You’ve been such a good boy for me, haven’t you? Letting me take care of you like this.”

Joel’s hips jerked against your hand, his breath coming in short, ragged gasps as he nodded frantically.

“Yes,” he whispered, his voice trembling. “Yes, ma’am. Please… please don’t stop.”

You leaned in again, pressing a soft kiss to the tip of his cock, your tongue flicking out to tease the sensitive slit.

“You want more, baby?” you murmured, your voice dripping with seduction. “Want me to make you feel even better?”

Joel’s eyes fluttered open, his gaze locking onto yours as he nodded, his desperation palpable. “Please,” he rasped, his voice breaking. “I’ll do anything. Just… please let me feel you.”

You smiled, soft and knowing, before leaning up to press a kiss to his lips. “Anything, huh?” you teased, your voice low and dripping with promise. “Then show me, Joel. Show me how much you want this.”

Joel’s hands trembled as he gripped your hips, helping you straddle him. His cock pressed against your slick heat, and he groaned deeply, the sound vibrating through both of you.

His eyes flicked between your face and where your bodies were about to join, his chest heaving with anticipation.

“Don’t make me wait,” he whispered, his voice hoarse and wrecked. “Please, ma’am. Let me feel you.”

You reached down, guiding him to your entrance, your breath hitching as you slowly sank down onto him.

The stretch was delicious, the thickness of him filling you completely, and you couldn’t help the moan that spilled from your lips.

“Fuck, Joel,” you gasped, your hands bracing on his chest. “You feel so good, baby. So big—.”

Joel’s head fell back against the pillows, his lips parted as a choked moan escaped him.

“Goddamn,” he muttered, his voice shaky. “You’re so tight, so fuckin’ perfect. Feels like heaven, darlin’. I—fuck—I can’t believe this.”

You rocked your hips slowly, letting yourself adjust to the feel of him before setting a steady rhythm.

Joel’s hands gripped your waist, his fingers digging into your skin as he bucked up to meet you, his movements desperate and hungry.

“Good boy,” you murmured, your voice low and commanding as you leaned over him, your lips brushing against his ear. “That’s it, Joel. Let me take care of you. Let me give you what you need.”

Joel whimpered beneath you, his hips stuttering as he clung to you.

“You’re… you’re so fuckin’ good to me,” he rasped, his voice cracking with emotion. “The way you—fuck—the way you handle everything. The way you handle me.”

You tilted your head, studying him with soft affection as your hips moved steadily against his.

“Finally can let go, hm?” you murmured, your tone soothing yet commanding. “Yeah? Let me take care of you, Joel. You don’t have to worry so much.”

Joel’s eyes squeezed shut, his breath hitching as his hands slid up to cup your waist, holding you like you were his lifeline.

“Fuck,” he moaned, his hips bucking harder into you. “I—I worry about you, darlin’. But… but it’s an honor to. Always an honor.”

Your heart clenched at his words, and you leaned down to kiss him deeply, swallowing the desperate sounds spilling from his lips.

His thrusts grew erratic beneath you, his chest heaving as he neared the edge.

Joel’s hands gripped your waist tighter, his fingers digging into your skin like he was afraid to let go.

His breath came in short, ragged bursts, and his hips moved with a frantic rhythm beneath you, desperate and unrelenting. Each thrust sent waves of pleasure coursing through you, your body moving in perfect sync with his.

“You’re so fucking good, Joel,” you murmured against his lips, your voice heavy with affection and desire. “So perfect, baby. Keep going—don’t stop.”

His head tipped back, exposing the vulnerable curve of his throat, a choked moan escaping his lips.

“I—I can’t—fuck, darlin’,” he gasped, his voice trembling with raw emotion. “You feel so goddamn good. Can’t… can’t hold on much longer.”

You cupped his face, bringing his gaze back to yours, your thumb brushing over his flushed cheek.

“You don’t have to hold on,” you whispered, your voice a soothing command. “Let go for me, Joel. Let me feel you.”

Joel’s eyes widened, his pupils blown, and his hips snapped up into you with desperate force.

“You’re—God, you’re everything,” he groaned, his voice breaking as his hands slid up your sides, trembling as they roamed over your body. “Everything, darlin'. Don’t wanna stop… don’t wanna lose this.”

“You’re not gonna lose anything,” you reassured him, your own voice breathy and uneven as you rocked against him harder, the friction pushing you closer to your own edge. “I’m here, Joel. Always. Now, give it to me, baby.”

Joel’s body tensed, his back arching off the bed as a guttural moan tore from his throat.

“Fuck!” he cried, his hands gripping your hips as his release hit him, his cock pulsing inside you with a heat that sent you spiraling.

The intensity of his climax triggered your own, your body tightening around him as waves of ecstasy crashed over you.

Your cries mingled with his, the room filled with the sounds of your shared pleasure, raw and unrestrained.

Joel’s hips stuttered beneath you, his movements slowing as he rode out the last shuddering waves of his orgasm. His hands loosened their grip on your hips, sliding up to cradle your back as he pulled you down against his chest, holding you close.

For a moment, neither of you spoke, the only sounds in the room your labored breathing and the faint rustle of the sheets. Joel’s fingers traced lazy patterns on your skin, his chest rising and falling beneath you as he pressed a soft kiss to the top of your head.

“You’re… you’re incredible,” he murmured, his voice hoarse but filled with awe. “I don’t deserve you, darlin’. Don’t deserve any of this.”

You lifted your head, brushing your lips against his with a tenderness that made his breath hitch. “You deserve it all, Joel,” you murmured, your voice steady but warm. “Every damn bit. You’re good to me—you’re good for me.”

Joel’s eyes searched yours, shining with an emotion he couldn’t quite name but didn’t want to hide. His arms tightened around you, his lips brushing your forehead in a lingering, reverent kiss.

"Now rest up. We’ve got work to do.”

· · ───

From then on, you and Joel became Jackson’s most formidable pair. Whether it was managing patrols, handling disputes, or protecting the town, people knew better than to question the two of you. Joel was your rock, steadfast and loyal, while you were the sharp, commanding presence that kept everything moving forward.

He was at your side for every decision, every challenge, always watching your back—and stealing those quiet moments when it was just the two of you. Joel wore his pride in you like a badge, unspoken but deeply felt, in the way his gaze lingered and his touch steadied you.

And every night, as the world outside grew dark, you both found solace in each other—a partnership built on trust, strength, and the kind of love that didn’t need words to be understood.

Joel always said it best in his own way: “Ain’t nothin’ in this world I wouldn’t do for you, darlin’. Always.”

· · ───────────𖥸──────────· ··

I am not beta reading all of that so if y'all find any errors tell me or ignore them like I did the past 22 years. Hope this was fun for you - please comment your opinions (plsplspls). I kinda feel like this is too long idk-

And today is just one of those days. He’d spent the night tossing and turning, trying to massage away a kink in his neck that persisted well into the afternoon. But he hadn’t had time to complain or think too much about how excited he was to crawl back beneath the sheets, because the northernmost barn was falling to pieces. 

So, not only was he functioning half empty from the start, but the work today was also strenuous. Sawing raw timber to the perfect length, sanding down the sharp edges, hammering nails into plywood. A full day. 

And when Denise had stopped him on his way home, waving him down with a glass of freshly squeezed lemonade in hand, she’d given him that bright, hopeful smile and said, “Little Sammy ran that damn bike into the back door again. Would you mind fixing the hinges?”

His back ached and his knees were creaky, but Joel soon found himself knelt on Denise’s porch, screwdriver and fresh nails in hand.

It didn’t take long, but it did take every last scrap of energy that remained inside of him.

Joel’s house was always quiet. Too big for him, really. Ellie was in the garage already, lights still on, up too late when she had early patrol the following morning. But Joel didn’t have it in him to remind her how important sleep was. Not when he was running on fumes himself.

So he dragged those tired, old bones inside. Kicked off his boots and jeans right at the door of his room, hung his flannel over the back of the chair at his work bench, and let out a long sigh as he climbed beneath icy cotton sheets.

He’s half asleep, eyes closed and muscles sinking into the mattress, when he hears it. 

The click of the latch on the unlocked front door. The creak of your careful steps as you climb the stairs.

Joel feels you before he sees you. Too exhausted to pull himself out of blissful almost-sleep. The mattress dips beneath your weight, limbs outstretched, seeking him out of instinct. 

This isn’t the first time this has happened. Not the first time you’ve found yourself peering out of your window next door waiting for him to get home. Not the first time you’ve ended up in his bed or in his arms.

And Joel knows he should put a stop to it—you’re too young, too sweet, too…good. 

But he’s too worn out to fight his impulses. He’s tried for months to keep his thoughts pure when you cross his mind, but it’s been a losing battle from the start.

Especially when you’re like this. Warm and soft, pressed up against his side, wearing an old t-shirt he’d let you borrow the night before and not much else. A comfort that feels more like home than this house does.

The tips of your fingers tickle his forearm, rousing him just enough that he lifts the heavy limb so you can crawl right into his embrace.

Joel holds you tight. He always does. Biceps big and strong around your shoulders. He holds you like he might lose you tomorrow, because there’s a part of him that fears one day you’ll wake up and see something you don’t like. 

He worries you’ll begin to see him for what he is; old, weary, tired. Not even half the man he used to be. Not half the man you deserve.

But for tonight at least, you still wear those rose tinted glasses. Pressing sweet kisses to his face; his nose, his forehead, his cheeks. Nuzzling your face into the crook of his neck, making cute, whiny noises at the back of your throat. Like you’re desperate, unable to get close enough despite every inch being pressed against him, leg hooked over his hips. 

You find a comfortable position and still beside him, letting out the same sort of long sigh Joel did just moments ago. But you don’t sleep—your breathing doesn’t even out, your muscles don’t go slack. 

Joel knows what you need. Long before your hips tilt, before you press your center against his thigh, before you whisper his name in the dark. 

“S’okay, sweetheart,” he murmurs, voice deep and dark and sleepy. “C’mere.”

He reaches over and brackets his arm around your waist to drag you on top of him, your center already warm and wanting.

It’s starting to get out of hand, he knows. Starting to become a routine. But Joel doesn’t have many sweet thing in his life, not anymore, and he finds you near impossible to resist. “I’ve got you,” he says. “Take what ya need.”

You lay against his chest, ear pressed right over his heart. Joel kisses the crown of your head when your hips begin to tilt, rubbing yourself against the steadily growing bulge beneath the thin fabric of his boxers.

Soft, wanton sighs leave you at the sensation, and even with a barrier still between you he can feel your clit pulse against the underside of his cock. 

Needy little thing you are. But Joel doesn’t mind—he likes the feeling. Of being needed, wanted. Especially by a girl as sweet as you.

You grind on top of him for a while. Not seeking release, not yet. Just feeling the hard warmth of him beneath you, savoring the weight of his big hands stroking softly up and down the expanse of your back. 

He can feel your arousal growing with each pass, wetness slowly seeping through his boxers, slick and sticky. Joel nudges you gently with the tip of his nose, the prickly hairs of his mustache tickling the side of your face. “C’mon, sweet girl. Let’s get this shirt off, hm?”

When you nod, you pull yourself up tiredly. The movement is slow and thick like molasses, so Joel uses the last of his energy to help you. 

His hands find the hem of the oversized t-shirt and pull it upwards, over your head to be discarded on the floor beside his bed. It leaves you completely naked, bared for him in more ways than one. 

In an instant, you fall back against him, breasts pressed up against his chest. Your skin feels cool against his, smooth and pillowy. “S’warm,” you mutter, rubbing the side of your cheek against the coarse hair that litters his chest, graying in some places.

Joel’s cock throbs beneath you, but he doesn’t pay it any mind. He just lets you settle back down and allows you to rest. His hands wander, though, the way they always do. 

Sliding down your back, over the sides of your thighs, thumbs massaging gentle circles. He strokes his fingers gently back up to your shoulders and then brings them down your arms, smiling when he sees goosebumps rise in his wake.

When they settle back at your hips, his touch is a little more eager. Kneading at the softness, inching over the curve of your ass until that’s all his hands are filled with. 

Joel loves touching you. Not just suggestively, but intimately. He loves feeling the closeness and the trust you put in him to take care of you, to keep you safe, to make you feel good.

He massages the supple flesh, holding you close, until his need for you begins to grow teeth, gnawing at his psyche. 

Joel knows he shouldn’t. He knows that. 

But he’s just so tired, and you’re so soft. Gentle and kind. And you make him feel loved—something Joel Miller has not felt for a very, very long time.

He guides you with his hands gripping at your curves, sliding your slick cunt over his aching cock. His breath feels hollow, stuck in his lungs.

When he lifts upward, just a little, enough to provide a little extra pressure, you mewl in response. 

Joel is quick to soothe, shushing softly into your ear. “Shh, you’re alright. Hang on, sweet girl. M’right here.”

He knows what you need. It’s become a nightly ritual at this point. You come to him seeking connection, seeking the comfort of an older man. Most nights you just need to be held, to be nurtured, to be loved the way you deserve. 

But other nights, Joel knows you need a little more. A connection that runs a little deeper.

He reaches beneath you, hooking his thumbs in the elastic band of his boxers and tugging them down his tired legs. Just enough to free his cock, already hard as stone just from your proximity. 

Joel pulls your forward, up his torso, giving himself room to line his length up with your entrance.

He slides in real easy.

You’re already soaked, dripping with arousal. And the moment he’s fully seated inside you, stretching you real wide, filling up your belly, you let out a breathy whine.

It feels right, being here like this with you. It feels like coming home. 

Joel moves you slowly, guiding each roll of your hips, slowing you down when you try to pick up the pace. 

There’s no rush. Not here, not with him. He’ll get you there. He’ll get you what you need. What’s the sense in hurrying through it? 

He wants to savor it. The feel of your sweet, soft pussy, clenching and leaking around his length. The way your stuttering breath tickles his skin. The way your hands grip him harder and harder, holding him impossibly closer.

He wants to savor the way you love him. 

“Gimme a kiss, baby,” he whispers in the dark.

You turn your head, just enough so that he can press his lips to yours. In this, too, Joel moves painfully slow.

It’s not a claiming, it’s an exploration. His lips move against yours, memorizing the feel of them, the shape and the taste. He slowly licks into your mouth, tongue gliding against yours, breathing in your exhalation. 

The building coil around his spine is anything but slow, however. He loves being here with you maybe a little too much. He loves you a little too much. 

Joel thrust upwards, keeping a steady, unforgiving rhythm while he slides his hand between you. His fingers search blindly for your clit and he finds it in seconds, circling those slow, tight circles around the pulsing nerves. 

Your sounds grow louder, release building. The sound of your joining echoes in the empty room, slick and wet and feverish.

He knows your close when you start manually breathing—lungs stuttering, chasing the delicious relief that only he can provide.

“You got it,” he encourages. “S’right there, baby. Give it to me.”

Your eyes stay locked to his, lips parting on a jagged moan. You don’t say anything; no warning, no begging. You just feel it, feel him, moving deep inside you, fucking you through it. 

“That’s it,” he says, voice all soft and warm the way it only ever is when he speaks to you. “There you go.”

He doesn’t stop until you find the natural rhythm of oxygen again, until the shaking in your thighs relents to an easy tremble. 

Joel feels that white-hot coil beginning to spool within himself, and pulls out of you with just enough time to shoot thick ropes of cum over your pubic bone.

He thrusts the underside of his cock through your syrupy folds, a gentle rocking until he’s spent. He somehow finds the energy for a few extra thrusts, smearing his release over your clit.

You don’t move an inch, and Joel doesn’t want you to.

Instead, you just lay there on top of him, sticky mess between you, your head resting delicately on his chest. 

When you reach up to card your fingers through his graying hair, Joel feels his muscles go completely slack, tension bleeding from his weary bones.

“M’sorry I woke you up,” you say, pressing a kiss to the corner of his mouth. “I know you were tired.”

“Don’t be sorry,” Joel says, and he means it. “I’ll always have time for you."

For Joel, anyway, it was pure misery day in and day out

Why? No reason other than it being the hardest to resist you. When you’d wake up all fidgety and hot and wanting him, and that burning sensation wouldn’t subside until long past your bedtime. Even in your sleep, to the man’s teeth-gritting dismay, that body lying next to his would inevitably wind up moving just as needily grinding up against him, and he’d feel powerless to its charms. He would have to relent.

Capitulation wouldn’t bother him so much if it didn’t mean you were ten times more likely to get pregnant.

“Ovu-la-tion,” you’d sounded out for him one morning, lips forming the most perfect ‘o’s and ‘u’ while you did.

It was in moments like those that Joel regretted teaching you sex at all. Giving you knowledge about your biological makeup and function certainly had its purpose, to be sure, but when he’d gone so far as to show you—how fucking sweet you’d looked peering up at him, then murmuring, ‘Show me where it goes?’—well, he’d just as well have gone out back and shot himself in the foot. The act probably would’ve been less painful and left him with fewer places scarred than what he endured each time he had to turn you away.

“Done told you about a hundred times now, honey, that kinda lovin’ leads to babies if we ain’t careful this time of month. Y’think we need a new mouth to feed?”

It killed him to say it.

Hell, deep down, there wasn’t a thing in the world he wanted to see more than a couple of rugrats with your pretty eyes and smile crawling around, pestering him.

But this wasn’t the time for that.

You’d pout and you’d clamp your legs together, tell him he was so mean, and why’d you even bother teachin’ me this stuff if we can’t do it when we both really want to? Joel would smile and smooth a hand over the crown of your head. He’d kiss your cheek and remind you he had fingers and a tongue, too, and more often than not, you would begrudgingly accept that offer.

Today, you were considerably more hardheaded and ornery. Everything seemed to be making you mad since you’d set off from Jackson an hour ago, and there wasn’t a lick else for Joel to do other than to—

“Fuck you,” you cursed, kicking a stump.

You’d almost just tripped over it.

Joel was leading the way home after a successful supply run in town and a visit with Tommy and Maria, and you appeared to be even more upset to leave than you normally were. You’d all but torn a tree limb the length of your body off of a nearby offending oak just fifteen minutes ago, and your impatience with nature was evidently only growing the longer you walked on.

The old man smothered a smile as he turned to you.

“Alright there, sweet pea?” he said.

“Nope,” you huffed at him, low.

Joel turned back to the path and pretended not to hear you threaten the life of some shrubbery by the wayside

He might’ve carried on like this for another two hours, at least. Surely the forty-five minutes that were left in your journey home would’ve been a cakewalk—and more than a little entertaining to him, despite the sharp pang of need he felt, too. When he was outdoors, and he was moving, and he didn’t have to stare for too long at your face or your body or the little swishing movements of your dress as you walked, he was fine. Or OK, anyway, and able to play it cool.

“I wish you’d bought me a bigger dildo.”

As soon as you said it, Joel choked.

Alright, so he wasn’t perfect.

“Hon, what did I say about—”

“Yeah, yeah. You told me don’t say nothin’ too ‘graphic’ about our sex life when we’re not at home, but that doesn’t really matter out here, does it?” You stopped in place, and that made him stop, too. “We’re out in the middle of nowhere. I can say I get fucked every day—”

“Baby.”

“—except when you’re scared of knockin’ me up!”

It would’ve been funny if it wasn’t also painfully true.

If Joel wasn’t currently watching you shrug off your knapsack, drop the thing to the forest floor like a bag of potatoes, and glare at him as if he were maybe the single meanest man alive, he might’ve even laughed.

Then you dropped to your knees. Right there in the middle of the clearing the two of you had just been trying to cross, you went and reached inside your bag.

He’d bought it as a precaution—this…gadget.

On the nights that he knew he’d have to spend away from home for patrol or a hunt or just some emergency run to Jackson that he couldn’t have you join him on, Joel had bought you a little toy to keep you company.

Especially in times like these, when you were horny and heated as you’d ever been, it had seemed ideal.

He just wished you hadn’t chosen an open field almost an hour away from home as the first place to pull it out.

“Sweetheart,” Joel said, tone now appreciably firmer. “You ain’t gettin’ down in the dirt and…and…playin’ with yourself with that brand new toy daddy got, OK?”

But it was too late.

You’d already taken it out.

The man deserved to be punished a little bit.

What, did he think he could just open up a whole new universe of debauchery and pleasure and then shut you out of it whenever he damn well pleased? Of course, Joel had taught you about consent and how each party to ‘playtime’ between adults needed to give it enthusiastically in order for their actions to be considered sex at all, but you weren’t asking him to participate if he didn’t want to. You weren’t begging for permission, either. You just wanted to act on the natural impulses you felt inside yourself and not be treated like some kind of freak for wanting relief.

So you would fuck yourself, plain and simple.

Only it wasn’t so simple, really.

Joel had instructed you on intercourse, giving and receiving head, touching your partner in their erogenous zones, and knowing how and when to cum—many, many times since he’d first taught you in the spring—but he hadn’t shown you how to fit this thing.

You were slicker than an oil spill between your legs. The skirt of your dress was flipped up, and the pale ivory material was spilling out over the ground beneath you. Your panties were off, and your cunt was on full display.

Joel was perched between your knees, hovering.

A sheen of sweat had broken out across his brow, and you could see the moisture beading at his temples before they slid down, rolling slow to reach his beard where a sea of silver and black consumed each droplet. Lined and weathered and pathetic was the face peering down at that treasure inside you. Brown eyes blinked slow, as if in a trance, and a tongue darted out to wet his lips every now and again.

If this wasn’t power, you weren’t sure what was. Smiling sweetly, you moved the tip of the bright pink toy down your seam and wriggled your hips a little.

You pretended like it was for dramatic effect and not because you had no fucking idea how to fit a dildo inside you and actually make it feel like sex would.

“Lemme lick her some,” Joel said, lowering his head. He was on his stomach, and his face might’ve been a foot and a half away from your drooling, aching heat.

It would be so easy…

Just a couple strokes from his tongue, maybe a finger or three pumping in and out of you. Groans rumbling between your thighs and in no time, you’d find bliss.

But that wasn’t the point of all this, was it?

The point was self-sufficiency.

Not needing anybody else.

In keeping with this thought, you spread your legs even wider and began to push the tip of the toy to your core.

It made it less than a centimeter before it met with resistance. At the same time, Joel let out a strangled:

“S-Sweetheart. Baby, let me show you.”

“No.”

“But darlin’, you’re gonna hurt yourse—”

“So?”

With your other hand, you began to play with your clit.

Maybe a little pain wasn’t the worst thing to feel now.

A breathy moan slipped out of you, and you could just tell that the less-than-secret Sex Ed professor in Joel was dying inside. He couldn’t bear the thought of something hard and phallic that wasn’t his penis brushing against your velvety walls unless he had some sort of say in it. He wanted to teach you again.

“Pussy’s too…fuck.” He watched the silicone sink in half an inch before your hole forced it back out, leaking. “She’s too fuckin’ tight. Needs daddy to stretch her out a little, get her ready for the fun, huh?”

“Nuh-uh. I can take it.”

This time, you gripped the base of the thick, veiny fake cock and pushed up—three or four inches, all at once.

“Fuck, daddy,” you whimpered. “Oh, that’s so good.”

And that was all it took, apparently.

Three and a half inches, two seconds, and one soft, pleading look from you had Joel changing his mind. Or deciding something, at the very least. He flipped you.

He caught your pink toy slipping back out and held it.

“Hands an’ knees, baby. All fours, yeah. Jus’ like that.”

You could barely breathe, let alone process the words being spoken to you, but somehow you managed to follow his orders. Your mind was swimming with lust and a bone-crushing need, your body pulsing with a warmth unlike anything you’d felt in a while. That sensation would come in waves during the time of the month you were most sensitive, when you were ovulating, though those moments were all short-lived.

Now Joel was indulging you in the feeling, and really dragging it out. Not only touching you but filling you up with something that wasn’t just his tongue or his fingers. You kneeled there, awed, and you could feel your fingers curling into the grassy earth beneath you.

You arched your back, dropping down to your elbows.

And Joel took control of that toy, sawing it in and out of your dripping pussy with practiced, near-perfect precision. Even as his hold shook a little, when the grip of his free hand on your ass tightened and you heard him mutter, low, ‘Fuck, that’s it, pretty girl. Take it all inside,’ he stayed focused on you. It went in deep.

It wasn’t him, but it was close, and Joel was kind.

“Lemme stretch her out. Make her feel real nice.”

Your cunt was making loud sucking sounds with each withdrawal and entry of the dildo, and your legs had started to shake. You clawed at the grass, whimpering.

“Da—ah— d-daddy.”

“There’s a good girl. Always so sweet openin’ f’me.”

Sometimes you swore you could finish from Joel’s words alone. His timbre, his control, the way he spread your cheeks open and spit—it all made you feel filthy in the best way. In your current hormonal state, wildfire blazing through your limbs, you couldn’t help yourself.

Half-cockdrunk and ovulation-crazed: “More—More, Daddy. Want your cock in me. Fuck me now, p-please.”

“You can’t have ‘im, baby. Ain’t safe right n—”

“But you wanna fuck, too, don’t you?”

Now you were peering over your shoulder, looking up at him. Joel was watching you back with an almost mournful expression, and you could tell he wasn’t just teasing you when he spoke. He felt genuine remorse.

“‘Course I do, baby,” he answered without hesitation. “I always do. Jus’ wanna do what’s…what’s right f’you.”

At the same time, you pushed your hips back a little.

Joel’s crotch was aligned with your ass, and as soon as you moved, a big, heavy, denim-clad bulge kissed you back. It bumped the dildo even deeper, and you hissed.

Joel groaned at the contact, gaze snapping down.

“What’s safe…” His words trailed off in a breath.

A barely coherent murmur: “What’s…what’s…”

You ground your bottom even harder against his front, the base of your toy no doubt bobbing back and forth.

Self-sufficient. Easy.

“Sweetheart.”

In and out.

“Daddy, I want it,” you pouted.

More friction.

More pleasure sprouting between your legs, tightening in your core and all but forcing the sentence out of you:

“Can’t you…put ‘im someplace else—someplace safe?”

Your mind was spinning perilously, not really forming any logical thoughts, but the concepts were there: your pussy, your mouth, between your tits, up and down.

Joel had started to move his lower half in time with yours—pantomiming thrusting. Grinding even harder when you dropped your head and let out a needy sound and begged him, ‘Put him anywhere, daddy.’

Joel’s hips jerked forward, and he cursed.

“Anywhere, baby?” he said, breathless.

He was dry-fucking you in doggy now.

The dildo was still lodged in your pussy, and Joel was still fully clothed, but he started to move as if he had really mounted you and was splitting your cunt, or something, open on his cock. He humped you like an animal in heat, grunting and groaning and holding your body as if it was the last thing tethering him to Earth.

Feeling equally feral, you turned your head again, and you asked him in a tone as sweet as you could manage:

“Please, Joel?”

He was going to explode.

You are not fucking her in the ass, Joel told himself. You are not doing that. Not now, not later, not ever.

Better late than never, you thought with a smile.

After verbally sparring with the man for all of five minutes—arguing that you should, in fact, use some ‘loophole’ that would keep you from getting pregnant—Joel had agreed. Angrily. Seeming to hate himself for it

“This is not somethin’ you do on a whim, hon,” he’d groused, scrubbing his beard in a slow, worried way.

He’d opened his satchel anyway. Rifled around in the thing before procuring a bottle of something sleek and sloshing. Your gut had twisted, but you’d felt eager, too

You hadn’t been entirely clear on what this kind of sex entailed, but if it was anything like the first time Joel had taught you, you sensed that you would enjoy it.

“So you just…put ‘im someplace new, is that right?”

“Ain’t like that.” Joel had shook his head.

“But—”

“No ‘buts,’” he’d interrupted at once. Poured the liquid from the bottle into his palm, the stuff gleaming in the sunlight a pale yellow hue. “‘F’we do it, we do it slow.”

So that was how you and him were doing it.

Slow.

Now you were perched at the edge of a riverbank, your gaze drifting lazily with the flow of a stream no more than four or five feet away from you and a sense of gentle, calming quiescence filtering through your system. On all fours again, you felt comfortable.

Joel had rolled out a blanket for the two of you to take your places and was careful to secure a new spot away from the beaten path, under the shade of a stand of aspens. Both of you had stripped. With the hand that wasn’t lathered up, Joel rubbed circles into your back.

“You sure you don’t mind doin’ things a little different today, baby?” His voice was low, almost grave. “Won’t do nothin’ unless you like it—I want you to know that.”

And if your body hadn’t already gone half-limp with all the pressure and the pleasure this man was inflicting on your muscles through his soft, kneading motions, you might’ve turned around and faced him. Smiled and said something like, ‘Don’t be silly, daddy. I like it all.’

Your contented hum evidently conveyed that well enough, because the next thing you knew, there was a new force beneath the kneading, between your thighs.

Solid, wet pressure you were more than familiar with.

“Daddy,” you giggled, body jerking forward a little at the sensation of him licking through your folds. “‘S’ain’t— ain’t no different! We always do this!”

At first, Joel didn’t answer—he simply tracked his tongue down the length of your seam from behind and lapped wetness from it. Nosed further between your legs and used his beard to stimulate the extra sensitive skin while he nipped at your slit, kissed your aching clit, and sucked your essence with the sweetest fervor. It didn’t take much for the arms holding yourself up to grow weak, then, and shortly, you were moving down onto your elbows with your rear pointed up at Joel.

He speared your dripping, quivering cunt with that tease of a muscle repeatedly, in and out again and again while you shuddered against him and sighed.

He maneuvered the hand that was coated in that slimy substance, finally, and started palming your ass with it.

“Daddy…p—please…I want…”

Joel paused just long enough to unglue his mouth from your pussy: “Want what, now, darlin’? What?”

You wriggled again, and you let out a dramatic huff.

“You know what,” you told him, words a plea. You rooted your bare knees even deeper into the blanket, and you canted your hips up. Pushing back onto him. “Wanna come, and I want…want you to be…inside.”

“That so?”

And to your surprise, you heard a chuckle, soft and low

At almost the same time, the hand covered in the slick, oily stuff started sliding down your ass again, inward, sliding through not just your folds but the entire cleft.

Joel knelt again.

Put his tongue to work again.

And for a second, you wanted to rebuff him…again.

Felt tempted to kick your feet and say this lickin’ ain’t any special or different, daddy! Sure ain’t no loopho—

“Oh.”

You froze.

Stared straight at the river and watched it churn and gurgle and flow and saw none of what was going on, really, because you’d just been hit with a new feeling.

Realization.

Penetration somewhere else.

You couldn’t even wonder at where that originated. Your legs clamped together, and you let out a breath.

“Wh— Why’re you lickin’ there, daddy?” you stuttered.

Joel’s hum vibrated through your center all the way to your teeth, causing them to grind together while you tried making sense of this novel feeling. Whimpering.

A few more featherlight, languid licks from Joel, then:

“Need it wet back here if I wanna play with her, right?”

“But that’s not my—”

“I know, baby.”

After Joel’s, your next words were swallowed up in a moan when the man started tracing circles—making an outline of a ring, again and again—and it was all you could do to keep from rutting your hips in helplessness

Ever the patient teacher, Joel stroked your back with the hand that was dry, again, and gave you a second to soak it in. With the hand that was coated in slick, he followed after his tongue with just the fingertips rubbing, coaxing the flesh. Prodding it to open.

“See, this hole doesn’t self-lubricate like your pussy does, sweetheart,” Joel said, near-pedagogical now. “No matter how turned on you are, it’s never gonna get all drippy and wet and pliant on its own. ‘S’why I gotta coach her along. Make sure she’s nice and slicked up.”

“But why?” you squeaked, reflexive. “For— For what?”

“For this.”

Then Joel slid something inside—not his tongue.

It edged in once, maybe half an inch, then slid back out. And in again, deeper, before retreating to the rim and toying with the muscles you felt clamp in unison.

“Try to relax, darlin’. Only makes it harder if you don’t.”

“But how come?” You squirmed. “Feels funny, daddy.”

Joel took a beat, and for that moment, he didn’t move. Just held whatever he’d stuck in you—presumably, his finger—and he didn’t poke or push you again, just held the tip tight to your puckered ring and hummed softly.

“Y’know the stuff I put on my hand?” he asked.

“Some…Some kinda oil, I guess?”

“Olive oil, that’s right, baby. It ain’t ideal, I’ll admit,” Joel paused, and it felt like he was shifting around. Adjusting his grip, maybe, until you sensed what felt like his thumb pressed up against that slicked place. “Back in the old days, they made real, um…gooey stuff special for doing things like this. Called lube, OK?”

OK. You nodded, still too off-kilter to look behind you.

Suddenly, swiftly, Joel’s thumb started to rub a little.

And you couldn’t say why your body jumped the way that it did, but you jolted before you could even try to keep it in. You mewled like some kind of strange and wanton creature, and you pushed your hips backward.

Embarrassment gripped you almost immediately.

Blinking hard and staring straight ahead, you shook your head, “‘M’sorry. Sorry. Don’t know why I did that.”

“Aw, honey,” Joel cooed. “Baby. Don’t apologize, OK?”

Still, your face was hot. You hated how you’d sounded.

“Would you turn around and look at me, sweetheart?”

Slowly, you did.

Behind you, your old man was perched on his knees, with a serene and gentle expression on his face. The fine lines and wrinkles had smoothed considerably, and what was left behind looked like understanding.

Wanting, too.

“Ain’t nothin’ to be ashamed of, what we’re doin’,” he started, slow. He rubbed a big, slick hand over your skin, and your whole body warmed in response to it. “Might make some different sounds, ‘cause Daddy’s playin’ with a whole different hole, and that’s OK. What’s important is that you like what’s happenin’.”

A brief beat of silence.

“That’s…consent, right?” you said shyly.

Joel grinned. “Yeah, darlin’. That’s consent.”

Consent when he edged in his finger to the knuckle next. Consent when he sawed it in and out, and twirled it around. Consent when he added a second, then a third, then quit the stretching altogether and just bent down to latch his mouth onto your wet, quivering ring.

He kissed it and licked it and laved it in saliva. Spit on it more than a couple times. His beard must’ve been drenched by then, but Joel didn’t seem keen on stopping for a while, judging by his grip on you.

Meanwhile, you were amped to no fucking end.

“Oh, daddy,” you hissed out a sigh of pleasure when his tongue slipped back inside, all the way and wriggling. “Daddy, put it—put him in, now.”

Joel grunted and retracted his tongue.

“You sure you’re ready for it?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“And where do you want daddy inside?”

“Um.”

You snagged your bottom lip between your teeth.

It felt wrong to say it, so you simply pushed your knees wider apart. Arched your spine, blinking back up at him

“There,” you whispered, wiggling your hips.

“Darlin’, you’re gonna have to say the place out loud if you want me to fuck it, OK? That’s all part of the deal.”

“But daddy.”

“I need you to get comfortable with stuff you think is wrong or ‘taboo,’” Joel continued, gentle but firm. “Don’t want you gettin’ halfway through and thinkin’ maybe you shouldn’t’a done it, and feel ashamed.”

Maybe that was part of it.

Maybe you did feel a little embarrassed that your body was currently in flames, and you wanted this man inside you so badly that you’d accept him anywhere, anyplace, even if you hadn’t the faintest idea how—

“Baby.” Joel interrupted your thoughts.

“Yeah?”

“Tell me all the places we’ve already done it.”

Your cheeks warmed reflexively.

“We…we’ve…”

“In your pussy?”

You nodded back.

“Between your tits?”

“Y-Yeah. There, too.”

“And…?” Joel trailed off.

“And…” You stared back at him, cheek resting on your forearms and your naked ass still up high by his face. Admittedly, this did feel a little enervating. But you tried to bite the embarrassment with a little smile. “You’ve…put ‘im in my mouth—fucked my throat, too.”

Joel grinned back. You took that as your cue to go on.

“And um…well, I’ve sat on your face. Rode your…thigh a little bit before. And you’ve rubbed your cock, like, between my legs until you spilled all over my pussy.”

“Anything else?”

“We did that ‘69’ thingy.”

You were pretty sure that was all of it.

Joel hadn’t been teaching you for that long. Compared to him, anyway, your experience was but a blip on the radar, and you had a good ways to go before you could say you were anywhere near as knowledgeable as him.

You peered curiously at your teacher; he peered back.

“Now, can you be a good girl and say where daddy’s goin’ next?” Joel goaded you gently. Edging in closer.

“In my, um…” You couldn’t help it when your face heated again. You braced yourself. “In my…backside?”

It sounded dumb as fuck saying it like that.

Surely there had to be a better word than—

“Anal.”

“Anal?”

“Yeah, sweet pea.” Joel smoothed his touch up your spine, then back down again. He rubbed at the muscles that were tensing slightly. “That’s it.”

From your position under him, it was hard to read his face. You couldn’t begin to imagine the look on yours.

When you didn’t say anything at first, still processing that one word, Joel went on—massaging, and talking.

“Old school birth control, I guess you could call it. Probably more effective’n rubbers. And it means daddy can cum as much as he wants, deep as you’ll let ‘im, y’know, cause, uh…y’can’t make a baby in the butt.”

You let out a giggle.

Again, you couldn’t help the reflex.

“Really?”

“Really, really.” Joel smirked.

Solemnity of the moment temporarily suspended by a couple sly, stupid grins and laughter sneaking out between you, Joel dove in. He didn’t drop his whole body weight on top of yours, but he got damn near close with the way he pretended to collapse and his entire torso draped over your back while you kicked and squirmed and bit out, giggling, ‘Get off, daddy!’

You lay flat on the blanket, belly-down, and Joel planted his forearms on either side of your frame, caging you in. He bent down to pepper you with kisses.

“That tickles!” you hissed, chin jerking against the assault of his lips. You writhed and laughed with him.

The little detour couldn’t have lasted more than a minute or two, Joel touching and teasing and kissing you in that sweet way he did, and you pretending to be annoyed. But your body relaxed, and you didn’t protest in the slightest when Joel tilted your chin back to him to get a proper kiss. You opened your mouth without thinking, melting under that calm and tender caress.

Warmth crowded you. Something hard pressed into the space between your legs, and you parted your thighs unconsciously. Joel groaned into the kiss.

“Darlin’,” he started, only for his breath to hitch a second later. You’d lifted your hips the slightest bit and pushed back toward him, so the tip of his cock was nudging between your cheeks. “Hey, there’s no rush, OK? Daddy can wait longer if you need more time.”

“I don’t. ‘M’ready now.”

Really, you didn’t understand why Joel seemed so loath to try this with you. Had he changed his mind?

With the side of your face cradled in his big, warm hand, you craned your neck slightly to meet his gaze, and you asked him, quietly, “Do you…not wanna…?”

Joel blinked once.

He looked almost ready to internally combust or blow up when he nodded his head, fast as he ever did before

“Yes. I do. Sweetheart, I wanna be inside you so bad, but this kinda sex…I just get nervous, might hurt y—”

At the same time, you raised your hips again.

With Joel’s broad and bare and massive body blanketing your own, it was hard to push far, but you did well enough. You pressed the blanket for leverage.

You notched the head of Joel’s thick, leaking cock at the entrance it had never breached before—that taut little ring of muscles—and you sank in backward. Slow.

“Oh,” you groaned at the sting, which was immediate.

Joel had been right: it hurt. It wasn’t remotely the same as being penetrated in any other place, and it almost made you want to squirm away with how tight and uncomfortable it felt. The oil barely helped at all.

Then Joel groaned, too. The hand holding your jaw tightened its grip reflexively, and as it did, his cock jerked inside you. He was no more than half an inch in.

“Baby, fuck,” he cursed. “You’re so fuckin’ tight.”

You lips twitched up a little, despite the burn.

“It h-hurts. Feels…weird,” you said honestly.

Joel halted without a moment’s hesitation.

He bit out a soft, rasping apology, ‘’M’sorry, sweetheart. ‘M’sorry. Daddy didn’t mean it.’

And, just as he moved to pull his tip from your achy hole, you eased your hips back onto him again, further.

Your muscles clenched hard against the intrusion—a dull throb spiraled from the spot where Joel was entering you, right up through the column of your spine—and a pitchy whine clawed out of your throat.

You ground your teeth and sucked in a breath, feeling as split open, exposed, and vulnerable as you’d ever been. It didn’t seem like something should go there.

But desire had other plans for you both, apparently.

The plea bled into your tone, covert and quiet.

“Keep goin’, daddy. Please. I want it.”

Your eyes locked with Joel’s, your hips stirring again, and that look communicated everything you needed.

Joel swallowed.

It had to be a relief to him. Dreamlike, almost.

“That right?” he said, slow smile starting back.

And you like it like this, don’t you? was implied.

The first wet drag of your heat down his length was painstakingly slow. You made it halfway to the base when your rim squeezed tight, and you made a face. Pain flared, but only momentarily. Joel was there to hold steady, knees firm on either side of your legs, as he let you take the lead a little. He kissed your neck.

“There’s my brave girl,” he murmured in your ear. “Takin’ it all like a big girl, huh? Like usin’ this hole?”

You nodded, fucking yourself further onto him.

New. Taboo. Stretching out a different place, all because you were ovulating, and this was one of the few ways to make sure pregnancy didn’t happen.

Joel let you sink back until the swell of your ass was kissing the coarse gray hairs at the base of his abdomen. Your hole fluttered and sucked at his cock, and Joel’s grip flexed on your jaw. His hold lowered.

And, just as the muted sting had begun to settle in your stomach, reality of what was going on and how you were taking him gradually touching your conscious brain, you felt fingers press your throat. They were gentle, not forceful. Just testing your level of comfort.

“Where’s daddy, baby?” he murmured softly.

“In my ass,” you answered. Holding his gaze.

He squeezed more, groaning when you squeezed back.

“You like takin’ cock up there, sweetheart?”

“Yes, daddy. Love—Love feelin’ you here.”

And it was strange—the harder he held you to him then, the more he stretched you and made you want to whimper and writhe on the blanket, the better it got. The more pressure he applied and the more possessive he seemed to get with each aching second that passed, the easier that weight felt inside you.

The deeper desire burned when Joel lifted up and dragged his cock with it, tip sliding to your entrance.

You wanted him sheathed back inside you.

You wanted to take some control yourself.

So, before the old man could make the next move and ease back in, you pushed up swiftly. You heard, and you felt, a wet squelch as your channel spread to accommodate his girth all at once. It burned a bit.

“Fuckin’ hell, baby,” Joel cursed.

“Like that, daddy,” you whimpered.

You turned your head so you were facing the river again, fingers curling into the worn, plaid material of the blanket beneath you. Joel lifted slightly, as if unsure what else to do but needing more, and you obliged by sliding back. And forth. Rutting your hips and rubbing your raw, wet hole up and down his shaft.

You didn’t ride Joel often. He was usually the more dominant one, wanting to take charge and fuck you senseless. But today, on this sweet, quiet, balmy summer afternoon, you made the man pant and groan and grip your throat helplessly while you used your taut, yet-untouched orifice to drive him out of his mind

Pleasure sparked low in your body, in a place you didn’t think it was possible to feel it. The pain turned sweeter.

It wasn’t like it disappeared altogether, but it did become something you could use to get yourself off.

That, on top of Joel’s strangled, labored words right next to your ear, damn near pushed you over the edge.

“Pussy must be feelin’ extra lonely seein’ daddy love all on this other hole, ain’t she, sweet pea?” Joel shifted, lifting your hips higher to fit his hand between your thighs. He groaned at the contact. “Can feel her leakin’ somethin’ awful—like she’s achin’ to be stuffed, too.”

Now he was meeting your thrusts; they got weaker and sloppier while he took two fingers to your clit and started rotating them over the swollen little nub.

Euphoria blinded you for a moment. Your body jerked, teeth sank into your bottom lip, and you cried, hoarse.

“Fuck me, daddy, please.”

You didn’t care which hole.

Your bodies were colliding, grinding in frantic tandem with one another and making the most obscene sounds as you did. Joel’s strokes were maddeningly shallow, like he couldn’t keep out of your warmth more than an inch or two before he needed to be driving back in, scraping your insides and fucking you fast.

“Wanna fill you in both, next time,” Joel said, almost helplessly. Rutting in harder with each new word. “Stuff that pretty pink dildo in your pussy while I take your ass, or the other way around, whatever y’want.”

Your eyes squeezed closed at the thought. Stars burst behind the lids while Joel fucked you relentlessly, and you pictured getting plugged up by both your toy and his cock, and you almost hit your peak in the moment.

Then your eyes opened again, and Joel had lowered his head beside yours. He tilted your chin to him with the hand that was still on your throat, pressing tenderly despite how hard he was pounding you from behind.

“How’s that sound, sweet pea?” He smiled.

You trusted him.

You nodded your head.

Then, in what felt like it might’ve been out of place with any other man but him, you kissed. Deeply. You parted your lips, let Joel’s tongue invade your mouth, and you absorbed every grunt and moan and praise while you did the same with those quick, sharp thrusts. The dichotomy was so dizzying you almost didn’t hear the good girl, and sweet, perfect thing, takin’ all o’me.

His words were so continuous and sweet, and your orgasm was so rapidly approaching that you almost didn’t say what was humming in your skull, presently.

But it came out before you could try to stop it.

“In—In my pussy next time,” you panted from the kiss. Staring at him. “Want you to come inside me, a-and—”

Joel’s cock throbbed inside your ass, and he groaned.

“Baby. Please. Don’t say it.”

You knew he wanted to hear it, though; it was just a matter of how dangerous the declaration would be once it left your lips and hung in the air between you.

The knot of pleasure in your stomach swelled to the size of a fist. Your body shook with each thrust Joel delivered, and the sweet feeling curled your toes, made drool start to peak out of either corner of your mouth.

Your eyes were as soft as they’d probably ever been peering up at Joel then, watching him stare right back.

Your insides squeezed, and he drove in even faster.

Joel’s lips couldn’t have been more than an inch away while he held you to him, knit his brows, and practically heaved the next breath out while he hammered at you.

“Don’t wanna…play it safe next time?” he groaned.

You shook your head.

“Want me to come inside your pussy next month?”

Your soft yes, and its result, could’ve ended you both.

As soon as you said it, recognition that was pregnant with meaning filtered between you, and your bodies drew even tighter. Joel leaned in to kiss again, needy as you’d ever seen him, the muscles of that sweet, slippery ring choked his cock from root to tip as he stabbed in repeatedly, and you kissed back, grinning.

He erupted inside you not long after your hole spasmed and your body went lax under him, spent. You felt him fuck his seed deep in your ass and relished the feeling, while also picturing it leaking somewhere else.

Ovulation was a dangerous fucking thing.

Joel pulled out, fingering the warm, white, gooey stuff right back into your fucked-raw channel when it started to dribble out. He kissed behind your ear.

He pressed his length flat against your lower back, wet with fluids and nowhere close to going soft after the events that had just transpired—with the thoughts that were no doubt humming through his head same as you

Over your shoulder, you met his gaze, the smile on your lips a little sleepier but no less eager than it was before.

By the time you left New York, the only thing you had bought purely for yourself was a book.

The Boyfriend Act.

You had found it two days before leaving, displayed on the front table of a crowded bookstore in the Village, stacked in little towers beneath handwritten cards promising sharp banter, fake dating, and the kind of story that still believed two people could make a mess of everything and somehow find their way back to each other. One review called it a love letter to 2000s romcoms. Another insisted it was a breath of fresh air. That was what got you, in the end. Because at that moment, with half your life in boxes and the rest already being spoken for in rooms where you were not always present, the promise had felt embarrassing only because of how badly you wanted it. So you bought it.

By the time you reached the register, the book was tucked under your arm like a small, private indulgence.

The girl at the register smiled the moment she saw the cover.

“Oh, I absolutely loved this one,” she said, scanning it before giving the book a small, affectionate tap with her fingers, as if it were less a product than a friend she was sending out into the world. “You’re going to have such a good time.”

You looked down at the bright cover, suddenly and inexplicably self-conscious, as if the book had announced something about you before you were ready to admit it. “That good?”

“So good.” She slid the receipt from the machine, then paused, her smile turning conspiratorial. “Can I give you a very tiny spoiler? Not plot. Just… atmosphere.”

You laughed, because the seriousness with which she asked made it impossible not to. “All right. A tiny one.”

“Do you like Jane Austen?”

Your face softened before you could help it. “Of course. I love Austen.”

The girl’s eyes lit up as though you had given the correct password to some small, secret society. “Okay, perfect. Then you should know Mr. Darcy and Mr. Bingley are in this.”

You blinked at her.

“In this?” you repeated, glancing down at the paperback as if two Regency gentlemen might somehow be hiding between the glossy illustrated people on the cover.

She nodded solemnly. “Yes.”

You stared for half a second longer. “Mr. Darcy and Mr. Bingley.”

“Mm-hmm.”

“In a contemporary fake dating romcom.”

The girl’s mouth twitched. “Technically.”

You narrowed your eyes, amused now. “Technically?”

She leaned closer over the counter, lowering her voice as though she were about to reveal something far more scandalous than it was. “They’re cats.”

For one second, you only looked at her. Then a laugh slipped out of you, surprised and warm enough that the girl grinned in triumph.

“They’re cats?” you asked.

“Very important cats.”

“Oh, seriously?”

“Extremely seriously. Honestly, I think Mr. Darcy has more emotional intelligence than half the men in the book.”

“That feels very Austen appropriate.”

“Exactly.” She tucked the receipt neatly between the pages, then reached beneath the counter. “Actually, wait. I think we still have some promotional bookmarks.”

She produced two of them and laid them beside the book with the solemnity of someone offering sacred objects. The first was printed with tiny illustrated cats in bow ties and little judgmental faces, arranged over a pale patterned background. The second was softer, pink and cream, decorated with strawberries, tiny white flowers, and a slice of strawberry shortcake that looked almost too pretty to be real.

You picked up the cat one first. “I assume this is for Mr. Darcy and Mr. Bingley.”

“Naturally.”

Then you lifted the strawberry one, turning it over between your fingers. “And this one?”

The girl only grinned.

“What?” you asked.

“Nothing.”

“That is not a nothing face.”

“It’s not,” she admitted, slipping the book into the paper bag before tucking both bookmarks carefully inside. “But I’m not ruining it for you.”

You laughed softly. “So the strawberries matter.”

“They matter enough.”

“That’s very cryptic.”

“I know.” She pushed the bag toward you, pleased with herself. “You’ll get it when you get there.”

Now, weeks later, sitting barefoot on the balcony with the book open in your lap and the late afternoon heat sitting golden and slow over everything, you had to admit the girl had not been wrong. If anything, she had undersold it. The book had become dangerous in the way good books were dangerous: you had meant to read one chapter after lunch, perhaps two, and instead the day had loosened around you. Water had gone warm in the glass beside you. The cushion beneath your legs had molded itself to your body. Time had moved somewhere beyond the edge of the page and stopped expecting you to follow.

By then, there was only the chapter you had been waiting for since Augustine—the author—first let you taste the promise of it, sweet and brief, only to pull it away again and leave you turning pages for more.

The flashback of the Halloween party.

Finally.

Frankie Morales had spent eighteen chapters avoiding that night so stubbornly that by the time the book finally came back to it, you were almost annoyed with him. Every time someone got close to saying something useful, Frankie changed the subject, left the room, or shut down so completely that you wanted to reach into the page and shake him.

So when his sister appeared at his bedroom door and told him to get dressed, you sat up a little straighter against the balcony cushion.

Of course Frankie did not want to go but his sister, thankfully, did not seem to care. You liked her immediately. There was something comforting about the way she loved him: not gently, exactly, but stubbornly, as if she knew gentleness would only give him more room to hide. And then there was his father with the almonds. You had to press your lips together at the image of him standing in the hallway, eating them one by one because his wife had started seeing a nutritionist and he had apparently decided that being supportive meant taking nuts very seriously. It was such a small, silly detail, but it made the whole thing feel real.

But when Frankie walked out dressed as Zorro, you stopped reading for a second because a memory came before you invited it.

You were little again, sitting on the living room carpet with a bowl of popcorn between your knees, far too close to the television because your mother had already told you twice to move back and you had moved exactly three inches out of principle. Behind you, she was on the couch with a basket of laundry beside her, pretending to fold it while very obviously watching the movie over your head. Every now and then she would pick up a shirt, smooth it over her lap, then forget what she was doing the moment the music swelled again.

The room was dim, blue and gold with the light from the screen. There were horses, swords, candlelit rooms, Catherine Zeta-Jones in a beautiful dress, and a man you had never seen before in a black mask who seemed to know exactly what he was doing every time he smiled. You remembered almost nothing of the plot now. Only flashes. The cape. The dust. The dramatic music. The way he moved as if trouble had been invented specifically to follow him around.

But you definitely remembered him.

Antonio Banderas in that mask, with that grin, that mustache, that little goatee, looking so pleased with himself that even your small, serious heart had understood something important was happening, though you had no idea what.

You turned around on the carpet. “Mama?”

Your mother hummed, still looking at the screen. “Mm?”

“Why does he look like that?”

She glanced down at you, amused already. “Like what?”

You pointed at the television. “Like… that.”

Your mother followed your finger, saw exactly who you meant, and laughed softly. “Oh. Him.”

“Yes. Why?”

“Because he has charm.”

You frowned. “What’s charm?”

“That,” she said, nodding toward the screen.

You looked back at him, trying very hard to understand. “Because of the mask?”

“The mask helps.”

“And the sword?”

“The sword definitely helps too.”

“And the horse?”

“Oh, the horse helps a lot but no.”

You turned back to her, impatient now. “Then what is it?”

Your mother leaned forward a little, lowering her voice as if she were telling you a secret of great importance. “Honestly?”

You nodded.

“It’s the mustache.”

You looked at the television again. For a few seconds, you considered him with all the seriousness a subject like that deserved. The mask was good. The sword was good. The horse was obviously important. But the mustache did seem to be doing a lot of work.

“Yes,” you said at last, eyes shining with fascination. “I think it is.”

Your mother laughed so hard that the shirt in her hands slid from her lap onto the floor, and you remembered feeling proud, as if you had somehow understood something grown up and ridiculous at the same time.

Unfortunately, looking down at Frankie Morales in a black mask all these years later, you had to admit she might have been right. And now, on the balcony, you smiled down at the page despite yourself.

Frankie had escaped to the rooftop. He had gone looking for a cigarette and a place where nobody needed anything from him, which was the sort of thing men in romance novels did immediately before the universe punished them by sending a woman who would accidentally become unforgettable. She arrived dressed as a vampire and locked the door behind her by mistake, and the scene changed at once with the strange, perfect awkwardness of two unhappy people being trapped somewhere just private enough to stop performing. You leaned a little closer without realizing it, thumb holding the page open near the spine. The chapter had started to feel different, tighter somehow, like the book was finally done pretending it did not know exactly where it was going.

“Oh, Frankie,” you murmured, smiling down at the page. “You’re so screwed.”

“Sweetheart?”

Peter’s voice pulled you out of the rooftop so abruptly that the page seemed almost to blink beneath your eyes.

You looked over your shoulder with one finger still holding your place, because if the universe expected you to lose the exact line where Frankie and the vampire girl were about to stop pretending not to notice each other, then the universe had badly misjudged you.

Peter stood in the open balcony doors, still in the middle of getting ready. His shirt was pale blue, soft enough in the evening light to look almost silver, and only half buttoned, the collar open at his throat, cuffs undone at his wrists. His hair was damp from the shower and brushed back, though one stubborn piece near his temple had already started falling out of place. For a second, he looked less like the man the town would meet tonight and more like the one you had first known: handsome, tired, ambitious, standing in the doorway of a bedroom too late at night with his tie half pulled loose and a takeout container in his hand, laughing because everything had gone wrong and the only decent response left was to sit on the floor and eat noodles with plastic forks. Then his gaze moved over you: bare feet, loose dress, hair still untouched, book open in your lap, the glass of water beside you gone warm and ignored.

“You’re not dressed.”

You looked down at yourself, then back at him. “I was about to start.”

“We’re leaving at seven.”

Your eyes flicked toward the clock inside the bedroom. “Peter, it’s six thirty.”

“I know.”

“The party starts at eight.”

“My father wants us there early.”

You kept your finger tucked between the pages, careful not to lose your place. “Why?”

“He wants to introduce us to a few people before everyone else arrives.”

You nodded, but your eyes had already dropped back to the book, pulled for one last second toward the rooftop, the cigarette smoke, the girl with the little bat wings, the door that had just shut behind her. “Okay.”

But Peter did not answer and the silence made you look up again.

“Are you listening to me?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“You’re still reading.”

“I heard what you said.”

“That isn’t the same thing.”

You closed the book halfway around your finger, enough to show him you were trying, not enough to surrender the page. “I still have time.”

“You haven’t chosen a dress.”

“I will.”

“You haven’t done your hair.”

“I know.”

“And if you leave it too late, you’ll feel rushed, and then you’ll be upset before we even get in the car.”

You looked at him, then down at the book again, the narrow slice of paper still held beneath your finger like a small, ridiculous claim.

“I just want to finish the chapter.”

Peter’s mouth tightened, then relaxed almost immediately. “Tonight matters.”

“I know.”

“I need you to understand that it really matters.” He stepped onto the balcony with a purpose that made the space feel smaller. “My father wants me to speak with Richard Wickham before the lawn gets crowded. He and his partners are interested in the old sawmill property.”

“The old one outside town?”

“Yes.”

“You said that was only a possibility.”

“It was. Now it’s closer than that.” He came to stand near the railing, restless enough that he did not sit, and looked out over the trees for a second as if the whole town had become something he needed to prove himself to. “If it works, it could be the first project here that feels like mine.”

The word softened you despite yourself. His. You understood that. You understood wanting something that belonged to you without explanation, without inheritance, without someone else’s name written faintly beneath it. Peter’s life had been made easier by George Craven in ways neither of you could pretend not to see, but ease and freedom were not the same thing. Some doors had been opened for him so forcefully that no one noticed he still had to walk through them while being watched, measured, and compared to the man who held them open.

You let out a quiet breath. “Peter, I’m happy for you. I am.”

“I know.”

“And I’m going with you.”

His eyes returned to you. “But I need you with me.”

“I will be.”

“No.” His voice stayed calm, but something in it settled. “I need you with me. Not half in some book, not annoyed because I interrupted you, not rushing through getting ready because I had to pull you back into the evening.”

You looked down. The book felt suddenly heavier in your lap. Only a paperback, only paper and ink and a chapter that would still be there later, but for the last hour it had belonged to no one but you. No George. No investors. Just the page, and your hands, and a story that had asked nothing from you except attention.

“I can be ready by seven,” you said.

“You can be dressed by seven. That isn’t the same thing.”

You looked up sharply.

Peter seemed to hear himself then. His expression shifted, softening around the edges before you could fully decide whether to be hurt. “I didn’t mean it like that.”

“How did you mean it?”

“I mean I don’t want us arriving flustered. I don’t want to walk in and have people see you still trying to settle yourself because we left everything to the last minute.” He paused, and when he spoke again his voice was quieter. “I want tonight to go well.”

“So do I.”

“Then put the book down.”

You held his gaze and for a second, nothing moved. The evening air was warm against your bare legs. Somewhere inside the house, the clock kept its quiet, indifferent rhythm. Beneath your finger, the page waited exactly where you had left it, and the absurdity of wanting one more minute nearly made you give in out of shame alone.

“In a minute,” you said.

Peter’s jaw tightened.

“Now.”

The word was not loud. That was why it reached you the way it did. A louder man would have given you something to resist. Peter only stood there, composed and certain, and the certainty made the balcony feel suddenly less like a place you had chosen and more like a room with no door.

“Peter,” you said carefully, “I’m asking just for one minute.”

“And I’m asking you not to make me ask twice.”

You looked at him, and for a moment the two of you seemed to be staring at different versions of the same scene. In his, he was tired, pressured, trying to get you to take the evening seriously. In yours, you were barefoot with a book in your hands, being asked to give up the last small piece of time that had belonged entirely to you.

“I’m not trying to upset you,” you said.

“I know.”

“I just want to finish the chapter, baby.”

“I know that too.”

“Then why does it feel like you’re angry with me?”

Peter looked away for half a second. When he looked back, his face had smoothed again into something gentler, almost apologetic. “I’m not angry. I’m stressed.”

“Okay.”

“I need help tonight.”

“I said I’d help.”

“No, you’re just making this harder than it has to be.”

You did not answer and Peter seemed to regret it almost immediately, or perhaps only the way your face changed. He came closer, lowering his voice. “Sweetheart.”

You kept your finger inside the book.

“I’ll give it back in the car,” he said, reaching for it.

Your hand tightened. “Peter, no.”

“I’m not taking it away from you.”

“That’s exactly what you’re doing.”

“I’m just helping you get ready.”

“I’m not a child.”

His expression changed. Neither of you moved at first. Then Peter reached down and took the book from your lap with a firmness that left no room for pretending it was still a request. You could have held on. You could have made him pull harder, made the ugliness of it visible. But he knew you wouldn’t. And worse, so did you.

You looked at him.

“Give it back.”

“You can finish it later.”

“Peter.”

“I said later.”

You reached for the book.

He moved it back. “Don’t.”

You reached again but Peter caught your wrist. His fingers closed around the narrow place above your hand with a firmness that had a purpose and nothing more. Just enough to stop you. Just enough to make your arm go still between you. Just enough for your pulse to wake in a sudden, stupid panic beneath his thumb.

You looked down.

You knew that hand. You knew the shape of his fingers, the warmth of his palm, the faint pale scar near his knuckle from a broken glass in New York, the way his cuff sat just above the wrist bone when he was dressed for dinner. You had watched that hand sign checks, lift wineglasses, smooth napkins over restaurant tables, tuck your hair behind your ear with gentleness. You had felt it at the small of your back in crowded rooms, guiding without pushing, claiming without seeming to. It was not your father’s hand. It was not a fist. But it was Peter’s hand and it was holding you still against your own will.

“Listen to me,” he said.

You tried to look at his face and failed. His thumb was resting over the inside of your wrist, right where your pulse had started betraying you. It beat against him wildly, embarrassingly, as if your own blood were making an accusation your mouth had not agreed to yet.

“I need tonight to go well,” he said, and his voice was low now, controlled with the kind of care people mistook for calm. “I need you beside me. I need them to see that this isn’t just another opportunity being handed to me because of my last name. I need them to see that I’m building something here. That I’m serious. That we’re serious.”

His grip shifted then, no longer only stopping you but pressing hard enough for pain to flicker through your wrist. Then your eyes lifted at him. His face was tense—yes—but not ugly with anger. He looked tired. Strained. A man at the edge of an evening too large for him. A man asking for help in the only way he knew how, badly but sincerely. A man who had been raised to inherit and was terrified, perhaps, that everyone in them could still tell he had not earned the key.

“Do you understand?” he asked.

You heard the question. You understood the question. But all you could feel was his hand still closed around your wrist, the pressure of his fingers turning sharper the longer you stayed silent.

“Peter,” you said.

His eyes searched yours, waiting for agreement, for reassurance, for the version of you that always knew how to make things easier.

Your throat tightened.

“You’re hurting me.”

For a second, nothing moved. Then he looked down. His fingers loosened at once, then hesitated, then opened fully, as if release were not a single action but a series of decisions he had to remember how to make. You drew your wrist back against your body and covered it with your other hand before you could think better of it. There was no mark worth naming. Only warmth. Only the beginning of red where his thumb had pressed, already fading beneath your gaze. Peter stared at your wrist. Then at you.

“Oh, baby.”

The softness in his voice went through you with such precision that, for one awful second, you wanted to comfort him.

You shook your head. “It’s fine.”

“No.” He set the book down on the table immediately, carefully, as though tenderness toward the thing he had taken from you could travel backward through the last minute and alter its shape. “No, it’s not.”

“It is.”

“It isn’t.” He moved closer and then stopped before touching you again. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I didn’t mean to grab you like that.”

“I know.”

“No, I need you to know.”

You looked at him then because he sounded as if something in him had opened without permission. Shame sat plainly in his face, but there was fear too, quick and bright behind the careful blue of his eyes. He was seeing himself from your side of the balcony. You could tell.

“I know,” you said again.

For a moment, his mouth opened and nothing came out. It was strange, seeing him without the next sentence ready. Peter always had the next sentence. He knew how to step into silence before it could become awkward. He knew how to make a room feel held. But now he only stood there with the book abandoned on the table and your wrist cradled against your body, his face suddenly too young for the man he was trying so hard to be.

“I didn’t mean—” He stopped, swallowed, tried again. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”

You said nothing and that seemed to undo him more than anything else could have.

“Baby.”

His voice broke softly over the word.

“I’m not scared,” you said, though your voice trembled badly enough to betray you before the sentence was finished. “I’m not.”

Peter looked at you then and you felt your fingers tighten around your own wrist.

He lifted his hand, stopped halfway, then let it fall as if he no longer trusted himself to touch you. “I’m sorry,” he said, and the words came out too quickly, almost stumbling over each other. “I’m so sorry. I was—” He swallowed, eyes flicking once toward the bedroom, toward the evening waiting beyond the walls, then back to you with a kind of panic he had not managed to hide. “I was thinking about tonight. About my father. About all of it. And I took it out on you.”

You said nothing and that seemed to frighten him more.

“I took it out on you,” he repeated, lower this time, like saying it again might make it less slippery in his own mouth. “I know I did. I know.”

There was something almost unbearable about hearing him say it so badly. No clean explanation. No careful sentence. Just shame—fear—and the awful sight of him realizing what he had done while you were still standing there with your wrist held against your chest.

“You’re nervous,” you said.

The bridge was there before you could stop building it. Peter’s face shifted at once, gratitude and misery moving through him so quickly they became almost the same thing.

“I am,” he said. “I am, but that doesn’t—” He stepped closer, then stopped again, his hands opening helplessly at his sides. “That doesn’t excuse it. I know it doesn’t. I’m not saying that. I’m not.”

“I know.”

“No, I don’t think you do.” His laugh came out short and empty, and he dragged a hand through his damp hair hard enough to ruin the careful shape of it. “Or maybe you do, and you’re trying to be kind, and God, that’s worse.”

You looked down. The red mark was barely visible now, a small line of warmth fading above your hand. It looked too slight for the weight it had put in the room.

Peter followed your gaze, and his face tightened.

“Can I see it?”

You hesitated.

His eyes closed briefly, as if the hesitation itself had landed somewhere painful.

“Please,” he said. “Just let me see. Please, baby.”

You gave him your wrist. Peter took it with both hands, careful to the point of awkwardness, as if even the wrong angle of his fingers might make you pull away again. He did not close his hand around you this time. He supported your wrist lightly, leaving your skin more air than touch, and turned it toward the fading light with a concentration so wounded it made your throat tighten in spite of yourself.

“It’s nothing,” you said.

His eyes stayed on the mark. “It’s not.”

“It’s already going away.”

“That doesn’t matter.”

“It wasn’t that bad.”

Peter looked up sharply.

For a second, you thought he might argue, but whatever rose in him broke almost immediately. His mouth opened, closed, and then his face folded in on itself in a small, controlled way that somehow hurt more than if he had lost himself completely.

“Baby, don’t.”

The words came out rough and you went still.

“Please don’t do that.”

“Do what?”

“Don’t tell me it was nothing.” His thumb hovered near the mark but did not touch it. “Please. I can’t—” He stopped, breath catching hard through his nose. “I can’t stand here and listen to you comfort me when I’m the one who put my hand on you.”

“Peter—”

“I grabbed you.” The words came out flat and ugly. “You told me I was hurting you, and for a second I still had my hand on you.”

The room went very quiet.

His face had gone pale beneath the strain, the careful color of the evening drained out of him. He shook his head once, not at you exactly. At himself.

“I don’t know what the hell is wrong with me.”

The sentence landed hard because it did not sound like a confession. It sounded like fear.

“You were stressed,” you said quickly.

“I was holding your wrist.”

“You didn’t mean to hurt me.”

“But I did.”

You swallowed. Peter looked at you, and there was nothing composed left in his face. No charm. No calm. Just a man who had done something ugly and needed, desperately, for you to tell him he had not become ugly with it.

“I saw your face,” he said.

You felt your fingers curl slightly.

“I saw it.” His voice dropped. “For a second, you looked at me like you didn’t know who I was.”

You had not known you were looking at him any particular way.

“I didn’t mean to,” you said.

“No, don’t.” He shook his head quickly, almost panicked by the apology. “Don’t apologize. Please don’t apologize to me for that.”

The please almost undid you. Peter lowered his head for a moment, still holding your wrist with that excessive care, as if his gentleness now could somehow reach backward and undo the pressure from before. When he looked up again, his eyes were bright in a way you did not want to name.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m sorry, baby. I swear to God, I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

“I know.”

“No.” His eyes held yours, pleading now, all the polish gone from him. “I need you to believe me. Please.”

You did. That was the terrible part. You believed he had not meant to hurt you. You believed he was sorry. You believed the panic in his face was real, and the care in his hands was real, and the shame in his voice was real. But your wrist still hurt and both things stood in the room together, and neither one knew where to go.

“I believe you,” you said.

Peter exhaled unevenly, but relief did not soften him completely. He kept looking at you, waiting for something more, something you understood before he asked for it. Not because he deserved it. Because he needed it. Because if you did not give it to him, he would have to stand there alone with what he had done.

Your hand rose to his cheek and his eyes closed at the touch.

“I forgive you,” you said.

The words seemed to move through him physically. His shoulders lowered. His face turned into your palm before he could stop himself, before the need in him could become too visible. When he opened his eyes again, they were bright and grateful and too young for the man he usually tried so hard to be.

“Yeah?” he whispered.

You nodded.

“I forgive you.”

Peter bowed his head over your wrist. He did not kiss it immediately. For a second, he only held it there between his hands, breathing as if he had been running from something and had finally been allowed to stop. Then he lifted it slowly, watching your face the whole time, and pressed his mouth to the inside of your wrist. The kiss was barely there. Warm. Careful. Apologetic.

“Thank you,” he murmured against your skin.

You nodded because there were no good words left. Peter drew you into his arms with the same caution he had used to take your wrist back into his hands. He did not pull. He made space, and you stepped into it, because refusing would have given the moment a shape neither of you was prepared to see. His half-buttoned shirt brushed your cheek. His hand settled against your back so lightly it almost felt like a question.

He was being so gentle and careful with you now…

And because he was all those things, you let your eyes close.

“I’m sorry,” he said into your hair. “You matter more than tonight.”

The words settled between you. Beautiful words. The kind women were supposed to remember years later.

Peter drew back just enough to rest his forehead briefly against yours. “You know that, right?”

You opened your mouth and discovered, strangely, that answering felt harder than it should have. Because you did know it, right? Or at least you thought you did. The trouble was that knowing a thing and feeling it were not always the same.

“Yes,” you said.

His eyes moved over your face, searching for the rest of the answer and you gave it to him because he needed it.

“I know.”

Peter breathed out, and his hand rose to your jaw, thumb brushing once along the curve with a tenderness that almost undid you. “Are we okay, baby?”

“Yes,” you said. “We’re okay.”

His answering smile was small and grateful. There he was again. The man you knew how to love. The man who could step wrong and then step back. The man who could look at you as though your forgiveness was not owed but given, precious and undeserved. The man who made the bad moment feel less like a warning than a mistake already being folded carefully away.

“Come on,” he said. “Let me help you get ready.”

Your gaze drifted to the book. Peter followed it. For one second, something unreadable passed through his face. Then he picked it up from the table and held it out to you. You took it with more relief than you meant to show.

“I can read in the car?” you asked.

“In the car,” he agreed. “Not at the party. If my mother sees you reading during cocktails, she’ll decide you’re either brilliantly eccentric or deeply unwell, and I’m honestly not ready to find out which.”

The laugh escaped you before you could stop it. Peter smiled at the sound, pleased but not smug, and for a moment the balcony warmed again. The air thinned less cruelly. The book was back in your hands. His eyes were on you, only you, and it was easy—dangerously easy—to believe the room had simply stumbled and righted itself.

You carried the book inside and placed it on the nightstand, face down but carefully, as if the characters might be bruised by the interruption too. The bedroom was cooler than the balcony, dimmer in the half-drawn evening light. The kind of room that never looked lived in, only occupied. Cream walls. Pale curtains. A neat glass tray on the dresser holding perfume, earrings you had not chosen but had learned to wear. Two dresses lay across the bed where you had left them earlier with the vague intention of deciding later.

One was ivory, clean and soft, the kind of dress that would make people call you elegant. The other was blue, delicate and cool, deeper than Peter’s shirt, with thin straps and a skirt that would move prettily when you walked. You reached for the ivory but Peter reached the blue first.

“This one,” he said.

You looked at him. He was smiling faintly.

“You didn’t even pretend to consider.”

“I considered it earlier.” He lifted the dress by the straps, his eyes moving over the fabric with quiet satisfaction. “It goes with my shirt.”

Only then did you really see it. His pale blue shirt, still open at the throat, and the dress a shade deeper, soft enough not to match too obviously but close enough to make the intention clear. Peter stepped toward you and held it against your front, his eyes moving from the fabric to your reflection with quiet satisfaction.

“See?”

You looked past his shoulder into the mirror. Your hair was still loose. Your afternoon dress was wrinkled. Your wrist looked almost normal now, the mark fading into something anyone else could miss. Peter stood behind you with the blue dress held carefully to your body, and for a moment the two of you looked exactly the way he wanted you to look: considered, harmonious, easy to understand.

“It’s pretty,” you said.

“It’s perfect.” Peter lowered the dress. “May I?”

You nodded. He came behind you, and this time every movement was careful enough to be felt as care. His fingers found the tie at the back of your dress and worked it loose slowly, pausing once before drawing the fabric down your arms. You held the front against your chest while he helped you out of it, and neither of you said anything about the way his hands avoided your wrist. The blue dress came over your head cool and light. Peter waited while you slipped your arms through the straps, then smoothed the skirt where it settled at your hips. You watched him in the mirror because looking at him directly felt more intimate than letting him dress you. The color did what he had known it would. It softened your skin, caught the last of the evening light, and made you look like you belonged beside him.

His hands moved to the zipper at the small of your back. For a moment, neither of you spoke. Then the zipper began to rise. Peter stood close enough for you to feel the warmth of him behind you, one hand guiding the zipper while the other rested lightly at your waist. He was focused, almost solemn, as if getting this right mattered more than the dress itself. Halfway up, he bent and kissed the side of your neck.

Your eyes lifted to his reflection. His were already there. The kiss was soft. His mouth touched beneath your ear, then lower, where your pulse had not fully settled, and his thumb moved once over the blue fabric at your waist with a gentleness that made your throat tighten. The zipper reached the top. Peter stayed close, his mouth near your neck, his gaze still on you in the mirror.

“See?” he murmured. “Perfect.”

You looked at the two of you: Peter in pale blue, you in darker blue, his hands resting carefully at your waist. A beautiful picture. The kind people believed without asking what had happened before it was taken.

So you smiled because he was smiling. Because the party was waiting. Because the mark on your wrist was fading. Because nothing terrible had happened and yet, for reasons you could not have explained even to yourself, your lungs still felt full of air you had never managed to breathe out.

── .⋆♱ ⋅🦋⋅ ♱⋆. ──

Joel stood in the middle of his bedroom in nothing but his underwear, hands on his hips, staring at the black dress pants laid across his bed like they had done something to offend him personally.

Jeans, at least, had the decency to become honest. They started stiff, sure, but then they softened. Learned a man’s shape. Gave a little at the knees, the thighs, the waist, wherever life had worn them down. Denim minded its own business, but these pants looked like they had never minded their own business a day in their life.

Joel had avoided them for two years.

Frank had bought them after a clergy meeting in Cheyenne, which Joel still maintained had not required dress pants. He had shown up in dark jeans, boots, and a clean button-down. Clean, he had pointed out. Mostly ironed too, if a person was feeling generous. He had been on time, awake, and had not, unlike Father Jud, spilled coffee down the front of his cassock ten minutes before the meeting and insisted no one could see it from the back row. In Joel’s opinion, that put him well above standard.

But Frank had disagreed.

He had disagreed in the parking lot, one hand pressed to his chest like Joel had personally wounded him.

“You can’t keep doing this.”

Joel had looked behind him, just in case Frank had found someone else to bother. “Doin’ what?”

“The jeans, Joel.”

“They’re dark.”

“That does not make them formal.”

“They’re clean.”

“Also not formal.”

“They got pockets.”

“So does a fishing vest, but I don’t want you wearing one of those either.”

“They cover my ass. I’d call that a success.”

Frank went very still, then glanced down with theatrical restraint. “For the record, they do an excellent job of that.”

Joel turned his head slowly. “Do not.”

“I’m only saying, if there were a clerical ranking for best ass in denim, you’d be a serious contender… Second place, obviously.”

Joel stared. “Second?”

Frank smiled. “After me.”

“You need professional help.”

“I need you to own proper trousers.”

“I own trousers.”

“No, you own funeral trousers.”

“When was the last time you wore them?”

Joel opened his mouth and closed it.

Frank folded his arms. “Exactly.”

“Could’ve been a wedding.”

“Was it?”

“No.”

“Funeral pants, then.”

Joel had tried walking away, because sometimes the only way to win a conversation with Frank was to physically leave it, but naturally, Frank followed.

“Next clergy meeting, no jeans.”

“Ain’t God seen denim before?”

“God has seen many things. That doesn’t mean He approved of all of them.”

“You sayin’ denim’s a sin now?”

“I’m saying yours are approaching a pastoral crisis.”

Joel stopped beside his truck. “My pants are not a pastoral crisis.”

“Your pants, your posture, your refusal to smile unless legally compelled to do so—”

“I smile, Frank.”

“Not in a way that reassures people, Joel.”

“You rehearse this shit?”

“In the shower sometimes.”

“That tracks.”

“Joel, you just cannot keep attending diocesan events looking like you’re about to fix someone’s porch.” Frank closed his eyes briefly. “I am begging you, as your friend, your colleague, and a man who has watched three elderly women stare at your backside during coffee hour with the reverence usually reserved for relics of saints—buy proper trousers.”

Joel’s face went blank, and Frank, tragically, continued.

“Miss Bates nearly dropped the lemon bars last Sunday.”

“Frank.”

“And Agnes said you have, and I quote, ‘a very sturdy walk.’”

Joel opened the truck door. “I’m leavin’.”

“I didn’t even tell you what Judith said.”

“Good, let’s keep it that way, please.”

“It involved the word firm and a sigh I found very inappropriate.”

Joel paused with one hand on the door and looked back at him. “Frank.”

“Yes?”

“I am askin’ you, as a Christian man, to stop talkin’ before I forget I’m one.”

“That’s between you and Judith, Joel.”

“Frank.”

“I’m just the messenger.”

Joel told him to go to hell with such heartfelt sincerity that Frank laughed all the way to his own car.

Three weeks later, the pants had appeared in a garment bag hanging from Joel’s office door, with a note pinned to the front in Frank’s slanted handwriting.

For the love of God, basic tailoring, and my blood pressure.

Underneath, because Frank was apparently incapable of mercy, he had added:

Do not make me hear Judith sigh about your ass ever again.

Joel had thrown the note away.

Then, ten minutes later, he had taken it back out of the trash, folded it once, and shoved it into a drawer, because there were certain people a man got used to being irritated by until, one day, the irritation became part of the affection, and even their stupid notes felt too special to lose.

The pants, however, had remained in the wardrobe.

Until tonight.

Joel looked at them now and breathed out through his nose. The Fourth of July event at the Craven country club was exactly the kind of place where jeans would become a topic without anyone having the honesty to make them one. Someone would smile too kindly. Someone would mention how refreshing it was that Father Miller was so unpretentious. Someone’s wife would decide he needed help shopping. Joel could survive all of that, probably. He had survived worse than rich people with opinions. But he was tired. Tired enough not to give them denim.

“All right,” he muttered. “Fine.”

He picked up the pants and stepped into them with the caution of a man who did not trust the evening, the fabric, or Frank’s taste in anything involving his lower body. One foot, then the other. He pulled them over his calves and thighs, already irritated by how aware of himself they made him. Jeans could be dragged on without ceremony. These trousers required participation. They slid too smoothly, sat too deliberately, and by the time he worked them up over his hips, his frown had deepened.

Joel looked toward the mirror.

The man looking back at him was broad, bare-chested, and half dressed, standing in black trousers with the expression of someone preparing to argue with his own reflection. The pants held his thighs instead of hiding them, followed the weight of him through the hips, and sat cleanly at the waist. His stomach had softened some with age, not much, but enough for him to notice and resent noticing. The mirror did not flatter him, but it did not spare him either: chest, arms, thighs, grey in his beard, the stubborn shape of a man who had lived hard and had not managed to disappear from it.

It looked good, but then his eyes dropped lower and Joel froze.

Because apparently the mirror had one more announcement to make, and it was that Father Miller had been hiding a package under all that denim and black fabric for years. Not a small one, either. No. Of course not. God forbid his body have the decency to be subtle about anything tonight.

He could already imagine the headline in the weekly paper.

Extra, extra! Father Miller not only has a cock like the rest of the sinners, but apparently the Lord saw fit to make it thick!

“For the love of God,” he told his reflection.

But the reflection, traitorous and silent, revealed everything.

Then he took one cautious step forward and stopped. The fabric moved with him, too smooth and too close, and the weight of his cock shifted beneath the black wool.

Joel looked down.

Even soft, it was impossible to ignore. The trousers sat higher than his jeans, closer through the hips, more precise through the crotch, and they held the shape of him with a blunt honesty that turned his stomach. The dark fabric did not expose him, not exactly, but it refused to blur him the way denim did. It showed enough: the thick length resting forward and slightly to one side, the private weight of his body made visible by good tailoring and terrible luck.

“Fucking fantastic,” he said flatly.

He shifted again, hoping the fabric might settle, but it did not.

For one ridiculous second, the situation should have been funny. Somewhere, Frank would have collapsed with laughter if he had known. Joel could hear him already, bright and delighted and impossible.

Relax, Joel. It’s not exactly breaking news. God gave me one too. What’d you think happened? They give you the collar and take it away?

Joel would have thrown something at him.

Probably the pants.

But beneath the absurdity, shame opened low in his chest.

For years, that part of him had belonged to nothing but function. Pissing in the dark. Washing in the shower. Existing in the same dull, necessary way as knees, teeth, old scars, the ache in his shoulder when rain was coming. He had trained himself not to think about it. Not to acknowledge it. Not to remember it was there unless necessity demanded otherwise.

Because before the collar, he had spent years trying to escape himself through his own body. Fists. Whiskey. Pills. Violence. Strangers. Whatever worked. Whatever was loud enough. Whatever could keep Sarah’s name from finding him for another night.

Sometimes there had been women. Too many to count. Too few to remember. He rarely went to them first. That was part of the shame too. He let them come close. Let them mistake his silence for mystery, his roughness for confidence, his emptiness for something they could touch without being touched back. He let them put a hand on his arm, lean into his space, look at him like they had found something worth wanting, and for one ruined second he would believe it.

Not love, never that, but something close enough to fool a desperate man in a bad light.

He had slept with them because grief made him restless. Because anger made him careless. Because being wanted for an hour was easier than being alone with the night. Because the nights were the worst.  Because Sarah’s absence waited wherever he stopped long enough to feel it, and sometimes another body beside him was enough to delay it. A hand on his chest. A voice asking if he wanted a drink. Someone breathing softly in the dark.

For a few hours, he could pretend he had not been left alone with all that was missing. For a few hours, he could pretend the hollow place inside him was occupied. For a few hours, there was another heartbeat in the room. But then morning came and they always left. Afterward, he was always still there. Still empty. Still ashamed. Still father to a dead girl.

But the church had not made him pure. God had not reached into him and removed the years he had spent treating his own body like something already ruined. The collar had only given him distance. Rules. Structure. A shape other people could understand. A way to become Father Miller instead of the man who came before him.

And now here he was, standing half dressed in front of a mirror, undone by the simple fact that his own cock still belonged to him.

Joel closed his eyes.

“Get it together.”

There was no choice but to fix it.

With his jaw clenched tight enough to hurt, Joel slipped one hand inside the open fly. The contact made something twist low in his stomach. His fingers closed around himself briefly, mechanically, moving him lower beneath the fabric. The familiarity of it felt worse than the inconvenience. There was nothing foreign about it. The same body. The same flesh. The same man. Joel adjusted his cock once, then again.

The second attempt worked, and the front of the trousers settled.

He withdrew his hand immediately and stared at the far wall, breathing through his nose as if he had just completed some unpleasant medical procedure.

For now, the problem had been hidden. Not solved. Hidden. That seemed to be the theme of most of his life.

He zipped the trousers, buttoned them, and reached for the black shirt waiting on the chair.

Button by button, skin disappeared.

Button by button, Father Miller returned.

The black fabric narrowed him. Disciplined him. Turned flesh into silhouette and silhouette into something people trusted.

Then came the collar.

It waited on the dresser, small and white and absurdly powerful.

Joel picked it up.

The funny thing about the collar was that once it sat at his throat, people stopped seeing a man. They saw a priest. The grieving came closer. The guilty confessed. Children stared at him as if God occasionally shared useful information, but nobody looked at Father Miller and saw the man who had spent years trying to outrun himself.

Joel fastened the collar, and the mirror changed. Black shirt. Black trousers. White collar. Father Miller looked back. The body remained underneath. So did the shame. But the uniform lied well enough for most people. And tonight, that would have to do.

In the bathroom, he wet his hands and pushed them through his hair. The front refused to cooperate. The comb improved matters only slightly.

He glanced at the bottle of cologne sitting beside the sink. One of the church ladies had given it to him at Christmas. He used a little, regretted it immediately, and stared at his reflection.

“Great,” he muttered. “Now I smell expensive.”

That almost made him smile.

He switched off the bathroom light and stepped back into the bedroom. Everything practical was done. He should leave now, but instead, he went to the nightstand.

The drawer stuck, swollen slightly by summer heat, and Joel tugged once until it gave with a small wooden complaint.

The watch lay inside.

For several seconds, he only looked at it. Touching it too quickly felt wrong somehow, as if the thing itself needed warning before being brought back into the light. The leather strap was worn soft from years of use and then years of careful avoidance. The face was cracked clean across, a jagged break running through the glass. The hands had stopped the night Sarah died. Time caught on the worst hour of his life and refused, with more mercy than anyone else had shown him, to move beyond it.

He had never had it repaired.

People had suggested it at first, before they understood. Before they learned that some objects were not broken in a way meant to be fixed. A new glass, a new battery, a little polish, and the watch would run again, sure. But Joel had never wanted it to run. Repairing it would have felt like asking the thing to lie. Like forcing time to continue neatly across a place where his life had torn in half.

The watch belonged to Sarah as much as it belonged to him.

More, maybe.

She had given it to him with the fierce, nervous pride of a child trying to act casual about something that mattered. He could still see her face when he opened the box, the way she shifted her weight from one foot to the other, trying not to ask if he liked it because asking would reveal too much. He had teased her, because tenderness had always come easier to him when disguised as a joke, and she had rolled her eyes in that bright, relieved way that meant she knew she had done well. After that, she checked his wrist every morning for weeks. Just a quick glance while he poured coffee, while he grabbed his keys, while he bent to kiss the top of her head on his way out. Sometimes she would tap the face and ask, “Still works?” like she had built the damn thing herself.

Still works, babygirl.

Until it didn’t.

Joel reached into the drawer and lifted it carefully.

The weight settled into his palm like a memory given shape.

He did not wear it every day. He could not. The uglier truth was that Joel did not feel worthy of wearing it every day. A father should wear his daughter’s gift with pride. A good father—a whole father—would have kept it on his wrist like proof of love that outlived death. Joel had tried, once. Years ago. But the weight of it every morning had become too much. Not because he loved her less. Because he loved her so much that the broken face became an accusation.

You were trusted.

You were supposed to keep her safe.

She gave you this and you let death take her anyway.

So he kept it in the drawer most days.

Cowardice, maybe.

Survival, if he was feeling kind.

But on certain nights—the lonely ones, the ones where the world outside seemed built entirely out of families he did not belong to anymore—he took it out. Wore it under his cuff. Let the cracked glass rest against his pulse. Let himself pretend, for a few hours, that Sarah was walking with him somewhere no one else could see.

Tonight was one of those nights.

The Fourth of July always had a way of making the missing worse. The town would be bright and loud and ordinary. Children would run across the lawn with sticky hands and sparklers, their parents calling after them with exasperation they did not understand was holy. Little girls would tug at their fathers’ sleeves. Teenagers would pretend to be bored while secretly waiting for the fireworks. Parents would complain about lemonade spills, bedtime negotiations, parking, the noise, the heat, all the living things Joel would have given anything to complain about with them.

And Joel would stand there blessing everyone in his collar while envying them so fiercely it made him feel sick.

If they only knew…

The thought came with a bitterness that shamed him even as it formed.

If all those sweet church ladies and respectable fathers and smiling young couples knew what lived behind Father Miller’s polite nod. If they knew that every time a little girl called “Dad” across the church yard, something in him turned sharp enough to draw blood. If they knew he sometimes had to look away when fathers rested a hand on the back of their daughters’ heads, or when mothers fixed a child’s collar, or when families argued over nothing because they had been granted the luxury of ordinary irritation. If they knew he listened to them complain about homework, mess, tantrums, children growing too fast, and had to swallow the urge to say, be grateful, be grateful, be grateful until the words cut the inside of his mouth.

He sat on the edge of the bed and fastened the watch around his wrist. The leather settled against his skin. For a second, his throat closed so quickly he had to stop moving.

“Hey, babygirl,” he whispered.

The room went terribly still around the words.

Joel looked down at the cracked watch face, thumb resting lightly along the broken glass. “Been a while, huh?”

His voice sounded rough, unused in that particular way. The voice of a father speaking not to God, not to a congregation, not to anyone who expected him to stand upright under grief, but to a girl who had once made faces at his singing and stolen fries from his plate.

He swallowed.

“Got this thing tonight.” A faint, tired breath escaped him. “Country club. Fancy people. Lotta talkin’. Bad chairs, probably.”

He could almost see the look she would have given him.

The thought nearly undid him with its sweetness.

“You would’ve hated it,” he said.

Then, after a beat, he shook his head.

“No. You would’ve said you hated it.”

That was truer.

Sarah would have complained from the moment he told her they had to go. She would have asked if rich people put weird stuff in potato salad. She would have rolled her eyes at whatever dress she had to wear, then checked herself in the mirror when she thought he was not looking. She would have mocked his pants immediately and without mercy.

Dad. What are those?

The sound that left him then was almost a laugh.

“Frank’s fault,” he said, looking down at the trousers. “You’d like him. Too much, probably. Both of you would gang up on me, and I’d never hear the end of it.”

The smile broke before it fully formed because the room was empty. Because Sarah had not met Frank. Because there were whole people, whole years, whole versions of his life she had never reached, and every imagined conversation was only Joel throwing his voice into absence and waiting for grief to answer back in hers.

He bent over the watch slightly.

“You’d be twenty-five now,” he whispered.

The number came out quietly, and still it changed the whole room.

Twenty-five.

Not twelve. Not the age in the photographs. Not the age in his nightmares. Twenty-five. Old enough to have graduated college, maybe. Old enough to have rolled her eyes at him for calling too much or not calling enough. Old enough to have a first apartment with furniture she insisted she liked even though none of it matched. Old enough to have opinions he could not predict, a job she complained about, friends he did not know, a life that belonged to her in ways he would have had to learn to respect.

Would she have gone to college close to home or as far away as possible just to prove she could? Would she have called him the first night in her own apartment because something made a noise in the wall and she was too proud to say she was scared? Would she have sent him pictures of a couch she found on sale and asked if he could come help carry it upstairs? Would she have painted the walls without permission? Burned dinner? Kept a plant alive for three weeks and declared herself a genius?

He just wanted one stupid phone call from his grown daughter asking if he owned a drill. One text complaining about rent. One photograph of her in a cap and gown making a face because formal pictures made her feel awkward. One evening where she showed up late, kissed his cheek too quickly, and told him he was being dramatic about some problem she had already decided to solve without him.

Just one ordinary piece of the life she should have had.

His hand closed over the watch.

“Would you have liked it?” he asked, so quietly the question barely survived the air. “Bein’ grown?”

A pause.

“Hope so.”

His thumb rubbed once across the cracked glass.

“You were always in such a hurry.”

His voice thinned there.

He saw her at seven, laughing at something stupid on television. At ten, mad at him for no reason she could explain because being young made everything too bright and too sharp. At twelve, trying to act older than she was and still falling asleep in the truck after insisting she wasn’t tired. He saw her in the kitchen stealing toast off his plate. Saw her in the yard, hair tied badly, cheeks flushed from running, calling him old when he complained about his knees. Saw her small, too, because grief was cruel and refused to keep one version at a time. Sarah with missing teeth. Sarah with scraped knees. Sarah asleep against his shoulder, trusting him completely.

He had been trusted.

That was the knife.

Joel bowed his head over his wrist.

“Stay with me tonight, okay?”

But the room did not answer. He nodded anyway, once, like it had.

“I know. Stupid thing to ask.”

A pause.

Then, softer, almost ashamed, “Askin’ anyway.”

He sat there for a long moment, dressed for a party and speaking to a broken watch because grief had stripped him of enough dignity over the years that he no longer cared what name a thing had if it helped him get through the door. Outside, the town was moving toward celebration. Cars starting. Children being told to hurry. Women fastening earrings in mirrors. Men complaining about parking while secretly pleased to be going somewhere with their families. All of it bright, ordinary, alive.

Joel breathed in slowly—held it, let it out—and the watch stayed warm against his pulse.

“All right,” he said at last.

He stood and adjusted his cuff. For a second, he covered the watch completely, hiding the cracked face beneath black fabric. Then he changed his mind and drew the cuff back just enough for the edge of it to show. Not much. Enough for him. Enough to know she was there. Or to pretend she was there. On nights like this, the difference could go to hell.

He took his jacket from the chair and put it on.

In the mirror, Father Miller looked finished. No one at the party would know. They would see the collar, the jacket, the restrained expression, the man who knew when to nod and when to speak and when to let silence make him seem wiser than he was. They would not know he had stood half naked in this room hating his own body. They would not know he envied them. They would not know he had asked his dead daughter to come with him because he did not trust himself to walk into all that light alone.

Joel looked at himself one last time. Then his eyes dropped to the watch, and his voice softened.

“Let’s go, babygirl.”

He turned off the light and left the room before loneliness could ask him to stay.

── .⋆♱ ⋅🦋⋅ ♱⋆. ──

By eight o’clock, the country club had stopped looking like a place preparing to be seen and had become, with unsettling ease, a place that was looking back.

For nearly an hour, you had been seated on one of the terraces with Peter at your side, George Craven across from you, and three men whose names had been offered with enough importance to make forgetting them feel like a social crime. They spoke of expansion plans, private donors, development opportunities, and the old sawmill property in the peculiar language of men who described land as though it had personally asked to be improved by them. You smiled when Peter’s hand touched the back of your chair, laughed softly when George made a remark that was less a joke than a reminder of where he stood in the world, and answered politely whenever someone remembered, with faint surprise, that Peter’s future wife might have opinions of her own.

Every smile arrived when it was supposed to. Every question came wrapped in manners. Every mention of the wedding was followed by an approving glance toward Peter, then George, then you, as though the marriage itself were another promising arrangement being discussed under warm lights and climbing ivy.

And Peter had been good. Charming. Attentive. Careful. He drew you in when someone spoke around you, brushed his thumb once against your knuckles beneath the table, and smiled at you from time to time as if to say, See? We’re all right.

You wanted that to be true badly enough that you smiled back every time.

Around you, the club filled slowly. Workers disappeared into the edges of things as guests took their place. Jackson arrived in currents: women in summer dresses touching cheeks without quite kissing them, men shaking hands with the loose confidence of people who had known one another’s fathers, children darting across the lawn until someone hissed their name. Laughter rose and folded itself into the music. The terrace filled with perfume, linen, heat, and expectation.

That was when you began to feel the looks.

Not many at first. A woman near the bar glanced over while pretending to listen to her husband. Two older men paused long enough for their eyes to move from George to Peter to you. A girl around your age leaned toward her friend and whispered behind the rim of her glass. Across the lawn, someone smiled at you as if you had already been introduced, though you were certain you had never seen her before in your life.

The future Mrs. Craven.

You could almost hear the title passing from mouth to mouth.

There she is. That’s her. Peter’s fiancée. George’s future daughter-in-law. Pretty, isn’t she? Quiet. Very young. No, not young exactly. Just—

George was speaking again. Something about a benefactor from Denver. Peter laughed at the right place. You smiled half a second late.

One of the investors turned to you. “You must be very proud of him.”

You looked at Peter automatically, and he was already looking at you, his expression warm, encouraging, full of expectation.

“I am,” you said.

Peter’s smile softened. The investor seemed satisfied. George looked satisfied too.

And for some reason, that was when you felt smallest.

Then a woman’s voice cut through the conversation with the clean precision of a silver knife.

“George, if you have bored this poor girl to death before dinner, I will never forgive you.”

Every man at the table turned.

Margaret Craven stood at the edge of the terrace, one hand resting lightly on the back of an empty chair, the other holding a champagne flute. She looked, as she always did, like a woman who had never entered a room by accident in her life.

George’s mouth curved. “Margaret.”

“No, don’t Margaret me.” She smiled at the investors with such warmth that the reprimand somehow sharpened. “Gentlemen, I’m sure you have been dazzling company, but if you have spent the last hour explaining municipal development to my future daughter-in-law while there is champagne, music, and at least one tray of crab cakes within walking distance, I may have to reconsider my opinion of all of you.”

One of the investors chuckled, lifting both hands. “Mrs. Craven, we were only enjoying her company.”

“Of course you were,” Margaret said pleasantly. “The poor girl has been sitting here so long I was beginning to wonder if she’d been taken prisoner.”

Peter laughed under his breath.

You looked down quickly, but not before Margaret’s eyes moved to you. There was amusement there, yes, but something else too. Assessment. 

“Up,” she said.

You blinked.

She extended her hand, rings catching the light. “Come along. I have come expressly to rescue you before your spirit leaves your body and takes a taxi home.”

The table laughed.

Peter leaned back, looking between you and his mother with fond resignation. “Do I get a say in this?”

“No,” Margaret said. “You and your father have had nearly an hour of say. That is more than enough for one family.”

George lifted his glass. “I am wounded.”

“You are thriving,” Margaret replied. “Don’t be greedy.”

Peter looked at you then, and for a second the noise around the table seemed to narrow. “You okay?”

The question was quiet enough to belong only to you.

You nodded.

His gaze lingered, searching. Then he smiled and let you go.

“Peter,” Margaret said, still offering you her hand, “it is now your turn to sit beside your father and look serious about money. I am stealing her.”

Peter’s smile tilted. “Be nice.”

Margaret placed one hand over her heart. “To whom?”

“To her.”

At that, Margaret’s expression softened so briefly someone less desperate for kindness might have missed it. “I intend to be.”

You rose from your chair. Peter stood automatically, one hand moving to the back of it, not touching you, only making space. His eyes met yours. There was still apology somewhere in them, buried beneath pride and nerves and the performance of the night.

You smiled because he needed you to.

Margaret slipped her arm through yours before anyone could reclaim you.

“There,” she said, turning you gently away from the table. “Now you can breathe.”

You did. A real breath. Deeper than you expected.

Margaret glanced sideways, not with pity, thank God, but with the discreet recognition of a woman who knew precisely when not to make something worse by naming it.

“Do not worry,” she said as she guided you along the terrace. “Tonight is not your formal introduction.”

“It isn’t?”

“Good heavens, no. If it were, I would have warned you. There would have been at least two more fittings, three handwritten notes, and someone would have offered you a pill.”

You looked at her.

Her mouth curved. “I’m joking. Mostly.”

The lawn opened before you, green and gold under the lowering sun, threaded with white tables and lanterns not yet lit. Guests moved in clusters between the terrace and the grass, and everywhere you went, people looked. Not rudely. Just enough to remind you that arriving beside a Craven did not make you invisible. It made you newly legible.

Margaret kept your arm tucked neatly in hers.

“That,” she said, lowering her voice once you were far enough away, “was your first escape of the evening.”

You glanced back before you could stop yourself. “Was it that obvious?”

“To me? Yes.” Her smile remained pleasant, fixed toward the lawn as if the two of you were discussing nothing more dangerous than flower arrangements. “To them? Not at all. Men like that rarely notice when a woman wants to leave. They only notice when she actually does.”

Despite yourself, you smiled.

Margaret gave your arm a light pat. “Don’t worry, dear. You’ll get better at it.” Then her tone gentled without becoming soft. “You have done beautifully.”

You looked away over the lawn, toward a group of women near the fountain who were trying not to stare and failing with astonishing commitment. “Have I?”

“Yes.”

“You don’t have to say that.”

“I very rarely say things I don’t have to say, dear.”

This time your smile stayed.

Margaret angled you away from the densest part of the crowd, toward a stone path bordered by lavender and low white roses. “You were gracious. You listened. You did not interrupt George, which I realize is less a social skill than an endurance sport. And unless I am very much mistaken, you did not once ask an investor whether money is the only thing he knows how to discuss, which already places you ahead of where I was at your age.”

“You did that?”

“No, but I thought it. That is why I developed this line between my eyebrows ten years earlier than necessary.”

“You really think I did well?” you asked.

The question came out smaller than you intended.

Margaret slowed, not enough to make it a scene, only enough to give the answer room. “Yes,” she said. “I do.”

You swallowed. “I felt like everyone was watching me.”

“They were.”

“That was supposed to be comforting?”

“No. Accurate.” Margaret glanced at you briefly, then back toward the lawn. “You’re new, beautiful, and engaged to a Craven. Around here, that makes you dinner and theater.”

A laugh escaped you before you could stop it.

Margaret smiled. “There. Better to know the room is staring than to spend the evening wondering if you’ve lost your mind.”

The path curved past the fountain, where water caught the last of the light and broke it into trembling pieces. For a moment, the sound softened the party behind you. Margaret seemed to know exactly how far to take you from the center before it became exile.

“You look beautiful, by the way.”

“Thank you.” You glanced down at the blue dress. “Peter chose it.”

Margaret’s mouth curved. “Yes. I gathered.”

You looked up.

“He always did like a coordinated picture.”

Margaret gave your arm a light squeeze and went on before you could become emotional in public, which you understood at once as a kindness.

“If it helps, I was much worse my first evening here.”

“You?”

“Oh, dreadful.”

“I don’t believe that.”

“You should. I was twenty-four, overdressed, and very determined not to look terrified.” She kept her eyes ahead, though something near her mouth softened with the memory. “George brought me to a party very much like this one. His mother wore an enormous hat. Feathers, netting, some tragic silk flower pinned to the side.”

You tried not to smile.

Margaret noticed immediately. “It was worse than you’re imagining.”

“I’m sure it was lovely.”

“It was not. It brushed a chandelier.”

You looked at her.

“I had two glasses of champagne on an empty stomach because I thought it made me look composed,” she said. “Then the hat touched the chandelier, and I laughed into my napkin so hard I nearly choked.”

“You laughed at your future mother-in-law?”

“Unfortunately, yes.”

“Oh no.”

“Oh, very much yes.” Margaret lifted her brows. “And then, twenty minutes later, I was sick in the garden fountain.”

You stopped walking.

She did not. “The old fountain, not this one.”

That was what broke you.

A laugh slipped out before you could stop it, real enough that you had to cover your mouth.

Margaret looked deeply pleased with herself. “There you are.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. It was a terrible fountain.”

── .⋆♱ ⋅🦋⋅ ♱⋆. ──

You were still laughing softly when your eyes began to sting.

It was not quite humor anymore. More like relief. Or the shock of being taken aside instead of presented, of Margaret Craven—elegant, terrifying, impossible to read—offering you something that was not comfort exactly, but a moment to breathe.

For a while, she said nothing. She only kept your arm linked through hers and guided you past the fountain as if the party could manage perfectly well without either of you.

Around you, the club carried on in soft music, polished glass, white flowers, and people pretending not to notice everything they noticed. Behind you, the terrace remained a warm little orbit of importance: George’s voice, the low laughter of men, the clean clink of glasses.

Peter stood beside his father in pale blue, one hand in his pocket, the other curled around a drink he had barely touched. When you looked, he was already looking back. His smile was small. Private. Almost tender.

And God, how quickly you took it.

You took it because the last hour had left you feeling handled and displayed, because your wrist still remembered the shape of his hand even though the mark had faded, because his smile seemed to say: there you are, you’re doing well, nothing is wrong enough for anyone else to see. So you let yourself believe it. Or you tried to. You let the sight of him soften the balcony into something manageable: stress, nerves, a bad moment before an important night. He had apologized. He had looked ashamed. He had given the book back. He had kissed your wrist like remorse could live there until it became proof.

Now he was smiling at you in front of everyone, and something inside you moved quietly back into place. Not healed, but arranged.

Margaret followed your gaze, though she did not comment on it at once.

“My son can be very serious when he’s afraid,” she said at last.

You looked at her.

She was watching Peter too, but not in the simple, adoring way you might have expected from a mother. There was affection in her face, yes. There was also knowledge. Weariness. A history you did not yet know how to read.

“He gets that from George,” she added. “Unfortunately. I have spent thirty years trying to cure both of them, with very little to show for it.”

You managed a small smile. “Is that why you rescued me?”

Margaret looked back at you, and for a second the humor left her face completely. Then she patted your arm, composed as ever, and let the mask return.

“I rescued you because every woman deserves a moment to breathe before someone asks her to be charming again.”

The words landed more gently than you expected.

You looked out over the lawn—the bright windows, the flowers, the careful faces, Peter still standing in the distance—and felt the evening loosen around your ribs by a fraction. Not enough to make you free, but enough to keep walking.

“I should tell you,” Margaret said after a moment, her voice calm again, “I am slightly offended.”

You looked at her. “By me?”

“Yes, dear. By you.”

“What did I do?”

“You moved to Jackson and have not come to church with us once.”

A breath escaped you, almost a laugh. “I’m not very religious.”

“No?”

“Not really.”

Margaret hummed, considering that as you continued along the path. “Well, that is hardly a crime. Inconvenient for church attendance, perhaps.”

You glanced at her, uncertain whether you were supposed to apologize.

She noticed at once. “Don’t look so alarmed. I’m not recruiting you for the choir.”

That made you smile.

“I only mean you should come one Sunday,” she said. “Not because you must believe anything in particular. Half the town comes for habit, guilt, or Mrs. Bates’s chocolate cake.”

“Is that supposed to convince me?”

“That chocolate cake has converted better people than me.”

This time, you laughed softly.

“But the church here is lovely,” Margaret went on. “Small, stubborn, drafty in winter, but lovely. The stained glass is beautiful in the morning.”

You looked down before she could read your face.

“I’ll have to see it sometime,” you lied.

Margaret hummed, soft and unreadable.

“You should,” she said. “In fact, I think you ought to be a believer.”

You looked at her. “Why?”

“Well,” Margaret said, lifting her glass slightly toward the terrace without quite pointing, “God has been more than generous with you, wouldn’t you say?”

Your eyes went back to Peter.

He was laughing now, his head dipping for a second before he looked toward you again. And there it was once more: that small smile, threaded through the distance, meant only for you.

You held onto it.

“Yes,” you said softly.

Margaret glanced at you, and you realized too late that you had answered aloud. Heat moved into your face.

“I mean… Peter is good to me.”

Margaret did not correct you. She did not tease. She simply looked at her son across the lawn, her expression unreadable in that elegant, terrifying way of hers.

“He adores you,” she said.

You kept your gaze on Peter because it was easier. “I know.”

“He does,” Margaret said, and there was something firmer beneath it now. “He can be difficult, but he loves very deeply.”

Peter lifted his glass slightly, a small toast from far away. You smiled back before you could decide whether to.

Then Margaret’s arm tightened around yours.

“Careful, dear.”

You did not understand at first, because you were still looking at Peter, still holding onto that smile as if it were something warm pressed between your hands, still letting it smooth the balcony into a misunderstanding.

“Look where you’re—”

You felt it before Margaret could finish.

Something caught at your ankle, not hard enough to hurt, not sharply enough to make sense, only with that small, precise cruelty necessary to stop one foot while the rest of your body kept moving. Your heel slipped, your balance disappeared, and for one dreadful second you understood with perfect clarity what was about to happen. You were going to fall. Not stumble prettily. Not recover with a charming little laugh. Fall. In front of Margaret Craven, in front of half the country club, in front of women who had already been pretending not to stare and men who looked capable of turning a woman tripping over her own feet into a family anecdote by dessert.

Perfect. Absolutely perfect.

You closed your eyes before impact, because apparently your body had decided that if you were going to humiliate yourself in front of the local ecosystem, you did not also need to watch the ground rushing up to meet you.

But the ground never came.

A pair of arms caught you before you hit it, firm and immediate, stopping the fall so abruptly that the breath left you in a small, undignified sound. “I’ve got you,” a man said, low and close, and your hands had already found him before you had time to make any sensible decision about it. Somewhere between losing your balance and not eating stone in front of George Craven’s investors, your first instinct had been to grab onto whatever had saved you, and now your palms were pressed against a man’s chest, fingers curled into the front of his black shirt as if you had been trying to climb him rather than avoid a concussion.

His chest was firm beneath your hands. Warm through the fabric. Solid enough that, for half a second, your brain supplied absolutely no useful information beyond the fact that you had not hit the ground and were now clutching a stranger’s shirt in public.

“Oh my God,” you said, breathless, one hand still twisted in the front of his shirt. “I’m so sorry. I don’t know what happened.”

“Hey, easy now.”

His voice was low and close, steady in a way that only made your own panic feel louder. One hand held your arm, firm enough to keep you upright, not firm enough to trap. The distinction reached you before thought did, and that, somehow, made the heat in your face worse.

“I wasn’t looking,” you said quickly. “I thought something caught my foot.”

“It’s okay,” he said. “Just don’t move too fast.”

That was when you realized you were still holding on to him.

You let go at once.

“Sorry.”

“You were fallin’.”

“I know, but I still don’t usually grab strangers at public events.”

“Could’ve been worse.”

You glanced up only as far as his collarbone. “Could it?”

“You could’ve taken me with you.”

Despite yourself, a breath of laughter escaped you. “At least then I wouldn’t have been embarrassed alone.”

“Real generous of you,” he said dryly.

Margaret, who had remained beside you with her champagne flute impossibly upright, made a soft sound that could only be described as delighted restraint.

You looked down at the path.

Nothing.

No wire. No loose stone. No fallen ribbon. No obvious, merciful explanation for why your own body had decided to betray you in the middle of a country club lawn.

“There was something there,” you said.

The man followed your gaze. “Don’t see anything.”

“I know. That’s the problem.”

“Could’ve been the edge.”

“It wasn’t the edge.”

“You sure?”

You stared at the perfectly even stone beneath your shoe, offended by its innocence. “No. But I’m choosing to be.”

This time he almost laughed.

Almost.

But you heard it anyway.

Your eyes narrowed before you remembered you were speaking to someone who had just stopped you from humiliating yourself in front of half of Jackson. “Are you laughing at me?”

“No, ma’am.”

“That sounded dangerously close to a laugh.”

“Must’ve been the wind.”

Margaret took a sip of champagne and looked away, which was deeply unhelpful.

You finally lifted your gaze properly, ready to apologize with whatever dignity you had left.

Then Margaret spoke first.

“Well,” she said, smooth with relief and unmistakable amusement, “what a divine intervention, Father Miller.”

Father Miller.

The title struck you before his face did.

For one suspended second, your mind tried to arrange the information kindly. Father Miller. The priest Matilda had mentioned. The man Margaret knew well enough to tease in public. The man who had apparently just saved you from making intimate contact with the stone path.

Then you looked at him.

And every thought stopped.

Dark hair. Grey in his beard. Severe mouth. Warm hazel eyes that looked just as wrong on him now as they had behind the church, only this time there was a white collar at his throat and black fabric doing very little to make him look less like trouble.

No.

Absolutely not.

Not him.

Not the rude man from behind the church.

Joel looked no happier about the discovery.

For one second, neither of you moved.

Then you both stepped back at the same time.

His hand dropped from your arm. Yours folded in front of you before you forced them apart, because you did not want to look as if you had been caught doing something wrong, even though nothing had happened except a near fall, a shirt grabbed in panic, and a previous verbal assault in a churchyard that suddenly felt much less previous than it should have.

Margaret looked from you to him.

Then back again.

Her eyebrows lifted by the smallest, most dangerous amount.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “Do you two know each other?”

“No!” you and Joel said at the exact same time.

Too fast.

Too loud.

Too much like people denying a murder.

You turned to him.

He turned to you.

Margaret went very still.

You laughed, which was a terrible decision. “No. No, of course not. I don’t know why we said that like we’d rehearsed it.”

“We didn’t,” Joel said.

“Obviously.”

“Good.”

“Great.”

Margaret looked between you again. “Fascinating.”

Another silence.

Worse than the first.

Margaret’s smile began slowly.

You immediately regretted having a mouth.

“I mean,” you said, attempting recovery and choosing instead to step directly into disaster, “I’ve never seen this man before in my life.”

Joel looked at you from the corner of his eye.

“And if I had,” you added, because apparently panic had taken the wheel, “I’m sure I would remember.”

His expression barely changed, but something moved at the corner of his mouth. Not a smile. Worse. The suggestion that he had heard every part of that sentence and intended to make you suffer for it.

“No, ma’am,” he said, voice even and dry enough to scrape. “We ain’t met. I’d remember somebody who makes this much trouble standin’ still.”

Your mouth fell open.

Margaret laughed into her champagne.

“I’m sorry?” you said.

Joel looked at you properly then. “You heard me.”

“I could have hit my head, so perhaps a little less judgment would be appropriate.”

“I’m not judgin’.”

“You just said I make trouble standing still.”

“That was an observation.”

“No, that was an insult.”

“That was me bein’ accurate.”

“Oh, really?”

“Yeah. Really.”

You stared at him.

He stared back.

For one second, it was almost impressive how quickly the two of you had returned to disliking each other.

Your eyes narrowed. “Are you always this compassionate with people in distress?”

“You’re not in distress.”

“Oh, trust me,” you said, before you could stop yourself, your gaze making the fatal mistake of taking him in properly now: the black shirt, the white collar, the hard line of his shoulders, the infuriatingly severe mouth. You looked back at his eyes a second too late. “I am very much in distress right now.”

Joel’s eyes narrowed.

“That so?”

“Yes,” you said, lifting your chin because apparently dignity had decided to die standing. “And I’m beginning to think it has less to do with the fall and more to do with you.”

The words landed.

Hard.

Joel went still.

Only for a second, but you saw it. The tiny break in him before his jaw tightened and whatever had flashed across his face disappeared behind something rougher, safer, more irritated.

Margaret’s champagne flute paused halfway to her mouth, and you realized, with a sudden rush of heat, exactly what you had said.

“I mean,” you added quickly, “because you are being very difficult.”

Joel looked at you.

“Right.”

“You are.”

“Me.”

“Yes.”

“I caught you.”

“And then immediately became impossible about it.”

His mouth shifted, almost a smile and not nearly kind enough to count as one. “Darlin’, if this is you in distress, I’d hate to see you comfortable.”

Margaret made a small, delighted sound.

You stared at him, pulse kicking hard enough to feel foolish. “Do not call me that.”

“Call you what?”

“You know what.”

“I don’t believe I do.”

“Oh, wonderful. A priest and a liar.”

His brows lifted.

Margaret lifted a hand, though whether to stop the exchange or bless it was unclear. “Before this becomes a parish incident, I suppose I should thank you for saving this terribly clumsy woman from a very public fall.”

Joel’s eyes did not leave yours at once.

“That thanks belong to her?” he said.

“Oh?” Margaret looked delighted. “Does it?”

You felt the challenge before you fully understood it.

Joel’s mouth was still, but his eyes were not. There was something there—dry, impossible, almost daring you. As if he knew perfectly well that you had already apologized six times and still somehow had not thanked him.

Heat climbed your neck.

Fine.

You turned back to him, lifted your chin, and gave him the sweetest smile you could manage.

“Thank you,” you said.

Joel’s brows rose slightly, waiting.

You let the pause stretch half a second longer than necessary.

“Father.”

The title landed between you with all the innocence of a lit match.

Margaret went very still beside you.

Joel looked at you.

Really looked.

At your smile. At your mouth. At the faint color still high in your cheeks. Then back to your eyes, slower than he should have, and something in your stomach pulled tight before you could stop it.

His mouth moved slightly.

For one second, you were certain he was going to answer. Something rude. Something low. Something that would sound harmless to Margaret and mean something else entirely to you, but he caught himself.

You saw it happen.

His eyes flicked, barely, to the collar at his throat. Or maybe you imagined it. Either way, when he looked back at you, whatever he had almost said had been locked behind his teeth.

“Anytime,” he said at last. Plain and polite, but not safe at all.

“Well,” Margaret said, pleased in a way that made you immediately nervous, “if no one has had the sense to introduce you properly, allow me.”

Joel went still.

You looked at her.

Margaret placed one elegant hand against your arm. “Father Miller, this is my son’s fiancée.”

The change in Joel was small.

Almost nothing.

His eyes dropped to your left hand.

To the ring.

It had been there all evening. It had been there while Peter chose the dress, while he kissed your wrist, while he smiled at you across the lawn. You had grown used to its weight because people grew used to anything they wore long enough.

But under Joel’s gaze, you felt it again.

The diamond caught the light.

He looked at it for one silent second, and when his eyes lifted back to your face, something in him had closed.

Margaret continued, unaware or choosing not to notice. “Dear, this is Father Miller. One of the most respected men in our community.”

Joel’s jaw shifted once.

You could not look away from him.

“And,” Margaret added, pleased with the neatness of the introduction, “the man who is going to marry you.”

For a second, the world kept going without you.

People talked. Glasses touched. Somewhere near the terrace, a child shrieked with laughter and was gently scolded. The band played something soft enough to be forgotten. Peter stood on the lawn, smiling at someone you could no longer see.

All of it continued but you're looking at Father Miller.

The flannel-wearing asshole with the axe.

The man who looked at you like you were a problem he had no intention of solving.

The man whose eyes you had remembered in Peter’s arms and hated yourself for remembering.

The man who had caught you before you fell.

The man who would stand in front of Peter, in front of everyone, in front of God, and ask you to promise your life to someone else.

The thought moved through you with such quiet violence that your smile disappeared before you could save it.

Joel’s was already gone.

Then you felt it again.

That strange pressure around your ankle.

Not a pull this time.

A tightening.

As if something thin and unseen had been looped there all along, wound carefully around the delicate bone, waiting for the exact moment to make itself known. It gave one final squeeze and then vanished like it had already done what it came to do.

.⋆♱ taglist: @stephtuckerwriting, @madisonauroraxx, @pattwtf, @ess-evo, @taniamiller, @capuccinodoll, @sunnytuliptime, @pedrofan, @mossunderthenightsky, @nothinglefttogive, @angelryex, @billionairecowgirl, @daniel-bruhhl, @wildthyng, @politeolive, @isabellaboo2025, @speaktothehandpeasants, @morganlolitta, @joelmillersbabygirll, @hazzzy418, @gingerwitchm, @jasminedragoon, @delulism, @cuteanimalmama, @slowdivinqs, @menshipsandthesea, @vanishintoyoubby, @allissah, @devilfruitsdaughter, @mcthsman, @vickie5446, @lurrrrrrrking, @chyannealaniz

The doctor stays seated on the bench, the reins nervously sliding through his hands, his eyes on Joel whom you can see step off the porch into the dusty earth and stop a respectful distance from the wagon.

“Doc.”

“Joel…” the doctor licks his lips. “I was…uh…hoping to speak with your wife if it’s not too much trouble.”

“She’s restin’,” Joel replies instantly and without embarrassment. “Heat this time of day gets to her – you understand.”

“Of course, yes. It can be hard on female fragility. Not that I’m suggesting that Mrs Miller is fragile, far from it.”

Joel plants his feet and crosses his arms over his chest.

“I’m guessin’ you’re probably here ‘bout me, so makes sense that you just tell me whatever it was you were plannin’ on tellin’ her.”

Doc Cooper pauses to consider, and you can see him weigh his options before nodding.

“Well, I was talking with the other members of the town council regarding your wife’s…proposition…and, well…we think that what she was saying sounds…reasonable. It does appear as though Reverend Sawyer may be…well…using the law for his own personal gain here on account of his grief over losing Tess.”

You see Joel bristle at the exact same moment the doctor does, and he raises a hand in supplication.

“I’m not…not passing any judgment on what happened here that day, Joel, nor trying to pretend that I understand what you’ve been going through this last year. But what I can say is that I can see the wisdom in having this matter dealt with…quickly.”

“You wanna see me hang faster?”

“No! No, no, no, no!” he shakes his head violently. “No, no, I wasn’t meaning that at all, Joel. I just meant that, for everything to carry on as normal, which is what we all want, it would be good to have this whole sorry business disposed of as quickly as possible. I mean…” he lets out a short laugh, “nobody wants a long, drawn-out trial over…over this.”

Joel shifts slightly and you feel your breath hold tight in your chest.

“We, the town council, are prepared to write to a letter to the judge, as your wife requested, expressing our…doubts…and, of course, explaining that you’re an upstanding member of the Sawyer’s Creek community. I just…wanted to ask her if she would like us to provide it to your attorney directly – I understand that you have a Mr Oliver representing you now.”

Joel pauses and then angles his body slightly back towards the house, enough for him to be able to meet your gaze through the window. You nod, and he turns back again.

“Sounds like a sensible idea. You’ll find him at the hotel in town.”

“Splendid!” Doc Cooper grins broadly. “I’m glad that we’ve managed to sort this out so amicably and, with the writing of the letter, I can assume that things will…continue as normal, business wise?”

“I’ll let my wife decide that once she gets confirmation of the letter’s delivery to Mr Oliver,” Joel replies. “S’pecially given she’s the one who approached you ‘bout the matter in the first place.”

“Of course…of course that makes perfect sense. And she did it with such fortitude too. You should be very proud of her.”

“I am,” Joel replies quietly.

The doctor nods and picks up the reins again. “Well, I won’t disturb you any longer. I’ll…wait to hear further from Mrs Miller in due course.”

“You do that.”

“Yes…right then.”

He slaps the reins against his horse and the wagon jerks forward. You watch from the window as it circles the yard and then goes back in the direction it came from at speed, dust swirling behind the wheels. Then you hurriedly finishing dressing and make your way to the kitchen, in time to see Joel come back inside, the door slamming behind him.

“That sounds promising,” you say. “The judge would be a fool to ignore a letter from the town council.”

“That he would be,” Joel replies with a slow smile. “I especially liked when the good doctor asked me if things would carry on as normal business wise.”

“You could have just told him they would, rather than defer to me,” you giggle.

“You handled the negotiation, darlin’, so I reckon it’s on you to tell him one way or the other. Not this weekend though,” he adds, moving towards you. “This weekend is just for us.”

Pulling you into his arms, he kisses you, slow, gentle and tender, the ache between your thighs pulsing once more, and you can’t help but slide your hand carefully down his chest to his waist and then below, feeling his hardness press almost immediately against the confines of his trousers.

“Any more of that and I’ll have to take you right here on the counter,” he murmurs, dragging his lips from yours and planting hot kisses down your throat. “Might not be a bad idea. Fact is, a man oughta claim his wife in every damn room of his house to make it a home.”

The sigh of pleasure that escapes your throat quickly dies in the air between you as you suddenly recall his face in the bedroom moments before Doc Cooper interrupted, and his words to you about his reticence over giving you a child.

You’re not so lacking in experience not to understand that the pleasures of the flesh usually lead only in one direction.

“Joel…” you say tentatively. “Can we talk about…what you said before about not wanting another child?”

He freezes, lips still pressed to your skin, then slowly raises his head to look at you, his brow furrowed with pain. Cupping your face in his hands, he rubs his thumbs tenderly over your cheekbones.

“Ain’t ‘bout not wantin’, darlin’, ain’t ever been ‘bout that. Fact is, when I look at you…I see your belly swollen and your eyes shinin’ and…” he swallows, “I think ‘bout how good it could be – you and me – bringin’ new life into the world and…and buildin’ our family in this home.”

“But?”

Exhaling heavily, he moves away from you to sit down at the table, leaning his forearms on the wood and scrubbing his hands over his face.

“Tess and me…we wanted lots of kids. She used to talk ‘bout fillin’ this place with ‘em. She wanted six, at least, and I used to laugh and tell her there’s no way we could afford to feed six mouths, and she would just look up at me with those eyes she had and…and I’d agree to whatever she wanted ‘cause I loved her… ‘cause I wanted to make her happy.”

You sit down carefully opposite him.

“After Sarah, we were both surprised it took so long for her to fall pregnant again. She talked to Doc Cooper ‘bout it and he told her that there weren’t no rhyme or reason to it. That some women just find it easier than others and that if it was meant to happen, it would.”

He pauses and looks at you.

“Day she told me she was expectin’ again was one of the happiest of my life. And neither of us thought anythin’ bout it. Just carried on like we had when she was expectin’ Sarah, never thinkin’ for one minute that anythin’ would be any different than it had been the first time.”

A soft, sad smile slips across his face.

“She’d say that she wanted to give me a son, and I’d tell her that it didn’t matter to me what we got so long as…so long as it was healthy.”

“Any time I saw her, she looked happy,” you offer softly.

“She was – we both were.”

He gets up and moves over to the counter, running his hands over the edges as though trying to find something to distract them whilst he continues to speak.

“I loved how she looked when she was carryin’. Was a fight sometimes for me to keep my hands to myself, Lord help me, and she wasn’t exactly fightin’ me off. The pregnancy did somethin’ to her and I was…I was willin’ and able. The night ‘fore her labour started…” he pauses, “she wanted…and I…I provided. You understand what I’m sayin’?”

“Yes.”

“Afterwards, I left her sleepin’ and then…then it started a few hours later. I had to get Tomás to ride for the doc ‘cause she was in so much pain so quickly that I couldn’t leave her. I didn’t understand, ‘cause when she was birthin’ Sarah, it took hours for her to get to that state. Hours of me pacin’ around outside in the yard or…or tryin’ to work. But she begged me…begged me not leave, begged me to keep hold of her hand ‘cause I reckon she knew.”

He turns back to face you.

“I reckon she knew that somethin’ wasn’t right and…and I stayed, darlin’, I swear that I did. I sat with her and held her hand for the best part of two days and…and tried to get her to breathe through it. And I wiped her brow and I prayed, ‘cause I was so scared that she was gonna be taken from me and I cursed myself for layin’ hands on that night. Told myself if I’d just let her be, if I’d just turned her down then, she might have pouted ‘bout it, but it would have been okay. Then…”

“Joel, you don’t have to…”

“And she was pushin’ so hard and the screamin’…” he closes his eyes and shakes his head, lost in the memory. “I ain’t never heard a woman scream like that before and she kept…kept prayin’ and beggin’ the doc to do somethin’ to help the baby and he just kept sayin’ it’s lyin’ wrong, I need to turn it. And he’d put his hands on her belly and try movin’ the baby and she’d scream more.”

Tears course down his face.

“I didn’t know what to do, darlin’. I swear I tried to help her, but I didn’t know how. And then…she gave birth to…to Benjamin and he didn’t…didn’t cry. He was just…layin’ there, lookin’ perfect but not movin’ or makin’ any sound and… Doc Cooper said he was gone, hadn’t even drawn a breath, and I…I didn’t know what to feel. All I wanted was for Tess to be okay. I told myself that if she was just okay, then we could get through what had happened…we could try again. But she…there was so much blood…”

You get to your feet and cross the space to him, resting your hand gently on his arm.

“He tried, the doc, I know he tried, to get it to stop, but there was just too much. It soaked the bed and…and she was gettin’ weaker and…I knew then that she knew she was dyin’. She told me she loved me and made me promise to take care of Sarah and I begged her, I begged her not to leave me. I told her that I couldn’t live without her and then…she just…in my arms…”

He breaks off as sobs rack his body and you slide your arms around his waist and pull him close, letting him cling to you as the painful memories wash over him. His arms encircle you and he squeezes you tightly, as though he’s afraid he’s going to lose you through the simple act of honesty.

“I’m sorry,” you murmur, “I’m so sorry, Joel, I’m so sorry…it was selfish of me to think…”

“No,” he says, pulling back, face and eyes wet. “It ain’t your fault and you ain’t ever gotta be sorry for…for wantin’ family, darlin’, I just…I don’t know if…”

“Joel…”

“I looked at you when you were layin’ in that bed sick with fever and I know I wouldn’t survive losing the woman I love again.” He looks at you squarely. “If anythin’ happened to you, darlin’, I wouldn’t make it. I wouldn’t be able to bury you and carry on – I couldn’t, not this time. I would…I would…”

“Ssshh,” you soothe him softly, pulling him to you again. “We don’t have to think about it right now, my love. Let’s just…just be happy in the news Doc Cooper’s given us. Let’s think about all of this wretched business with the Reverend being over and you coming home for good and you, me and Sarah continuing our lives together. I have you, both of you. I don’t need anything else, I don’t.”

He exhales heavily, drawing your head under his chin and letting it rest there. You both stand for a long moment in the golden light, and you tell yourself that it doesn’t matter. A year ago, you were a spinster living above your father’s store, never dreaming for one moment that you might have a husband, a home and a daughter. You’ve been lucky – so very lucky. Tess’s loss has been your wonderful gain, and a child of your own won’t ever change that.

“I ain’t…I ain’t sayin’ no forever. That ain’t…I know I said I couldn’t give you a child but I ain’t…I ain’t sayin’ no forever, darlin’. I just…time, it…I needed time after you came here to understand that Tess was gone and you were here and maybe…maybe…”

“Of course,” you say, squeezing him gently. “So much has happened in such a short space of time, Joel. There’s no rush, no…no demands on my part. There never will be, I promise you that.”

“I love you, darlin’.”

“I love you too,” you say, drawing back and looking up at him, marvelling at the man in your arms. “My husband.”

He bends and brushes his lips against yours, letting you taste the salt of his tears. “My wife.”

And, for now, that’s enough.

****

Tomás brings Sarah home in time for supper. You and Joel had discussed whether it might be better to leave her with Maria so as not to unduly upset her, but the earlier conversation about children had clearly softened Joel’s resolve and when they finally reunited, you knew it was the right decision.

“Are you home for good, Pa?” she asks as you serve up the food and feel your chest constrict at her plaintive tone.

“Not yet babygirl,” Joel replies. “I gotta go back to jail on Monday night, but I’m here until then, and I’ve missed you so much.”

“I’ve missed you too,” she says and when you next look at your husband, you can see the tears hovering in his eyes again.

After supper, the three of you retire to the parlour and play some games together, before Joel takes Sarah to bed and reads her stories until she falls asleep in the crook of his arm.

You and Joel go to bed around nine and, after all that’s been said and done, you aren’t expecting anything to happen. You wash your face at the basin, brush out your hair, climb into bed and wait for him to settle beside you in the dark.

His beard brushes against the crown of your head, and his arm slides careful beneath your shoulders, turning you into him. Then his hand comes up and his fingers trace slowly downwards, pausing at the curve of your hip and curling there warm against your nightgown.

"Darlin’, I…”

“What is it?”

“I can pull out. I promise I will.”

For a moment, you’re not entirely sure what he means. “Pull out of what?”

You feel him still slightly against you, then relax. “Out of you.”

“Oh…” you’re grateful for the dark hiding the flush that creeps up your neck at your naivety. “I didn’t realise…”

He cuts you off by bending and moving his mouth against yours. The kiss is warm and unhurried, the taste of the evening meal lingering on his tongue against yours, and you lick deep into his mouth without a single moment of hesitation.

His hand draws your nightgown slowly up your bare thigh and you shift against him in the dark taking over to draw it up over your hips then your stomach, your breasts and finally your head. You let it fall off the side of the bed into the dark and turn slowly back into him.

His chest presses warm against your breasts, the tender peaks tightening at the contact, and you feel the hot length of him against your stomach.

You kiss him slowly, his arm drawing you tighter against him, and before you even know what you’re doing, before you’ve even considered whether it’s proper or expected or, indeed, wanted, you pull slowly back, shift and swing your bare leg over the broad warmth of his hips, settling above him on your knees.

He inhales shakily beneath you, and his hands settle at the curve of your hips, the pads of his fingers tracing the warm flesh, which draws a soft sound from your throat. You reach down between you and take him in your hand, causing him to hiss your name.

Slowly, you guide him against you, the drag of the hot head of him against the wet of you pulling soft helpless sounds from both of you. Then you ease slowly down onto him, an inch at a time, and the stretch of him filling you feels devastating.

You seat yourself to the hilt and hold there, the tender ache between your thighs throbbing around him as your hands settle against his chest for balance. In the pale light, you can see his jaw clenched tight, eyes burning up at you as you begin to move in a slow rise and fall, the motion of which you’ve no idea of before now. The bed creaks softly beneath you, the only sound in the dark beyond your mutual breaths, and you keep the rhythm careful and quiet in the sleeping house.

He guides you slowly, thumbs still tracing your skin, biting back sounds from his throat that you swallow when you bend over and catch them with your mouth, kissing him through the slow rocking of your hips.

He lets you ride him in the dark, building slow and warm, and you stretch around him with every slow press down. His hands slide from your hips, travelling the length of your bare torso to settle on your breasts, thumbs skating over the hardened peaks, and you can’t help but throw your head back and gasp.

Then he moves, arms winding around you, pulling himself up so that his mouth can find your tender flesh, pulling one nipple and then the other into his mouth and suckling deep, the action turning the tender ache into hot sparks. You slide your hands into his hair, hold his head at your breasts and quicken your pace, entirely without thought or guidance or experience.

“Oh Joel…” you hear yourself whisper. “Oh yes…. yes, like that…”

“That feel good, darlin’?” he murmurs and all you can do is moan softly.

After a moment, he shifts again beneath you, rolling slowly, taking you with him until he lays you on your back and braces himself carefully above you on his elbows.

The slow rocking of his hips against yours is deeper than yours had been above him. The hot length of him strokes slow and full into you with every careful in-press, and your arms wind around his neck, your knees drawing higher against his hips.

“Yes…yes Joel…”

The heat in your stomach draws tight and the wave breaks through every inch of you. You bite into his shoulder to keep the helpless sounds from carrying down the hall to Sarah’s room, as your body clenches tight around him. He keeps the rhythm, rocking you through the long warm rolling of it, his beard pressed against your temple, his elbows braced on either side of your shoulders.

“Darlin’…” he says finally, voice tight. “I’m close, I…I need to come…”

For a second, he hesitates, then he pulls slowly out of you, dragging an empty sound from your throat. Then he comes up onto his knees above you and takes himself in his fist, the muscle of his arm flexing slow and hard.

He breaks seconds later, a wrecked sound tearing from him as he spills, hot and wet across your stomach in long heavy pulses, his hand working slowly through each one.

You feel it, but you don’t look. You watch what you can see of him in the dark, wait until he’s completely spent, then reach out to draw him into your arms again. He comes down slowly, pressing his weight against your briefly, breath harsh and ragged, before rolling onto his side and taking you with him, pressing kisses to your temple.

"Thank you, darlin’," he murmurs when he’s regained the ability to speak. “Thank you.”

You lie together in the dark for a long moment, heartbeats slowly returning to normal, his chest rising and falling with impending slumber.

“Joel,” you whisper.

“Mm.”

“I’m…I’m sticky.”

His breathing pauses for a moment, then his chest rumbles with laughter. “Apologies, darlin’, let me get you cleaned up.”

➰➰➰➰➰➰➰➰❤️➰➰➰➰➰➰➰➰

It’s quiet in the house.

The kind of quiet that settles deep in your bones, humming beneath your skin like a dull, familiar ache. The sun’s just started to set, casting long gold shadows through the windows. Dust floats through the air in lazy spirals, catching the light. The house is still.

But Joel isn’t.

He sits on the edge of the bed, forearms resting on his thighs, staring ahead at nothing in particular. He’s in his head, battling between what he should do and what he wants to do. There’s a silicone sex toy on the nightstand — a fleshlight. He hasn’t picked it up, hasn’t used it. He just looks at it for a moment, jaw tight, tongue pressed into the corner of his cheek.

He had purchased the toy ages ago — long before he met you. It wasn’t an accident, it wasn’t a dare, it was an act of pure desperation. Four years of fucking nothing but his hand, craving to be inside a woman, but feeling so emotionally numb he couldn’t allow himself even a one-night stand.

While the toy offered a different feeling than his hand, it felt cold and lifeless whenever he would try to use it. So, he stashed it away, deep in his nightstand, behind overdue bills and a mess of cords. He met you three months later and hadn’t thought of the toy since. Until today.

You’ve been away at a conference. Some 10-day training halfway across the country. You’re in a different time zone and your schedule is so packed that Joel’s barely gotten a single text from you, much less been able to hear your voice.

You’re not supposed to be back in town until tomorrow. But, he’s felt on edge since he woke up.

He should’ve waited. He should’ve poured himself a drink and taken a cold shower or distracted himself with some project in the garage. Maybe called Tommy to check in. But instead he’s here. Warm skin under a thin shirt. Loose sweatpants. Nothing underneath.

He grew restless around 3pm, feeling want clawing its way under his skin.

Three hours later he still can’t shake the tension that has settled in his shoulders. His cock's been half-hard all day. Your voice is stuck in his head — playful, daring, that low murmur you use when you’re teasing him. The photo you sent yesterday didn’t help. You, in one of his worn T-shirts that hits just below your waist, fresh-faced in some hotel room. He grits his teeth and exhales through his nose.

Fuck it.

He reaches into his nightstand, finding a bottle of lube, and clicking it open, letting it spill over his fingers. He doesn’t need to work the toy open, much to his dismay, so when he slides his fingers inside, he’s doing it for functionality’s sake rather than pleasure.

Joel leans against the pillows you usually sleep on, your scent clinging faintly to the fabric, and lets his eyes fall shut.

His hand is a little shaky as he grips the waistband of his sweats and pulls them down around his thighs. His cock slips free, thick, flushed, already glistening with precome. His breath catches when the cool air hits and he’s all of a sudden too aware of the heavy heat between his legs.

The slit of the silicone toy stares back at him — open, soft, and waiting.

But he doesn’t just slide in. Not yet.

Instead, he lets the tip of his cock nudge against the entrance, not quite pushing inside. He presses into it, just enough to feel the give of the silicone, then pulls back. A low, involuntary groan slips from between his lips.

He keeps to similar movements; the swollen head of his cock kisses the slit, then withdraws. He does it again and again, each time a little harder. The soft thwap of skin on silicone echoes faintly in the quiet room.

“Shit,” he mutters, his hips twitching forward.

It feels so wrong but surprisingly good. If he jerks himself off, he doesn’t tease himself like this — not like you. His hand flexes as he changes his grip, slow and shallow, dragging the tip up and down the toy’s split without pressing inside. The slide makes everything worse in the best way possible. His cock throbs, desperate to be buried deep, to be held tight, milked and ruined, but he holds back.

“Bet you’d fuckin’ laugh if you saw me like this,” he mutters, talking to the empty room.

He groans and shifts until he’s propped up against the pillows, angling himself until the head of his cock catches inside. This time, he doesn’t stop. The silicone stretches, then parts, swallowing him inch by inch, until the thick base of him is grinding into the open end and the head of his cock is poking out the other side — slick, flushed, dripping. It’s filthy. The way his cock looks with lube smeared down the length of him, the toy flexing around every inch, and he can’t fucking stop staring at it.

“Jesus fuckin’ Christ.”

Images of you flash in his mind. Your hands. Your mouth. The little gasp you make when he pushes into you.

His hips jolt forward, instinctive and hungry, and the toy gives just enough resistance to almost make it feel real.

“Miss you,” he breathes, his eyes fluttering shut. “Fuck, I miss you.”

There’s something about the helplessness of saying those words that makes him feel his age in ways he doesn’t like to admit. It’s not just sex with you, not even close. He misses the way your lips pull into a smile when he kisses you at 4am when he has to leave on a job. He misses the way your body fits perfectly against his when you’re asleep. He misses hearing his name when he kisses that spot right behind your ear that makes you fall apart.

Joel opens his eyes, and pulls off from the toy, watching as the suction pulls at him. He scrambles for his phone on the nightstand and quickly pulls up the picture you sent yesterday.

“Baby…”, he whispers. “Look at what you do to me. Fuckin’ desperate for you to take my cock.”

Joel tosses his phone on the mattress and then sinks into the toy again — harder this time but still slow. His thighs flex, abdomen tightening. Another thrust and his breath leaves in a ragged moan.

“Goddamn.”

The toy’s squelching now with each thrust of his hips. He twists his wrist just slightly on the next stroke, grinding the toy down against his groin. He can feel the need coursing through his body, can feel his nerve endings catch on fire.

“That what you want, baby?” he murmurs under his breath. “Want me to fuck you slow like this? All stretched out… beggin’ for more?”

He says it to no one. Says it to you. You’re not there — but in his head, you are. On your back, legs parted, pussy lips swollen and wet from teasing.

Joel groans and drives his hips up again, the slap of skin getting louder as he quickens his pace. He braces one hand on the mattress and lets the other keep working the toy, thrusting into it like it’s not just molded silicone but you, real and warm and throbbing around him.

He sets a rhythm. Slow grind in, faster pull back. He starts to roll his hips instead of snapping them, chasing that drag, that pressure, that almost-too-much squeeze that makes his toes curl.

“You’d take it,” he grits out, thrusting harder. “Fuck, baby, you’d take it all. Know you would.”

Joel’s breathing picks up, mouth falling open around quiet yet guttural groans. The pace is messy now. No more teasing. He’s so fucking hard it hurts.

“Look at you,” he grunts. “Makin’ a mess on my cock, baby.”

He imagines your hands fisting the sheets, your thighs shaking as he drives into you. His fist tightens on the toy, his thrusts getting sharper.

“Say it,” he pants. “Say you need it. Say you want this cock.”

He grinds up harder, thighs burning with the effort, holding himself just at the edge. He chokes on a sound, a half laugh, half groan and buries himself to the hilt, holding there, toy pressed so tight it trembles in his grip.

“Fuck. Fuck. Slow down—” he mutters to himself.

The line between fantasy and sensation blurs. All he knows is that you’re not here, and it’s not enough.

He’s soaked. His cock’s flushed red, tip shining with a mix of lube and precome as it stares back at him from the far end of the toy. His muscles are tense, twitching from holding himself back.

He forces himself to slide out slow. His chest heaves and his free hand grips into the mattress beside him, trying to anchor himself.

“Not fuckin’ yet.”

He lowers the toy again, this time just pressing the lips of it to his tip. Just small, circular strokes right against the most sensitive part of him. It makes him grunt, his hips canting upward like he can’t help it.

“That what you want, baby? Want me beggin’ to come?”

He’s so close he’s shaking.

He pushes into the toy letting it slide all the way down until he’s buried to the hilt again. The silicone clutches him tight, like it knows how bad he needs this.

“S’got nothin’ on you. Fuckin’—need to feel you wrapped around my cock.”

The confession tears out of him before he can stop it. Not dirty, just real — desperate, aching, raw.

Still, he doesn’t stop moving. He pumps into the toy with deep, dragging thrusts, letting the pressure pull him right to the edge and keep him there. It’s almost too much. And still, not enough. Still not you.

“You’d let me,” he pants, lips parted. “Let me fuck you just like this. Take my cock like such a good girl.”

His hand flexes hard around the base of the toy, pulling it tighter as he drives up into it again.

“That pretty little pussy’s so greedy for me, huh?” he breathes. “Got you drippin’ all over the fuckin’ sheets… whinin’ for me to fill you.”

His stomach tightens. “You want me to come inside you, baby?” he murmurs.

His breath is ragged now. Hair damp with sweat. The veins in his neck stand out as he thrusts into the toy.

“Yeah, you’d take it,” he growls. “You’d fuckin’ take every fuckin’ drop.”

He chokes on a moan, hips moving in sharp, desperate jerks.

He’s barely aware of the room anymore. He can’t think of anything but the searing heat building in his gut and the ache for something real.

And that’s when he hears it. Soft. Barely there. His name.

Joel.

It’s not loud. It’s not even clear. Just a whispered exhale.

His eyes squeeze shut. He groans low, thinking it’s just in his head. “Yeah,” he rasps, hips driving up. “Say my name like that…”

Then he hears it again. Not a word this time, a sound, a whimper — high, broken and real.

His eyes fly open and he turns his gaze to the bedroom door. He stiffens, chest still heaving with breath he can’t quiet. His brain’s still scrambled from the edge he was just on, from how close he came to letting go.

You’re there. Backlit by hallway light, standing frozen, your fingers tucked between your thighs beneath the hem of one of his old T-shirts.

You’d been watching. You’d been touching yourself. And now, both of you caught, there’s nowhere for either of you to hide.

You—” he starts, voice hoarse. “You’re not supposed to be here till—”

You don’t speak.

“How long’ve you been there?” he asks, voice cracking, rougher than you’ve ever heard it.

“Long enough to know you’d rather be fucking me.”

He doesn’t know what this is, this shift in the air, but it’s got him by the throat. He swallows hard as you step into the room.

“Baby,” he whispers. “Please…”

You know what he wants, what he’s asking for.

You shake your head slowly. “I want you to keep going.”

He blinks, stunned. “What?” he asks, barely audible.

You take another step, stopping just at the foot of the bed, voice steady now. He can smell your shampoo now. Feel your warmth.

“I want to see you finish.”

He groans, head tipping back into the pillows.

“It’s not the same,” he says, hips twitching. “I want you, baby. Wanna feel you on my cock.”

Your mouth curves into a wicked smile.

“I know, but I want to watch. You’ll give that to me, won’t you?”

That’s what breaks him. Not the words, not exactly. But the look in your eyes. Curious with something darker underneath.

He nods slow, mesmerized by the sight of you.

“Yeah,” he breathes. “Anything for you.”

He goes to reach for the toy but finds your hand already there, wrapping around him. He lets you take it.

“Let me.”

He moans like that alone could undo him.

You start slow, sliding the toy up, then down, working him in long, wet strokes. The base of the toy presses against his groin. His cock is still poking through, swollen and slick. He jerks beneath your touch, gasping.

“Fuck, baby…”

His hands grip the sheets beside him, knuckles white. He’s twitching with every drag, his hips lifting, chasing it like it’s the only thing keeping him alive.

“You like that?” you whisper.

“Jesus,” he groans. “Feels good. Feels so fuckin’ good—don’t stop—”

You don’t. You keep working the toy slow and deep, dragging it almost all the way off before pushing it back down again. The noises it makes are wet and obscene.

“This what you think about when I’m gone? Me with my hand on you?”

Joel pulses in your hand.

“Or are you thinking about my mouth…or my pussy?”

He groans, broken. “All of it,” he says, gasping.

Joel’s chest heaves. “Baby,” he chokes out. “I can’t—”

“Yes, you can.”

You squeeze the toy just a little tighter and slow your pace, making him writhe.

“Please—fuck, I need it—need you—”

You lean in close, letting your breath skim his jaw. “I’m right here. Come on, baby. Let me see you come.”

And he does. His body arches, eyes rolling back as he cries out your name.

His cock jerks violently inside the toy, thick ropes of come spilling over your hand as you fuck him through it, wringing every last drop until his entire body sags.

He’s wrecked. Panting. Shaking.

And when you finally ease the toy off, his come leaks onto his stomach.

Without hesitation, you climb up onto the bed and press your head to his still heaving chest.

“Holy fuck,” he breathes. “That was…” You hum in agreement.

Five minutes go by and neither of you speak. He lets you run your hand over his chest in lazy, soothing lines until eventually, he shifts.

“Missed you so goddamn much.”

You press your lips to his collarbone and whisper, “Missed you too. When do you think you can fuck me for real?”

He swallows hard, his eyes darkening, his spent cock twitching against his thigh.

By the time you left New York, the only thing you had bought purely for yourself was a book.

The Boyfriend Act.

You had found it two days before leaving, displayed on the front table of a crowded bookstore in the Village, stacked in little towers beneath handwritten cards promising sharp banter, fake dating, and the kind of story that still believed two people could make a mess of everything and somehow find their way back to each other. One review called it a love letter to 2000s romcoms. Another insisted it was a breath of fresh air. That was what got you, in the end. Because at that moment, with half your life in boxes and the rest already being spoken for in rooms where you were not always present, the promise had felt embarrassing only because of how badly you wanted it. So you bought it.

By the time you reached the register, the book was tucked under your arm like a small, private indulgence.

The girl at the register smiled the moment she saw the cover.

“Oh, I absolutely loved this one,” she said, scanning it before giving the book a small, affectionate tap with her fingers, as if it were less a product than a friend she was sending out into the world. “You’re going to have such a good time.”

You looked down at the bright cover, suddenly and inexplicably self-conscious, as if the book had announced something about you before you were ready to admit it. “That good?”

“So good.” She slid the receipt from the machine, then paused, her smile turning conspiratorial. “Can I give you a very tiny spoiler? Not plot. Just… atmosphere.”

You laughed, because the seriousness with which she asked made it impossible not to. “All right. A tiny one.”

“Do you like Jane Austen?”

Your face softened before you could help it. “Of course. I love Austen.”

The girl’s eyes lit up as though you had given the correct password to some small, secret society. “Okay, perfect. Then you should know Mr. Darcy and Mr. Bingley are in this.”

You blinked at her.

“In this?” you repeated, glancing down at the paperback as if two Regency gentlemen might somehow be hiding between the glossy illustrated people on the cover.

She nodded solemnly. “Yes.”

You stared for half a second longer. “Mr. Darcy and Mr. Bingley.”

“Mm-hmm.”

“In a contemporary fake dating romcom.”

The girl’s mouth twitched. “Technically.”

You narrowed your eyes, amused now. “Technically?”

She leaned closer over the counter, lowering her voice as though she were about to reveal something far more scandalous than it was. “They’re cats.”

For one second, you only looked at her. Then a laugh slipped out of you, surprised and warm enough that the girl grinned in triumph.

“They’re cats?” you asked.

“Very important cats.”

“Oh, seriously?”

“Extremely seriously. Honestly, I think Mr. Darcy has more emotional intelligence than half the men in the book.”

“That feels very Austen appropriate.”

“Exactly.” She tucked the receipt neatly between the pages, then reached beneath the counter. “Actually, wait. I think we still have some promotional bookmarks.”

She produced two of them and laid them beside the book with the solemnity of someone offering sacred objects. The first was printed with tiny illustrated cats in bow ties and little judgmental faces, arranged over a pale patterned background. The second was softer, pink and cream, decorated with strawberries, tiny white flowers, and a slice of strawberry shortcake that looked almost too pretty to be real.

You picked up the cat one first. “I assume this is for Mr. Darcy and Mr. Bingley.”

“Naturally.”

Then you lifted the strawberry one, turning it over between your fingers. “And this one?”

The girl only grinned.

“What?” you asked.

“Nothing.”

“That is not a nothing face.”

“It’s not,” she admitted, slipping the book into the paper bag before tucking both bookmarks carefully inside. “But I’m not ruining it for you.”

You laughed softly. “So the strawberries matter.”

“They matter enough.”

“That’s very cryptic.”

“I know.” She pushed the bag toward you, pleased with herself. “You’ll get it when you get there.”

Now, weeks later, sitting barefoot on the balcony with the book open in your lap and the late afternoon heat sitting golden and slow over everything, you had to admit the girl had not been wrong. If anything, she had undersold it. The book had become dangerous in the way good books were dangerous: you had meant to read one chapter after lunch, perhaps two, and instead the day had loosened around you. Water had gone warm in the glass beside you. The cushion beneath your legs had molded itself to your body. Time had moved somewhere beyond the edge of the page and stopped expecting you to follow.

By then, there was only the chapter you had been waiting for since Augustine—the author—first let you taste the promise of it, sweet and brief, only to pull it away again and leave you turning pages for more.

The flashback of the Halloween party.

Finally.

Frankie Morales had spent eighteen chapters avoiding that night so stubbornly that by the time the book finally came back to it, you were almost annoyed with him. Every time someone got close to saying something useful, Frankie changed the subject, left the room, or shut down so completely that you wanted to reach into the page and shake him.

So when his sister appeared at his bedroom door and told him to get dressed, you sat up a little straighter against the balcony cushion.

Of course Frankie did not want to go but his sister, thankfully, did not seem to care. You liked her immediately. There was something comforting about the way she loved him: not gently, exactly, but stubbornly, as if she knew gentleness would only give him more room to hide. And then there was his father with the almonds. You had to press your lips together at the image of him standing in the hallway, eating them one by one because his wife had started seeing a nutritionist and he had apparently decided that being supportive meant taking nuts very seriously. It was such a small, silly detail, but it made the whole thing feel real.

But when Frankie walked out dressed as Zorro, you stopped reading for a second because a memory came before you invited it.

You were little again, sitting on the living room carpet with a bowl of popcorn between your knees, far too close to the television because your mother had already told you twice to move back and you had moved exactly three inches out of principle. Behind you, she was on the couch with a basket of laundry beside her, pretending to fold it while very obviously watching the movie over your head. Every now and then she would pick up a shirt, smooth it over her lap, then forget what she was doing the moment the music swelled again.

The room was dim, blue and gold with the light from the screen. There were horses, swords, candlelit rooms, Catherine Zeta-Jones in a beautiful dress, and a man you had never seen before in a black mask who seemed to know exactly what he was doing every time he smiled. You remembered almost nothing of the plot now. Only flashes. The cape. The dust. The dramatic music. The way he moved as if trouble had been invented specifically to follow him around.

But you definitely remembered him.

Antonio Banderas in that mask, with that grin, that mustache, that little goatee, looking so pleased with himself that even your small, serious heart had understood something important was happening, though you had no idea what.

You turned around on the carpet. “Mama?”

Your mother hummed, still looking at the screen. “Mm?”

“Why does he look like that?”

She glanced down at you, amused already. “Like what?”

You pointed at the television. “Like… that.”

Your mother followed your finger, saw exactly who you meant, and laughed softly. “Oh. Him.”

“Yes. Why?”

“Because he has charm.”

You frowned. “What’s charm?”

“That,” she said, nodding toward the screen.

You looked back at him, trying very hard to understand. “Because of the mask?”

“The mask helps.”

“And the sword?”

“The sword definitely helps too.”

“And the horse?”

“Oh, the horse helps a lot but no.”

You turned back to her, impatient now. “Then what is it?”

Your mother leaned forward a little, lowering her voice as if she were telling you a secret of great importance. “Honestly?”

You nodded.

“It’s the mustache.”

You looked at the television again. For a few seconds, you considered him with all the seriousness a subject like that deserved. The mask was good. The sword was good. The horse was obviously important. But the mustache did seem to be doing a lot of work.

“Yes,” you said at last, eyes shining with fascination. “I think it is.”

Your mother laughed so hard that the shirt in her hands slid from her lap onto the floor, and you remembered feeling proud, as if you had somehow understood something grown up and ridiculous at the same time.

Unfortunately, looking down at Frankie Morales in a black mask all these years later, you had to admit she might have been right. And now, on the balcony, you smiled down at the page despite yourself.

Frankie had escaped to the rooftop. He had gone looking for a cigarette and a place where nobody needed anything from him, which was the sort of thing men in romance novels did immediately before the universe punished them by sending a woman who would accidentally become unforgettable. She arrived dressed as a vampire and locked the door behind her by mistake, and the scene changed at once with the strange, perfect awkwardness of two unhappy people being trapped somewhere just private enough to stop performing. You leaned a little closer without realizing it, thumb holding the page open near the spine. The chapter had started to feel different, tighter somehow, like the book was finally done pretending it did not know exactly where it was going.

“Oh, Frankie,” you murmured, smiling down at the page. “You’re so screwed.”

“Sweetheart?”

Peter’s voice pulled you out of the rooftop so abruptly that the page seemed almost to blink beneath your eyes.

You looked over your shoulder with one finger still holding your place, because if the universe expected you to lose the exact line where Frankie and the vampire girl were about to stop pretending not to notice each other, then the universe had badly misjudged you.

Peter stood in the open balcony doors, still in the middle of getting ready. His shirt was pale blue, soft enough in the evening light to look almost silver, and only half buttoned, the collar open at his throat, cuffs undone at his wrists. His hair was damp from the shower and brushed back, though one stubborn piece near his temple had already started falling out of place. For a second, he looked less like the man the town would meet tonight and more like the one you had first known: handsome, tired, ambitious, standing in the doorway of a bedroom too late at night with his tie half pulled loose and a takeout container in his hand, laughing because everything had gone wrong and the only decent response left was to sit on the floor and eat noodles with plastic forks. Then his gaze moved over you: bare feet, loose dress, hair still untouched, book open in your lap, the glass of water beside you gone warm and ignored.

“You’re not dressed.”

You looked down at yourself, then back at him. “I was about to start.”

“We’re leaving at seven.”

Your eyes flicked toward the clock inside the bedroom. “Peter, it’s six thirty.”

“I know.”

“The party starts at eight.”

“My father wants us there early.”

You kept your finger tucked between the pages, careful not to lose your place. “Why?”

“He wants to introduce us to a few people before everyone else arrives.”

You nodded, but your eyes had already dropped back to the book, pulled for one last second toward the rooftop, the cigarette smoke, the girl with the little bat wings, the door that had just shut behind her. “Okay.”

But Peter did not answer and the silence made you look up again.

“Are you listening to me?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“You’re still reading.”

“I heard what you said.”

“That isn’t the same thing.”

You closed the book halfway around your finger, enough to show him you were trying, not enough to surrender the page. “I still have time.”

“You haven’t chosen a dress.”

“I will.”

“You haven’t done your hair.”

“I know.”

“And if you leave it too late, you’ll feel rushed, and then you’ll be upset before we even get in the car.”

You looked at him, then down at the book again, the narrow slice of paper still held beneath your finger like a small, ridiculous claim.

“I just want to finish the chapter.”

Peter’s mouth tightened, then relaxed almost immediately. “Tonight matters.”

“I know.”

“I need you to understand that it really matters.” He stepped onto the balcony with a purpose that made the space feel smaller. “My father wants me to speak with Richard Wickham before the lawn gets crowded. He and his partners are interested in the old sawmill property.”

“The old one outside town?”

“Yes.”

“You said that was only a possibility.”

“It was. Now it’s closer than that.” He came to stand near the railing, restless enough that he did not sit, and looked out over the trees for a second as if the whole town had become something he needed to prove himself to. “If it works, it could be the first project here that feels like mine.”

The word softened you despite yourself. His. You understood that. You understood wanting something that belonged to you without explanation, without inheritance, without someone else’s name written faintly beneath it. Peter’s life had been made easier by George Craven in ways neither of you could pretend not to see, but ease and freedom were not the same thing. Some doors had been opened for him so forcefully that no one noticed he still had to walk through them while being watched, measured, and compared to the man who held them open.

You let out a quiet breath. “Peter, I’m happy for you. I am.”

“I know.”

“And I’m going with you.”

His eyes returned to you. “But I need you with me.”

“I will be.”

“No.” His voice stayed calm, but something in it settled. “I need you with me. Not half in some book, not annoyed because I interrupted you, not rushing through getting ready because I had to pull you back into the evening.”

You looked down. The book felt suddenly heavier in your lap. Only a paperback, only paper and ink and a chapter that would still be there later, but for the last hour it had belonged to no one but you. No George. No investors. Just the page, and your hands, and a story that had asked nothing from you except attention.

“I can be ready by seven,” you said.

“You can be dressed by seven. That isn’t the same thing.”

You looked up sharply.

Peter seemed to hear himself then. His expression shifted, softening around the edges before you could fully decide whether to be hurt. “I didn’t mean it like that.”

“How did you mean it?”

“I mean I don’t want us arriving flustered. I don’t want to walk in and have people see you still trying to settle yourself because we left everything to the last minute.” He paused, and when he spoke again his voice was quieter. “I want tonight to go well.”

“So do I.”

“Then put the book down.”

You held his gaze and for a second, nothing moved. The evening air was warm against your bare legs. Somewhere inside the house, the clock kept its quiet, indifferent rhythm. Beneath your finger, the page waited exactly where you had left it, and the absurdity of wanting one more minute nearly made you give in out of shame alone.

“In a minute,” you said.

Peter’s jaw tightened.

“Now.”

The word was not loud. That was why it reached you the way it did. A louder man would have given you something to resist. Peter only stood there, composed and certain, and the certainty made the balcony feel suddenly less like a place you had chosen and more like a room with no door.

“Peter,” you said carefully, “I’m asking just for one minute.”

“And I’m asking you not to make me ask twice.”

You looked at him, and for a moment the two of you seemed to be staring at different versions of the same scene. In his, he was tired, pressured, trying to get you to take the evening seriously. In yours, you were barefoot with a book in your hands, being asked to give up the last small piece of time that had belonged entirely to you.

“I’m not trying to upset you,” you said.

“I know.”

“I just want to finish the chapter, baby.”

“I know that too.”

“Then why does it feel like you’re angry with me?”

Peter looked away for half a second. When he looked back, his face had smoothed again into something gentler, almost apologetic. “I’m not angry. I’m stressed.”

“Okay.”

“I need help tonight.”

“I said I’d help.”

“No, you’re just making this harder than it has to be.”

You did not answer and Peter seemed to regret it almost immediately, or perhaps only the way your face changed. He came closer, lowering his voice. “Sweetheart.”

You kept your finger inside the book.

“I’ll give it back in the car,” he said, reaching for it.

Your hand tightened. “Peter, no.”

“I’m not taking it away from you.”

“That’s exactly what you’re doing.”

“I’m just helping you get ready.”

“I’m not a child.”

His expression changed. Neither of you moved at first. Then Peter reached down and took the book from your lap with a firmness that left no room for pretending it was still a request. You could have held on. You could have made him pull harder, made the ugliness of it visible. But he knew you wouldn’t. And worse, so did you.

You looked at him.

“Give it back.”

“You can finish it later.”

“Peter.”

“I said later.”

You reached for the book.

He moved it back. “Don’t.”

You reached again but Peter caught your wrist. His fingers closed around the narrow place above your hand with a firmness that had a purpose and nothing more. Just enough to stop you. Just enough to make your arm go still between you. Just enough for your pulse to wake in a sudden, stupid panic beneath his thumb.

You looked down.

You knew that hand. You knew the shape of his fingers, the warmth of his palm, the faint pale scar near his knuckle from a broken glass in New York, the way his cuff sat just above the wrist bone when he was dressed for dinner. You had watched that hand sign checks, lift wineglasses, smooth napkins over restaurant tables, tuck your hair behind your ear with gentleness. You had felt it at the small of your back in crowded rooms, guiding without pushing, claiming without seeming to. It was not your father’s hand. It was not a fist. But it was Peter’s hand and it was holding you still against your own will.

“Listen to me,” he said.

You tried to look at his face and failed. His thumb was resting over the inside of your wrist, right where your pulse had started betraying you. It beat against him wildly, embarrassingly, as if your own blood were making an accusation your mouth had not agreed to yet.

“I need tonight to go well,” he said, and his voice was low now, controlled with the kind of care people mistook for calm. “I need you beside me. I need them to see that this isn’t just another opportunity being handed to me because of my last name. I need them to see that I’m building something here. That I’m serious. That we’re serious.”

His grip shifted then, no longer only stopping you but pressing hard enough for pain to flicker through your wrist. Then your eyes lifted at him. His face was tense—yes—but not ugly with anger. He looked tired. Strained. A man at the edge of an evening too large for him. A man asking for help in the only way he knew how, badly but sincerely. A man who had been raised to inherit and was terrified, perhaps, that everyone in them could still tell he had not earned the key.

“Do you understand?” he asked.

You heard the question. You understood the question. But all you could feel was his hand still closed around your wrist, the pressure of his fingers turning sharper the longer you stayed silent.

“Peter,” you said.

His eyes searched yours, waiting for agreement, for reassurance, for the version of you that always knew how to make things easier.

Your throat tightened.

“You’re hurting me.”

For a second, nothing moved. Then he looked down. His fingers loosened at once, then hesitated, then opened fully, as if release were not a single action but a series of decisions he had to remember how to make. You drew your wrist back against your body and covered it with your other hand before you could think better of it. There was no mark worth naming. Only warmth. Only the beginning of red where his thumb had pressed, already fading beneath your gaze. Peter stared at your wrist. Then at you.

“Oh, baby.”

The softness in his voice went through you with such precision that, for one awful second, you wanted to comfort him.

You shook your head. “It’s fine.”

“No.” He set the book down on the table immediately, carefully, as though tenderness toward the thing he had taken from you could travel backward through the last minute and alter its shape. “No, it’s not.”

“It is.”

“It isn’t.” He moved closer and then stopped before touching you again. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I didn’t mean to grab you like that.”

“I know.”

“No, I need you to know.”

You looked at him then because he sounded as if something in him had opened without permission. Shame sat plainly in his face, but there was fear too, quick and bright behind the careful blue of his eyes. He was seeing himself from your side of the balcony. You could tell.

“I know,” you said again.

For a moment, his mouth opened and nothing came out. It was strange, seeing him without the next sentence ready. Peter always had the next sentence. He knew how to step into silence before it could become awkward. He knew how to make a room feel held. But now he only stood there with the book abandoned on the table and your wrist cradled against your body, his face suddenly too young for the man he was trying so hard to be.

“I didn’t mean—” He stopped, swallowed, tried again. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”

You said nothing and that seemed to undo him more than anything else could have.

“Baby.”

His voice broke softly over the word.

“I’m not scared,” you said, though your voice trembled badly enough to betray you before the sentence was finished. “I’m not.”

Peter looked at you then and you felt your fingers tighten around your own wrist.

He lifted his hand, stopped halfway, then let it fall as if he no longer trusted himself to touch you. “I’m sorry,” he said, and the words came out too quickly, almost stumbling over each other. “I’m so sorry. I was—” He swallowed, eyes flicking once toward the bedroom, toward the evening waiting beyond the walls, then back to you with a kind of panic he had not managed to hide. “I was thinking about tonight. About my father. About all of it. And I took it out on you.”

You said nothing and that seemed to frighten him more.

“I took it out on you,” he repeated, lower this time, like saying it again might make it less slippery in his own mouth. “I know I did. I know.”

There was something almost unbearable about hearing him say it so badly. No clean explanation. No careful sentence. Just shame—fear—and the awful sight of him realizing what he had done while you were still standing there with your wrist held against your chest.

“You’re nervous,” you said.

The bridge was there before you could stop building it. Peter’s face shifted at once, gratitude and misery moving through him so quickly they became almost the same thing.

“I am,” he said. “I am, but that doesn’t—” He stepped closer, then stopped again, his hands opening helplessly at his sides. “That doesn’t excuse it. I know it doesn’t. I’m not saying that. I’m not.”

“I know.”

“No, I don’t think you do.” His laugh came out short and empty, and he dragged a hand through his damp hair hard enough to ruin the careful shape of it. “Or maybe you do, and you’re trying to be kind, and God, that’s worse.”

You looked down. The red mark was barely visible now, a small line of warmth fading above your hand. It looked too slight for the weight it had put in the room.

Peter followed your gaze, and his face tightened.

“Can I see it?”

You hesitated.

His eyes closed briefly, as if the hesitation itself had landed somewhere painful.

“Please,” he said. “Just let me see. Please, baby.”

You gave him your wrist. Peter took it with both hands, careful to the point of awkwardness, as if even the wrong angle of his fingers might make you pull away again. He did not close his hand around you this time. He supported your wrist lightly, leaving your skin more air than touch, and turned it toward the fading light with a concentration so wounded it made your throat tighten in spite of yourself.

“It’s nothing,” you said.

His eyes stayed on the mark. “It’s not.”

“It’s already going away.”

“That doesn’t matter.”

“It wasn’t that bad.”

Peter looked up sharply.

For a second, you thought he might argue, but whatever rose in him broke almost immediately. His mouth opened, closed, and then his face folded in on itself in a small, controlled way that somehow hurt more than if he had lost himself completely.

“Baby, don’t.”

The words came out rough and you went still.

“Please don’t do that.”

“Do what?”

“Don’t tell me it was nothing.” His thumb hovered near the mark but did not touch it. “Please. I can’t—” He stopped, breath catching hard through his nose. “I can’t stand here and listen to you comfort me when I’m the one who put my hand on you.”

“Peter—”

“I grabbed you.” The words came out flat and ugly. “You told me I was hurting you, and for a second I still had my hand on you.”

The room went very quiet.

His face had gone pale beneath the strain, the careful color of the evening drained out of him. He shook his head once, not at you exactly. At himself.

“I don’t know what the hell is wrong with me.”

The sentence landed hard because it did not sound like a confession. It sounded like fear.

“You were stressed,” you said quickly.

“I was holding your wrist.”

“You didn’t mean to hurt me.”

“But I did.”

You swallowed. Peter looked at you, and there was nothing composed left in his face. No charm. No calm. Just a man who had done something ugly and needed, desperately, for you to tell him he had not become ugly with it.

“I saw your face,” he said.

You felt your fingers curl slightly.

“I saw it.” His voice dropped. “For a second, you looked at me like you didn’t know who I was.”

You had not known you were looking at him any particular way.

“I didn’t mean to,” you said.

“No, don’t.” He shook his head quickly, almost panicked by the apology. “Don’t apologize. Please don’t apologize to me for that.”

The please almost undid you. Peter lowered his head for a moment, still holding your wrist with that excessive care, as if his gentleness now could somehow reach backward and undo the pressure from before. When he looked up again, his eyes were bright in a way you did not want to name.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m sorry, baby. I swear to God, I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

“I know.”

“No.” His eyes held yours, pleading now, all the polish gone from him. “I need you to believe me. Please.”

You did. That was the terrible part. You believed he had not meant to hurt you. You believed he was sorry. You believed the panic in his face was real, and the care in his hands was real, and the shame in his voice was real. But your wrist still hurt and both things stood in the room together, and neither one knew where to go.

“I believe you,” you said.

Peter exhaled unevenly, but relief did not soften him completely. He kept looking at you, waiting for something more, something you understood before he asked for it. Not because he deserved it. Because he needed it. Because if you did not give it to him, he would have to stand there alone with what he had done.

Your hand rose to his cheek and his eyes closed at the touch.

“I forgive you,” you said.

The words seemed to move through him physically. His shoulders lowered. His face turned into your palm before he could stop himself, before the need in him could become too visible. When he opened his eyes again, they were bright and grateful and too young for the man he usually tried so hard to be.

“Yeah?” he whispered.

You nodded.

“I forgive you.”

Peter bowed his head over your wrist. He did not kiss it immediately. For a second, he only held it there between his hands, breathing as if he had been running from something and had finally been allowed to stop. Then he lifted it slowly, watching your face the whole time, and pressed his mouth to the inside of your wrist. The kiss was barely there. Warm. Careful. Apologetic.

“Thank you,” he murmured against your skin.

You nodded because there were no good words left. Peter drew you into his arms with the same caution he had used to take your wrist back into his hands. He did not pull. He made space, and you stepped into it, because refusing would have given the moment a shape neither of you was prepared to see. His half-buttoned shirt brushed your cheek. His hand settled against your back so lightly it almost felt like a question.

He was being so gentle and careful with you now…

And because he was all those things, you let your eyes close.

“I’m sorry,” he said into your hair. “You matter more than tonight.”

The words settled between you. Beautiful words. The kind women were supposed to remember years later.

Peter drew back just enough to rest his forehead briefly against yours. “You know that, right?”

You opened your mouth and discovered, strangely, that answering felt harder than it should have. Because you did know it, right? Or at least you thought you did. The trouble was that knowing a thing and feeling it were not always the same.

“Yes,” you said.

His eyes moved over your face, searching for the rest of the answer and you gave it to him because he needed it.

“I know.”

Peter breathed out, and his hand rose to your jaw, thumb brushing once along the curve with a tenderness that almost undid you. “Are we okay, baby?”

“Yes,” you said. “We’re okay.”

His answering smile was small and grateful. There he was again. The man you knew how to love. The man who could step wrong and then step back. The man who could look at you as though your forgiveness was not owed but given, precious and undeserved. The man who made the bad moment feel less like a warning than a mistake already being folded carefully away.

“Come on,” he said. “Let me help you get ready.”

Your gaze drifted to the book. Peter followed it. For one second, something unreadable passed through his face. Then he picked it up from the table and held it out to you. You took it with more relief than you meant to show.

“I can read in the car?” you asked.

“In the car,” he agreed. “Not at the party. If my mother sees you reading during cocktails, she’ll decide you’re either brilliantly eccentric or deeply unwell, and I’m honestly not ready to find out which.”

The laugh escaped you before you could stop it. Peter smiled at the sound, pleased but not smug, and for a moment the balcony warmed again. The air thinned less cruelly. The book was back in your hands. His eyes were on you, only you, and it was easy—dangerously easy—to believe the room had simply stumbled and righted itself.

You carried the book inside and placed it on the nightstand, face down but carefully, as if the characters might be bruised by the interruption too. The bedroom was cooler than the balcony, dimmer in the half-drawn evening light. The kind of room that never looked lived in, only occupied. Cream walls. Pale curtains. A neat glass tray on the dresser holding perfume, earrings you had not chosen but had learned to wear. Two dresses lay across the bed where you had left them earlier with the vague intention of deciding later.

One was ivory, clean and soft, the kind of dress that would make people call you elegant. The other was blue, delicate and cool, deeper than Peter’s shirt, with thin straps and a skirt that would move prettily when you walked. You reached for the ivory but Peter reached the blue first.

“This one,” he said.

You looked at him. He was smiling faintly.

“You didn’t even pretend to consider.”

“I considered it earlier.” He lifted the dress by the straps, his eyes moving over the fabric with quiet satisfaction. “It goes with my shirt.”

Only then did you really see it. His pale blue shirt, still open at the throat, and the dress a shade deeper, soft enough not to match too obviously but close enough to make the intention clear. Peter stepped toward you and held it against your front, his eyes moving from the fabric to your reflection with quiet satisfaction.

“See?”

You looked past his shoulder into the mirror. Your hair was still loose. Your afternoon dress was wrinkled. Your wrist looked almost normal now, the mark fading into something anyone else could miss. Peter stood behind you with the blue dress held carefully to your body, and for a moment the two of you looked exactly the way he wanted you to look: considered, harmonious, easy to understand.

“It’s pretty,” you said.

“It’s perfect.” Peter lowered the dress. “May I?”

You nodded. He came behind you, and this time every movement was careful enough to be felt as care. His fingers found the tie at the back of your dress and worked it loose slowly, pausing once before drawing the fabric down your arms. You held the front against your chest while he helped you out of it, and neither of you said anything about the way his hands avoided your wrist. The blue dress came over your head cool and light. Peter waited while you slipped your arms through the straps, then smoothed the skirt where it settled at your hips. You watched him in the mirror because looking at him directly felt more intimate than letting him dress you. The color did what he had known it would. It softened your skin, caught the last of the evening light, and made you look like you belonged beside him.

His hands moved to the zipper at the small of your back. For a moment, neither of you spoke. Then the zipper began to rise. Peter stood close enough for you to feel the warmth of him behind you, one hand guiding the zipper while the other rested lightly at your waist. He was focused, almost solemn, as if getting this right mattered more than the dress itself. Halfway up, he bent and kissed the side of your neck.

Your eyes lifted to his reflection. His were already there. The kiss was soft. His mouth touched beneath your ear, then lower, where your pulse had not fully settled, and his thumb moved once over the blue fabric at your waist with a gentleness that made your throat tighten. The zipper reached the top. Peter stayed close, his mouth near your neck, his gaze still on you in the mirror.

“See?” he murmured. “Perfect.”

You looked at the two of you: Peter in pale blue, you in darker blue, his hands resting carefully at your waist. A beautiful picture. The kind people believed without asking what had happened before it was taken.

So you smiled because he was smiling. Because the party was waiting. Because the mark on your wrist was fading. Because nothing terrible had happened and yet, for reasons you could not have explained even to yourself, your lungs still felt full of air you had never managed to breathe out.

── .⋆♱ ⋅🦋⋅ ♱⋆. ──

Joel stood in the middle of his bedroom in nothing but his underwear, hands on his hips, staring at the black dress pants laid across his bed like they had done something to offend him personally.

Jeans, at least, had the decency to become honest. They started stiff, sure, but then they softened. Learned a man’s shape. Gave a little at the knees, the thighs, the waist, wherever life had worn them down. Denim minded its own business, but these pants looked like they had never minded their own business a day in their life.

Joel had avoided them for two years.

Frank had bought them after a clergy meeting in Cheyenne, which Joel still maintained had not required dress pants. He had shown up in dark jeans, boots, and a clean button-down. Clean, he had pointed out. Mostly ironed too, if a person was feeling generous. He had been on time, awake, and had not, unlike Father Jud, spilled coffee down the front of his cassock ten minutes before the meeting and insisted no one could see it from the back row. In Joel’s opinion, that put him well above standard.

But Frank had disagreed.

He had disagreed in the parking lot, one hand pressed to his chest like Joel had personally wounded him.

“You can’t keep doing this.”

Joel had looked behind him, just in case Frank had found someone else to bother. “Doin’ what?”

“The jeans, Joel.”

“They’re dark.”

“That does not make them formal.”

“They’re clean.”

“Also not formal.”

“They got pockets.”

“So does a fishing vest, but I don’t want you wearing one of those either.”

“They cover my ass. I’d call that a success.”

Frank went very still, then glanced down with theatrical restraint. “For the record, they do an excellent job of that.”

Joel turned his head slowly. “Do not.”

“I’m only saying, if there were a clerical ranking for best ass in denim, you’d be a serious contender… Second place, obviously.”

Joel stared. “Second?”

Frank smiled. “After me.”

“You need professional help.”

“I need you to own proper trousers.”

“I own trousers.”

“No, you own funeral trousers.”

“When was the last time you wore them?”

Joel opened his mouth and closed it.

Frank folded his arms. “Exactly.”

“Could’ve been a wedding.”

“Was it?”

“No.”

“Funeral pants, then.”

Joel had tried walking away, because sometimes the only way to win a conversation with Frank was to physically leave it, but naturally, Frank followed.

“Next clergy meeting, no jeans.”

“Ain’t God seen denim before?”

“God has seen many things. That doesn’t mean He approved of all of them.”

“You sayin’ denim’s a sin now?”

“I’m saying yours are approaching a pastoral crisis.”

Joel stopped beside his truck. “My pants are not a pastoral crisis.”

“Your pants, your posture, your refusal to smile unless legally compelled to do so—”

“I smile, Frank.”

“Not in a way that reassures people, Joel.”

“You rehearse this shit?”

“In the shower sometimes.”

“That tracks.”

“Joel, you just cannot keep attending diocesan events looking like you’re about to fix someone’s porch.” Frank closed his eyes briefly. “I am begging you, as your friend, your colleague, and a man who has watched three elderly women stare at your backside during coffee hour with the reverence usually reserved for relics of saints—buy proper trousers.”

Joel’s face went blank, and Frank, tragically, continued.

“Miss Bates nearly dropped the lemon bars last Sunday.”

“Frank.”

“And Agnes said you have, and I quote, ‘a very sturdy walk.’”

Joel opened the truck door. “I’m leavin’.”

“I didn’t even tell you what Judith said.”

“Good, let’s keep it that way, please.”

“It involved the word firm and a sigh I found very inappropriate.”

Joel paused with one hand on the door and looked back at him. “Frank.”

“Yes?”

“I am askin’ you, as a Christian man, to stop talkin’ before I forget I’m one.”

“That’s between you and Judith, Joel.”

“Frank.”

“I’m just the messenger.”

Joel told him to go to hell with such heartfelt sincerity that Frank laughed all the way to his own car.

Three weeks later, the pants had appeared in a garment bag hanging from Joel’s office door, with a note pinned to the front in Frank’s slanted handwriting.

For the love of God, basic tailoring, and my blood pressure.

Underneath, because Frank was apparently incapable of mercy, he had added:

Do not make me hear Judith sigh about your ass ever again.

Joel had thrown the note away.

Then, ten minutes later, he had taken it back out of the trash, folded it once, and shoved it into a drawer, because there were certain people a man got used to being irritated by until, one day, the irritation became part of the affection, and even their stupid notes felt too special to lose.

The pants, however, had remained in the wardrobe.

Until tonight.

Joel looked at them now and breathed out through his nose. The Fourth of July event at the Craven country club was exactly the kind of place where jeans would become a topic without anyone having the honesty to make them one. Someone would smile too kindly. Someone would mention how refreshing it was that Father Miller was so unpretentious. Someone’s wife would decide he needed help shopping. Joel could survive all of that, probably. He had survived worse than rich people with opinions. But he was tired. Tired enough not to give them denim.

“All right,” he muttered. “Fine.”

He picked up the pants and stepped into them with the caution of a man who did not trust the evening, the fabric, or Frank’s taste in anything involving his lower body. One foot, then the other. He pulled them over his calves and thighs, already irritated by how aware of himself they made him. Jeans could be dragged on without ceremony. These trousers required participation. They slid too smoothly, sat too deliberately, and by the time he worked them up over his hips, his frown had deepened.

Joel looked toward the mirror.

The man looking back at him was broad, bare-chested, and half dressed, standing in black trousers with the expression of someone preparing to argue with his own reflection. The pants held his thighs instead of hiding them, followed the weight of him through the hips, and sat cleanly at the waist. His stomach had softened some with age, not much, but enough for him to notice and resent noticing. The mirror did not flatter him, but it did not spare him either: chest, arms, thighs, grey in his beard, the stubborn shape of a man who had lived hard and had not managed to disappear from it.

It looked good, but then his eyes dropped lower and Joel froze.

Because apparently the mirror had one more announcement to make, and it was that Father Miller had been hiding a package under all that denim and black fabric for years. Not a small one, either. No. Of course not. God forbid his body have the decency to be subtle about anything tonight.

He could already imagine the headline in the weekly paper.

Extra, extra! Father Miller not only has a cock like the rest of the sinners, but apparently the Lord saw fit to make it thick!

“For the love of God,” he told his reflection.

But the reflection, traitorous and silent, revealed everything.

Then he took one cautious step forward and stopped. The fabric moved with him, too smooth and too close, and the weight of his cock shifted beneath the black wool.

Joel looked down.

Even soft, it was impossible to ignore. The trousers sat higher than his jeans, closer through the hips, more precise through the crotch, and they held the shape of him with a blunt honesty that turned his stomach. The dark fabric did not expose him, not exactly, but it refused to blur him the way denim did. It showed enough: the thick length resting forward and slightly to one side, the private weight of his body made visible by good tailoring and terrible luck.

“Fucking fantastic,” he said flatly.

He shifted again, hoping the fabric might settle, but it did not.

For one ridiculous second, the situation should have been funny. Somewhere, Frank would have collapsed with laughter if he had known. Joel could hear him already, bright and delighted and impossible.

Relax, Joel. It’s not exactly breaking news. God gave me one too. What’d you think happened? They give you the collar and take it away?

Joel would have thrown something at him.

Probably the pants.

But beneath the absurdity, shame opened low in his chest.

For years, that part of him had belonged to nothing but function. Pissing in the dark. Washing in the shower. Existing in the same dull, necessary way as knees, teeth, old scars, the ache in his shoulder when rain was coming. He had trained himself not to think about it. Not to acknowledge it. Not to remember it was there unless necessity demanded otherwise.

Because before the collar, he had spent years trying to escape himself through his own body. Fists. Whiskey. Pills. Violence. Strangers. Whatever worked. Whatever was loud enough. Whatever could keep Sarah’s name from finding him for another night.

Sometimes there had been women. Too many to count. Too few to remember. He rarely went to them first. That was part of the shame too. He let them come close. Let them mistake his silence for mystery, his roughness for confidence, his emptiness for something they could touch without being touched back. He let them put a hand on his arm, lean into his space, look at him like they had found something worth wanting, and for one ruined second he would believe it.

Not love, never that, but something close enough to fool a desperate man in a bad light.

He had slept with them because grief made him restless. Because anger made him careless. Because being wanted for an hour was easier than being alone with the night. Because the nights were the worst.  Because Sarah’s absence waited wherever he stopped long enough to feel it, and sometimes another body beside him was enough to delay it. A hand on his chest. A voice asking if he wanted a drink. Someone breathing softly in the dark.

For a few hours, he could pretend he had not been left alone with all that was missing. For a few hours, he could pretend the hollow place inside him was occupied. For a few hours, there was another heartbeat in the room. But then morning came and they always left. Afterward, he was always still there. Still empty. Still ashamed. Still father to a dead girl.

But the church had not made him pure. God had not reached into him and removed the years he had spent treating his own body like something already ruined. The collar had only given him distance. Rules. Structure. A shape other people could understand. A way to become Father Miller instead of the man who came before him.

And now here he was, standing half dressed in front of a mirror, undone by the simple fact that his own cock still belonged to him.

Joel closed his eyes.

“Get it together.”

There was no choice but to fix it.

With his jaw clenched tight enough to hurt, Joel slipped one hand inside the open fly. The contact made something twist low in his stomach. His fingers closed around himself briefly, mechanically, moving him lower beneath the fabric. The familiarity of it felt worse than the inconvenience. There was nothing foreign about it. The same body. The same flesh. The same man. Joel adjusted his cock once, then again.

The second attempt worked, and the front of the trousers settled.

He withdrew his hand immediately and stared at the far wall, breathing through his nose as if he had just completed some unpleasant medical procedure.

For now, the problem had been hidden. Not solved. Hidden. That seemed to be the theme of most of his life.

He zipped the trousers, buttoned them, and reached for the black shirt waiting on the chair.

Button by button, skin disappeared.

Button by button, Father Miller returned.

The black fabric narrowed him. Disciplined him. Turned flesh into silhouette and silhouette into something people trusted.

Then came the collar.

It waited on the dresser, small and white and absurdly powerful.

Joel picked it up.

The funny thing about the collar was that once it sat at his throat, people stopped seeing a man. They saw a priest. The grieving came closer. The guilty confessed. Children stared at him as if God occasionally shared useful information, but nobody looked at Father Miller and saw the man who had spent years trying to outrun himself.

Joel fastened the collar, and the mirror changed. Black shirt. Black trousers. White collar. Father Miller looked back. The body remained underneath. So did the shame. But the uniform lied well enough for most people. And tonight, that would have to do.

In the bathroom, he wet his hands and pushed them through his hair. The front refused to cooperate. The comb improved matters only slightly.

He glanced at the bottle of cologne sitting beside the sink. One of the church ladies had given it to him at Christmas. He used a little, regretted it immediately, and stared at his reflection.

“Great,” he muttered. “Now I smell expensive.”

That almost made him smile.

He switched off the bathroom light and stepped back into the bedroom. Everything practical was done. He should leave now, but instead, he went to the nightstand.

The drawer stuck, swollen slightly by summer heat, and Joel tugged once until it gave with a small wooden complaint.

The watch lay inside.

For several seconds, he only looked at it. Touching it too quickly felt wrong somehow, as if the thing itself needed warning before being brought back into the light. The leather strap was worn soft from years of use and then years of careful avoidance. The face was cracked clean across, a jagged break running through the glass. The hands had stopped the night Sarah died. Time caught on the worst hour of his life and refused, with more mercy than anyone else had shown him, to move beyond it.

He had never had it repaired.

People had suggested it at first, before they understood. Before they learned that some objects were not broken in a way meant to be fixed. A new glass, a new battery, a little polish, and the watch would run again, sure. But Joel had never wanted it to run. Repairing it would have felt like asking the thing to lie. Like forcing time to continue neatly across a place where his life had torn in half.

The watch belonged to Sarah as much as it belonged to him.

More, maybe.

She had given it to him with the fierce, nervous pride of a child trying to act casual about something that mattered. He could still see her face when he opened the box, the way she shifted her weight from one foot to the other, trying not to ask if he liked it because asking would reveal too much. He had teased her, because tenderness had always come easier to him when disguised as a joke, and she had rolled her eyes in that bright, relieved way that meant she knew she had done well. After that, she checked his wrist every morning for weeks. Just a quick glance while he poured coffee, while he grabbed his keys, while he bent to kiss the top of her head on his way out. Sometimes she would tap the face and ask, “Still works?” like she had built the damn thing herself.

Still works, babygirl.

Until it didn’t.

Joel reached into the drawer and lifted it carefully.

The weight settled into his palm like a memory given shape.

He did not wear it every day. He could not. The uglier truth was that Joel did not feel worthy of wearing it every day. A father should wear his daughter’s gift with pride. A good father—a whole father—would have kept it on his wrist like proof of love that outlived death. Joel had tried, once. Years ago. But the weight of it every morning had become too much. Not because he loved her less. Because he loved her so much that the broken face became an accusation.

You were trusted.

You were supposed to keep her safe.

She gave you this and you let death take her anyway.

So he kept it in the drawer most days.

Cowardice, maybe.

Survival, if he was feeling kind.

But on certain nights—the lonely ones, the ones where the world outside seemed built entirely out of families he did not belong to anymore—he took it out. Wore it under his cuff. Let the cracked glass rest against his pulse. Let himself pretend, for a few hours, that Sarah was walking with him somewhere no one else could see.

Tonight was one of those nights.

The Fourth of July always had a way of making the missing worse. The town would be bright and loud and ordinary. Children would run across the lawn with sticky hands and sparklers, their parents calling after them with exasperation they did not understand was holy. Little girls would tug at their fathers’ sleeves. Teenagers would pretend to be bored while secretly waiting for the fireworks. Parents would complain about lemonade spills, bedtime negotiations, parking, the noise, the heat, all the living things Joel would have given anything to complain about with them.

And Joel would stand there blessing everyone in his collar while envying them so fiercely it made him feel sick.

If they only knew…

The thought came with a bitterness that shamed him even as it formed.

If all those sweet church ladies and respectable fathers and smiling young couples knew what lived behind Father Miller’s polite nod. If they knew that every time a little girl called “Dad” across the church yard, something in him turned sharp enough to draw blood. If they knew he sometimes had to look away when fathers rested a hand on the back of their daughters’ heads, or when mothers fixed a child’s collar, or when families argued over nothing because they had been granted the luxury of ordinary irritation. If they knew he listened to them complain about homework, mess, tantrums, children growing too fast, and had to swallow the urge to say, be grateful, be grateful, be grateful until the words cut the inside of his mouth.

He sat on the edge of the bed and fastened the watch around his wrist. The leather settled against his skin. For a second, his throat closed so quickly he had to stop moving.

“Hey, babygirl,” he whispered.

The room went terribly still around the words.

Joel looked down at the cracked watch face, thumb resting lightly along the broken glass. “Been a while, huh?”

His voice sounded rough, unused in that particular way. The voice of a father speaking not to God, not to a congregation, not to anyone who expected him to stand upright under grief, but to a girl who had once made faces at his singing and stolen fries from his plate.

He swallowed.

“Got this thing tonight.” A faint, tired breath escaped him. “Country club. Fancy people. Lotta talkin’. Bad chairs, probably.”

He could almost see the look she would have given him.

The thought nearly undid him with its sweetness.

“You would’ve hated it,” he said.

Then, after a beat, he shook his head.

“No. You would’ve said you hated it.”

That was truer.

Sarah would have complained from the moment he told her they had to go. She would have asked if rich people put weird stuff in potato salad. She would have rolled her eyes at whatever dress she had to wear, then checked herself in the mirror when she thought he was not looking. She would have mocked his pants immediately and without mercy.

Dad. What are those?

The sound that left him then was almost a laugh.

“Frank’s fault,” he said, looking down at the trousers. “You’d like him. Too much, probably. Both of you would gang up on me, and I’d never hear the end of it.”

The smile broke before it fully formed because the room was empty. Because Sarah had not met Frank. Because there were whole people, whole years, whole versions of his life she had never reached, and every imagined conversation was only Joel throwing his voice into absence and waiting for grief to answer back in hers.

He bent over the watch slightly.

“You’d be twenty-five now,” he whispered.

The number came out quietly, and still it changed the whole room.

Twenty-five.

Not twelve. Not the age in the photographs. Not the age in his nightmares. Twenty-five. Old enough to have graduated college, maybe. Old enough to have rolled her eyes at him for calling too much or not calling enough. Old enough to have a first apartment with furniture she insisted she liked even though none of it matched. Old enough to have opinions he could not predict, a job she complained about, friends he did not know, a life that belonged to her in ways he would have had to learn to respect.

Would she have gone to college close to home or as far away as possible just to prove she could? Would she have called him the first night in her own apartment because something made a noise in the wall and she was too proud to say she was scared? Would she have sent him pictures of a couch she found on sale and asked if he could come help carry it upstairs? Would she have painted the walls without permission? Burned dinner? Kept a plant alive for three weeks and declared herself a genius?

He just wanted one stupid phone call from his grown daughter asking if he owned a drill. One text complaining about rent. One photograph of her in a cap and gown making a face because formal pictures made her feel awkward. One evening where she showed up late, kissed his cheek too quickly, and told him he was being dramatic about some problem she had already decided to solve without him.

Just one ordinary piece of the life she should have had.

His hand closed over the watch.

“Would you have liked it?” he asked, so quietly the question barely survived the air. “Bein’ grown?”

A pause.

“Hope so.”

His thumb rubbed once across the cracked glass.

“You were always in such a hurry.”

His voice thinned there.

He saw her at seven, laughing at something stupid on television. At ten, mad at him for no reason she could explain because being young made everything too bright and too sharp. At twelve, trying to act older than she was and still falling asleep in the truck after insisting she wasn’t tired. He saw her in the kitchen stealing toast off his plate. Saw her in the yard, hair tied badly, cheeks flushed from running, calling him old when he complained about his knees. Saw her small, too, because grief was cruel and refused to keep one version at a time. Sarah with missing teeth. Sarah with scraped knees. Sarah asleep against his shoulder, trusting him completely.

He had been trusted.

That was the knife.

Joel bowed his head over his wrist.

“Stay with me tonight, okay?”

But the room did not answer. He nodded anyway, once, like it had.

“I know. Stupid thing to ask.”

A pause.

Then, softer, almost ashamed, “Askin’ anyway.”

He sat there for a long moment, dressed for a party and speaking to a broken watch because grief had stripped him of enough dignity over the years that he no longer cared what name a thing had if it helped him get through the door. Outside, the town was moving toward celebration. Cars starting. Children being told to hurry. Women fastening earrings in mirrors. Men complaining about parking while secretly pleased to be going somewhere with their families. All of it bright, ordinary, alive.

Joel breathed in slowly—held it, let it out—and the watch stayed warm against his pulse.

“All right,” he said at last.

He stood and adjusted his cuff. For a second, he covered the watch completely, hiding the cracked face beneath black fabric. Then he changed his mind and drew the cuff back just enough for the edge of it to show. Not much. Enough for him. Enough to know she was there. Or to pretend she was there. On nights like this, the difference could go to hell.

He took his jacket from the chair and put it on.

In the mirror, Father Miller looked finished. No one at the party would know. They would see the collar, the jacket, the restrained expression, the man who knew when to nod and when to speak and when to let silence make him seem wiser than he was. They would not know he had stood half naked in this room hating his own body. They would not know he envied them. They would not know he had asked his dead daughter to come with him because he did not trust himself to walk into all that light alone.

Joel looked at himself one last time. Then his eyes dropped to the watch, and his voice softened.

“Let’s go, babygirl.”

He turned off the light and left the room before loneliness could ask him to stay.

── .⋆♱ ⋅🦋⋅ ♱⋆. ──

By eight o’clock, the country club had stopped looking like a place preparing to be seen and had become, with unsettling ease, a place that was looking back.

For nearly an hour, you had been seated on one of the terraces with Peter at your side, George Craven across from you, and three men whose names had been offered with enough importance to make forgetting them feel like a social crime. They spoke of expansion plans, private donors, development opportunities, and the old sawmill property in the peculiar language of men who described land as though it had personally asked to be improved by them. You smiled when Peter’s hand touched the back of your chair, laughed softly when George made a remark that was less a joke than a reminder of where he stood in the world, and answered politely whenever someone remembered, with faint surprise, that Peter’s future wife might have opinions of her own.

Every smile arrived when it was supposed to. Every question came wrapped in manners. Every mention of the wedding was followed by an approving glance toward Peter, then George, then you, as though the marriage itself were another promising arrangement being discussed under warm lights and climbing ivy.

And Peter had been good. Charming. Attentive. Careful. He drew you in when someone spoke around you, brushed his thumb once against your knuckles beneath the table, and smiled at you from time to time as if to say, See? We’re all right.

You wanted that to be true badly enough that you smiled back every time.

Around you, the club filled slowly. Workers disappeared into the edges of things as guests took their place. Jackson arrived in currents: women in summer dresses touching cheeks without quite kissing them, men shaking hands with the loose confidence of people who had known one another’s fathers, children darting across the lawn until someone hissed their name. Laughter rose and folded itself into the music. The terrace filled with perfume, linen, heat, and expectation.

That was when you began to feel the looks.

Not many at first. A woman near the bar glanced over while pretending to listen to her husband. Two older men paused long enough for their eyes to move from George to Peter to you. A girl around your age leaned toward her friend and whispered behind the rim of her glass. Across the lawn, someone smiled at you as if you had already been introduced, though you were certain you had never seen her before in your life.

The future Mrs. Craven.

You could almost hear the title passing from mouth to mouth.

There she is. That’s her. Peter’s fiancée. George’s future daughter-in-law. Pretty, isn’t she? Quiet. Very young. No, not young exactly. Just—

George was speaking again. Something about a benefactor from Denver. Peter laughed at the right place. You smiled half a second late.

One of the investors turned to you. “You must be very proud of him.”

You looked at Peter automatically, and he was already looking at you, his expression warm, encouraging, full of expectation.

“I am,” you said.

Peter’s smile softened. The investor seemed satisfied. George looked satisfied too.

And for some reason, that was when you felt smallest.

Then a woman’s voice cut through the conversation with the clean precision of a silver knife.

“George, if you have bored this poor girl to death before dinner, I will never forgive you.”

Every man at the table turned.

Margaret Craven stood at the edge of the terrace, one hand resting lightly on the back of an empty chair, the other holding a champagne flute. She looked, as she always did, like a woman who had never entered a room by accident in her life.

George’s mouth curved. “Margaret.”

“No, don’t Margaret me.” She smiled at the investors with such warmth that the reprimand somehow sharpened. “Gentlemen, I’m sure you have been dazzling company, but if you have spent the last hour explaining municipal development to my future daughter-in-law while there is champagne, music, and at least one tray of crab cakes within walking distance, I may have to reconsider my opinion of all of you.”

One of the investors chuckled, lifting both hands. “Mrs. Craven, we were only enjoying her company.”

“Of course you were,” Margaret said pleasantly. “The poor girl has been sitting here so long I was beginning to wonder if she’d been taken prisoner.”

Peter laughed under his breath.

You looked down quickly, but not before Margaret’s eyes moved to you. There was amusement there, yes, but something else too. Assessment. 

“Up,” she said.

You blinked.

She extended her hand, rings catching the light. “Come along. I have come expressly to rescue you before your spirit leaves your body and takes a taxi home.”

The table laughed.

Peter leaned back, looking between you and his mother with fond resignation. “Do I get a say in this?”

“No,” Margaret said. “You and your father have had nearly an hour of say. That is more than enough for one family.”

George lifted his glass. “I am wounded.”

“You are thriving,” Margaret replied. “Don’t be greedy.”

Peter looked at you then, and for a second the noise around the table seemed to narrow. “You okay?”

The question was quiet enough to belong only to you.

You nodded.

His gaze lingered, searching. Then he smiled and let you go.

“Peter,” Margaret said, still offering you her hand, “it is now your turn to sit beside your father and look serious about money. I am stealing her.”

Peter’s smile tilted. “Be nice.”

Margaret placed one hand over her heart. “To whom?”

“To her.”

At that, Margaret’s expression softened so briefly someone less desperate for kindness might have missed it. “I intend to be.”

You rose from your chair. Peter stood automatically, one hand moving to the back of it, not touching you, only making space. His eyes met yours. There was still apology somewhere in them, buried beneath pride and nerves and the performance of the night.

You smiled because he needed you to.

Margaret slipped her arm through yours before anyone could reclaim you.

“There,” she said, turning you gently away from the table. “Now you can breathe.”

You did. A real breath. Deeper than you expected.

Margaret glanced sideways, not with pity, thank God, but with the discreet recognition of a woman who knew precisely when not to make something worse by naming it.

“Do not worry,” she said as she guided you along the terrace. “Tonight is not your formal introduction.”

“It isn’t?”

“Good heavens, no. If it were, I would have warned you. There would have been at least two more fittings, three handwritten notes, and someone would have offered you a pill.”

You looked at her.

Her mouth curved. “I’m joking. Mostly.”

The lawn opened before you, green and gold under the lowering sun, threaded with white tables and lanterns not yet lit. Guests moved in clusters between the terrace and the grass, and everywhere you went, people looked. Not rudely. Just enough to remind you that arriving beside a Craven did not make you invisible. It made you newly legible.

Margaret kept your arm tucked neatly in hers.

“That,” she said, lowering her voice once you were far enough away, “was your first escape of the evening.”

You glanced back before you could stop yourself. “Was it that obvious?”

“To me? Yes.” Her smile remained pleasant, fixed toward the lawn as if the two of you were discussing nothing more dangerous than flower arrangements. “To them? Not at all. Men like that rarely notice when a woman wants to leave. They only notice when she actually does.”

Despite yourself, you smiled.

Margaret gave your arm a light pat. “Don’t worry, dear. You’ll get better at it.” Then her tone gentled without becoming soft. “You have done beautifully.”

You looked away over the lawn, toward a group of women near the fountain who were trying not to stare and failing with astonishing commitment. “Have I?”

“Yes.”

“You don’t have to say that.”

“I very rarely say things I don’t have to say, dear.”

This time your smile stayed.

Margaret angled you away from the densest part of the crowd, toward a stone path bordered by lavender and low white roses. “You were gracious. You listened. You did not interrupt George, which I realize is less a social skill than an endurance sport. And unless I am very much mistaken, you did not once ask an investor whether money is the only thing he knows how to discuss, which already places you ahead of where I was at your age.”

“You did that?”

“No, but I thought it. That is why I developed this line between my eyebrows ten years earlier than necessary.”

“You really think I did well?” you asked.

The question came out smaller than you intended.

Margaret slowed, not enough to make it a scene, only enough to give the answer room. “Yes,” she said. “I do.”

You swallowed. “I felt like everyone was watching me.”

“They were.”

“That was supposed to be comforting?”

“No. Accurate.” Margaret glanced at you briefly, then back toward the lawn. “You’re new, beautiful, and engaged to a Craven. Around here, that makes you dinner and theater.”

A laugh escaped you before you could stop it.

Margaret smiled. “There. Better to know the room is staring than to spend the evening wondering if you’ve lost your mind.”

The path curved past the fountain, where water caught the last of the light and broke it into trembling pieces. For a moment, the sound softened the party behind you. Margaret seemed to know exactly how far to take you from the center before it became exile.

“You look beautiful, by the way.”

“Thank you.” You glanced down at the blue dress. “Peter chose it.”

Margaret’s mouth curved. “Yes. I gathered.”

You looked up.

“He always did like a coordinated picture.”

Margaret gave your arm a light squeeze and went on before you could become emotional in public, which you understood at once as a kindness.

“If it helps, I was much worse my first evening here.”

“You?”

“Oh, dreadful.”

“I don’t believe that.”

“You should. I was twenty-four, overdressed, and very determined not to look terrified.” She kept her eyes ahead, though something near her mouth softened with the memory. “George brought me to a party very much like this one. His mother wore an enormous hat. Feathers, netting, some tragic silk flower pinned to the side.”

You tried not to smile.

Margaret noticed immediately. “It was worse than you’re imagining.”

“I’m sure it was lovely.”

“It was not. It brushed a chandelier.”

You looked at her.

“I had two glasses of champagne on an empty stomach because I thought it made me look composed,” she said. “Then the hat touched the chandelier, and I laughed into my napkin so hard I nearly choked.”

“You laughed at your future mother-in-law?”

“Unfortunately, yes.”

“Oh no.”

“Oh, very much yes.” Margaret lifted her brows. “And then, twenty minutes later, I was sick in the garden fountain.”

You stopped walking.

She did not. “The old fountain, not this one.”

That was what broke you.

A laugh slipped out before you could stop it, real enough that you had to cover your mouth.

Margaret looked deeply pleased with herself. “There you are.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. It was a terrible fountain.”

── .⋆♱ ⋅🦋⋅ ♱⋆. ──

You were still laughing softly when your eyes began to sting.

It was not quite humor anymore. More like relief. Or the shock of being taken aside instead of presented, of Margaret Craven—elegant, terrifying, impossible to read—offering you something that was not comfort exactly, but a moment to breathe.

For a while, she said nothing. She only kept your arm linked through hers and guided you past the fountain as if the party could manage perfectly well without either of you.

Around you, the club carried on in soft music, polished glass, white flowers, and people pretending not to notice everything they noticed. Behind you, the terrace remained a warm little orbit of importance: George’s voice, the low laughter of men, the clean clink of glasses.

Peter stood beside his father in pale blue, one hand in his pocket, the other curled around a drink he had barely touched. When you looked, he was already looking back. His smile was small. Private. Almost tender.

And God, how quickly you took it.

You took it because the last hour had left you feeling handled and displayed, because your wrist still remembered the shape of his hand even though the mark had faded, because his smile seemed to say: there you are, you’re doing well, nothing is wrong enough for anyone else to see. So you let yourself believe it. Or you tried to. You let the sight of him soften the balcony into something manageable: stress, nerves, a bad moment before an important night. He had apologized. He had looked ashamed. He had given the book back. He had kissed your wrist like remorse could live there until it became proof.

Now he was smiling at you in front of everyone, and something inside you moved quietly back into place. Not healed, but arranged.

Margaret followed your gaze, though she did not comment on it at once.

“My son can be very serious when he’s afraid,” she said at last.

You looked at her.

She was watching Peter too, but not in the simple, adoring way you might have expected from a mother. There was affection in her face, yes. There was also knowledge. Weariness. A history you did not yet know how to read.

“He gets that from George,” she added. “Unfortunately. I have spent thirty years trying to cure both of them, with very little to show for it.”

You managed a small smile. “Is that why you rescued me?”

Margaret looked back at you, and for a second the humor left her face completely. Then she patted your arm, composed as ever, and let the mask return.

“I rescued you because every woman deserves a moment to breathe before someone asks her to be charming again.”

The words landed more gently than you expected.

You looked out over the lawn—the bright windows, the flowers, the careful faces, Peter still standing in the distance—and felt the evening loosen around your ribs by a fraction. Not enough to make you free, but enough to keep walking.

“I should tell you,” Margaret said after a moment, her voice calm again, “I am slightly offended.”

You looked at her. “By me?”

“Yes, dear. By you.”

“What did I do?”

“You moved to Jackson and have not come to church with us once.”

A breath escaped you, almost a laugh. “I’m not very religious.”

“No?”

“Not really.”

Margaret hummed, considering that as you continued along the path. “Well, that is hardly a crime. Inconvenient for church attendance, perhaps.”

You glanced at her, uncertain whether you were supposed to apologize.

She noticed at once. “Don’t look so alarmed. I’m not recruiting you for the choir.”

That made you smile.

“I only mean you should come one Sunday,” she said. “Not because you must believe anything in particular. Half the town comes for habit, guilt, or Mrs. Bates’s chocolate cake.”

“Is that supposed to convince me?”

“That chocolate cake has converted better people than me.”

This time, you laughed softly.

“But the church here is lovely,” Margaret went on. “Small, stubborn, drafty in winter, but lovely. The stained glass is beautiful in the morning.”

You looked down before she could read your face.

“I’ll have to see it sometime,” you lied.

Margaret hummed, soft and unreadable.

“You should,” she said. “In fact, I think you ought to be a believer.”

You looked at her. “Why?”

“Well,” Margaret said, lifting her glass slightly toward the terrace without quite pointing, “God has been more than generous with you, wouldn’t you say?”

Your eyes went back to Peter.

He was laughing now, his head dipping for a second before he looked toward you again. And there it was once more: that small smile, threaded through the distance, meant only for you.

You held onto it.

“Yes,” you said softly.

Margaret glanced at you, and you realized too late that you had answered aloud. Heat moved into your face.

“I mean… Peter is good to me.”

Margaret did not correct you. She did not tease. She simply looked at her son across the lawn, her expression unreadable in that elegant, terrifying way of hers.

“He adores you,” she said.

You kept your gaze on Peter because it was easier. “I know.”

“He does,” Margaret said, and there was something firmer beneath it now. “He can be difficult, but he loves very deeply.”

Peter lifted his glass slightly, a small toast from far away. You smiled back before you could decide whether to.

Then Margaret’s arm tightened around yours.

“Careful, dear.”

You did not understand at first, because you were still looking at Peter, still holding onto that smile as if it were something warm pressed between your hands, still letting it smooth the balcony into a misunderstanding.

“Look where you’re—”

You felt it before Margaret could finish.

Something caught at your ankle, not hard enough to hurt, not sharply enough to make sense, only with that small, precise cruelty necessary to stop one foot while the rest of your body kept moving. Your heel slipped, your balance disappeared, and for one dreadful second you understood with perfect clarity what was about to happen. You were going to fall. Not stumble prettily. Not recover with a charming little laugh. Fall. In front of Margaret Craven, in front of half the country club, in front of women who had already been pretending not to stare and men who looked capable of turning a woman tripping over her own feet into a family anecdote by dessert.

Perfect. Absolutely perfect.

You closed your eyes before impact, because apparently your body had decided that if you were going to humiliate yourself in front of the local ecosystem, you did not also need to watch the ground rushing up to meet you.

But the ground never came.

A pair of arms caught you before you hit it, firm and immediate, stopping the fall so abruptly that the breath left you in a small, undignified sound. “I’ve got you,” a man said, low and close, and your hands had already found him before you had time to make any sensible decision about it. Somewhere between losing your balance and not eating stone in front of George Craven’s investors, your first instinct had been to grab onto whatever had saved you, and now your palms were pressed against a man’s chest, fingers curled into the front of his black shirt as if you had been trying to climb him rather than avoid a concussion.

His chest was firm beneath your hands. Warm through the fabric. Solid enough that, for half a second, your brain supplied absolutely no useful information beyond the fact that you had not hit the ground and were now clutching a stranger’s shirt in public.

“Oh my God,” you said, breathless, one hand still twisted in the front of his shirt. “I’m so sorry. I don’t know what happened.”

“Hey, easy now.”

His voice was low and close, steady in a way that only made your own panic feel louder. One hand held your arm, firm enough to keep you upright, not firm enough to trap. The distinction reached you before thought did, and that, somehow, made the heat in your face worse.

“I wasn’t looking,” you said quickly. “I thought something caught my foot.”

“It’s okay,” he said. “Just don’t move too fast.”

That was when you realized you were still holding on to him.

You let go at once.

“Sorry.”

“You were fallin’.”

“I know, but I still don’t usually grab strangers at public events.”

“Could’ve been worse.”

You glanced up only as far as his collarbone. “Could it?”

“You could’ve taken me with you.”

Despite yourself, a breath of laughter escaped you. “At least then I wouldn’t have been embarrassed alone.”

“Real generous of you,” he said dryly.

Margaret, who had remained beside you with her champagne flute impossibly upright, made a soft sound that could only be described as delighted restraint.

You looked down at the path.

Nothing.

No wire. No loose stone. No fallen ribbon. No obvious, merciful explanation for why your own body had decided to betray you in the middle of a country club lawn.

“There was something there,” you said.

The man followed your gaze. “Don’t see anything.”

“I know. That’s the problem.”

“Could’ve been the edge.”

“It wasn’t the edge.”

“You sure?”

You stared at the perfectly even stone beneath your shoe, offended by its innocence. “No. But I’m choosing to be.”

This time he almost laughed.

Almost.

But you heard it anyway.

Your eyes narrowed before you remembered you were speaking to someone who had just stopped you from humiliating yourself in front of half of Jackson. “Are you laughing at me?”

“No, ma’am.”

“That sounded dangerously close to a laugh.”

“Must’ve been the wind.”

Margaret took a sip of champagne and looked away, which was deeply unhelpful.

You finally lifted your gaze properly, ready to apologize with whatever dignity you had left.

Then Margaret spoke first.

“Well,” she said, smooth with relief and unmistakable amusement, “what a divine intervention, Father Miller.”

Father Miller.

The title struck you before his face did.

For one suspended second, your mind tried to arrange the information kindly. Father Miller. The priest Matilda had mentioned. The man Margaret knew well enough to tease in public. The man who had apparently just saved you from making intimate contact with the stone path.

Then you looked at him.

And every thought stopped.

Dark hair. Grey in his beard. Severe mouth. Warm hazel eyes that looked just as wrong on him now as they had behind the church, only this time there was a white collar at his throat and black fabric doing very little to make him look less like trouble.

No.

Absolutely not.

Not him.

Not the rude man from behind the church.

Joel looked no happier about the discovery.

For one second, neither of you moved.

Then you both stepped back at the same time.

His hand dropped from your arm. Yours folded in front of you before you forced them apart, because you did not want to look as if you had been caught doing something wrong, even though nothing had happened except a near fall, a shirt grabbed in panic, and a previous verbal assault in a churchyard that suddenly felt much less previous than it should have.

Margaret looked from you to him.

Then back again.

Her eyebrows lifted by the smallest, most dangerous amount.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “Do you two know each other?”

“No!” you and Joel said at the exact same time.

Too fast.

Too loud.

Too much like people denying a murder.

You turned to him.

He turned to you.

Margaret went very still.

You laughed, which was a terrible decision. “No. No, of course not. I don’t know why we said that like we’d rehearsed it.”

“We didn’t,” Joel said.

“Obviously.”

“Good.”

“Great.”

Margaret looked between you again. “Fascinating.”

Another silence.

Worse than the first.

Margaret’s smile began slowly.

You immediately regretted having a mouth.

“I mean,” you said, attempting recovery and choosing instead to step directly into disaster, “I’ve never seen this man before in my life.”

Joel looked at you from the corner of his eye.

“And if I had,” you added, because apparently panic had taken the wheel, “I’m sure I would remember.”

His expression barely changed, but something moved at the corner of his mouth. Not a smile. Worse. The suggestion that he had heard every part of that sentence and intended to make you suffer for it.

“No, ma’am,” he said, voice even and dry enough to scrape. “We ain’t met. I’d remember somebody who makes this much trouble standin’ still.”

Your mouth fell open.

Margaret laughed into her champagne.

“I’m sorry?” you said.

Joel looked at you properly then. “You heard me.”

“I could have hit my head, so perhaps a little less judgment would be appropriate.”

“I’m not judgin’.”

“You just said I make trouble standing still.”

“That was an observation.”

“No, that was an insult.”

“That was me bein’ accurate.”

“Oh, really?”

“Yeah. Really.”

You stared at him.

He stared back.

For one second, it was almost impressive how quickly the two of you had returned to disliking each other.

Your eyes narrowed. “Are you always this compassionate with people in distress?”

“You’re not in distress.”

“Oh, trust me,” you said, before you could stop yourself, your gaze making the fatal mistake of taking him in properly now: the black shirt, the white collar, the hard line of his shoulders, the infuriatingly severe mouth. You looked back at his eyes a second too late. “I am very much in distress right now.”

Joel’s eyes narrowed.

“That so?”

“Yes,” you said, lifting your chin because apparently dignity had decided to die standing. “And I’m beginning to think it has less to do with the fall and more to do with you.”

The words landed.

Hard.

Joel went still.

Only for a second, but you saw it. The tiny break in him before his jaw tightened and whatever had flashed across his face disappeared behind something rougher, safer, more irritated.

Margaret’s champagne flute paused halfway to her mouth, and you realized, with a sudden rush of heat, exactly what you had said.

“I mean,” you added quickly, “because you are being very difficult.”

Joel looked at you.

“Right.”

“You are.”

“Me.”

“Yes.”

“I caught you.”

“And then immediately became impossible about it.”

His mouth shifted, almost a smile and not nearly kind enough to count as one. “Darlin’, if this is you in distress, I’d hate to see you comfortable.”

Margaret made a small, delighted sound.

You stared at him, pulse kicking hard enough to feel foolish. “Do not call me that.”

“Call you what?”

“You know what.”

“I don’t believe I do.”

“Oh, wonderful. A priest and a liar.”

His brows lifted.

Margaret lifted a hand, though whether to stop the exchange or bless it was unclear. “Before this becomes a parish incident, I suppose I should thank you for saving this terribly clumsy woman from a very public fall.”

Joel’s eyes did not leave yours at once.

“That thanks belong to her?” he said.

“Oh?” Margaret looked delighted. “Does it?”

You felt the challenge before you fully understood it.

Joel’s mouth was still, but his eyes were not. There was something there—dry, impossible, almost daring you. As if he knew perfectly well that you had already apologized six times and still somehow had not thanked him.

Heat climbed your neck.

Fine.

You turned back to him, lifted your chin, and gave him the sweetest smile you could manage.

“Thank you,” you said.

Joel’s brows rose slightly, waiting.

You let the pause stretch half a second longer than necessary.

“Father.”

The title landed between you with all the innocence of a lit match.

Margaret went very still beside you.

Joel looked at you.

Really looked.

At your smile. At your mouth. At the faint color still high in your cheeks. Then back to your eyes, slower than he should have, and something in your stomach pulled tight before you could stop it.

His mouth moved slightly.

For one second, you were certain he was going to answer. Something rude. Something low. Something that would sound harmless to Margaret and mean something else entirely to you, but he caught himself.

You saw it happen.

His eyes flicked, barely, to the collar at his throat. Or maybe you imagined it. Either way, when he looked back at you, whatever he had almost said had been locked behind his teeth.

“Anytime,” he said at last. Plain and polite, but not safe at all.

“Well,” Margaret said, pleased in a way that made you immediately nervous, “if no one has had the sense to introduce you properly, allow me.”

Joel went still.

You looked at her.

Margaret placed one elegant hand against your arm. “Father Miller, this is my son’s fiancée.”

The change in Joel was small.

Almost nothing.

His eyes dropped to your left hand.

To the ring.

It had been there all evening. It had been there while Peter chose the dress, while he kissed your wrist, while he smiled at you across the lawn. You had grown used to its weight because people grew used to anything they wore long enough.

But under Joel’s gaze, you felt it again.

The diamond caught the light.

He looked at it for one silent second, and when his eyes lifted back to your face, something in him had closed.

Margaret continued, unaware or choosing not to notice. “Dear, this is Father Miller. One of the most respected men in our community.”

Joel’s jaw shifted once.

You could not look away from him.

“And,” Margaret added, pleased with the neatness of the introduction, “the man who is going to marry you.”

For a second, the world kept going without you.

People talked. Glasses touched. Somewhere near the terrace, a child shrieked with laughter and was gently scolded. The band played something soft enough to be forgotten. Peter stood on the lawn, smiling at someone you could no longer see.

All of it continued but you're looking at Father Miller.

The flannel-wearing asshole with the axe.

The man who looked at you like you were a problem he had no intention of solving.

The man whose eyes you had remembered in Peter’s arms and hated yourself for remembering.

The man who had caught you before you fell.

The man who would stand in front of Peter, in front of everyone, in front of God, and ask you to promise your life to someone else.

The thought moved through you with such quiet violence that your smile disappeared before you could save it.

Joel’s was already gone.

Then you felt it again.

That strange pressure around your ankle.

Not a pull this time.

A tightening.

As if something thin and unseen had been looped there all along, wound carefully around the delicate bone, waiting for the exact moment to make itself known. It gave one final squeeze and then vanished like it had already done what it came to do.

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