cas

Eddie’s older now—still loud, still electric—but there’s a steadiness under it. He’s wearing ripped jeans and a clean black tee, jacket tossed over his shoulder. Steve’s in a suit he keeps tugging at, already resigned to the chaos.

“This feels weird,” Steve mutters.

Eddie grins. “Yeah. Kinda rules.”

When the names start getting called, Eddie hoots for every single one of them. Eddie’s smile is gentler, proud in a quiet way.

Then Dustin Henderson steps up to the podium.

Eddie sits forward, elbows on his knees.

Dustin talks about conformity. About being told to fit in, to quiet down, to smooth out the sharp parts. He talks about survival—not just monsters, but surviving being different in a town that doesn’t always forgive it. His voice wobbles once, then steadies.

Eddie claps first.

Loudest.

He’s on his feet before Dustin even finishes, yelling, whistling, nearly tripping over the bench as Steve grabs his jacket to keep him from eating it face-first.

“That’s my boy!” Eddie shouts, unapologetic.

Principal Higgins steps up, about to snatch the microphone. Dustin grabs his diploma– flipping him off

Eddie loses it.

He’s laughing so hard he has to bend over, slapping the bench, nearly falling into Steve’s lap. “YES! YES! THAT’S IT!” he howls, pointing like he just witnessed the greatest moment of his life.

Steve’s cheering too, shaking his head, clapping until his palms sting. “I taught him that,” he says, proud and absolutely lying.

Caps fly. Applause crashes over the room like a wave. Eddie’s still on his feet, hooting and hollering for Mike, for Lucas, for Will, for Max—voice cracking, hands red, heart full.

He cups his hands around his mouth one last time. “YOU MADE IT!”

Eddie smiles, swallowing around the lump in his throat, eyes bright as he watches them stand there—older, alive, laughing.

After the ceremony, the gym dissolves into chaos.

Families collide. Cameras flash. Laughter and tears tangle together.

Eddie barrels through it all like a man on a mission.

He grabs Dustin first, pulling him into a crushing hug that lifts him clean off the ground. “Hell yes, Henderson” Eddie says, voice thick, holding on a second longer than necessary.

Mike’s next—Eddie wraps him up tight, clapping a hand against his back. “Look at you, man. Actual graduate. Didn’t think the world could handle it.”

Lucas gets a fierce hug, Eddie murmuring something low and earnest that makes Lucas grin. Will’s hug is gentler, Eddie squeezing his shoulder, eyes soft and shining. Max gets pulled in too. Then come the pictures.

So many pictures.

Eddie insists on group shots. Individual shots. “One more, just in case.” He crouches, stands on chairs, shoves Steve, then Nancy– then Robin into the frame. Jonathan takes at least half of them, laughing and pretending to complain while doing exactly what Eddie says.

He looks at them—all of them—caps crooked, diplomas in hand, alive and laughing.

You stared out across the fields beyond Hawkins, the trees swaying in the fading sunlight. You know, I still wait at the edge of town, praying straight to God that maybe you’ll come back around. You thought of him leaning against his van, that crooked grin, cigarette hanging from his fingers, and how alive he had made everything feel.

The ache in your chest tightened. I cry every day and the bottles make it worse, ’cause you were the only one I was never scared to tell I hurt. You had tried to keep busy, to fill the emptiness, but nothing touched the hollow he’d left behind.

Your eyes fell to a small photo you’d carried with you, worn at the edges, of the day you met. And I found photographs of our school, on the day we met. I thought that you were so beautiful. It was love, I guess. You could almost hear his laugh in your mind, feel the brush of his hand against yours as though he had never left.

The shadows stretched long across the cemetery. And you might never come back home, and I may never sleep at night. But God, I just hope you’re doing fine out there. I just pray that you’re alright. You pressed your forehead against the stone, letting the wind carry your grief across the sky, hoping somehow it would reach him, wherever he was.

For a moment, Eddie just listens, blinking in the darkness, his heart kicking into overdrive. He hasn’t heard your voice in months—maybe longer. But there’s something familiar in it. Something raw.

It sounds like you’ve been crying.

“Y/N?” he asks, standing up straighter, suddenly awake. “What’s wrong? Why are you calling me this late?”

There’s a small, shaky inhale on the other end of the line. You try to hold it together, but your voice cracks.

“I… I don’t know. I just… I couldn’t sleep, and I just needed to hear your voice.”

Eddie sighs, running his hand through his messy hair. “It’s kind of hard to talk right now-..” His eyes drift to the bedroom door, thinking of his girlfriend sleeping not 500 feet away. His voice is hushed, he should hang up. But he doesn’t.

He can’t.

His pulse hammers in his chest. The past six months—hell, the past year—felt like a lifetime. There’s a part of him that’s tried to forget you, tried to bury that part of his heart that’s still tied to you. But hearing your voice again, so vulnerable and fragile, brings it all rushing back. The late nights you spent together, the easy way he used to hold you, the way your laughter filled his room like music.

“I— I shouldn’t have called,” you whisper, and Eddie feels his chest tighten.

“No,” he says quickly, a little too fast. He winces at the desperation that’s creeping into his voice. “No, it’s okay, Y/N. I just… I didn’t expect it. You… you’re okay, right?”

There’s a long pause, just the sound of your breath on the other end, hitching again. Eddie bites his lip, glancing back at the bedroom door. He’s still trying to keep his voice steady, but it’s hard. Every time he hears you speak, it feels like he’s slipping backwards. His girl’s in the next room, but sometimes he wishes it was you. 

The silence stretches, tense. He can hear your breathing on the other side. This isn’t the first night this has happened—your late-night calls, your tears, your confessions of loneliness. It’s always the same. Crying over your new boyfriend who doesn’t get you the way he did. Doesn’t understand you like he always did.

“Why do you keep calling me, Y/N?” Eddie asks, the words slipping out before he can stop them. His voice is hoarse now, tired, worn down from the months of keeping his distance. “I… I don’t want to keep doing this. But I can’t stop myself from picking up the phone.”

There’s a long silence, but it’s not empty. It’s full of that heavy, suffocating tension. A silence that carries the weight of everything unsaid.

“I don’t know what else to do,” you whisper, your voice small, almost fragile. “I hate the way things are with him. He’s nothing like you, Eddie. He doesn’t… he doesn’t even care.”

Eddie feels something inside him crack, but he can’t let it show. Not now. Not with Chrissy in the other room.

“Does he know you’re calling me?” Eddie asks, his voice low, the question out before he can think better of it. His heart skips a beat, and he feels his pulse surge in his throat as he waits for your answer. 

“No,” you reply quickly, almost too quickly. “He doesn’t know. Does Chrissy know you answer..?”

“No,,” Eddie whispers, gripping the receiver tighter. “But I’m with her, Y/N. I don’t… I don’t know how we can keep doing this.”

“I dreamt about you, Eds,” you whisper, your voice thick with emotion. “I just… I just wanted to hear you. I couldn’t stop thinking about you.”

Eddie feels something sharp and painful shoot through his chest. He closes his eyes, squeezing them tight as if trying to push away the memories of you—the way you smelled, the way your laughter would fill the room, the way your hand fit perfectly in his. The words you’ve just spoken pull him under, bringing everything back, and for a second, he wishes he could have it all back.

“Guess we never really moved on, huh?” Eddie says, his voice quieter now, almost a whisper to himself.

There’s a pause on the other end, and then you speak again, your voice breaking slightly as you admit the truth that’s been hanging between you both for too long.

“No… we didn’t.”

“I’m with her, Y/N,” Eddie murmurs, almost apologetically, his voice faltering. “I can’t… I can’t do this with you. Not like this. I’m not fair to either of us.”

The words feel like betrayal, but they’re the truth. And sometimes the truth hurts more than anything. He can’t deny it any longer—the way he still feels for you, how he hasn’t really moved on either. But it doesn’t matter.

You don’t respond right away. Eddie knows you’re hurting, but he doesn’t know how to fix it. He can’t fix it.

“I hate this,” you finally say, your voice trembling. “I just… I don’t know what to do. I thought I could forget you, but… but I can’t. I can’t stop wanting you. And I don’t know how to stop calling you.”

Eddie’s throat tightens, the guilt surging through him. He should tell you to move on. He should tell you that you deserve better than this, than him, than the twisted mess they’re caught in. But the words stick in his throat.

“You don’t have to stop calling, Y/N,” he says softly, almost without thinking. “It’s really good to hear your voice… saying my name.”

It sounds so sweet, coming from the lips of an angel. Makes him weak.

“I don’t want to hang up,” you sigh into the receiver, and Eddie hears shifting from the bedroom. Chrissy’s stirring. He winces, a twinge of panic pulling at his chest.

“You make it hard to be faithful, Y/N,” Eddie whispers, his voice thick with the weight of everything. “Lips of an angel.”

The words hang in the air between you both, a bittersweet confession. Eddie feels the pull toward you, the longing, the ache. It’s like every word you say pulls him further into a place he knows he shouldn’t be—he’s with Chrissy, but every time you call, every time he hears your voice, it’s like he’s right back there with you.

The line is quiet for a moment, just the soft sound of your breathing, and Eddie wonders if you’re thinking the same thing—if you’re both trapped in a memory that neither of you can escape.

But before he can say anything else, Chrissy shifts again, this time more awake. Eddie’s heart races.

“I have to go,” he mutters, his voice laced with regret. “Chrissy’s waking up. I… I can’t keep doing this.”

“Goodnight, Eddie,” you whisper, your voice soft, broken.

“Goodnight, Y/N,” Eddie says, barely able to breathe as he hangs up the phone.

The silence of the house fills his ears, and for a moment, all he can hear is the sound of his own heartbeat, racing in his chest. He stands there, frozen, the weight of everything pressing down on him, his mind spinning.

“Who did this to you?” he asks, holding your acoustic like it’s a wounded animal. He plucks one string; it gives a sad, metallic twang. “These things are ancient. I think they predate disco.”

“They still work,” you say, defensive.

“They survive,” Eddie corrects, already rummaging through his bag. “Different thing.”

You’re sitting on the edge of his bed, posters peeling slightly at the corners, the air smelling like weed and dust and something warm you can’t name. Eddie drops beside you, cross-legged, pulling out a fresh pack of strings like he’s about to perform surgery.

“Okay,” he says, serious now. “Rule one: never rush restringing. That’s how you end up bleeding or crying. Or both.”

He loosens the old strings slowly, fingers sure and practiced. You watch his hands more than the guitar—rings catching the light, knuckles scarred just a little, movements gentle in a way that surprises you.

“Where’d you learn?” you ask.

Eddie shrugs. “Nowhere cool. Just… needed something to be mine, y’know?”

You nod. You do know.

When he starts threading the new strings through, he pauses. “Actually—come here. I’ll show you.”

Before you can respond, he shifts closer, knees brushing yours. He guides your hands to the tuning pegs, his fingers warm over yours.

“Slow,” he murmurs. “Feel the tension. Too tight and—snap.”

Your heart does something stupid.

You try to focus on the guitar, really you do, but Eddie is close—closer than usual. His voice is lower, softer, like he’s afraid of breaking the moment.

“That good?” he asks quietly.

“Yeah,” you say, though you’re not sure what you’re answering.

He hums in approval, then—without thinking—moves behind you to adjust your grip. His shoulder brushing yours. Barely. Enough that you notice. Enough that your breath catches.

“Like this,” he says, his chin hovering near your shoulder. “You’ve got it.”

The room feels smaller. Or maybe warmer. Or maybe it’s just Eddie, all quiet confidence and careful touches, suddenly not joking his way out of things.

When the last string is in place, he steps back, giving you space like he realizes what he’s done.

“Moment of truth,” he says, clearing his throat.

You strum.

The sound is bright. Clean. Alive.

Your smile is immediate. Eddie watches it like it’s his favorite song.

“See?” he says. “Total upgrade.”

“Thank you,” you reply, softer now.

He shrugs, but his ears are pink. “Anytime.”

You don’t move right away. Neither does he. The guitar rests between you, forgotten.

“You could play something,” Eddie says eventually. “If you want.”

You nod, fingers finding a simple chord. Eddie listens like it matters—like you matter. When you mess up, he doesn’t tease. He just smiles.

“That part,” he says gently, tapping the guitar body. “You’ll get it.”

You look up at him. “You always say that.”

“Because it’s always true.”

The silence after is comfortable. Heavy in a good way.

When Eddie finally stands, he offers his hand. “C’mon. Band practice soon. Can’t let the guys think I went soft.”

You take his hand.

His grip lingers a second longer than necessary.

You make a pact with yourself.

You’re going to make Joel Miller smile.

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

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

You start small.

A nod at the gates.

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

Fresh bread left on his doorstep.

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

You just smile. “You’re welcome.”

He doesn’t thank you.

But he doesn’t stop you either.

Joel Miller isn’t mean, exactly.

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

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

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

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

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

And how much he refuses to let himself.

——

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Do you ever stop talkin’?” he snaps.

You blink.

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

Your heart sinks.

You blink once. Then again.

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

He tries to apologize.

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

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

“I didn’t mean that, earlier.”

You don’t answer.

“I was just… I don’t know. Tired.”

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

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

You hum, noncommittal. “It’s fine.”

“It ain’t.”

You look at him, finally.

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

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

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

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

But you don’t seek him out, either.

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

And Joel feels it.

It guts him.

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

Left on your porch. No note. No explanation.

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

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

He never says a word.

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

He keeps leaving things anyway.

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

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

Please forgive me. I miss you.

You don't give in yet.

You almost knock on his door one night.

Almost.

But you don’t.

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

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

You want him to say it. To mean it.

To show up.

One week later, he sees you near the stables.

You’re laughing.

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

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

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

Even when he didn’t deserve it.

Even when he hadn’t earned it.

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

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

But now you’re smiling for someone else.

And Joel’s stomach twists.

Burns.

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

He spirals, slowly. Quietly.

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

Joel doesn’t answer.

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

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

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

He doesn’t finish his meal.

Doesn’t even sit down.

He turns around and walks straight back out the door.

He can't take it anymore.

That night, you hear a knock.

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

When you open it, Joel’s standing there.

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

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

You blink. “Joel—”

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

You blink. “Joel—”

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

His throat works around the next words.

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

He takes a step closer.

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

His voice lowers, quieter now. A rasp.

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

You don’t speak. You just watch him.

He exhales sharply, like the silence is crushing him.

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

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

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

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

“Please. Let me try again.”

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

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

Then you nod.

Soft. Quiet. Almost shy.

“...Okay.”

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

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

Then he leaves.

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

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

But it’s real.

And it hurts a little. In a good way.

The next day, you say hi first.

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

He gets your laugh back.

Not all at once.

It happens on a patrol briefing.

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

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

Everyone laughs.

Joel… doesn’t.

But you do.

Loud. Bright. Real.

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

He doesn’t know what to do with it.

That laugh.

That warmth.

It’s back.

And it terrifies him.

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

So he starts... fumbling.

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

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

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

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

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

You talk more now.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You stop.

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

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

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

And there — tucked underneath — is a thermos.

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

Your favorite.

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

You find him walking to his house.

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

“Joel.”

He stops. Turns.

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

You walk up, still holding the blanket.

“You left this,” you say softly.

He shrugs. “Figured you’d get cold.”

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

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

But it is.

To you, it is.

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

“Joel…” you murmur.

And he freezes.

He doesn't know what to do with it.

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

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

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

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

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

“No,” you say. “It’s not.”

Your fingers squeeze gently before falling away.

Joel looks down, lost.

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

He says your name, soft.

You look up, heart thudding.

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

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

It slips out.

Quiet. Cracked.

You’ve seen him before — maybe a dozen times, maybe more.

Mostly it’s in passing. A casual wave at the mailbox, a quiet nod when you both happen to be outside in the evening. You’d watched him move in a few months ago, unloading boxes slowly from a weathered pickup. He never rushed, but he looked tired — the kind of tired that lived deep in a person’s bones.

You remember the first time he waved. Just a small lift of the hand as he stood at the edge of his driveway, squinting into the sun. He had kind eyes. Soft brown and a little sad. You didn’t know why.

You only knew his name was Joel. It was stitched onto the side of a work shirt you saw him wearing once, and you’d heard the mailman greet him like they were already friends. Joel had nodded back with that same quiet demeanor, always polite, always reserved.

You didn’t push.

You’re not really the neighborly type. Not in the potluck-and-front-porch-conversation kind of way. You work long shifts. Come home exhausted. And Joel, from what you’ve seen, seems like the kind of man who keeps to himself anyway.

But sometimes, when you come home in your scrubs — key in hand, hair up, back aching — you catch him watching you. Not in a creepy way. Just… observant. Like he’s curious. Or lonely.

You understand that look.

You’ve worn it yourself.

———

You hear the knock just as you’re sinking onto the couch. It’s late — almost dusk — and your shoes are still by the door. You open it with caution, then blink in surprise.

Joel’s standing there, one hand clutched in a towel, stained deep red.

“Sorry,” he says gruffly. “I didn’t know who else to— You’re a nurse, right?”

You nod. “Yeah. Come in.”

He steps inside slowly, like he’s not sure he should, but the pain must outweigh the hesitation. You gesture toward the kitchen. “Sit. I’ll grab some supplies.”

You’re moving before he can answer. Gloves, gauze, antiseptic. You have a kit stashed in the drawer for nights like these — not emergencies, but… enough. You’ve patched up friends, neighbors, strangers in grocery store parking lots. It comes with the job.

Joel is seated at your kitchen table when you return, eyes scanning the room like he’s trying not to seem nosy. You kneel beside him, gently peeling the towel away.

It’s a deep cut, right across the palm. Ugly, but manageable.

“What happened?” you ask softly.

“Boxcutter. Garage. Wasn’t payin’ attention.”

You glance up at him. “Hurts pretty bad, hm?”

He shrugs. “Stings. More annoyed than anything.”

You hum. “You’ll live.”

He chuckles, low and rough. “Good to know.”

You work in silence, cleaning the wound carefully, wiping away the dried blood. His hand is warm and calloused under your touch, but he doesn’t flinch. Not even when the antiseptic hits raw skin.

“You’ve got a steady hand,” he says after a moment.

“Had to learn.”

Joel nods. “You work at the hospital?”

You tape the gauze down gently. “ER. Down on main.”

“That sounds about right,” he mutters.

You finally look up, and he’s watching you — close, thoughtful. His eyes are tired, but kind. Same as always. You give him a small smile and rise to your feet, peeling the gloves off.

“Keep that covered for a couple days. Clean it again tomorrow. Should heal fine.”

He nods, standing slower than you did, like the day’s already heavy on him.

“Thanks,” he says. “Didn’t mean to bother you.”

“You didn’t.”

Joel looks at you for a long second. You wonder if he’s thinking about how quiet his house must be. How much worse silence feels when there’s no one to share it with. It’s written all over his face — not the wound, but the loneliness.

You recognize it because you wear it too.

“I could repay you,” he says slowly, almost uncertain. “Dinner or somethin’. My way of sayin’ thanks.”

You blink. “Dinner?”

“Yeah,” he clears his throat. “You know. Nothing fancy. Just figured… you help me out, I feed you. Seems fair.”

You stare at him, then smile — a real one this time, soft and warm and a little surprised.

“I’d like that,” you say.

And Joel, who rarely smiles first, does this time.

Dinner is quiet, easy.

He insists you come to his place — says he feels guilty bleeding all over your floor, and you tell him not to worry. But he cooks, and it’s better than you expected. Pasta, salad, even garlic bread. Not gourmet, but not thrown together, either. Comfort food. The kind someone used to cook with someone else.

You eat at his kitchen table, the same way you bandaged his hand — elbows close, conversation slow. He tells you about his daughter, about how she just started college, how proud he is of her.

You tell him about your job, about your long nights, about how you come home and sit in the driveway sometimes because you don’t feel like going inside right away.

He nods at that. Understands it without asking why.

You talk about nothing. You talk about everything.

At one point, the radio in the corner crackles softly — old country, something low and gentle — and you realize you haven’t heard him laugh like that before. Not the small chuckle from the kitchen. A real laugh, warm and a little crooked, like it doesn’t get much use.

You find yourself smiling just to see it.

When the night winds down, you linger at the door.

He walks you home even though it’s only a few feet. Says it’s habit.

You tell him he doesn’t need to.

He says he knows. But he wants to.

And when you get to your porch, you both pause — caught in the soft lull of streetlights and summer air, and that quiet tension of something almost happening.

Joel looks at you, hands in his pockets.

You look back.

“Thanks again,” he says, voice lower now.

“For?”

“For everything. The bandages..yknow—..” He holds up his patched hand.

You see him again the next afternoon.

You’re outside watering your little row of basil and rosemary when he steps out with a beer in hand and that same too-casual gait like he’s not entirely sure what he’s doing.

You’re in your softest tank top, hair pulled up, damp from the heat, and when you glance up and wave, he thinks hell, he’s doomed.

“Thirsty?” he calls.

You shield your eyes from the sun. “That depends. Are you offering?”

He grins and disappears back into his house for a minute before returning with a second bottle. You meet him halfway — right at the edge of the yard where his grass starts and yours ends — and you sit on the steps of your house together, shoulder to shoulder, like you’ve done it a hundred times.

There’s a bee circling his drink, and you laugh when he swats at it and nearly drops the bottle.

“Not a bug guy?”

“Not a sting me for no reason kinda guy.”

You bump his knee with yours. “Softie.”

“Don’t start,” he warns, but his voice is warm.

He looks at you for a second longer than he probably should — eyes a little too soft, too grateful. You don’t ask what he’s thinking.

But he tells you anyway.

“It’s been a while since I’ve had someone to talk to like this.”

You glance at him. “Like what?”

He shrugs. “Easy. Quiet. Not expectin’ anything from me.”

You chew on that for a moment. Then, softly: “I’m not expecting anything.”

He gives you a look, something unreadable, and you let the silence stretch between you like a blanket — not uncomfortable, just full.

He stays until the sky turns pink. He almost asks to come inside.

But instead, he just touches your wrist gently before turning away with a whispered, “Night.”

A week later, it’s the mailbox again.

He’s already there when you step out, flipping through a pile of bills like he hasn’t read the same envelope headers five times over.

“Expecting something fun?” you tease.

“Was hopin’ for a winning lottery ticket.”

“No luck?”

“Nope,” he says. “Still just Joel from next door with a healing hand and a lonely kitchen.”

You raise a brow. “Is that how you introduce yourself to people now?”

He smirks. “Only to the pretty ones.”

You blink. Smile. But your voice stays light. “How many neighbors you feeding dinner to lately, Miller?”

He looks at you like you know damn well.

And maybe you do.

Somewhere between one conversation and the next, you start to look for him too.

You leave work and glance at his driveway. You water your plants a little slower, wondering if you’ll hear his screen door creak. You find yourself walking to the mailbox when you don’t need to — just in case.

You catch him checking his mailbox at 7:15 on the dot two nights in a row. When you call him out on it, he pretends not to notice.

“Just seein’ if a package came.”

“Every night?”

“Every night?”

“Could be somethin’ important.”

“Like?”

He pauses. Then says, deadpan: “Socks.”

You snort. “Urgent socks.”

“Real urgent.”

You lean against the fence post and smile at him, sunlight dancing through the tree limbs overhead. He looks at you like he can’t believe you’re real.

“You’re trouble,” he murmurs.

You grin. “Only sometimes.”

Joel’s eyes linger on you — not in a way that makes your skin crawl, but in a way that makes your chest ache. Like he hasn’t been this close to comfort in years and he’s afraid to breathe too hard and scare it off.

You break the silence, voice gentle. “You want to come over for dinner this time?”

Joel straightens. “You serious?”

You shrug. “I’ve got leftovers. And I don’t mind sharing.”

He doesn’t answer right away. Just looks at you — really looks. Then he nods, soft and slow.

“I’d like that.”

You heat up stir fry and sit together on your couch, legs curled beneath you. Joel eats like he hasn’t had a home-cooked meal in months — which, honestly, might be true.

You talk about nothing and everything again.

He tells you how he almost bought a boat once. You tell him how you almost moved to Arizona. He asks why you didn’t. You ask why he didn’t.

He says something about roots. You say something about timing.

It all feels… easy.

Natural.

Like maybe you’ve known each other longer than you actually have.

And when he leaves, he does that thing again — pauses on your porch like he doesn’t want the night to end.

“Thanks again,” he says quietly.

“For the food?”

“For… bein’ here. I guess.”

You smile. “What are neighbors for?”

Joel nods. But when he walks home, he doesn’t stop smiling the whole way.

He’s not sure when the shift happens.

When it stops being about bandages or dinner or the quiet ache of loneliness.

He just knows that every time he sees you — even for a minute, even from across the yard — his day gets a little easier. A little warmer.

Joel never says it out loud.

Not yet.

But he’s smitten.

Totally, completely, quietly smitten.

And the best part?

You smile like maybe you are too.

You’re on your porch when he walks over — no bandage this time, no excuse, just a man with something on his mind and nowhere else he wants to be.

You’re nursing a glass of wine in your pajamas and watching the sky darken. The sun's already dipped below the trees, but the last pink of the day still clings to the edges of the horizon.

Joel’s hands are in his pockets. He looks like he’s been pacing in his living room before finally working up the nerve to come outside.

You smile when you see him. You always do.

“Hey, stranger.”

He lifts a hand, soft. “Mind some company?”

You shake your head. “Not one bit.”

He sinks down onto the step beside you. His thigh brushes yours. Not an accident, not quite on purpose either — just… familiar.

You don’t speak for a while. You let the night settle around you — the buzz of crickets, the faint sound of someone’s TV through an open window, the warm silence that’s become the language you both speak so easily now.

Joel lets out a long breath.

You glance at him. “You alright?”

“Yeah.” His voice is low. “Just… thinkin’.”

“Dangerous.”

That earns a smile. “Yeah, well. Can’t help it tonight.”

You turn toward him slightly, resting your elbow on your bent knee. “What’s on your mind, Miller?”

He looks at you for a long second.

And then: “You.”

Your breath catches.

Joel’s voice is soft. Honest. A little unsure, like he’s afraid he’s stepping over a line. “I’ve been thinkin’ about you.”

You don’t speak. Just wait. Let him say it all.

“You’re… I don’t know,” he huffs quietly. “You’re easy to talk to. I didn’t think that was somethin’ I’d get again. Not after—” He cuts himself off. His fingers flex against his jeans. “It’s been a long time since someone made me feel like I wasn’t just passin’ the time.”

You swallow.

You reach out, fingers brushing lightly against his. “You’re not.”

He looks at where you’re touching him. Then at you. His brows draw together like he’s still surprised by how this feels — like comfort, like peace, like a soft place to land.

“Can I—?” he starts. Then stops. “I wanna kiss you.”

You nod. Quiet. Breathless.

“I want you to.”

That’s all it takes.

Joel leans in slowly — slow like he’s memorizing everything about this, like he’s giving you the chance to pull away. His hand comes up to cradle the side of your face, rough thumb brushing your cheekbone.

And when his lips meet yours, it’s so soft it nearly breaks you.

There’s no rush, no push. Just warmth. The press of his mouth against yours, the faint hitch in his breath when you kiss him back. His nose brushes yours, and you feel him smile into it, just a little.

You pull away first — not far, just enough to look at him.

His eyes are soft. Heavy-lidded. Sweeter than you’ve ever seen them.

“Been wantin’ to do that for a while,” he murmurs.

Your voice is quiet, full of warmth: “Yeah. Me too.”

He leans in again, and this time the kiss lingers — deeper, fuller, his hand sliding to the back of your neck like he’s not ready to let you go yet. Like now that he’s kissed you once, he needs to make up for all the nights he thought about it and didn’t.

When you part again, you both sit there, a little dazed. A little breathless.

Joel exhales a soft laugh. “Well. That’s gonna keep me up tonight.”

You laugh too. “Good.”

He nudges your knee with his. “Can I take you out? Properly? Not just dinners made from leftover guilt and garage injuries?”

You smile. “You’re not getting injured on purpose, are you?”

He grins. “Not yet.”

You bump your shoulder into his. “Yeah. I’d like that.”

And when he walks back to his house — slower this time, stealing one last glance over his shoulder — you’re still smiling.

Still a little breathless.

Still thinking about how soft his mouth was on yours.

And how it didn’t feel like the end of something.

The sun’s brutal. Your thighs stick to the seat the whole drive.

The little box on your passenger seat sat halfway taped up. Sarah had left it in your dorm room — just a few things she’d forgotten to pack before summer break. You meant to drop it at her house on your way out of town, and now here you are, sweating through your dress and wishing you’d worn something that didn’t cling.

You pull up to the curb, killing the engine. Her driveway’s half-shadowed by a low carport. One truck. An old, dusty Chevy in the drive. The garage door is cracked open, the sound of a radio drifting through the heat.

You ring the doorbell. Wait.

No answer.

You knock again. Still nothing. You're hoping Sarah answers before you start sweating again.

Your hand’s on the knob when you hear it — a deep grunt, the clink of metal. Then—

“’in the garage!”

You follow the sound of his voice, careful not to let your sandals slip on the hot concrete. The sun’s behind the house now, casting long, soft shadows across the garage where he’s half-buried under the hood of a car.

Joel.

Sweaty, shirtless, and entirely unprepared for the way your stomach twists at the sight of him.

He wipes his hand on a rag as he straightens up, squinting at you in the golden light.

You can’t remember the last time you saw him up close. Maybe last fall when he helped Sarah move her mini-fridge up the dorm stairs. You remember thinking he looked too young to be her dad — all rough edges and callused hands, the kind of man who fixed things with his bare fingers and never once looked rushed doing it.

Now, he’s sun-baked and grease-slicked, sweat rolling down the curve of his throat. His jeans are riding low on his hips, clinging to his thick thighs, and his hands look even bigger than you remembered.

He eyes you slowly. Then—

“Well hey there, darlin’.”

You swallow. “Hi, Mr. Miller.”

His eyes drag down the length of you — slow and sharp. Your dress feels shorter under the weight of that stare. The cotton’s sticking to your back. You shift, subtly tugging the hem down.

He nods toward the box in your hands. “That for Sarah?”

“Yeah,” you say, clearing your throat. “She left it in our room by accident. Figured I’d bring it by since I was passing through.”

He scratches his beard, frowning.

“Girl didn’t tell you she left already?”

Your head tips. “Left?”

“Road trip. Left this morning.” His lips curl.

“Oh.”

He chuckles, low and warm. “You look surprised.”

“I just— thought she’d be here. I didn’t mean to intrude.”

“You ain’t intrudin’.”

He steps back, waves you toward the house.

“C’mon,” he says. “You can leave that in her room if you want. ‘Less you’re in a rush.”

You’re not. Not now.

You follow him inside.

The house is cool, a quiet contrast to the heat baking off the driveway. The scent of sawdust and something citrusy lingers in the air, mixed with whatever mechanic grease still clings to Joel’s skin.

You set the box down on the kitchen table, eyes adjusting to the dimmer light inside.

Joel nods toward the fridge. “You want something to drink? I’ve got water. Sweet tea. Maybe a soda if Sarah didn’t clear ‘em out.”

“Water’s fine,” you say.

He grabs one and slides it across the counter to you. You unscrew the cap and take a sip, grateful for the distraction. You can feel the sweat drying on the back of your neck. The heat clings to you even here, in the quiet hum of the kitchen.

He cracks open a beer for himself, leaning against the counter across from you. The way his arms fold over his chest makes every muscle in them flex, slow and casual.

“So,” he says, voice rough like gravel, “you just finished up the semester?”

You nod. “Yesterday, actually.”

He gives a soft whistle. “Bet you’re glad to be done.”

“I am. It was a long one.”

Joel takes a sip, eyes not leaving yours.

“What’re you studying again?”

“Medicine. I think.”

He smirks. “You think?”

“I keep changing my mind.”

“You got time to figure it out.”

He pauses. Tilts his head a bit.

“Sarah says you’re one of the smart ones.”

You raise an eyebrow. “She say that before or after she scored higher than me?”

Joel chuckles, the sound low and real. It makes your skin prickle.

His eyes fall to your collarbone when you laugh — just briefly. But enough that you notice. Then they flick back up to your face, unreadable.

“How’s college life treatin’ you otherwise?” he asks, tone deceptively casual. “All them parties and boys and whatnot?”

You shrug, fiddling with the plastic bottle cap.

“It’s...fine.”

“Just fine?”

“Most of the guys there are…” You pause. “Boring. Or high. Or still think calling me baby girl in a text is enough effort.”

He huffs, clearly unimpressed. “Sounds about right.”

“You sound surprised.”

“I ain’t surprised,” he says. “Just disappointed.”

He takes another long pull of his beer.

You glance up at him through your lashes. “Disappointed in me?”

Joel smirks. “Nah. Just them.”

You shift your weight. The room feels warmer now, or maybe it’s just him — the way he’s watching you, like he’s not sure if he should or not. Like he’s trying to decide if it’s okay to want the things he’s already thinking.

Your eyes fall to his chest — the sweat still clinging to the curve of his throat, the fading tan lines, the patch of hair low on his stomach disappearing into his jeans. You bite your lip.

Joel notices. You can tell from the flicker in his eyes.

There’s a long pause. Neither of you speak.

Then he pushes off the counter and nods down the hallway.

“Sarah’s room’s the second on the left,” he says, voice quieter now. “You can leave that box there.”

You nod, turning to go. But you feel his gaze follow you — heavy on your hips, your bare shoulders, the back of your legs.

You’re almost sure you imagined it.

Almost.

You walk down the hallway slowly, aware of how silent the house is.

Sarah’s room is where you remember it, door cracked slightly open. The bed’s made, surprisingly neat for someone who usually has shoes on the floor and gum wrappers under her pillow. You place the box on her desk, careful not to knock over a cup of pens.

You glance around, hands fidgeting at your sides.

She’s got a few photos up — old Polaroids, clipped to a string of fairy lights. Her, some friends, a couple of blurry ones that look like concerts. One of her and Joel, too. It’s older — he’s got fewer lines in his face, less gray in his beard. His arm’s wrapped around her shoulders. He’s smiling.

You stare at it for a second too long, then look away.

Behind you, the wooden floor creaks.

You turn — and Joel’s leaning in the doorway.

“Everything alright?”

You nod. “Yeah, just…uh— looking. Sorry–..”

He gives a short, almost sheepish smile. “Didn’t mean to hover. Just figured I’d see if you found the place alright.”

You nod again. He doesn’t move. Neither do you.

Your eyes flicker — a mistake. Arms crossed over his chest, beer bottle dangling from one hand. There’s a smudge of grease near his ribcage, and another on the inside of his wrist. His hair’s pushed back with sweat, a little curl behind his ear.

You don’t remember Sarah’s dad being this hot.

Like, at all.

But then again, you’ve never really looked. You’ve never stood in his daughter’s bedroom in a short summer dress, watching sweat roll down his neck while he leans in a doorway like he’s waiting for you to say something. Do something.

“I forgot how hot it gets here,” you mumble, more to yourself than anything.

His brow lifts just slightly. “Yeah. That heat’ll knock the wind outta you if you’re not used to it.”

He takes another sip of beer, then wipes his mouth with the back of his hand.

Your eyes follow the movement. His forearm flexes, veined and dirty, and it doesn’t help that your dress is clinging to the sweat on the back of your thighs and every breath feels like it’s sticking to your skin.

Joel shifts, slowly dragging his gaze over the room — not lingering, but looking. And then, for a beat too long, he looks at you.

You catch it this time. The flicker of his eyes to your chest, where your dress dips just slightly too low. Your skin prickles.

Your arms instinctively cross, but you hesitate halfway through the motion. Because what if that was just…you being weird?

“Sorry,” he mutters. “Didn’t mean to stare.”

Your cheeks heat. “It’s okay.”

He clears his throat. The silence stretches again, thick and warm.

“I should probably let you get goin’,” he says finally. But he doesn’t move.

You step past him into the hallway, and he shifts just slightly to let you through — not quite touching you, but close enough that you feel the heat radiating off his body. That scent again — oil, sweat, beer, and something woodsy underneath.

You nearly stumble. It’s not even noon and you feel drunk on him.

He follows you back to the kitchen, slower this time. You feel his eyes on your back.

You turn around when you reach the table, grabbing your bag and water bottle. Joel leans against the fridge now, arms braced behind him. His abs flex as he shifts.

You glance at the doorway. Then back at him.

“So… I guess I’ll let you get back to the car.”

Joel lifts the bottle in a slow shrug. “She’s not goin’ anywhere.”

A pause. He scratches his beard, eyes dragging over your dress again — slower this time, less shy.

“You, uh...you got a guy waitin’ on you?” he asks, like he’s trying to sound casual and failing a little.

You blink. “Back home?”

“Anywhere.”

You snort. “No.”

He hums, something unreadable in his expression.

“Boys these days don’t know what to do with a girl like you, huh?”

Your stomach flips.

You swallow.

“Meaning?”

Joel shrugs. Still looking. Still slow. “Meanin’, you show up at my door, wearin’ that pretty little thing, bein’ sweet as ever… I doubt half those kids you go to school with know what they’re missin’.”

The heat surges between you. It’s heavy. Slow. You’re stuck somewhere between flustered and dizzy.

You grip the edge of the table behind you, unsure what to say.

Joel doesn’t move. Just watches you — eyes dragging from your lips, to your throat, to the hem of your dress, which is maybe a little shorter now that it’s ridden up your thighs from sitting, from walking, from this heavy tension he’s not helping defuse.

Joel shifts first. Just a step forward.

You hold your breath.

Another.

He’s close enough now that you have to look up to meet his eyes. They’re darker than before. Tired, maybe, but sharp. Focused.

“You sure there’s no one?” he asks again, voice barely above a whisper. “No one who’d mind me standin’ this close?”

You don’t answer. You don’t have to.

He exhales through his nose, jaw ticking.

“Didn’t think so,” he mutters.

He takes one more step and reaches past you — slow, deliberate — to set his empty beer bottle on the table beside your hand.

And as he pulls back, his fingers graze your waist. Light. Just barely there. But enough.

You shift, breath catching.

Joel doesn’t pull away this time.

His fingers slide over the curve of your hip, slow and reverent, then up your side until his thumb brushes the edge of your ribs.

His other hand lifts, brushing a piece of hair from your cheek. Your breath hitches.

“Goddamn,” he murmurs, almost to himself. “You’re somethin’ else.”

You whisper his name — a question, or maybe a warning.

“I shouldn’t,” he says. But he doesn’t let go.

You tilt your face up slightly. His thumb strokes just beneath your jaw.

“Why not?,” you whisper.

That’s it.

Joel kisses you like he’s starved for it.

There’s nothing hesitant anymore — just heat and hands and the groan he lets out when your mouth parts for him, soft and sweet. His tongue slides against yours, slow and messy, and you whimper when his hand grips the back of your neck.

You’re pressed between him and the table now, his hand sliding down to grip the back of your thigh. You’re pulled flush against him, your dress riding high up your hips.

He breaks the kiss with a breathless growl. His forehead rests against yours.

“You have no fuckin’ idea,” he rasps, “what you’re doin’.”

Your hand finds his chest — sweat-slick, warm, solid muscle under your fingers. You trail down, across his stomach, to where his jeans are already tented with how hard he is.

Joel grits his teeth.

“Christ,” he mutters. “You want this?”

You nod, eyes wide.

“Need to hear you say it.”

“I want you, Joel,” you whisper. “Please.”

He crashes into you again — kissing you harder this time. His hands grab under your thighs and lift you easily onto the table, shoving everything else aside. You gasp when your back hits the cool wood, legs spread and dress bunched up around your waist.

He groans at the sight of you.

“You wear this little thing just to drive me outta my mind?” he mutters, sliding your panties down and off your ankles. “Or do you always wear lace for no damn reason?”

You try to answer, but he’s already dipping down, kneeling between your legs like a man with nothing to lose.

This is so fucked.

You’re fucking your roommate’s dad.

On her kitchen table.

His tongue is hot, firm, devastating. He licks a slow stripe up your slit, groaning at the taste, then closes his mouth over your clit and sucks.

Your back arches. Your hands scramble against the table.

This is wrong. This is so, so wrong.

You’re moaning for him. Legs shaking. His beard scraping your thighs and his fingers curling inside you like he already knows what makes you fall apart.

You’re fucking your friend’s dad.

Her hot dad. Greasy and shirtless and built like sin.

And God, the way he eats. You try to quiet yourself, to hold it in, but he flattens his tongue against your clit and sucks, and your moan breaks from your chest before you can stop it.

Your spine arches. Your fingers grip his hair.

He groans again when you tug.

“Fuck—sweetest thing I ever tasted.”

You don’t last long. Not with his fingers pumping into you, his tongue working perfect little circles until your thighs are shaking and your moans are echoing off the walls.

“Sweetest fuckin’ thing,” he groans. “Gonna make you come on my tongue before I even fuck you.”

You want to say no. That he shouldn’t.

But your body doesn’t care.

Your body wants all of it.

The shame, the heat, the wrongness.

And when he pulls back and looks at you — mouth wet, eyes dark with something dangerous — you think:

This is horrible.

But you’ve never wanted anything more.

You come with a cry, and he doesn’t stop — keeps going, keeps eating, like he’s trying to make it last forever.

When he finally stands, his mouth glistens. His beard is damp with you. You’re panting, boneless, your dress rucked up to your ribs.

Joel leans over you, kisses you filthy, lets you taste yourself on his tongue.

You’re too gone to speak. Your hand fumbles with his belt instead, desperate.

He lets you, watching you through hooded eyes as you undo him, pull his cock out.

You pause. Stare.

“Oh my god,” you whisper.

He smirks. “Yeah?”

You wrap your fingers around him — thick, heavy, already leaking. He groans when you stroke once, twice.

He grabs your hips, lines himself up. The tip of his cock drags through your folds.

“You ready, sweetheart?”

You nod.

“Need you to use your words.”

“Please,” you whisper. “Joel, I need you.”

He pushes in slow — inch by inch. Watching your face. Groaning when your legs tighten around his waist and you cry out at the stretch.

“You’re so fuckin’ tight,” he hisses. “Takin’ me so good.”

He bottoms out with a deep, broken sound and holds there, buried inside you, chest heaving.

Then he starts to move.

It’s slow at first. Controlled. Deep.

You let out a breathy moan before you can stop it, but your head spins.

You shouldn’t want this.

You shouldn’t have let it get this far.

But God—

Your breath stutters with every thrust, each one grinding perfectly into that sweet spot.

Joel groans above you, gripping your thighs, watching the way your tits bounce beneath your dress.

He fucks harder now. Deeper. You’re gasping, crying out with each snap of his hips.

You come again with a sob, legs shaking around his waist, your fingers clutching his shoulders.

Joel groans, hips stuttering.

“Gonna fill you up,” he mutters. “Fuck, baby. You want it?”

“Yes—Joel—please—”

He thrusts once, twice more—then buries himself deep and comes with a rough, shattering sound.

The silence afterward is thick.

Joel's still leaning over you, arms braced on either side, chest heaving. His skin glistens with sweat, hair damp and curling at his temples. Your thighs are sticky with arousal, the air still thick with sex.

You don’t speak. You can’t.

Your dress is bunched up around your waist, and your panties are somewhere on the floor, forgotten in a heap of lace and bad decisions.

Joel looks down at you — and for the first time since he touched you, really looks.

Like he’s seeing it clearly now.

What he’s done.

Who you are.

Your breath catches when his hand slides down — and you expect more. Another grope, another filthy word, another pull back into his gravity.

But instead, his fingers grip the waistband of your panties from the floor. He lifts your legs slowly, gently — too gently — and slides them back up your legs, his thumb brushing the inside of your knee as he settles the lace back into place.

Then he reaches for the hem of your dress, still bunched above your ribs, and smooths it down with both hands. Tugs it back into place over your hips. Your thighs. Your stomach.

Like it never happened.

Like he can erase it with fabric.

You sit there, breath uneven, heart pounding.

Then he gives your thigh a small pat.

Not a smack. Not rough.

Just a soft, brief press of his palm.

Too casual to mean nothing. Too intimate to mean anything else.

You look up at him.

His jaw’s clenched. His eyes don’t quite meet yours now.

He steps back. Wipes his hand across his mouth like he’s trying to catch the taste of you still clinging to his beard.

He says nothing.

And it’s not cold, exactly.

It’s worse.

It’s quiet.

Shameful.

Like he wants to say something — but he doesn’t trust what’ll come out if he does.

He leans one hand on the edge of the counter, shoulders tight. Then glances toward the hallway, toward the front door.

Like he’s remembering this is his house. That this is his daughter's roommate. That he may have just ruined something.

Finally, after a beat, he mutters, “I’ll walk you out.”

And fuck it.

You let him.

Because the weight of what you just did feels better than whatever emptiness you’re about to walk back into.

The door creaks open, and the golden light outside doesn’t feel warm anymore. It feels blinding.

Joel follows you out slowly, like his feet are dragging, like every step toward your car makes the truth of what happened inside settle heavier on his shoulders.

The cicadas are louder now. A dog barks a few houses down. It’s normal out here, and that somehow makes it worse.

You walk a few steps ahead, down the front path, clutching your water bottle too tightly in your hand. You can feel the mess between your thighs, the cling of your panties he just pulled back up like he was fixing a broken rule.

Joel’s watching you. Arms crossed, mouth tight. Like he’s waiting for something. Or dreading it.

“I won’t tell,” you say softly. “You know that, right?”

His eyes flicker. Something in his jaw ticks.

He just nods.

No thank you. No explanation. Just a slow, heavy nod.

You hesitate again, and for a moment—God, just a moment—you think he’s going to say something. Anything.

But all he does is let his gaze fall down the length of you one last time. Not in that hungry way he did before. Not quite.

It’s almost sad now.

Like he’s memorizing a mistake.

Then you hear his voice, low and rough — like gravel, like regret.

“Better go,” he says. “Before I do something else I’ll regret.”

You turn to look at him, your breath catching.

His hand is still on the doorframe. His body tense, like he’s holding himself back from following. From pulling you back inside, dragging that dress up again, forgetting the whole world all over.

He doesn’t meet your eyes. Can’t.

And then, just like that, he shuts the door.

Not hard. Not gentle.

Just final.

You stand there in the silence, staring at the wood in front of you. Breathing. Swallowing.

Your panties are still damp. Your thighs are sticky. The inside of your chest feels hot and hollow at the same time.

You should feel disgusting.

And you do.

But there’s something else curled deep in your belly. Something like satisfaction. Like relief.

You lean your head against the door for just a second, eyes fluttering shut.

You know seeing Sarah again is going to be hell.

You know every night of homework, every smile she gives you, every casual mention of her dad’s name is going to taste like a secret you’ll never be clean of.

But God help you—

Your phone lit up at 11:43 PM.

You were still on your bed, skin flushed from your stream, legs damp and shaky, body soft with the afterglow of the most intense orgasm you’d ever had.

The notification was from him.

Joel:

Come over.

I’m keeping my promise.

Your stomach dropped.

Heat bloomed so fast it stole your breath.

You stared at the screen like it might disappear. Like you were dreaming it.

You didn’t reply.

You didn’t have to.

You threw on a hoodie and shorts and slipped out the back door, not even bothering with shoes. Your heart thundered the whole walk across the yard.

By the time you knocked on his door, you were shaking.

Joel opened it like he’d been standing there waiting.

He said nothing.

Just grabbed your wrist, pulled you inside, and slammed the door behind you.

His mouth was on yours before you could breathe.

Hot. Starved. Possessive.

He kissed you like he was making up for lost time, like he hated that he hadn’t done it sooner. His hands roamed rough and greedy—your waist, your hips, the back of your neck.

You gasped against him. He didn’t stop.

His hands moved under your hoodie and lifted. You raised your arms instinctively, letting him pull it over your head. You weren’t wearing a bra.

Joel made a sound—low, deep in his chest.

His mouth moved down your jaw, your throat, between your breasts.

“You fuckin’ killed me tonight,” he rasped, lips brushing hot against your skin. “You have any idea what you looked like?”

You couldn’t speak. Could barely breathe.

“I was watchin’,” he growled. “Hard as a fuckin’ rock. Fist around my cock while you came on your fingers like a goddamn angel.”

His teeth grazed your nipple and you whimpered.

You were soaked. Already.

He dropped to his knees before you could blink.

Grabbed your shorts and yanked them down along with your panties in one rough pull.

He didn’t even speak.

Just looked at you.

Messy. Wet.

Still dripping from the orgasm he watched you give yourself.

Joel looked wrecked.

And then he leaned in.

Ran his tongue slow from your thigh to your center—and moaned when he tasted you.

“Oh, fuck, baby...”

You grabbed the counter behind you, knees buckling.

Joel didn’t let up.

His hands hooked around your thighs and pulled you forward, lips wrapping around your pussy like he was starving. He licked everywhere—up and down, slow and filthy, tongue dipping inside before circling your clit with maddening pressure.

“Joel—fuck—”

You were already trembling.

He groaned into you.

“You like that?” he muttered, voice muffled between your legs. “Like knowin’ I was watchin’ while you made this pretty pussy come?”

Your head tipped back, a whimper escaping.

His tongue flicked faster. More purposeful.

"You were drippin’ for me, baby,” he rasped. “Spread wide, puttin’ on that show like a fuckin’ dream. But it wasn't enough."

He sucked your clit hard and you cried out.

"Couldn't touch you. Couldn't taste you. Had to sit there with your fuckin' panties in my hand, losin’ my goddamn mind.”

You didn’t hear him at first.

Then—

“W–what?”

Joel didn’t answer.

Just growled and slid two fingers into you.

You gasped—loud.

“Couldn’t stop thinkin’ about how sweet you’d taste,” he gritted, lips against your thigh. “And now I know.”

Your hips rocked against his mouth. Your hands were in his hair, tugging hard. His fingers moved fast, curling inside you like he already knew your body.

You were already so close it hurt.

He looked up at you from between your thighs, eyes dark, beard wet.

“Come for me again,” he growled. “This time with my fuckin’ mouth on you.”

You shattered.

No warning.

Your knees gave out as you screamed, body spasming against his tongue. Joel didn’t stop—wouldn’t stop—fucking you through it until your thighs were shaking and your voice broke from the sound.

Only then did he slow.

He pressed a kiss to your inner thigh. Then another. And another. His hands never left your hips.

When he looked up at you, he was flushed, wild-eyed.

"Promise kept," he murmured.

But he wasn’t done.

He stood and kissed you again, and you tasted yourself on his tongue. He was hard beneath his jeans—so hard it looked painful.

You reached for his belt, but he grabbed your wrist.

"You sure?"

You nodded.

“Words, baby.”

“Yes. Please.”

He made a sound like a growl and crushed his mouth to yours again.

Within seconds, he’d stripped down and lifted you onto the counter, spreading your legs apart like he’d been dreaming about it every night. His cock was thick and angry red at the tip.

He ran it through your folds, watching you twitch.

"Fuckin’ soaked for me again already," he muttered.

“Joel—”

"You beg real pretty," he gritted.

And then he pushed in.

You gasped—loud and high and helpless.

He didn’t give you time to adjust. Just pulled back and thrust again, hard, setting a brutal rhythm that punched moans from your throat and left your nails clawing at his back.

“Thought about this every night,” he rasped against your neck. “Your thighs spread. That look in your eyes when you know I’m watchin’.”

You clenched around him hard and he groaned.

"Jesus, baby—"

“I wanted it to be you,” you gasped. “Every time.”

Joel lost it.

He bent you back on the counter and fucked you harder—rougher—his hand around your throat, thumb dragging up your neck while your cries echoed in the kitchen.

"You gonna come again?" he growled. "You gonna come all over my cock this time?"

You were already there.

You came with a sob, walls clenching, body shaking like your soul left you.

Joel followed with a grunt, burying himself deep and spilling inside with a rough growl of your name.

Joel was still pulsing inside you when he dragged his mouth over your throat, panting, spent—but not sated.

Not even close.

You were trembling beneath him, legs weak where they dangled off the edge of the counter, your chest heaving as you tried to catch your breath.

But he didn’t pull away.

Didn’t soften.

Didn’t even blink.

His hand slid to your jaw, thumb brushing your bottom lip.

“You’re not done,” he said, voice rough and dark.

You blinked up at him, dazed.

“J-Joel—?”

His eyes were heavy, cock still twitching inside you, still buried deep.

"Down," he murmured, pulling back and dragging your thighs open as he stepped back. His come leaked from your cunt, slick down your inner thighs.

“Come on, baby,” he rasped. “On your knees. Show me how much you missed me.”

You dropped to the tile like gravity pulled you there.

Still panting. Still shaking.

And you looked up at him like he was God.

His cock hung heavy between his legs—wet, flushed, still hard enough to make your mouth water. You didn’t hesitate.

You wrapped your lips around him and sucked slow, deep.

Joel growled, low in his throat, one hand bracing against the counter behind you.

“Fuck,” he hissed. “Goddamn mouth…”

You bobbed your head, moaning around him as you tasted the mix of you both—his come, your slick, salt and sweat and heat.

He twitched in your mouth, too sensitive already, but you didn’t stop.

You wanted it.

Wanted all of him.

His fingers laced in your hair, guiding your rhythm.

“That’s it, baby,” he groaned. “Take it. Clean me up. You’re my good fuckin’ girl, huh?”

You whimpered, pressing your thighs together as your tongue dragged along the underside of his cock.

“You like knowin’ I was watchin’?” he muttered, voice thick. “Jerkin’ off in the dark while you showed that perfect little pussy to me?”

You moaned around him and he shuddered.

“You liked makin’ me come in my fist every night, didn’t you?”

He was getting close again—already.

You were driving him insane.

“Fucked you once and you’re already on your knees for more,” he growled. “You fuckin’ love this. Love bein’ dirty for me.”

Your eyes fluttered as you sucked him harder, deeper, mouth messy with spit and slick. He hissed and grunted, thumb dragging over your cheekbone as his hips flexed forward.

“Swallow it,” he groaned. “Come on, baby. Take it.”

He came with a sharp gasp, cock jerking in your mouth, hot and thick down your throat.

You didn’t flinch.

Didn’t pull away.

You swallowed every drop, moaning softly, licking him clean just like he told you to.

And when you looked up?

Joel was staring down at you like he’d never seen anything so fucking beautiful in his life.

Wrecked. Raw.

And finally—finally—satisfied.

Your knees were still on the tile, breath ragged, lips swollen and glistening from where you’d just swallowed every last drop of him. Your hands trembled slightly against his thighs, your chest rising and falling in quick, dazed little breaths.

Joel stared down at you.

And something shifted in his face.

The hunger was still there—but softened now, wrapped in something deeper. Something dangerous.

His chest ached.

He reached down with both hands—gentle, reverent—and cupped your face like he couldn’t believe you were real.

“C’mere, baby,” he murmured, voice hoarse.

You barely had time to respond before he lifted you—slow and careful, one arm around your back, the other under your thighs, like you weighed nothing. Like you mattered more than anything.

Your arms instinctively wrapped around his neck.

And he carried you out of the kitchen.

Not rushed. Not rough.

Like he had all the time in the world now that he’d finally had you.

He laid you on his bed like you were something fragile, precious—like he was scared you’d disappear if he touched you wrong.

You watched him, blinking up, still dizzy from everything—your legs aching in the best way, your mouth tingling, your heart fluttering.

Joel climbed in beside you, one hand at your hip, the other brushing your hair from your face.

“You okay?” he asked softly, thumb ghosting along your cheek.

You nodded.

“I’m good,” you whispered.

He kissed your forehead first. Then your temple. Then your mouth—slow and deep, tasting himself on your tongue, his hand pressing to your lower belly like he wanted to keep something of himself inside you.

You flushed, lips parting, but he didn’t let you speak. Just kissed you again. Kissed your jaw, your neck, your collarbone.

His hands moved over you slowly now—devotional.

“You’re so fuckin’ beautiful,” he whispered against your shoulder.

Joel groaned softly and kissed you again, deeper this time, chest pressed to yours like he needed to feel your heartbeat to steady his own.

He didn’t try to fuck you again.

Not yet.

He just held you.

Joel’s breath warmed your shoulder, his arm heavy across your waist. You were curled into his chest, skin still sticky with sweat and spit and slick, your body aching in the most perfect way.

But he wasn’t asleep.

You felt it in the way his thumb traced slow, possessive circles against your hip.

In the way his lips brushed the side of your throat—like he had to keep kissing you or he’d go mad.

“You’ve got no idea what you do to me,” he murmured against your skin, voice wrecked. “No fuckin’ clue.”

You shivered.

Joel shifted closer, pulling you tighter against him.

“I watched you for so long,” he said quietly. “Had no idea it was you, but God… there was somethin’ about you. The way you moved. The way you looked at the camera, like you were starin’ straight through me.”

You felt his cock twitch against your thigh.

“I’d finish and just sit there,” he admitted. “Thinkin’ about you. Wishin’ it was more. Wishin’ it was you.”

Your heart fluttered hard in your chest.

And then, lower—rougher:

“Can’t stop picturin’ it now. You, all dolled up in lace. Pretty little bows. Sittin’ on that bed with your legs open just like before, but only for me.”

You bit your lip, breath catching.

“Gonna buy you things,” he muttered. “All those little outfits you wear online—fuck that. I’ll pick ‘em out myself. You’ll model ‘em just for me. On camera. Off. Don’t care. Long as I get to see that look on your face when you come.”

You whimpered softly, thighs pressing together.

Joel’s hand slid lower, cupping you lazily between the legs.

You were still wet.

“Goddamn,” he whispered, voice low and reverent. “Still drippin’ for me.”

You turned your face into the pillow, flushed and breathless.

But he just kissed your shoulder again and grinned.

“You gonna go live for me, baby?” he asked, voice like warm smoke. “Gonna sit there in somethin’ sweet and let me ruin you from across the room?”

You nodded—barely.

He growled.

“Can’t wait to see you again.”

Joel knew you were trouble the minute you grew up.

He tried to ignore it—tried to file you away as just his buddy’s daughter, the kid who used to fall asleep in the backseat with melted popsicles on her chin. But you weren’t a kid anymore.

Not with the way you talked now. Or the way you looked at him.

You had this smile, full of mischief and fake innocence. The kind that made Joel shift uncomfortably in his seat and clear his throat too often when you were around.

Still, he played nice. Stayed polite.

It wasn’t hard. You were sweet—always had been. Offering him lemonade when he stopped by. Sitting cross-legged on the couch while your dad and Joel watched the game. Wearing those little sundresses and pretending not to notice when Joel’s eyes lingered too long on your bare thighs.

“Hey, Mr. Miller,” you’d say, batting those lashes.

“Joel’s fine, sweetheart.”

But you kept calling him Mr. Miller. On purpose.

It became a regular thing.

Joel would drop by for beers with your dad, maybe help with a leak or shovel the porch. You’d always be around—lounging in the kitchen, giggling on the phone, bending over just enough when reaching for something on the low shelf.

You weren’t obvious about it.

You never had to be.

Joel tried to convince himself he was imagining it.

You were just a little flirty, that’s all. A lot of girls your age were. You probably didn’t mean anything by it. Still, he found himself thinking about you too much. Wondering what your lips would feel like, what sounds you'd make under his hands.

It was wrong. He knew it.

But he didn’t stop.

The night he stumbled on her, he was just looking to blow off steam.

It was late. Joel had worked a long shift, and his brain was buzzing with too much caffeine and not enough sleep. He poured himself a whiskey and let his fingers hover over the keyboard.

He hadn’t logged into a cam site in months. But something made him click.

And then—her.

She was new. Not someone he’d seen before.

No face, just the soft curve of her jaw, a mouth that looked bitten raw, and a body that made his throat go dry.

She wore a sheer ivory set—barely there lace over full hips, soft thighs pressing together as she shifted in her bed.

“Hi, baby,” she said, voice honeyed and warm. “Miss me?”

Joel stared.

She was magnetic. Every little movement was designed to pull him in: the way her fingers brushed her collarbone, how she tilted her head like she was listening to you. The camera only showed her body from the chin down—but it didn’t matter.

He was hooked.

And the voice.

God, that voice.

Something about it sounded familiar.

He leaned forward, scowling.

It wasn’t exact. It was sultrier, practiced. Maybe even pitched differently on purpose. But the cadence… the softness…

It hit him right in the gut.

No. No way.

Joel told himself it was just a coincidence.

Plenty of girls had that breathy tone. Plenty wore bows on their bras and talked sweet to strangers online.

He clicked away after she signed off and went to bed hard and annoyed with himself.

But then he came back the next night. And the night after that.

And she was always there.

No face. No name.

Just soft moans and whispered filth. Just Joel’s knuckles going white as he jerked himself off to her voice, picturing—

No. He couldn’t. Wouldn’t.

But he did.

He pictured you.

Your smile. Your laugh. The way you chewed your lip when you were bored, or stretched your arms overhead when you yawned, not caring that your shirt rode up past your belly.

You weren’t the camgirl.

He was just tired. Delusional.

But he tipped more than anyone else in her room. And when she called him sir one night—low and warm, just for him—he almost came untouched.

————

The house was quiet when Joel let himself in.

He carried the mail in one hand, balancing the keys and a grocery bag in the other—your dad had asked him to water the plants while he was away, maybe restock the fridge so there’d be something when they got back from an unexpected work trip.

Joel didn’t mind. He said yes too quickly, but no one noticed.

You hadn’t been around all week. Must be staying with a friend, he guesses.

It was better that way, probably. Gave him space to think.

He placed the mail neatly on the counter, turned the tap on low to water the succulents by the window. Something about your mom's kitchen always felt a little too domestic—he hated how easily he slipped into the motions, like he belonged here.

Like this was his house.

He finished the watering and moved to head out, but paused. Just for a second.

You hadn’t been in touch.

Maybe you were back now.

He climbed the stairs before he could talk himself out of it.

"Just checkin’," he muttered under his breath. “Just makin’ sure.”

The door to your bedroom was cracked open, same as always. The soft scent of vanilla drifted out—faint but familiar. You weren’t there. No music, no laptop humming. Just that still, slightly lived-in quiet.

He stepped in slowly.

And then he saw it.

On the floor near your bed—half-tucked under the edge of a crumpled throw pillow.

Lacy.

Ivory.

Sheer.

Panties.

Joel froze.

He knew that set.

He’d seen that set.

His breath caught in his throat, mouth suddenly dry. For a moment, he couldn’t move—his eyes fixed on the delicate scrap of fabric like it had bitten him.

No way.

It couldn’t be.

It had to be a coincidence.

But his body didn’t believe that. Not with the way his cock stirred in his jeans. Not with how his hands twitched at his sides, aching to reach.

You weren’t home. The house was silent. He told himself no one would know. No one would ever know.

He bent down.

Fingers closed around soft, damp lace.

A tiny bow. Sheer all over. The exact kind she wore.

Joel’s heart pounded in his ears.

He didn’t mean to—he really didn’t—but he brought them to his nose. Briefly. Just a breath.

Christ.

He nearly dropped them.

Then… he didn’t.

They disappeared into the pocket of his worn jeans, and he left the room without a sound.

A few nights later, Joel got drunker than he meant to.

The lace was still in his hand when he logged onto the cam site. Just like he always did. Like it was routine now—something necessary, a relief valve after too many nights of pretending he wasn’t dying to touch you.

She was already live. Back from her week long hiatus.

The mysterious girl.

Your voice—but sultrier. Softer. Just like always.

“Miss me, baby?” you whispered, chin tucked just out of view, mouth pink and wet. “I thought about you all week.”

Joel clenched his jaw.

He held your panties he had dug out of his nightstand in one fist and wrapped the other around his cock.

Sheer ivory. He’d watched her wear them. Watched her pull them to the side and fuck herself with her fingers while moaning his name like it tasted good.

He fisted his cock harder, head tipped back, eyes fluttering shut.

The lace was warm in his hand.

It smelled like you.

Jesus fucking Christ.

He didn’t sleep that night.

Just laid in bed, staring at the ceiling, replaying every second.

You. Your voice. That lace on your floor.

It was too much.

Too fucking much.

He couldn’t stop thinking about you. Couldn’t stop seeing you.

He was a goddamn pervert. Sick in the head.

He was also in love with the idea of you—and that was even worse.

——

The next evening— hungover, Joel stopped by again.

Your dad was still gone. Same routine. Just came by with the mail and let himself in like always.

The lights were low. It was quiet downstairs.

He set the mail on the counter. Called your name once.

No answer.

Maybe you were home— asleep, he thought.

But something tugged at his chest—an itch in his bones.

He climbed the stairs again.

Not like last time. He wasn’t looking to snoop. He just wanted—

You.

To say hi. Maybe hear that flirty little laugh. Maybe see the way you played with your necklace when you were nervous, or catch a whiff of that vanilla you always wore.

But then—

A sound.

Faint. Rhythmic.

He paused outside your door, breath catching.

Laptop hum. A low buzz. A soft, familiar sigh.

Joel’s heart dropped.

No. No way.

He stepped forward.

The door was open.

And there you were.

Back arched, knees bent, legs spread wide on the bed.

Lace bralette, but no panties.

Your laptop was perched in front of you, camera angle carefully set. Your hand moved between your legs, slow and wet and fucking obscene.

Your head was tilted back, face barely out of view.

But your voice—

“Oh fuck… you like that, don’t you?”

Joel’s stomach turned.

It was you.

It was you all along.

His feet were rooted to the floor.

Every neuron in his brain was screaming to move, to run, to pretend this wasn’t happening. But he just stood there, frozen.

Then your eyes flicked open.

And locked on his.

You gasped.

The laptop snapped shut in a second, the motion frantic. You scrambled up, covering yourself with a blanket, eyes wide with panic and fury.

“Joel?!”

He opened his mouth. Nothing came out.

“I—” he tried, rubbing the back of his neck. “Didn’t think you were home.”

You blinked. Furious. Stunned.

He didn’t move.

You were flushed and glowing, hair messy, thighs still parted just enough under the blanket that he could see a glint of slick on your skin. The same thighs he’d jerked off to, over and over again. The same thighs that were on screen every night.

Only now, it was real.

You were real.

And Joel was hard.

Painfully, unmistakably hard in his jeans.

His hands twitched at his sides like they didn’t know where to go.

“W-what the fuck, Joel?!”

“I’m sorry,” he said, voice raw. “I—your dad said—just came to drop the mail.”

“My room?!”

He swallowed.

“Didn’t know you were even here— Thought I’d say hi if you were..”

You stared.

Then you whispered, “How much did you see?”

Joel didn’t answer.

You looked like you didn’t know whether to scream or cry. You held the blanket tighter to your chest, breath still shaking.

Joel hadn’t moved. Couldn’t move.

He felt sick. Dizzy. Half out of his body.

Because the image was burned behind his eyes: your fingers between your legs, the way your hips had rocked, the whimper he’d heard before you realized he was there.

“Shit,” you whispered, more to yourself now. “Shit.”

Joel turned like he meant to leave, like his body remembered what it meant to be decent.

But he paused in the doorway.

You could feel his eyes on you. Still lingering. Still dark.

His voice came low. Gravelly.

“I didn’t mean to see that.”

And then he was gone.

Door closing behind him with a soft click.

And you sat there, trembling—blanket wrapped around your body, heart beating out of your chest, wondering just how much he’d seen.

Joel barely made it halfway down the stairs.

He was halfway to the door, hand gripping the knob, when he heard you.

“Wait—Joel!”

Your voice cracked.

His whole body tensed.

He turned just as you came bounding down the steps, shirt barely tugged over your head, feet bare, eyes wide and glassy.

You looked wrecked.

Panicked.

Your hair was still mussed from the bed, and your face—fuck, your face—was flushed with shame and something else. Your mouth parted like you couldn’t get a full breath in, and your shirt—rushed, thrown on in a hurry—was inside out and clinging to your chest in the worst way.

“Please,” you said, panting. “Please don’t tell anyone.”

Joel froze.

Your words hit him like a punch. Don’t tell anyone.

God.

You were scared.

Embarrassed.

He didn’t even know what he was supposed to say to you—he could barely think straight, blood still pounding between his legs like some horny teenager.

You reached him, eyes wide and wild, grabbing the sleeve of his flannel.

Your voice dropped to a frantic whisper. “Please. My dad—he can’t—no one can know, Joel. Please.”

He swallowed hard.

“I’m not gonna say anything,” he said gruffly. “Jesus.”

You blinked up at him, too close. Way too close.

Your hand still fisted in his shirt. Joel didn’t know if you realized you were doing it, but it made his stomach clench, made something thick and dangerous rise in his chest.

“I didn’t mean for anyone to ever see that,” you whispered. “I didn’t think anyone was here—you weren’t supposed to be here—”

“I knocked,” he said, softer this time. “Called your name.”

“I didn’t hear,” you breathed. “God, I didn’t know—I wouldn’t have—”

You stopped, squeezing your eyes shut.

Joel didn’t touch you. He couldn’t. If he did, he wouldn’t be able to stop. His fists were clenched at his sides, the fabric of his jeans pulled tight where his cock still throbbed, painful and ignored

He tried to look anywhere but your face.

But your eyes kept dragging him back in.

“I swear I won’t say a word,” he said quietly. “You have my word, sweetheart.”

The nickname slipped out before he could stop it.

You noticed.

Your lips parted slightly, eyes flickering down his body—too low. Too curious.

Joel flinched, stepping back. Putting distance where his resolve was slipping.

“This was a mistake,” he muttered. “I shouldn’t’ve come in.”

You didn’t stop him this time when he opened the door.

But your voice followed him out into the warm night air.

“Joel…”

He turned at the bottom of the steps.

You were still standing there in the doorway. Barefoot. Shirt wrinkled. Looking at him like you didn’t know what to do with what just happened.

“I’m sorry,” you said.

Joel’s jaw clenched.

So was he.

But he didn’t say it.

He just nodded once. Turned. And walked away—hard, guilt-ridden, and dragging your secrets with him like a curse in his pocket.

Joel sat in his truck outside your house, gripping the steering wheel like it owed him something.

The keys dangled uselessly in the ignition.

He hadn’t turned the engine.

Couldn’t.

His chest was heaving. Palms slick. His cock still fucking aching in his jeans, pressing tight and hot behind the zipper. He could barely sit still—blood roaring in his ears, his brain short-circuiting over and over again.

You.

You.

It had been you the whole goddamn time.

The lace. The moans. The way you teased the camera with your fingers and your hips and your bratty little smile, whispering filth like you knew exactly who was watching.

And fuck—he had been watching.

For weeks.

Tipping. Jerking off. Imagining what your face looked like.

Now he knew.

Now he couldn’t forget.

Joel slammed his hand against the steering wheel, jaw tight, chest burning. “Jesus fuckin’ Christ.”

He hadn’t meant to see that. Hadn’t planned any of it. But the second he’d opened that door and seen you spread out like that—laptop in front of you, hand between your thighs, body writhing under the low light—it had broken something inside him.

He’d never be the same again.

Your face, flushed and wide-eyed. The panic when you realized it was him. The soft, gasping sound you’d made when he turned to leave.

Joel had nearly walked back upstairs right then.

Almost turned around, slammed the door, and shown you what it really meant to touch yourself like that.

“Properly,” he growled to himself, adjusting his jeans with a hiss. “Goddamn it.”

He could’ve taught you.

You’d looked so sweet. So unsure. Your fingers clumsy and rushed—like you were desperate for it but didn’t really know how to give yourself what you needed.

He could’ve done it for you.

Pinned you down. Gotten on his knees. Made you come with his mouth, slow and rough and real. Let you ride his thigh until you were soaked and whining for more. Then fucked you deep—like you’d been begging for without even knowing it.

“Fuck,” he breathed, eyes slamming shut.

His hand drifted to his zipper—hovered there, tempted.

But he didn’t.

Didn’t touch himself.

Didn’t dare.

Not with the image of you still burned into his vision. Not with the damp lace in his glovebox and your voice echoing in his skull.

Because now it wasn’t just fantasy.

It was you.

His best friend’s daughter.

The girl he’d sworn to protect. The one who used to sit at his kitchen table and ask about Sarah. The one he tried not to look at too long when you wore those little shorts, or bit the corner of your lip, or called him Mr. Miller just to be cute.

And now?

Now he couldn’t stop imagining you looking up at him with tears in your eyes while he split you open on his cock.

He didn’t know what the fuck that made him.

But it was too late now.

He liked it.

He liked you.

And that scared the hell out of him.

Joel finally started the engine, the rumble low and angry under his hands.

But he didn’t drive home.

He sat there in the dark for a long, long time—sweating, cursing, and staring at your window.

Joel didn’t touch himself the night he saw you.

But the next night?

He broke.

He sat in the dark of his bedroom, hand braced against the wall, forehead damp with sweat. His cock was already hard before he’d even pushed his jeans down, mind cycling through the same two seconds on repeat:

You on your back. Legs open. Fingers buried deep.

The way your voice hitched when you didn’t know anyone was listening.

And the look on your face when you saw him.

He jerked off with a hand so tight it hurt, trying to chase the guilt away, but it stayed wrapped around his throat like a noose. The only thing that made him come was the memory of your thighs shaking, that soft gasp you let out when you tipped over the edge—before you knew he was there.

And still, somehow, he came hard.

Too hard.

It made him feel sick.

He told himself it was a one-time thing.

Just needed to get it out of his system. Clear his head.

But then the next night came, and you still hadn’t gone live.

No updates. No show. Nothing.

You disappeared from the site like you’d never been there.

Joel sat in front of his laptop with his pants around his ankles and your panties in his fist, waiting.

But the screen stayed dark.

By the fourth night, he realized.

You weren’t coming back.

You’d stopped. Because of him.

And fuck—fuck—that guilt sank even deeper now. A twist in his gut every time he looked at your front door, wondering if you knew he was still thinking about it. Still touching himself like some pervert down the street.

And the worst part?

He missed you.

Not just the camgirl version. Not just the show.

You.

The smart-mouthed, innocent-acting tease who used to sit at the table and laugh at his dumb jokes. The girl who called him Mr. Miller and didn’t notice how he stared at your thighs when you stretched in those little shorts. The girl who used to leave towels on the bathroom floor and hum while making coffee.

Now?

You wouldn’t even look at him.

The first time he came over after, everything felt wrong.

Your dad handed him a beer and turned on the game like it was just another Friday night, but Joel felt like his skin didn’t fit right.

You came down the stairs in a hoodie and socks, hair damp from a shower, and didn’t say a single fucking word.

Didn’t even glance at him.

Just walked to the kitchen, grabbed a towel off the counter, and then froze when Joel followed to get a glass of water.

You stiffened, shoulders tight, and dropped the towel down onto the counter with a snap—so loud it made him jump.

Then you turned and stormed back up the stairs without a word.

Your dad didn’t notice.

Joel definitely did.

The second time, you were curled up on the couch when he came in, legs tucked under you in a pair of those stupid little shorts you used to wear just to make him sweat. But your eyes didn’t lift from the book in your lap.

Not when he walked in. Not when he said hi.

Not even when your dad said, “Tell Joel how your classes are going.”

You shrugged. “Fine. I guess.”

Joel stared.

He didn’t know what he expected. Some flirty little smile? A joke? A thank-you for not telling your dad that you were live on the internet, moaning for strangers?

But you gave him nothing.

By the third week, it was eating him alive.

Every visit was the same.

You avoided him like the plague.

He’d walk into a room, and you’d walk out.

He’d say something, and you’d ignore it.

You wouldn’t even look at him.

But Joel saw the flush in your cheeks when you caught him staring. Saw the way your mouth tightened when he got too close, like you couldn’t stand the heat coming off him.

It made him feel dangerous.

It made him feel alive.

And it had to end.

He coughed— telling your dad he was going to use the bathroom.

Your dad didn’t question it.

You were upstairs again, probably thinking he’d still be on the couch.

But when he walked past the laundry room and saw the door cracked open—

And saw you in there?

Hair up. Basket of towels in your arms. A tiny little tank top clinging to your chest like it had no idea what it was doing?

Joel stepped inside.

Shut the door behind him.

You didn’t notice him at first.

You were halfway through loading the dryer when you heard it. The soft click of the door. The shift in the air.

You turned slowly.

And froze.

“Seriously?” you bit out. “You’re stalking me now?”

Joel stared at you. Hard.

“No.”

“Right. Just here to fold socks in the dark?”

He didn’t answer.

Didn’t have to.

You dropped the basket, huffing out an angry breath. “I don’t wanna talk to you, Joel.”

“Well, I wanna talk to you.”

“Tough shit.”

You tried to brush past him, but he stepped in your way, hand braced on the dryer.

“Three fuckin’ weeks,” he growled. “You haven’t looked me in the eye once.”

“I wonder why,” you shot back, cheeks flushed. “Maybe because someone walked in on me jerking off like a fucking creep—?”

“I didn’t mean to.”

“But you watched me.”

He exhaled sharply.

“You stared, Joel.”

You shoved him, chest tight. “You looked at me like—like I was fucking dirty.”

His jaw flexed.

“Is that what you think?”

“I know it is.”

There was a beat of silence.

Then he stepped closer.

You took a step back, bumping into the edge of the washer.

“Let me tell you somethin’,” he said quietly. “You think I looked at you like you were dirty?”

His voice dropped to a whisper.

“You don’t know half the thoughts I’ve had about you.”

Your breath caught.

Joel’s eyes were dark. Hungry. Something had cracked in him—some line finally snapped.

“I can’t fuckin’ sleep, baby,” he muttered, voice low and ragged. “Every night since I saw you—every goddamn night—I think about it.”

You swallowed.

“About what?” you whispered.

Joel moved closer. You didn’t move.

“I think about your legs spread out on that bed. The way you moaned for yourself. The way your fingers looked goin’ in so sweet and slow.”

You were shaking now.

“Joel—”

“And I think about how wrong it is. How I should’ve looked away. Should’ve shut that door.”

You blinked.

“But I didn’t,” he said. “’Cause fuck, I liked it.”

“You have no idea how fuckin’ horny you make me, sweetheart.”

Your breath hitched.

Joel leaned in, so close his breath brushed your cheek.

“Every night,” he whispered. “I come thinking about you. About that sweet little sound you made when you came all over your fingers.”

You whimpered. Couldn’t help it.

Joel’s voice was rough as gravel.

“You been thinkin’ about me too?”

You didn’t answer.

But your eyes said everything.

Joel didn’t touch you.

Not yet.

He just leaned in closer, crowding you against the dryer, one hand braced dangerously close to your hip, his mouth so close it ghosted over your cheek when he spoke.

“You’ve been missin’ it,” he murmured. “That rush. The way you looked when you touched yourself for all those strangers.”

You swallowed hard, lips parted. “I haven’t gone live in weeks.”

“I know.”

His voice dipped low. Smug. Dangerous.

“I noticed.”

You blinked. “Wait—what?”

Joel’s eyes glittered in the dim light.

“I’ve been watchin’ that site for months, sweetheart.”

You froze.

His lips twitched into the tiniest, filthiest smirk.

“Didn’t know it was you at first,” he admitted, dragging his eyes down your face, your chest, your hips like he owned the sight of you now. “But once I figured it out?”

He gave a soft, husky exhale. His hips shifted—just enough for you to feel how hard he was through his jeans.

“Fuckin’ ruined me.”

Your mouth opened, but nothing came out.

“You’ve been jerking off to my shows,” you said, stunned.

Joel tilted his head like it was the dumbest question in the world.

“I’ve been obsessed, baby.”

The word slipped from his lips like honey.

He leaned in, lips brushing your ear now.

“Every time you bent over in those tiny little shorts around the house, I thought about how you looked on that screen.”

His breath hit your neck.

“Moanin’... drippin’ down your thighs... touchin’ that pretty pussy for anyone who tipped you enough.”

You whimpered.

“You shoulda seen me,” he rasped. “Hand on my cock— fuckin’ myself to the sound of your voice. Didn’t even know it was you yet. Just knew it felt wrong. Knew it felt too good.”

Your knees almost buckled.

Joel’s hand moved—barely—just ghosting over your waist.

“I want you to go live tonight.”

Your breath caught.

“What?”

He pulled back just enough to look at your face. You could see it in his eyes—heat, hunger, and something wicked burning slow beneath it.

“You heard me.”

“I—I’m not doing that anymore.”

He raised a brow. “No?”

You shook your head.

“Why not?” he asked, like he didn’t already know.

You swallowed. “Because you walked in on me.”

Joel grinned, slow and crooked.

“And now I want the front row.”

You went still.

He reached up, brushing a strand of hair from your cheek with the back of his knuckle. His touch was reverent—dangerously soft.

“Go live for me, baby.”

“Joel—”

“Let me see you again,” he said. “Let me watch you.”

Your thighs clenched involuntarily.

“I want to sit back,” he continued, “undo my jeans, wrap my hand around my cock... and watch you spread those sweet legs for me.”

Your mouth went dry. Your panties went soaked.

“And this time,” he murmured, “you’ll know i’m watching.”

You couldn’t speak.

He leaned in again, voice low and thick. “Put on a show. Just for me.”

Your breathing was erratic now, chest rising in quick bursts under your too-thin tank top. His words were dragging heat up your spine and settling in your core like fire.

“You want that?” he asked, darkly amused. “You want me watchin’? Jerkin’ off in my bed while you fuck yourself like a dirty little girl?”

You whimpered, eyes fluttering shut.

Joel’s lips brushed your ear again.

“Or you want me to come over after,” he added. “Clean you up myself.”

That made you whine, soft and desperate.

His hand hovered just an inch from your hip, not touching, not yet—like he wanted to be good.

But his voice wasn’t good at all.

“You’re soaked,” he whispered.

You gasped. “I’m not—”

He cut you off with a smug tilt of his head.

“Don’t lie to me.”

And you couldn’t.

Because he was right.

You were soaked. You were burning. And he hadn’t even fucking touched you yet.

Joel’s lips hovered at your jaw, not quite kissing

“You go live tonight,” he whispered, “and I swear to God, baby, I’ll take care of you after.”

Then he stepped back.

Left you breathless, trembling in the laundry room, thighs clenched and heart racing, while he opened the door like nothing happened.

Like he hadn’t just undone you with his words.

“I Gotta get back downstairs.” he said over his shoulder. “Don’t wanna keep your dad waitin’.”

And then he was gone.

Leaving you dripping and dazed and so very, very fucked.

His voice still haunted your skin. Still echoed in the damp heat between your legs every time you tried to forget the way his breath had brushed your ear, the way his body caged yours without touching.

“Let me watch you. Let me see you again.”

You hadn’t answered.

You didn’t have to.

Your body had already said yes.

You sat on your bed that night in nothing but a cotton tank and pale pink panties, heart hammering, thighs pressed tight. No candles. No oil. No set-up. No act.

Just you.

Shaky fingers hovered over the trackpad.

You stared at the “go live” button like it might bite.

This is insane.

But something in your chest burned. Something low and deep and humming. Something that begged to be seen.

You didn’t know if Joel would be watching.

He hadn’t messaged. He hadn’t said anything since the laundry room.

But you felt him there.

Like a ghost in the walls. Like a handprint behind your ribs.

And when you finally clicked the button—when the little red dot blinked and the live feed began—you imagined him there.

Not the chat. Not the faceless strangers.

Just him.

Watching you.

Joel saw it the moment you went live.

He’d been pacing his bedroom for the last hour, already half hard where his cock rested against the front of his jeans. He hadn’t touched himself—not yet.

He didn’t want to come to a memory.

He wanted you.

And now, suddenly—there you were.

He sat down, slowly. Stared at the screen.

No teasing this time. No lingerie or staged lighting.

Just you. Still from the chin down.

Legs tucked beneath you. A little tank top hanging loose off one shoulder, cotton panties soft and stretched between your thighs.

You looked nervous.

You looked real.

Joel's hand trembled slightly as he reached to unzip his jeans.

He didn’t even start stroking yet. He just sat there, cock hard against his palm, breathing through it.

Waiting.

Watching.

You didn’t say anything at first.

Just sat still, one knee drawn up, eyes flicking toward the camera every now and then like you could feel him on the other end.

Like he might speak.

But he didn’t.

No tips. No messages.

Just a steady stream of viewers and the empty, gnawing ache that he might not be there after all.

Still, you couldn’t stop.

You slipped your hand slowly between your legs, over the soft cotton, pressing lightly.

The fabric was already damp.

But your fingers moved anyway.

A soft rub.

A gentle drag of your fingertips across the wet spot blooming darker on the front of your underwear.

You didn’t rush it.

You couldn’t.

Because tonight wasn’t about money.

It wasn’t about fantasy.

It was about him.

You brought your fingers up to your mouth and sucked them slowly, lips parted, eyes fluttering closed.

Then you reached back down and slipped under the waistband.

And that first touch—skin to skin—made your body jerk.

A soft gasp fell from your lips.

Your hips rolled, chasing your own fingers.

“God,” you whispered, too quiet for the mic.

You felt like you were unraveling.

But not from what you were doing.

From what you imagined he was doing, too.

Joel’s breath hitched the second your hand slid under your panties.

He could see the tension in your thighs, the flutter in your stomach. He imagined the slick sounds your mic didn’t pick up.

His cock twitched in his fist.

He still hadn’t stroked.

Just watched.

Mesmerized.

And when your lips parted—when you tilted your head back and dragged your free hand over your chest, arching just a little—Joel nearly lost it.

You were falling apart.

And he was the only one who mattered.

Your fingers sped up.

Short, fast circles.

You bit your lip to keep from moaning.

You didn’t want to be loud.

You didn’t want your dad to hear downstairs.

But it was building.

God, it was building.

The tension coiled behind your navel was sharper than ever before—brighter. Your whole body felt flushed, alive, like every nerve was singing for him.

You imagined him on the other end, palm tight around his cock, watching with his mouth open and his chest rising fast.

That did it.

The thought of him watching you come.

That’s what tipped you over.

Your back arched. A cry caught in your throat.

Your legs shook and your fingers didn’t stop as your body spasmed—once, twice, a third time—until you were panting and twitching and soaked clear through your panties.

You’d never come like that.

Not even close.

Not even when he was in the room.

And now—when you knew he watched.

You felt wrecked.

Spent.

Split open and full of him.

Your chest rose in sharp little breaths.

Lips bitten red.

The party’s loud, a little too many people packed into a backyard too small, but Joel’s standing off to the side in the shade, baby on his hip like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

It shouldn’t hit you the way it does. Not when it’s not even his kid.

But it does.

His flannel sleeves are rolled up and his forearm is bracing the little boy’s back, steady and warm. The kid babbles happily and Joel’s got that soft, almost shy smile on his face—the one he doesn’t give just anyone. He’s swaying a little, murmuring something low that you can’t hear, but it doesn’t matter. It’s the image of it. Joel—big, strong, always a little gruff around the edges—holding someone’s baby like it belongs to him. Like you belong to him.

He glances up, catches your eye, and that’s when you see it.

The shift in his expression.

It’s subtle. A muscle jumps in his jaw. His hold tightens ever so slightly. The smile fades into something quieter, darker. His eyes don’t leave you, even when the baby tugs at his beard and giggles.

Something’s off. Or maybe not off. Just… different.

You make your way over, sliding your hand up his back, pretending not to notice the way he stiffens slightly under your touch.

“You good?” you murmur, brushing your lips close to his ear.

He gives you a short nod. “Yeah. Thinkin’ we should head out soon, though. Too loud.”

“Joel…” You narrow your eyes, suspicious. “You’ve been holdin’ him for fifteen minutes. You look like a damn Pampers commercial.”

He huffs a quiet laugh but doesn’t take the bait. Doesn’t let go of the kid either. “You ready to go or not?”

You are. If only because there’s that look in his eyes now, one you know. He’s trying to keep it together, trying not to let on just how much he wants to drag you out of here like a caveman and ruin you in the truck.

Yeah. You know your man.

You don’t even make it past the front door before he’s on you.

“Bedroom. Now.”

You barely kick off your shoes before he’s pressing up behind you, arms snaking around your waist, mouth hot on your neck.

“I tried,” he murmurs. His voice is wrecked. “Tried to be good, baby, but seein’ you watchin’ me like that—with him in my arms—fuck, you don’t know what that does to me.”

You turn in his arms, cheeks flushed, breath catching when he presses a hand to your stomach possessively.

“That supposed to do somethin’ to me?” you tease breathlessly.

He growls—actually growls—and you feel it in your chest. “You know what I want, sweetheart. Know what I need.”

His mouth crashes into yours, all tongue and teeth and heat. You’re already aching for him, thighs clenching, brain gone dizzy with the thought of him losing control like this because of you.

“Joel—” you gasp as he lifts you effortlessly, carries you to the bed like it’s nothing. “Tell me.”

He settles over you, presses his hips into yours. You can feel how hard he is, the desperate throb of him against your thigh.

“I wanna fill you up,” he says lowly. “Been thinkin’ ‘bout it for months now. The way you’d look, round and heavy. All mine.”

Your head spins. “Joel…”

“You’d take it so well, wouldn’t you? Always do. Always so fuckin’ good for me.” His fingers are already dragging your panties down, his voice thick with hunger. “Let me give you what you want, baby. Let me give you all of me.”

And just like that, you’re gone.

You don’t remember pulling his jeans down. Don’t remember the exact second his cock slid into you—just that you were already soaked, already begging, and he didn’t waste time teasing.

He’s deep now, so deep it hurts in that perfect way, hips pressing flush to yours, one hand wrapped tight around your throat, the other resting over your lower belly like he feels what he’s doing to you.

You moan, arching, trying to move, but he holds you down.

“Stay still. Gotta make sure it takes,” he murmurs, slow rolling his hips, grinding so deep you see stars. “You feel that, sugar? That’s me fuckin’ it into you.”

Your breath catches, head thrashing as your legs shake around his hips.

He leans down, mouth brushing your ear.

“Gonna fill you so full, it’ll drip outta you tomorrow. Gonna walk around with my cum between your thighs, knowin’ you let me put it there.”

“Joel—please—”

He kisses you, messy and rough, hand still firm on your throat but never hurting.

“I saw you watchin’ me,” he pants. “Knew you were thinkin’ the same thing. Knew you want me to give you a baby.”

You nod, desperate, nails clawing at his back. “I do—I want it—fuck, Joel—please—”

“Then take it,” he growls. “Take every fuckin’ drop.”

He pushes you over the edge with that. You clamp down around him, crying out as you fall apart beneath him. He follows you, hips stuttering as he presses in deep, spilling into you with a low groan of your name.

“Fuck,” he breathes, body shaking as he sinks fully into your warmth. “That’s it. That’s my girl.”

—

Later, you’re half-asleep, legs tangled with his, skin still damp with sweat. He’s got one hand on your belly again, thumb brushing absent circles.

“You meant it?” you whisper, voice small in the quiet.

He kisses your shoulder, his voice soft.

You don’t mean to piss him off.

At least not completely.

But Joel Miller is so fucking serious all the time—with that scowl and that jaw and those hands wrapped around the steering wheel like they’re the only thing keeping him from snapping someone’s neck.

You’ve been riding shotgun in his truck for two hours, and not once has he cracked a joke. Not even when you slipped in the mud like an idiot. Not even when you suggested you do rock-paper-scissors for who checks the gas station toilets.

“You’re really no fun, y’know that?” you mutter, slouched in the passenger seat, boots kicked up on the dash. “Most men would be thrilled to be stuck with someone as charming as me.”

Joel’s eyes don’t leave the flooded road ahead. But his jaw ticks. “Ain’t most men.”

“No kidding,” you huff. “They’d at least talk to me.”

“I talk when there’s somethin’ worth sayin’.”

You grin. “And yet here I am, still trying.”

That gets him. Joel’s knuckles flex on the steering wheel. The truck slows, pulling off to the shoulder.

Rain’s been pouring for ten minutes straight—coming down in sheets, loud enough to drown out the tension, but not quite.

You wipe the fog from the window with your sleeve. “So, what now?”

“We wait it out,” he grunts. “Ain’t worth drownin’ the engine.”

You hum, dragging a fingertip across the glass. “Well, lucky me. Alone in a truck with Jackson’s grumpiest man. This must be fate.”

Joel sighs through his nose, but there’s a flicker in his eyes when he looks at you—exhausted, sharp.

"You're not as funny as you think you are," he mutters.

"You just don't appreciate good company," you reply, smirking. "Bet you were a real blast before the world ended."

He turns his head, slow. Rain lashes the windows.

“You always this mouthy?”

Your smile widens. “You always this fun?”

Joel's eyes drop to your lips for a second—just a second—and something shifts.

He turns away with a scoff, muttering something under his breath. You lean closer.

“What was that?” you ask sweetly. “Did I finally break you down, Miller?”

“Christ,” he mutters, running a hand down his face. “You’re like a fuckin’ gnat.”

“Sure,” you say, voice soft now, biting. “But you’re still lookin’ at my legs every time I shift in my seat.”

Joel doesn’t respond.

But the tension stretches. Thickens.

You stretch lazily in your seat, your shirt riding up just enough. His eyes flick to the flash of skin. Then away.

“You really gonna pretend you’re not thinking about it?” you whisper.

His voice comes low, tight. “You don’t know me.”

“No,” you breathe. “But I know that look.”

Another beat. Then Joel snaps.

“Jesus fucking Christ.”

His hand shoots out, grabbing the back of your neck and yanking you across the center console. You gasp—your knees landing hard on the seat, straddling his lap before you can blink.

“You wanna tease, huh?” he growls, voice gravel and heat. “You think this is a fuckin’ game?”

Your heart slams against your ribs. “Maybe.”

He grabs your chin, forces your eyes on his. “You don’t get to poke the bear and then act all innocent. You want my attention, sweetheart? You got it.”

Your breath stutters. “Took you long enough.”

Joel’s mouth crushes into yours. Brutal, hot, teeth and tongue. There’s nothing soft about it—nothing careful. You whimper, grinding down on him.

He groans low in his chest. “Fuckin’ brat.”

“Make me stop,” you challenge.

His hand slides down, fists in your waistband. “Gladly.”

Your pants are yanked down in one sharp motion. Joel’s fingers slide between your thighs and hiss.

“Already soaked. Knew it. You like pissin’ me off.”

You gasp when he pushes a finger inside. Then another. Thick and rough and perfect. Your hips roll automatically.

“You gonna be good now?” he rasps. “Or you need me to teach you how to behave?”

“Show me,” you pant. “Bet you can’t break me.”

Joel’s dark eyes flare.

He curls his fingers just right and you cry out, head falling forward against his shoulder.

“Oh baby,” he coos mockingly. “That’s you breakin’.”

You glare up at him, lips parted. “Still got a mouth.”

Joel shoves his fingers deeper, crooking them until your vision goes white.

“Yeah?” he growls. “Let’s fix that.”

He grabs your wrist, guides your hand to his zipper. “Get me out.”

You fumble, breathless, until you feel him—thick and hot and heavy in your palm. His cock is flushed and leaking, and you don’t even get to fully process before he grabs your hip and sinks you down.

You scream, half a gasp, half a curse. Joel groans like a man finally getting what he needs.

“Fuck,” he pants. “You were made for this.”

You’re tight around him, gripping every inch. You try to move—start to ride—but Joel’s hand clamps down on your ass.

“No,” he snaps. “You don’t move. You take it.”

You whimper, back arching. “Joel—”

His hand slides up your back, fisting your hair.

“Say it again,” he growls. “Say my name.”

“Joel,” you pant. “Fuck, Joel—”

He starts to move—deep, sharp thrusts from below, slamming up into you hard enough to rock the truck.

Every slap of skin-on-skin echoes. The windows fog. Your vision blurs.

“You feel that?” he snarls against your ear. “That’s what you wanted, right? Gonna keep runnin’ that mouth when I’m this deep in your cunt?”

You’re gone—brainless, moaning into his neck, nails dragging down his shoulders. He wraps a hand around your mouth and groans.

“Too loud, baby. Can’t have someone hearin’ how pretty you sound when I fuck the brat outta you.”

You pulse around him—tight, slick, throbbing. Your second orgasm’s rushing in hot and fast, right on the edge.

“Fuck,” he growls. “You’re squeezin’ me. You close?”

You nod desperately, sobbing into his palm.

“Good girl,” he mutters. “Come on my cock. Wanna feel it.”

You shatter—legs shaking, head thrown back, choking on your moan as your walls grip him like a vice.

“Jesus fuck,” Joel groans. “That’s it. That’s my girl.”

He pounds up into you once, twice more—then buries himself deep and spills inside you. He holds you down, keeps you stuffed full, biting curses into your neck as he throbs against your walls.

For a long moment, all you can do is breathe.

Eventually, Joel pulls your head against his chest, both of you still shaking.

You blink up at him, dizzy.

“So,” you whisper. “Still think I’m a gnat?”

He exhales through his nose. A huff of laughter.

Then he cups your jaw, kisses you again—slower this time. Deeper. Like he might actually like the way your mouth tastes.

“You’re a goddamn menace,” he mutters.

You smile against his lips. “But you like me now.”

He shrugs. “Ask me again in five minutes.”

You roll your hips, already feeling him harden again.

You don’t mean to cry in his office.

You really don’t. You’re not the type. But your hands are shaking, and your chest is tight, and you feel like if you take another step across campus, you’re going to scream.

So you find yourself in front of Professor Miller’s office, heart pounding, makeup already smudged from holding back tears all through his lecture. His door is cracked open, the warm gold light spilling out into the hall.

You knock once. Soft.

Joel looks up from a stack of papers, his eyes immediately narrowing with concern. “Hey. You alright?”

You hesitate.

He sees it all before you can lie.

“C’mere,” he says, voice gentle, but no-nonsense. “Sit down.”

You do.

You collapse into the chair across from him, clutching your phone to your chest like it might break in your hands. You can’t even look up at him. He says your name softly—once, twice. You flinch the second time. That’s when he knows.

“Talk to me.”

You breathe in sharp. “He cheated on me.”

Joel blinks. His jaw works. “The kid you were seeing?”

You nod, choking on the shame. “With that girl. From class. The one who always shows up late and wears nothing—”

“I know the one,” he interrupts, calmly. “And I also know you, sweetheart. And I know you’re worth a hell of a lot more than that skinny little brat with an attitude problem.”

Your mouth parts in shock.

Joel doesn’t take it back.

You look up at him, startled—and he just stares at you, arms crossed, leaning back in his chair. Steady. Calm. And so fucking solid you could cry.

“Don’t look at me like that,” you mumble. “He left me for her. That says everything.”

“No,” Joel says simply, “it says he’s a goddamn idiot.”

You shake your head, looking down at your thighs, arms crossed over your stomach. You feel like a joke. “I knew I was too big for him. I knew it.”

And that’s when Joel moves.

He rises from his chair like a storm rolling in—silent but heavy—and crosses the office to crouch in front of you. Big hands, callused and warm, cradle your thighs. His thumbs stroke just above your knees, and his voice is a low hum.

“You listen to me,” he says. “You are soft in all the right places. You’re not too big. You’re too good for some little boy who doesn’t know how to treat a woman. He couldn’t handle you.”

You sniff, still not quite believing it.

His fingers tighten. “But I can.”

Your stomach flips.

“What?”

“I’ve seen the way you look at me,” he says. “I ain’t blind, sweetheart. And I sure as hell ain’t sorry for the way I look back.”

You’re breathless. You’ve spent months keeping your crush on Professor Miller quiet. He's always been too good-looking, too rugged, with that low voice and rough Southern drawl and hands that looked too big for academic life.

And now he’s on his knees for you.

“I shouldn’t—” you start to protest.

Joel looks up at you with dark eyes and a crooked smirk. “You came to me, didn’t you?”

He stands, towering over you, then gently takes your hand.

“Lock the door, baby.”

Your breath catches. You do as you're told.

He backs toward his desk, eyes never leaving yours. “C’mere.”

You cross the room like gravity’s dragging you.

He sits on the edge of his desk and pulls you into the space between his legs. One hand cups your cheek. “You sure?”

You nod.

“Use your words, baby. I need to hear you say it.”

“I’m sure,” you whisper. “I want this. I want you.”

That’s all he needs.

His mouth is on yours—hot, firm, commanding. His hand on your waist, gripping the soft flesh with something like reverence. He kisses like he’s wanted to for years. Like he’s angry he didn’t do it sooner.

You gasp against his mouth when he lifts you, setting you onto the desk. Your thighs spread naturally around him, and he groans when he sees how your skirt hikes up.

“Fuck,” Joel mutters. “Look at you.”

His fingers trail down to your thighs, dragging slowly down the curve. “You got any idea what it’s like for me? Tryin’ to teach a lecture when you’re sittin’ there lookin’ like that?”

You whimper. “Like what?”

Joel smirks. “Like everything I’ve ever wanted.”

His mouth finds your neck, licking and sucking until your head falls back. Then he drops to his knees again. This time, it’s not to comfort you.

It’s to worship you.

He pushes your thighs open and groans, burying his face between them like a man starved. His stubble scrapes against the sensitive skin, his tongue already licking through your soaked panties.

“Oh my God, Joel—”

“Shh,” he rasps. “Lemme taste you. That’s it, baby. You just sit back and take it.”

You cry out when he tears your panties off and dives in properly—tongue stroking, sucking, teasing your clit until your hips buck. You try to hover, overwhelmed by the intensity—

And then he growls, wrapping strong arms around your thighs to hold you in place.

“I said sit, baby. Not hover.”

You gasp.

“If I die, I die,” he mutters into your cunt. “Let me drown in this sweet fuckin’ pussy.”

You sob out a laugh and moan all at once, thighs trembling around his face.

“You taste like heaven,” he groans. “So fuckin’ sweet, baby. That boy didn’t deserve you. Didn’t know how to treat you. Didn’t know how to eat.”

His tongue works you like a machine, flicking over your clit just right, curling inside you until your whole body locks up. Joel’s muttering between strokes:

“That’s it, baby.”

“Good girl.”

“You’re perfect.”

“I could live between these thighs.”

You come with a broken cry, your hands gripping his curls, your thighs locked around his head—and Joel moans like he’s the one getting off. He keeps licking, letting you ride it out on his tongue until you’re limp and boneless on his desk.

When you finally blink up at him, Joel’s wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, eyes wild.

“You good?” he rasps.

You nod weakly. “More than good.”

“Good,” he says, standing. “Because I’m not done with you.”

Joel picks you up like you weigh nothing—like he’s grateful you’ve got thighs for him to hold—and carries you to the leather couch against the wall. He sets you down gently, pulling his belt free with one hand.

“Joel—”

“I’ve been patient,” he mutters, unzipping his pants. “Been good. But the way you taste? The way you fuckin’ moan?”

You glance down and swallow. He’s huge.

“You still want me?” you ask, softly. “Even like this?”

Joel stills.

Then—he steps forward, straddles your thighs, and grabs your hand. Places it right over his cock, hard and heavy in his boxers.

“You feel that?” he growls. “That’s for you. Not them. Not her. You. Every soft fuckin’ inch of you turns me on. I don’t want some bony little brat—I want a woman.”

You’re breathless. Wet all over again.

“I want you. So bad it hurts.”

You tug his boxers down, and his cock springs free—thick, flushed, already leaking. He strokes it once, slowly, as he watches you take it in.

“Turn around,” he murmurs. “Hands on the couch. I want you from behind.”

You obey, heart racing.

He lines himself up and slides in slowly—inch by inch—and fuck, he fills you so deep you can barely breathe.

You cry out, head dropping.

Joel curses, gripping your hips hard. “So tight, baby. So warm. Took me so fuckin’ good.”

He starts moving, thrusts slow and deep. One hand cups your belly, the other on your hip. You feel him everywhere—inside you, around you, claiming every inch.

“You know what I see?” he pants. “When I look at you in class?”

You shake your head, gasping.

“I see thighs I wanna bite. Hips I wanna bruise. Tits I wanna suck. A body I wanna worship.”

You moan, arching back into him. “Joel—”

“I see a girl who deserves the fuckin’ world. And I wanna give it to you.”

You come again with a choked sob, pulsing around him, legs trembling.

Joel groans like he’s dying and spills inside you with a harsh moan, grinding into you until he’s drained.

You both collapse onto the couch, tangled together, panting.

His arms wrap around you from behind, lips pressed to your shoulder. “You okay, baby?”

You nod against his arm. “More than okay.”

You rest like that for a long moment, wrapped in warmth and the scent of him—earthy, musky, safe.

Then Joel kisses your neck and whispers, “Next time, I’m takin’ you home.”

You blink up at him.

“Gonna cook for you. Run you a bath. Put you in my bed and make you forget every bad thing that little shit ever said about your body.”

You smile, eyes glassy. “Yeah?”

Joel grins.

You're posted up on the curb, legs stretched long and lazy in cutoff denim that barely counts as shorts. You twirl a piece of hair around your red-stained finger—cheap polish, heartbreak red— bitten and chipped—and catch your reflection in the glass door. Lip gloss smeared. Tank top see-through in the heat.

Good.

Men come and go. Most don’t look twice. Some stare. You like when they stare.

You catch him in the corner of your eye—rough, broad, beard catching the light like salt and pepper under the sun. He’s weathered. Heavy hands. Sad eyes. One of those quiet, steady men who could break your neck or cradle it just the same.

Perfect.

“Hey,” you call, casual, like you’re not soaked in heat and sin, like your heart isn't rotten under your ribs. “You mind grabbing me a bottle? Forgot my ID.”

You flutter your lashes. Bite your lip. Tilt your head just enough to look harmless.

He doesn’t stop walking, just glances at you—slow, from the bottom of your thighs to the tops of your lashes. There’s something sharp behind his eyes. Not lust. Not yet.

“How old are you?”

You shrug, lazy. “Old enough.”

“Yeah? Old enough for what?”

You grin. “Whatever you’re thinkin’.”

He exhales like he’s already tired of the game. “Not happenin’, sweetheart.”

You watch him disappear inside, chewing your lip until the taste of blood cuts through the gloss. You’re used to yes. But no? That’s rare. That stings.

You roll your eyes, light a cigarette with shaking fingers. Your mom’s off somewhere with a needle in her arm and your daddy’s bones are long gone to dust. It’s just you now. You, and the buzz, and the boys too stupid to look deeper.

Except him.

He comes back out, bag in hand. Doesn’t say a word. Just unlocks his truck and throws the bag in the back seat. As he starts to climb in, his eyes flick to yours. Long. Hesitant. Like he’s not sure if he’s about to make a mistake or fix one.

“You want a beer?” he asks. “I got a few in the cooler.” He pauses before adding— “Names Joel.”

You blink. Joel.

He opens the passenger door.

“C’mon. I’ll drive you home.”

You smirk. “What makes you think I’ve got one?”

He doesn’t answer. Just waits.

So you climb in.

The truck smells like sweat and smoke and pine tree air freshener. You kick your bare feet up onto the dashboard, window down, toes catching the warm wind as it rolls through the darkening fields.

You nurse a cold beer, sipped slow, and let the silence stretch.

He drives like a man who’s lived long enough to know better. One hand on the wheel. Jaw clenched. Eyes ahead.

But he keeps looking at you out of the corner of his eye.

Your legs. Your mouth. Your hair piled up halfway to God, strands stuck to your neck from the heat.

And then—your eyes. That’s what does it. Not the body. Not the laugh. The eyes.

His mouth hardens.

“You Jane’s daughter?” he asks, voice like gravel.

You glance at him, lazy. “Mhm.”

He scoffs under his breath. Shakes his head.

“You look just like your momma,” he mutters. “Before the drugs.”

You laugh. It’s bitter. “I know.”

“She used to wear her hair like that,” he says. “You even got that same damn freckle under your eye.”

You run a thumb under it, pretending to wipe away invisible mascara. “Guess I’m just the ghost of her fucked up past.”

“Don’t talk like that.”

You raise a brow. “Like what?”

He shifts in his seat, irritated. Not at you—at himself.

“At least she used to be sweet,” he mutters.

You roll your eyes, taking another sip of your beer. It burns going down this time.

He drops you off outside a trailer with one busted window and a porch light swinging loose. You half expect him to peel off and disappear, like the rest.

But he doesn’t.

He kills the engine and sits back, drumming his fingers against the steering wheel.

You finish the beer. Swing your legs back inside. The heat sticks to your thighs, sweat in the bend of your knees.

“I know what you want,” you say softly. “You wouldn’t have offered me that ride if you didn’t.”

His eyes snap to you. Hard. Unreadable.

“I offered because I figured you’d be better off in my truck than out here flirtin’ with every drunk asshole who walks by.”

You lean closer, lips parting. “But you’re not just any asshole, are you?”

His jaw tics. He stares at your mouth like it’s poison.

Then he exhales, long and tired. “Don’t do that.”

“Do what?”

He looks at you fully now—like he sees you, really sees you. Not the mouth. Not the legs. Just the wreckage underneath.

“This ain’t what you need,” he says. “A man twice your age who knew your mama back when she still had a future.”

You stare at him, heartbeat ticking in your throat. “Maybe I don’t want what I need.”

He shakes his head. Looks away.

“You’re just a kid,” he mutters.

You reach out. Press your hand to his thigh. Just enough to test. To tempt.

He catches your wrist, firm. Not rough. “Don’t.”

Silence.

You don’t pull away. You want him to want you. You want something to burn.

He lets go of your wrist and sighs again. “You don’t gotta act like this.”

“Like what?”

“Like love’s a thing you gotta earn with your body.”

You blink. It’s quiet. You hate how kind he sounds when he says that.

“Get inside,” he murmurs. “Before I forget how fucked up this is.”

You linger one second longer—just long enough to see the want in his eyes. That flicker of something dark and wrong and aching.

Then you slide out of the truck and disappear into the trailer.

He doesn’t leave right away.

—

It’s a week later. Friday again. The sky’s sick with heat and smog, the kind of Texas summer that makes the air feel mean.

Joel’s not planning to stop at the liquor store. He tells himself he’s just passing through, just needs gas, just wants to get home and not think for once.

But he sees you before he even pulls into the lot.

Same goddamn spot.

Same tiny shorts, legs stretched out long, red fingernails tapping a lazy rhythm against your thigh. Hair teased up like a crown of sin. A half-drained beer sweating in your hand.

But this time—

This time you’ve got a bruise blooming on your cheekbone. Dark purple. Ugly. Raw.

Joel kills the engine before he knows what he’s doing. He’s out of the truck, storming across the lot like something’s dragging him by the spine.

And there you are.

Still wearing that wicked little smirk, but your eyes look tired. Dull.

“Jesus Christ,” he growls. “You serious right now?”

You glance at him, bored. “What, no 'hi'? Not even a beer to offer this time?”

He stops in front of you. Stares at the bruise. At your lip, a little split on the corner.

“Who did that to you?” His voice is sharp. No patience.

You take a swig of the warm beer and roll your eyes. “What does it matter?”

“It matters.”

“No it don’t.” You smile again, teeth all spite. “S’just how it goes sometimes.”

He steps in closer. Towering. Looming. Not touching you, but you feel the heat of him anyway.

“Tell me who touched you.”

You snort. “Why are you even worried, huh? Ain’t you the one who said this was all ‘fucked up’?”

“That don’t mean I don’t care.” His voice breaks at the end. Rough with guilt, or something worse.

You blink at that. It almost sounds like the truth.

You lean back against the wall, beer dangling from your fingers. “Well, don’t. You’ll just be disappointed.”

He runs a hand through his hair, pacing a few steps like he’s trying not to punch a hole in the fucking sky.

“Goddammit,” he mutters. “Get in the truck.”

“What for?”

“I’m takin’ you home.”

“I don’t have one. Not no more.”

“Then you’re coming to mine.”

You don’t fight him on it.

You climb in barefoot, curl your legs up in the seat, and let the wind whip through the cab. You watch him out of the corner of your eye while he drives—jaw clenched, knuckles white on the wheel.

He doesn’t look at you at first.

But when he does—when his eyes flick down and catch the bruising on your neck, faint fingerprints just beginning to blossom beneath your collarbone—something breaks.

“Fuck.” He slams a hand against the steering wheel. “Fucking hell.”

You don’t flinch. You just take another sip and murmur, “Not like it’s the first time.”

He pulls over. Hard. Tires screech a little against gravel as the truck jerks to a stop.

Then silence. Thick. Boiling.

“Who was it?” he demands, turning toward you now, eyes wide, wild. “Tell me their name. Tell me what they drive. I swear to god—”

You sigh. “You ain’t my dad, Joel.”

His mouth tightens. He turns away, breathing hard, like he's trying to shove all that rage back down his throat.

“I know that,” he says finally. Quiet. Bitter. “But someone should’ve been.”

That makes your throat go tight. You stare out the window.

After a minute, his voice comes again. Lower this time.

“You don’t gotta live like this, baby.”

You blink. Hard.

“Don’t call me that,” you whisper. “Not if you’re gonna leave me here anyway.”

His hand twitches like he wants to reach for you. But he doesn’t.

Not yet.

“You drunk?” he asks.

You shrug. “Little. Not enough.”

He watches you. So long and deep it starts to hurt.

You don’t say anything else for the rest of the drive. Neither does he.

His hand stays white-knuckled on the gearshift. The silence sits thick between you, hot like blood. Your head rests against the window glass, the wind tugging at your hair, cooling the beer-sweat on your thighs.

You’re not used to men who don’t want something.

You're not used to silence that doesn’t scream what did you expect?

Joel’s house is outside of town—quiet, tucked behind rows of pecan trees and dying grass. It’s nothing fancy. Just a porch, some shade, a battered fence that doesn’t keep anything out.

He kills the engine, then turns to you.

“C’mon.”

You blink slowly. “What, no lecture?”

“No. Just a bed.”

You expect him to touch you. A hand to the small of your back, a palm on your thigh, something. But he doesn’t. He leads you inside like you’re made of glass.

Or like he’s afraid to break himself.

The house smells like cedar and old coffee. It’s warm. Lived-in. You stand in the entryway, swaying just a little, letting your eyes adjust to the dim light.

Joel toes his boots off and says, “You can sleep in the guest room. Sheets are clean. You hungry?”

You shrug.

He disappears into the kitchen, and you wander down the hall, fingers dragging along the faded wallpaper. You find the room. Bed made. Lamp glowing soft gold.

You sit on the edge and stare at your bruised knees.

There’s a knock.

Joel’s voice, low through the cracked door. “Brought you somethin’.”

You don’t answer. He comes in anyway—holding a glass of water and a pill bottle.

“Tylenol,” he says. “You’ll feel it all worse come mornin’.”

You reach for the water, your fingers brushing his. His eyes drop again—to your neck. Your jaw.

He sets the bottle on the nightstand, and just as he turns to go, you say it:

“I didn’t ask him to hit me.”

Joel stops. Shoulders tense.

“I believe you,” he says.

You nod. “My mom used to say the same thing. Every time.”

A pause.

You look up. Your throat feels raw.

“I don’t know why you care.”

His jaw works. “’Cause someone should.”

You fall asleep in his guest bed wearing one of his shirts—faded gray, soft from years of washing. It smells like pine and smoke. It swallows your frame whole.

Your hair’s loose now, falling across the pillow like a halo. Your cheek bruised. Lips parted. So small in that bed, you barely look real.

Joel watches from the doorway.

He watches too long.

It’s barely light when you wake. You’re thirsty. Confused. Quiet.

And there’s Joel—on the couch, still in his jeans and boots, arms crossed, head tilted back.

He didn’t sleep.

You pad into the room, your legs bare, the hem of his shirt hanging just under your ass.

He opens his eyes.

“Can’t sleep in your own bed?” you murmur.

He runs a hand over his face. “Didn’t wanna leave you alone.”

You step closer. Knees brushing his.

“Still worried I’m gonna break?”

He looks up at you. Tired. Torn.

“You already look broken.”

You crawl into his lap before he can say another word.

He tenses under you. “Don’t—”

But you’re not kissing him. Not grinding. You just curl into him, resting your head against his shoulder. Breathing slow.

His arms come around you—stiff at first, then tight. Tight like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he lets go.

“I don’t know how to be good,” you whisper.

He presses his mouth to your hair.

“I’ll take care of you anyway.”

His shirt swallows your frame. Your thighs stretch warm and bare over his jeans, your cheek resting on his chest. Every rise and fall of his breath rocks you gently, like the sea.

And then you say it.

Quiet. Measured. Meant.

“I ain’t got nothin’ to give you.”

Joel blinks.

“I didn’t ask for anything,” he says.

You wrap your arms around your knees and stare down at the fraying hem of his shirt.

“You’re bein’ nice,” you say. “Gentle. Feels like a trick.”

“It ain’t.”

You chew on your thumbnail, voice soft. “I don’t know what to do with that.”

He shifts toward you, his voice calm but deep, solid like the ground. “Then don’t do anything. Just stay.”

You look at him through your lashes. Raw. “I’m used to bein’ wanted. Not… taken care of.”

His jaw tics. He says your name low, like it hurts.

“I ain’t gonna touch you unless you ask me to. And even then—only if I believe you mean it.”

You blink slow.

“That ain’t what this is,” he adds. “I’m not tryin’ to sleep with you. I just want to keep you safe.”

You scoff a little. “Safe’s just a word. Doesn’t mean anything to me.”

Joel nods. “Then I’ll show you.”

And he does.

He starts small.

Feeds you—warm cornbread with honey butter, eggs over easy, cold peaches straight from the fridge. He doesn’t hover. Just sets the plate down, gives you that look, and walks away.

You start staying. One night turns to three. Then a week.

You clean a little. Wipe down his counters. Fold a blanket he left tossed over the couch. One day, you sweep the back porch barefoot, humming something low under your breath, and Joel forgets how to breathe for a second.

He brings you things.

A pair of fuzzy socks from the gas station.

A bottle of cherry red nail polish.

A tiny black comb for your lashes.

You sit on the couch with your legs across his lap, painting your nails slow, the sharp scent of acetone curling into the room like a warning. Joel watches the curve of your hand, the way your tongue peeks out as you focus.

“You always stare this much?” you tease, not looking up.

He doesn’t answer.

You grin. “That a yes?”

Still doesn’t answer.

But you feel it. The tension. Like a wire pulled taut between you.

Later that night, you find a new toothbrush in the bathroom. Still in the package. Waiting for you.

You sit on the edge of his bed that night—his, not the guest one—while he changes out of his flannel. You wear one of his old shirts again, your legs bare and tucked beneath you.

“Why are you doin’ all this?” you ask.

Joel looks over his shoulder. His voice is low. Worn.

“’Cause I care about you.”

You swallow. “You don’t even know me.”

“I know enough.”

You don’t answer. Your throat’s too full.

He walks over, crouches in front of you. Takes your hand.

“You don’t owe me anything,” he says. “I just want you alive, sweetheart.”

You blink fast. “That’s all?”

“That’s everything.”

Your voice is soft. Almost scared.

“I want you.”

He stills.

You look at him, eyes wide and unguarded. No teasing. No mask.

“I want you to touch me,” you say. “I know what I’m sayin’. I mean it.”

Joel breathes in through his nose, long and heavy. His jaw flexes, gaze locked on you like he’s bracing for something.

“Sweetheart,” he says quietly. “Don’t do that unless you’re sure.”

“I am sure.”

“I know you want to be,” he says. “But wantin’ someone and needin’ to feel wanted—they’re different things.”

You blink. Your throat is tight. “I know the difference, Joel.”

He searches your face. Hard.

You let him.

Finally, he lifts a hand. Brushes his thumb across your cheekbone—where the bruise has faded, soft now, a shadow of what it was.

His voice is hoarse. “You’re sure?”

“Yes.”

He kisses you.