#angsty

hands finding their way up to yours, gripping like a lifeline. fingers intertwined and locked as his eyes stare lovingly into yours. reverence in every movement he makes, he watches what makes your breath hitch and what makes your mouth gape. he is so focused on you and on what makes you tick.

you’re everything he’s ever desired and been to afraid to admit he wanted that he doesn’t know what to do with it now that it steals his sanity.

the way he fits inside and the way you feel around him, it’s overwhelming. he's kissing your cervix with every thrust he makes, but its so slow, so sensual, that it makes your toes curl and your eyes roll back. you don't have to open your eyes to know hes still watching.

you’re too lost in the sensation of him, of every push and pull of his hard body on yours, that you don’t notice he’s crying until a warm drop hits your cheek.

furrowing your brows and opening your eyes, you whisper his name like your voice could bother him somehow.

“jason? baby? are you okay?”

slowing his hips but remaining buried deep, he bites his lip and nods down at you. “you’re just so perfect ma, i can't believe you're here with me of all people.”

there’s no chance to return his words and reassure him as emotions boil over and he leans down to capture your lips. the warmth of his mouth on yours as he gasps into you steals your breath.

how could you blame him?

the joint part of you both was overwhelming on its own but his beauty and his grace took you in for a ride. he’s making love to you in a way that you never thought could ever be possible and was only something talked about in books and movies. jason displayed the touch of sacredness while his eyes worshipped you as the very thing that could start wars.

he’s told you as such, said he’d start a war for you. not that you’d want him to, but the genuine seal of his words, it showed you how much this meant to him, and from how hard you chipped away at his walls you knew he meant it. his words could cut through stone and his passionate need for you, it yanked you under with him.

before you knew it, tears were flowing out of your own eyes from his tender touch. he sucked soft spots around your jaw, leaving the slightest red mark in his wake, coaxing soft moans that he diligently returned.

he’s still crying as your sweat slicked fingers remained interlocked and his hips met yours with the deepest of emotional weight behind them. before you gasp out his name and reach your climax, he cups your cheek and whispers the softest, i love you.

There you were. Sitting at the end of the bar. Back straight, drink in hand. Your laugh was softer than usual—he could only hear it in flashes—but it still hit him like a punch to the gut.

The man beside you? He was new. Joel had seen him around, helping out with the fencing crew. Young. Maybe thirty. No older than thirty-five. Sharp jaw, easy grin. The kind of guy who didn’t creak when he stood up. The kind of guy who could keep up with someone like you.

You were smiling.

Not the way you used to—not that quiet, tired smile you saved for Joel when you were curled up in bed, wearing one of his shirts and tracing old scars on his chest with your fingertip—but still. It was real.

You were smiling.

And it wasn’t for him.

Joel’s jaw flexed. He took another drink, fingers clenched so tight around the glass that the joints ached.

“Joel,” Tommy said cautiously. “You okay, man?”

He didn’t look at him.

Didn’t trust himself to.

Maria shifted in her seat beside Tommy, hands laced neatly on the table, watching Joel with those calm, sharp eyes that always saw more than they let on.

“We can go,” she offered gently. “You don’t have to sit here and torture yourself.”

“I ain’t torturin’ nobody,” Joel muttered, staring down into the amber swirl in his glass.

“Right,” Tommy said. “That’s why you’ve been starin’ holes through the side of her head since we walked in.”

Joel didn’t answer. Just rolled his shoulders, tried to act casual. Failed.

Because the truth was, he couldn’t stop looking at you.

Not since the moment he saw you walk in.

Hair brushed and curled, your favorite sweater hanging soft off one shoulder. Lip gloss catching the light. You didn’t look like someone trying to prove a point—you didn’t look like you were out to make anyone jealous.

You looked like you were trying to feel normal again.

And that cut deeper than anything.

Because Joel had spent years convincing himself he was the one who knew how to keep you safe. How to make you feel steady. Loved. Even if he never said it aloud, never gave you the words.

Even if he kept his past locked up behind his ribs and only ever let you peek at it in pieces.

He thought it’d be enough.

But it wasn’t.

You left.

And you didn’t slam the door. Didn’t scream. Didn’t throw a single fucking thing. You just… packed a bag, folded one of his shirts, and said I can’t keep giving you everything and getting silence in return.

He didn’t stop you.

Didn’t say what he should’ve said.

Didn’t say Don’t go.

Didn’t say I need you.

Didn’t say I love you.

Because he thought he had time. Thought you’d cool off. Thought you’d come back.

But here you were. With someone else.

And Joel had never felt older in his life.

His knuckles were swollen from last week’s patrol. His back ached from the cold front. There were lines on his face he hadn’t noticed before, deepening around his eyes and mouth like time had finally caught up.

What the hell did he have to offer you anymore?

What could he give you now, at fifty-fucking-eight, that you didn’t already deserve from someone younger? Someone untouched by twenty years of blood and grief and failure?

He rubbed a hand over his mouth, suddenly too warm in his coat, suddenly too loud in his head.

“I shoulda said somethin’,” he mumbled. Barely audible.

Tommy raised a brow. “What?”

“I shoulda—” Joel cut himself off. Exhaled hard through his nose. “Never mind.”

Maria leaned in, voice low. “It’s not too late, Joel.”

He shook his head.

“It is,” he said. “She’s movin’ on.”

Tommy sighed. “Maybe. Or maybe she’s just tryin’ to remember what it’s like to feel somethin’. After you spent months makin’ her feel invisible.”

That one landed.

Joel flinched. Visibly.

He deserved it.

He knew it.

But the truth was—he didn’t make you feel invisible because he stopped loving you.

He did it because he loved you too fucking much.

Because loving you meant dragging you into all the wreckage of his life. It meant you knowing how deep the damage went. How fucked up he really was underneath the surface. And he’d spent so long building walls, burying things—Sarah, Tess, everything in between—that letting you in felt like peeling his skin off.

But you’d already seen him, hadn’t you?

You saw every goddamn thing. And you stayed.

He had just forced your hands until you couldn’t stay. 

And he let you go anyway.

Now here you were.

And that man beside you? He leaned in to say something. You smiled. Shook your head. Looked down at your drink, then back up at him with a softness that wasn’t flirtation, not yet, but it could be.

It could become something.

Joel swallowed hard.

He needed something stronger.

The bourbon wasn’t cutting it. Not tonight.

Not with that man’s hand still resting a little too close to yours. Not with your laughter trailing through the bar like a ghost he couldn’t catch. Not with every goddamn ache in his body echoing the one in his chest.

Joel pushed up from the table, muttering something half-formed to Tommy, who just gave him a look. One of those you sure you’re alright? looks that Joel didn’t want to deal with right now.

Maria said something too, something soft, but he didn’t catch it.

Didn’t care.

He moved through the crowd like a man with a mission. Eyes forward. Shoulders tight. His boots thudding against the floor louder than they needed to. He kept his jaw clenched the whole way to the bar, biting down the burn rising in his throat.

He wasn’t drunk. Not yet. But he wanted to be.

Not sloppy. Not out-of-control.

Just… numb.

He flagged down the bartender with a lift of two fingers.

“Something rough,” he said gruffly. “Whatever’s got the most bite.”

The man behind the bar nodded and poured something dark amber into a glass that looked too clean. Joel wrapped his hand around it, let the chill seep into his palm.

He didn’t drink it. Not yet.

Just stared at it, watching the way the light fractured through the liquor. The way the ice cracked against the sides. It reminded him of tension—of pressure building until it finally snapped.

He was so tired of pretending this didn’t hurt.

So damn tired of holding it all in.

And then—

A tap.

Faint.

Right on his shoulder.

He turned sharply, half-expecting some drunk asshole wanting to start something. Maybe the guy you were talking to—hell, maybe Tommy, coming to drag him home before he embarrassed himself.

He opened his mouth to growl something ugly—

He stopped cold.

You.

You were standing there, looking up at him like you hadn’t just shattered his entire evening. Like you hadn’t carved him open just by walking into the same room.

Your eyes were soft. Cautious.

Like you were bracing for the wreckage too.

Joel’s spine went stiff. His mouth opened, then closed. His first instinct—to glare, to cover the bleeding with anger—flickered and died the second you tilted your head.

“Hey,” you said gently, barely audible over the buzz of the bar. “Can we talk?”

He blinked.

His throat worked around a knot that hadn’t been there a second ago. Talk? Here? With him?

You gestured vaguely toward the back of the room, where a few couples were swaying in the open space cleared for dancing. The music was slower now—some old Willie Nelson track playing softly on the speakers. You looked like you weren’t sure what to do with your hands. One of them lifted. Reached for him.

Not quite touching.

Not until he nodded.

“…Sure.”

The word felt jagged in his throat. He downed his drink in one brutal motion—felt the liquor burn down to his ribs. It wasn’t courage. Not really. But it was something. Something to help hold back the goddamn shake in his hands when you stepped closer.

You reached for his hand.

And Joel, without thinking, gave it to you.

His fingers closed around yours instinctively, like they remembered this. Like they’d been aching for this. You turned, tugged gently, guiding him through the bar. He followed.

And it was so easy.

Too easy.

That’s what scared him.

Because this—your fingers threaded with his, the scent of your shampoo drifting back as you walked ahead of him, your thumb brushing once against the side of his hand—this felt like home.

And home wasn’t something Joel had let himself believe in for a long damn time.

Not until you.

The dance floor was dim. Sparse. Only a few couples moving in lazy circles under the fairy lights strung up overhead. Your steps slowed. You turned to face him, your expression unreadable. Something sad flickered in your eyes, but you didn’t speak right away.

Instead, you pulled him a little closer.

Joel stared at you.

Then at your hand.

Then back up.

“You wanna dance?” he asked quietly, unsure, half-hoping he’d misread this whole thing.

You didn’t answer his question with words.

You just stepped in close.

And slowly—tentatively—you lifted your arms and draped them over his shoulders, like you’d done a hundred times before, in moments far easier than this one. Joel’s hands hovered awkwardly in the space between you for a second too long before they found their way to your waist. The fit was still there. Muscle memory. His palms curved around you like they remembered every inch.

You started to sway.

No rhythm. No flourish.

Just… movement. Just closeness.

The kind that ached.

Joel exhaled, slow and quiet. His forehead didn’t quite touch yours, but you were close enough that your breath ghosted across his chin when you spoke.

“I need to get my stuff back.”

It wasn’t angry. Wasn’t even cold.

Just a fact.

Something real to ground all this softness.

Joel’s grip tensed, just slightly. A beat passed. Then another.

“Yeah,” he muttered, eyes unfocused. “’Course. Figured you’d ask.”

You didn’t say anything.

Joel tried to hide the way his throat worked around the words he wanted to say.

The way his chest tightened at the thought of your toothbrush still tucked in the bathroom drawer. Your sweater draped over the back of the chair by the window. That dumb mug with the cracked handle you always reached for first. Your handwriting on the notepad by the fridge, where you’d scribbled half a shopping list before storming out five weeks ago.

He’d left it there.

Still did.

Your stuff was everywhere.

It wasn’t just stuff. Not really.

It was the only proof he’d managed to build something with warmth.

And now you wanted it back.

Joel cleared his throat.

“I can drop it off,” he said. “If you want. Save you the walk.”

You pulled back just enough to look at him. Not all the way—just enough for your gaze to meet his. Joel hated the way his stomach dropped when he saw the flicker of sadness in your eyes.

“Or I can leave it on the porch,” he added quickly, like he didn’t care. “Whatever’s easier.”

You didn’t answer right away.

You just looked at him.

Like you saw through every defense he was scrambling to raise.

“Joel,” you said softly. “How are you?”

He blinked. Pulled his gaze away. Let it drift over your shoulder, toward the corner of the room where the shadows were quieter.

“I’m fine.”

He said it too fast.

Too clipped.

You didn’t buy it. He knew you wouldn’t.

You always had a way of getting him to drop the act.

You leaned in a little closer, your arms shifting slightly around his neck. “That’s not what I asked.”

He closed his eyes.

Just for a second.

Because he was so goddamn tired. Tired of pretending. Tired of swallowing everything that should’ve been said when it mattered.

His hands tightened gently on your waist. Not pulling. Not holding on. Just… needing.

“How am I?” he echoed quietly. “I wake up, and your shoes are still by the door. That sweater you always wear when you're cold—it’s still hangin’ on the back of the chair like you’re gonna come grab it in the mornin’. I make coffee and pour too much ‘cause I forget you ain’t there to drink it.”

You blinked hard.

Joel looked down at you again. There was no anger in his face. No heat.

Just exhaustion.

And grief.

He paused. His voice dropped to something near a whisper.

“I left your favorite vinyl on the turntable the other day. Just… forgot to change it.”

Your eyes shimmered in the low light. You didn’t interrupt. Didn’t say I’m sorry. You didn’t owe him that. You didn’t owe him anything anymore.

Joel swallowed hard.

“I’m not great,” he admitted, finally. “That’s how I am. I’m not great.”

The silence between you pressed in heavy. Not suffocating, but weighty. Like truth always was.

You shifted your arms, one hand rising to thread your fingers into the back of his hair. Joel closed his eyes at the contact. His grip stayed steady at your waist, but he swore he felt his legs go weak.

“I’m not great either,” you said softly. “Thought I would be.”

Joel gave a breathy laugh through his nose. “You seemed happy earlier.”

“I was trying,” you admitted. “I was pretending I didn’t still feel you in every room.”

Joel’s eyes opened slowly.

Met yours.

And there it was—that thing he thought he’d lost. That unspoken current. The pulse of something still alive between you, flickering just beneath the surface.

You swayed in silence again.

Neither of you said a word.

The music faded into the background, just soft enough not to matter. Just enough to give the illusion of rhythm while you swayed together in the quiet middle of a too-loud room.

Joel leaned in, forehead brushing against yours. Barely there. But it felt like too much and not enough all at once.

You smelled the same.

Like soap and skin and something faintly sweet—something that lived in your sweaters and in his sheets. Something he hadn’t been able to scrub out no matter how many nights he’d tried to sleep alone.

Five weeks.

Five fucking weeks.

It didn’t sound like much. Not in the grand scheme. He’d gone longer without food. Without rest. Without safety. But this?

This was something else entirely.

And for a second…

God.

For a second, he let himself pretend you were still his.

That you’d be there in the morning. That when he turned over in bed, he’d feel your bare thigh brushing his, your palm resting lightly on his chest, your breath rising and falling in that easy rhythm he used to memorize.

He missed waking up to you.

He missed the sound of your yawn when you stretched beside him. The way your hand always found his under the covers, cold and shameless, like you knew he’d warm them for you.

He missed the shuffle of your slippers down the hall. The smell of toast. That little click of your coffee mug against the counter.

He used to grumble, pretend he hated it when you cooked breakfast like he couldn’t do it himself.

But he fucking loved it.

You’d hand him a plate with that quiet smirk, always fussing—“Eat it before it gets cold, Miller”—and he’d do exactly that. Because it tasted like care. Like you loved him even when he didn’t ask for it.

He missed coming back from patrol and finding you stretched out on the couch in one of his flannels, legs bare, book cracked open on your chest, a throw blanket half-falling to the floor.

You’d look up when he walked in, and there’d be this softness in your eyes. This quiet little smile, like there you are, like the whole day had been waiting for him.

He missed that look.

Missed you tossing your book aside just to sit beside him, curl up under his arm, legs thrown over his lap like you belonged there.

You did belong there.

He missed passing the bathroom after a shower and catching the scent of your soap in the steam. That faint citrus smell. The one that lingered on his pillows. On his shirts. On his goddamn skin.

He hadn’t smelled it in days.

He left the bar of it sitting in the shower anyway. Stupid hope.

Like maybe if he didn’t move it, you’d walk in again. Humming. Smiling. Telling him to get out 'cause you needed the mirror.

Joel’s hands gripped your hips a little tighter.

He swallowed hard.

And then—God help him—his thoughts slipped lower.

Because it wasn’t just the comfort. Not just the routines. Not just the domestic quiet you brought into his chaos.

It was the heat of you.

The need.

He missed the feel of your hands on his chest, tugging his shirt off impatiently. The way your mouth dragged across his jaw with purpose. Like you knew exactly what he needed and weren’t shy about giving it.

You were never shy with him.

Not once.

He missed you pulling him in with a handful of his belt, whispering against his mouth, Come on, baby, take care of me, like you weren’t the one unraveling him.

He missed the way you straddled him on the couch, kissed him deep and slow while your fingers dragged down his stomach. How you’d rock your hips against his, lazy and teasing, like you had all the time in the world to ruin him.

He missed how you bit him when you came.

Soft, quick, right against his shoulder.

Like a secret you couldn’t keep.

Joel breathed out slowly through his nose, trying to steady himself.

But it didn’t work.

Because you shifted against him then. Innocent. Barely a move. But enough to bring your chest flush against his, enough for your fingers to tangle a little deeper into the hair at the nape of his neck.

You were warm.

So fucking warm.

And soft.

And his whole body was screaming for more.

He missed your thighs clenching around his hips as he buried himself inside you. The way your breath hitched when he pressed deeper. Slower. When he held your wrists above your head and whispered all the filthy things he’d never say anywhere else.

He missed the mess of it.

The sweat. The gritted teeth. The way you’d cry out his name like it meant something. Like you trusted him to break you apart and put you back together again.

He missed your skin. The taste of it. The scent of you in his sheets. The way you said Joel like a fucking prayer when he brought you over that edge again and again and again—

He missed being needed.

Physically. Completely.

He missed being yours.

Not just in the daylight. Not just in casual moments or shared coffee or post-patrol silence.

He missed being the man you reached for at night, when you were desperate and aching and honest in a way the sun never got to see.

Joel opened his eyes.

And you were right there.

You were still swaying with him.

Still close.

Still holding onto him like this moment mattered. Like it meant something. Joel could feel your breath against his throat, warm and even. You hadn’t spoken. Neither had he. And part of him wanted to stay in this silence forever.

But it wasn’t real.

It was borrowed time.

And he couldn’t keep pretending.

Not with you so close.

Not with the memory of your smile already fading from his house, from his mornings, from the quiet in the shower.

So he forced himself to speak. Quiet. Raw.

“I won’t stop you,” he murmured, barely louder than the hum of the song.

You blinked.

Pulled your head back just slightly, brows drawn.

“What?”

“If you wanna go.” He swallowed hard. “If you wanna be with that guy—”

“Joel—”

“—I get it,” he cut in. Not harsh. Just final. “You should. He’s younger. Smoother. Probably better at sayin’ all the right things. Probably ain’t spendin’ half a day tryin’ to get up from a chair.”

You stared up at him, clearly not amused by his joke. Your lips parted, but no sound came out.

Joel’s heart ached.

“And if that’s what you want,” he said softly, “I’ll wish you the best with it. With everythin’.”

You shook your head, once. Like you didn’t understand.

Joel held your gaze.

“I mean that. I’ll always be your biggest supporter. Even if I ain’t the one beside you anymore.”

Your breath hitched.

The tears came fast.

You let go of him like you’d been burned.

Took a full step back. Then another. Shook your head again, more violently now.

“Stop—” you choked, voice cracking. “Don’t say that. Don’t fucking say that.”

Joel’s throat closed. But he couldn’t take it back.

You looked down at the floor like it hurt to meet his eyes.

And then, just like that, you turned.

You pushed through the crowd with both hands, shoving someone out of the way, rushing for the back doors like you couldn’t breathe. Joel’s stomach twisted.

He stood frozen for half a second too long.

Then he moved.

The air outside hit him like a slap.

It was cold. Windy. Crisp.

You were standing a few feet away, arms wrapped around yourself, back to him, shoulders trembling.

He could hear the sharpness of your breathing—hiccuped, fractured, like you were trying not to fall apart again.

“Hey—” Joel called softly. “Wait.”

You didn’t turn.

Didn’t speak.

Joel stepped closer, slow.

“Just—let me say this,” he said. “Please.”

You finally turned. Tears were streaked down your face. Your eyes were red. You looked like you hated him and missed him all at once.

“You always do this,” you whispered. “Every time. When it gets hard, you freeze up. You disappear. You shut down and I’m left talking to a fucking brick wall.”

“I know,” Joel said. Quiet. Barely there.

“You don’t fight for me,” you said, voice cracking again. “You never fight for me. And now you’re telling me to go be with someone else—like that’s what I want? Like I left you because I didn’t love you?”

Joel shook his head. “That’s not what I meant—”

“Then what did you mean, Joel?” you snapped. “Because it sure sounded like you were giving me permission to leave like it doesn’t matter. Like we don’t matter.”

He was breathing hard now.

“I meant I want you to be happy,” he rasped. “Even if it kills me.”

You blinked.

Hard.

Joel took another step closer.

“I didn’t know how to love you right. I never got it right. But God—darlin’, I love you.”

You didn’t answer. Just stood there, trembling, tears tracking down your cheeks like you couldn’t stop them even if you wanted to.

Joel didn’t know what to do with his hands. His chest ached like a bruise, sharp and sore and tender all at once. He reached for you, slow, cautious—his arms wide like he was afraid you’d vanish if he touched you too fast.

But before he could pull you in—

You grabbed him.

Fisted your hands in the front of his jacket.

And kissed him.

Hard.

Messy.

Desperate.

Joel froze for half a second. Shocked. Breath stolen clean from his lungs.

And then—

Goddamn.

He kissed you back like a starving man.

Like he hadn’t tasted anything real in five whole weeks.

His hands flew to your face first, palms cradling your jaw with a tenderness that didn’t match the pace of his mouth—rough, hungry, grateful. Then they dropped, skimming your waist, your ribs, your back. Like he needed to touch every part of you to make sure you were real.

You gasped against him, lips slipping, teeth clashing just slightly. Joel groaned—deep—from his chest, like something inside him had just cracked under the weight of everything he’d been holding in.

The kiss broke for a second—barely.

You caught your breath.

Then grabbed him again.

You didn’t speak with your mouth. You poured it into him—every ounce of pain and love and fury and longing you’d been biting back since the night you left.

Joel didn’t care who saw.

Didn’t care who was still in the bar, or if Tommy looked out the window, or if Maria came after you.

None of it mattered.

Not when your mouth was on his like this. Not when your hands slid under his coat, under his shirt, gripping his waist like you never wanted to let go again.

He pressed you back against the side of the building, brick cold under your spine, his body flush against yours. His hands roamed like he’d earned it. Like he needed to feel you again, every inch, before it all disappeared.

You broke the kiss just long enough to whisper against his lips.

“Take me to our home.”

Joel’s chest clenched.

Not a home.

Not your home.

Just ours.

His.

Yours.

Ours.

Something hot twisted in his gut. He buried his face in your neck, breath shaky, lips brushing the skin just beneath your jaw.

“You sure?” he murmured, voice low and wrecked and so goddamn soft.

You nodded, nose brushing his. “Joel. Please.”

That was all he needed.

He didn’t wait.

Didn’t think.

He just took your hand, gripped it tight, and started walking.

The streets of Jackson were still.

Quiet. Cold. Empty.

Winter was still holding on by its teeth—frost clung to the edges of porch steps, old snow gathered in shadowed corners of roofs and fences. The moon was low and yellow, clouds creeping over it slow like they didn’t want to interrupt.

But Joel didn’t notice any of it.

All he could feel was your hand in his.

Still there.

Still warm.

Still real.

He didn’t look back at you—not directly.

Not yet.

He glanced, sideways, just enough to watch the shape of you in the corner of his vision, like if he turned too fully, the spell would break. Like if he looked too hard, you’d vanish all over again.

It felt like a dream.

No, not a dream.

A story.

Something ancient. Mythic.

Like he were Orpheus, and he was walking you out of the underworld. Back to him.

Except this time—he wouldn’t look back. Wouldn’t ruin it.

Your fingers stayed locked in his, tight but calm. You didn’t speak, and neither did he. The silence wasn’t heavy. It was sacred. Like everything unspoken was too delicate to be named just yet.

He was scared.

Not of you.

Not of the cold.

But of what came next.

Scared of what he might say when the door closed behind you.

Scared of what you might see when you stepped inside and realized—nothing had changed.

He hadn’t moved your book off the coffee table. Hadn’t folded the blanket you always used. Your mug was still beside the sink. He didn’t touch the turntable. Didn’t fix the curtain you always claimed was crooked in the bedroom.

He hadn’t let himself forget.

Not a single goddamn thing.

When you reached the porch, Joel fumbled for the key.

The lock stuck—like it always did—and his fingers were stiff from the cold, from nerves, from you.

And then he opened the door.

Let you step in first.

He followed, closing it gently behind him.

And then… you stood there.

In the soft dark of his home.

Your home.

Your eyes moved slowly.

He could feel it—your gaze drifting across the living room, catching on the blanket you left draped on the arm of the couch. The open book Joel had kept exactly where you left it. The throw pillow you always used, still shaped to your body like it remembered better than he did.

He stood behind you awkwardly.

Cleared his throat.

“I, uh…” His voice cracked. He tried again. “I can make you coffee. If you want. I know it’s late but—”

But you were already turning.

Already closing the space between you with three sharp steps.

And before he could finish the offer, you were on him.

You gripped his shirt in both hands and crashed your mouth to his like you were making up for all the time lost in the silence.

Joel reeled.

He gasped against your mouth, caught off guard—but only for a second.

Then instinct took over.

He kissed you back hard. Messy. Like he needed to taste every second of the last five weeks he’d spent alone.

Your hands were greedy, tugging his shirt free from his jeans, palms sliding underneath to find his skin. He groaned—loudly—into your mouth, arms locking around you, pressing you into him like he couldn’t stand even an inch of space.

Your coat hit the floor with a thump, and his followed soon after. You both knew what the other craved. 

Your lips moved down his neck, open-mouthed and reckless.

Joel swore under his breath. “Shit, baby—”

Your teeth scraped his pulse point and he hissed.

He couldn’t think.

Couldn’t breathe.

The adrenaline, the grief, the relief—it all crashed together like a wave breaking in his chest.

“I missed you,” you breathed against his skin. “I missed you so much.”

Joel’s hands were everywhere—your back, your waist, the curve of your ass, your thighs, your jaw. He couldn’t decide what to touch first. Couldn’t hold enough of you, not all at once.

He wanted you in his arms. In his bed. In his house.

Where you fucking belonged.

You pulled back just enough to look at him—cheeks flushed, lips swollen, hair wild from his hands. And Joel?

He stared at you like you were the only goddamn thing in the world that ever made sense.

He didn’t let you walk.

He couldn’t.

You were back in his arms, and Joel Miller was not taking a single goddamn risk.

He carried you to the bedroom like something precious. Sacred. Like if he set you down too soon, the moment would vanish—just another dream he’d wake from, soaked in sweat and aching with loss.

Your arms were around his neck. Legs around his waist. Mouth on his jaw, his neck, the hinge of his throat. Joel groaned every time your lips brushed skin. He was hard already. Had been from the moment you kissed him outside the bar. But he ignored it. He could wait. He would wait.

He stepped into the room and kicked the door shut behind him with his boot.

You looked at him like he was everything.

Like home.

He couldn’t take his eyes off you.

He sat you down on the edge of the bed with careful hands, just for a second. You started to reach for his belt, desperate, and Joel caught your wrists again—not rough, not punishing. Just still.

“Slow,” he rasped. “Let me.”

Your eyes flicked up to his, wide and breathless. You nodded.

He exhaled, like he’d been holding his breath for five weeks.

Then he knelt in front of you. Not to tease. Not to play.

To worship.

His hands came to your ankles first, callused thumbs brushing just under the hem of your pants.

“You’re shakin’ already,” he murmured. “Missed me that much, huh?”

You gave him this broken smile. “Joel—”

He slid his hands up your calves, your thighs, slow and sure.

“I know,” he said. “I missed you too.”

He leaned forward and kissed your knee.

Then your inner thigh.

“You been thinkin’ about this?” he asked, voice low and rough. “’Bout me undressin’ you like this? Slow?”

You swallowed hard. “Every night.”

Joel smirked. “Yeah? Bet you touched yourself. Got all needy in that big ol’ empty bed.”

Your breath hitched.

“Thought about me,” he said, dragging your pants down inch by inch, pressing a kiss to every new strip of skin. “Thought about my hands on you. Mouth on you. My cock inside you—deep. Slow.”

You moaned—loud and broken—and Joel’s chest ached with it as he tossed your pants over his shoulders.

“God, I missed that sound,” he growled. “You sound like heaven when you want me.”

You took off your own shirt and bra. God, those breasts. He loved them. Beautiful and tight. Another classic example of you. He stood, hooked his thumbs in your waistband, and pulled your underwear down next. You lifted your hips willingly.

He didn’t look away—not once—as you were revealed to him again. And fuck—his knees almost gave out.

Pretty. Pink. Folds swollen and wet to the point that he knew you would be embarrassed about it. But never him. He loved how messy you got when you wanted something, like your body was speaking for you when your mouth clamped shut. 

He stared up at you from below, chest heaving, eyes dark with something deeper than lust. Something older. More carved in. More earned.

“Goddamn,” he muttered, voice hoarse. “You’re so fuckin’ gorgeous like this. Laid out for me. All soft and warm and—mine.”

Your breath caught.

Your thighs trembled.

He kissed your inner knee, the inside of your thigh. His hands rubbed up and down your calves, your hips, his thumbs digging into the softness like he was grounding himself.

“I missed this more than I missed anythin’,” he rasped. “This right here—” he kissed the crease where thigh met hip, “—was all I thought about. Woke up some nights with your name in my mouth and nothin’ but air in my fuckin’ bed.”

You whimpered.

Joel leaned in, closer. He kissed lower.

And then—

He devoured.

There was no preamble. No soft, lingering kiss meant to ease you in.

No, this was hunger. This was over a month of tension, weeks of near-misses, days of unsaid things and glances that scorched.

His mouth met your cunt like it belonged there. Like he’d been born for this, for you. His tongue parted you, slow at first, just to taste. Just to sample the mess you’d already made for him. But then—

Then he groaned. Low and deep, the sound rumbling through his chest like thunder.

“Jesus Christ,” Joel muttered, voice rasped and reverent, breath hot against your folds. “You taste better than I remembered. Sweet fuckin’ heaven.”

Your thighs twitched at the sound, at the praise, at the pressure of his tongue licking a long, deliberate stripe right through your center.

You cried out—sharp and breathless—your hips jolting off the mattress. And he grinned against you. Like the bastard he was.

His hips jolted forward against nothing, instinctively, like his whole body couldn’t take being this close to you without burying himself inside.

“Fuck,” he growled, lips still brushing your soaked skin. “She’s drippin’ for me already. Look at her, baby. So fuckin’ wet.”

Your thighs twitched at the sound of it. The way he said it.

“You miss this?” he rasped, voice low and dangerous, eyes locked between your legs. “Missed my mouth on her? On this sweet little pussy?”

“Y-Yes,” you gasped, breathless. “God—Joel—yes—”

He chuckled darkly. “Thought so.”

Then he sucked your clit between his lips—slow at first. He knew exactly what to do, knew exactly what made your voice catch. Then harder. Focused.

Tongue flicking over you in tight, calculated strokes until your back arched and your hand flew to his hair, fisting tight.

You weren’t quiet.

You couldn’t be.

The noises—your moans, the wet suck of his mouth, the low sounds he kept making like he was drinking you in—filled the room like heat.

“Fuckin’ perfect,” Joel muttered. “She’s so goddamn soft. So sweet. You feel that?” His voice rumbled against your clit as he flattened his tongue and dragged it up through your folds. “That’s what I missed. The way she opens up for me. So greedy.”

You whined—broken and desperate—grinding your hips against his face.

He didn’t stop you.

He loved it.

“Go ahead,” he murmured, licking into your entrance, tongue fucking shallow and slow. “Use me, baby. Rub her all over my face. I can take it. I need it.”

“Joel—fuck—I’m gonna—”

“Nah.”

Joel’s voice came from low in his chest, ragged and breathless. He pulled back just an inch, his mouth flushed and glistening, his eyes wild.

“Not yet,” he said again. “Don’t come yet. She ain’t done with me, is she?”

You barely shook your head. Couldn’t even speak—

 Not before he fucking spit.

It landed right on your clit—hot and thick—and he watched it hit like it was the sexiest thing he’d ever seen. You jolted, crying out, already grinding into the air—

And then he licked it up.

Groaning as he did, slow and deep, mouth dragging through every soaked inch.

“Jesus fuck,” he muttered, thumb spreading you open wider. “Look at her. So wet she’s fuckin’ shinin’ for me.”

He spit again. Lazily this time. Watching it trail through your folds, mix with everything else he’d already coaxed out of you.

“Joel— your mouth,” you gasped, trembling beneath him. “God— I can’t fucking think when your mouth’s on me.”

Joel looked up at you, pupils blown, face shining. “Then don’t. Let her do the thinkin’.”

You moaned loud and shameless. “She’s not the one begging. I am.”

Joel grinned, tongue flicking out to catch the mess before it could drip too far. “That right? Then tell me. What do you want?”

“I want more,” you said, voice wrecked. “I want every bit of you. Tongue, fingers, cock—all of it.”

He growled, face diving back in like you’d just set off a fire in his brain. His tongue swirled, mouth suctioning hard around your clit, then easing off just enough so he could spit again.

“Fuuuck,” he groaned, watching the new mess drip over your cunt. “She loves it. Fuckin’ sloppy for me.”

“She’ll take everything you give her,” you breathed, chest heaving. “You know that. You trained her. Broke her in.”

“Oh, I know.”

He sounded proud. Possessive. Obsessed.

“She knows who she belongs to.”

Your body shuddered.

“I love her, you know that?” he said, fingers spreading you open for his tongue again. “Love this pussy. Love how she feels, how she tastes. I could fuckin’ die between her.”

Your fingers twisted tighter in his hair, thighs squeezing around his head, desperate and overwhelmed. But he loved it—grunting low, letting you pull him in deeper, tighter, closer.

“She’s got me fuckin’ obsessed,” he muttered against you. “Get hard just thinkin’ about her. Wake up fuckin’ leakin’ ‘cause I dream about the way she clenches around my tongue—”

He slipped a finger inside you. Thick. Rough. Curling just right.

Your whole body snapped.

“Oh my god, Joel—!”

“That’s it,” he groaned, voice low and ruined. “Come on. Let her come. Give it to me, baby—I want it. Want to feel her pulse on my fuckin’ face.”

You shattered.

Your thighs locked up, your body bowed off the bed, and your pussy clenched hard around his finger as you came with a cry that echoed off the walls. You said his name like it was the only thing you knew. The only word that mattered.

Joel didn’t let up. Not even as you started to tremble.

Not even as your legs threatened to close.

He held you open—pinned—and kept licking, kept sucking, kept claiming.

He moaned into you, letting you ride it out on his face, licking up every drop you gave him like he needed it to survive.

Joel could still feel your pulse on his tongue.

He still had your slick all over his mouth and beard. The taste of you burned into him—sharp and sweet and sacred. It had knocked something loose in him. Something primal. Something that made him want to tear the rest of his clothes off, drag you into his arms, and finally sink into the place he’d been dreaming about for five long, lonely weeks.

He staggered up from the bed, breath ragged, belt undone with trembling fingers. His body was flushed, hair mussed, lips still wet from your taste.

“You don’t know what you just did to me,” he muttered, voice hoarse like it had been scraped from the inside out. “I can’t fuckin’ wait anymore—I gotta be inside you, baby, now, I—”

But you moved.

Slid off the mattress like smoke. Like fire under silk skin and bare thighs. A slow, molten kind of hunger.

And Joel froze the moment your knees hit the floor.

You looked up at him with heat in your eyes, mischief in your mouth, and a hunger that dared him to stop you.

“Wha—baby—what’re you—”

“Shh,” you said, voice like velvet dragged over flame. “Let me.”

His hands fisted at his sides. His chest rose and fell in hard, shallow pulls. He looked down at you like he wanted to stop you, like he should stop you—

But didn’t. Couldn’t.

You undid the rest of his belt slowly, methodically. Let the tension stretch between you like something alive. The button popped. The zipper dragged down with a slow hiss.

And through it all, your eyes never left his.

“You know how many nights I imagined this?” you murmured, kissing the strip of skin just above his waistband. “How many times I touched myself pretending it was your cock between my lips?”

Joel groaned, hips jolting forward, instinctive and needy.

Your fingers slid beneath his boxers, confident and sure. And you didn’t tease.

You freed him. Let him fall heavy into your palm.

Fuck.

So thick. So hard it looked painful.

You looked at him like he was a goddamn revelation. And the sound that spilled from your lips—low and reverent—nearly knocked Joel off his feet.

“Oh, baby,” you whispered, wrapping your fingers around the base. “You’re perfect.”

Joel shifted, self-conscious in the way only time could teach. He wasn’t young anymore. He was never young, even when he met you. But you fed him well, and with all the labor, he bulked up, bringing out his stomach.

You slapped his thigh. Not hard. It was like you knew where his thoughts were heading. Just enough to snap his gaze back to you.

“Don’t do that,” you said, low and sharp. “You don’t get to hide from me. Not here.”

Joel’s throat worked. “You don’t gotta say that—”

“I’m not sayin’ it to be nice, Joel,” you growled. “I’m sayin’ it ‘cause I’ve been fucking starving. And now I get to taste what I’ve been dreaming about since the second I walked out that door.”

Joel’s eyes darkened.

You leaned in and kissed the base of his cock, slow and reverent. His body shuddered.

“You taste like him,” you whispered against the skin. “Like the man who used to own me without even trying.”

And then you licked.

From root to tip.

Deliberate. Worshipful. Filthy.

Joel’s head dropped back. “Jesus Christ.”

You opened your mouth—wide—and took him in.

Hot. Wet. Deep.

Joel moaned, sharp and sudden, a sound dragged straight from his spine. His hips jerked, but your hands were already tight on his thighs, holding him in place.

You worked him slow. Rhythmic. Purposeful.

You weren’t just giving head—you were consuming him.

Joel didn’t know where to look. The way your lips wrapped around him, the hollow of your cheeks, the spit starting to drip down your chin? It was sickeningly gorgeous.

He looked down, saw your eyes staring back at him. Saw your jaw straining to take more.

“S’too good,” he rasped. “Too fuckin’ good. You’re gonna ruin me.”

You pulled off just far enough to speak, letting a string of spit fall from your lips to his cock.

“Maybe I want to ruin you,” you whispered. “Maybe I want you thinkin’ about my mouth every time you jerk off alone in the dark.”

Joel hissed through his teeth. “You got a mouth on you.”

Your tongue traced a slow circle around his tip.

“And you love it.”

“I do,” he growled. “Fuckin’ love everythin’ about that mouth. But you keep goin’ like that, baby, and I’m not gonna last.”

“Good,” you said, licking along a bulging vein. “I want it. All of it.”

And then?

You took him again.

Deeper this time. Throat tighter. Drool messier. Your spit sliding down his cock in obscene trails.

Joel’s hips stuttered. His hands fisted at his sides like it physically hurt not to touch you. Like he was barely hanging on to the dominance he always carried.

“You like that?” you said when you pulled off again, spit smeared on your lips, eyes glazed with hunger. “You like seein’ me like this?”

Joel groaned, barely coherent. “Look at you. Mouth full’a cock, beggin’ for more.”

“I am begging,” you whispered, licking the tip and smiling like the devil. “So don’t hold back, Miller.”

Something inside him snapped.

He gripped your hair—tight, firm, not rough but definite—and held you right there.

“You want me to use this mouth?” he asked, voice low and filthy. “That it?”

You moaned again, eyes fluttering closed as your throat worked.

Joel cursed. "Fuck."

And then he started to move.

Slow at first. Testing.

Your hands gripped his thighs harder, anchoring yourself now.

Joel watched the way you took him. Let him own your mouth. The way your lips stretched, the obscene squelch of your throat as he pushed in and out. He could hear every inch of it. Wet and raw and real.

You looked up again, and he nearly came on the spot.

“You’re so fuckin’ good at this,” he gasped. “Jesus, sweetheart—you take me like you need it.”

You blinked up at him, teary-eyed and eager, your throat fluttering around him again.

Joel growled.

“You like it when I fuck your mouth like this? Like a goddamn filthy man?”

You nodded, or tried to, and he felt the motion around his cock.

His knees nearly gave out.

He was panting now. Full-body trembling. His hands threaded deeper into your hair, tugging at your scalp in a rhythm that matched his hips—thrusting in, slow but hard, dragging against your tongue and hitting the back of your throat again and again.

You whimpered, gagged just a little—and Joel lost it.

“Oh, fuck, baby—don’t do that—don’t you do that unless you want me to come right fuckin’ now—”

You pulled off, gasping, spit connecting your mouth to him in a slick string. His cock was flushed, angry-red, twitching in the open air, gleaming with your spit.

You licked your swollen lips, then backed toward the bed slowly.

Kneeling there.

Waiting.

Like a fucking vision.

Hair messy, skin flushed, mouth parted, chest rising and falling like you were starving for him. Like you needed him to get over there and do what he was made to do.

Joel stared.

Didn’t speak.

He dropped his flannel to the floor—then his shirt, then his jeans, his boxers—and crossed the room without breaking eye contact. He was breathing like a man chasing down his last chance. His thighs ached from how tight they’d been clenched. His stomach wasn’t flat anymore, body worn down by age and time—but you looked at him like he was everything.

Like he was still the man who could ruin you with just one touch.

He crawled up onto the bed—slowly, knees sinking into the mattress, palms planted on either side of your hips.

And you?

You laid back, legs parted, eyes heavy-lidded, the picture of wrecked devotion.

Joel hovered over you, arms caging you in.

For a second, he just looked at you. Like maybe this was a dream. Like maybe if he moved too fast, it would disappear.

Then he kissed you.

Hard. Deep. Tongue sweeping into your mouth like he needed to taste every part of you again. Like he didn’t just want to fuck you—he wanted to live inside you. Breathe with you. Lose every broken part of himself in the warmth of your skin.

Your hands gripped his arms. His back. Anywhere you could reach. Your legs wrapped around his waist, pulling him in tight.

And then Joel reached down, slid the head of his cock through your folds.

Up. Down. Just to coat himself in you.

He pushed in slow.

The first inch had his breath catching. The second had his eyes closing. And by the time he was all the way in—seated deep, buried inside you—Joel’s soul had already left his body.

You were everything.

Everything.

Warm and soft and tight, like you’d been molded just for him. Five weeks apart, and still—you welcomed him like nothing had changed. Like he belonged there. Like he’d always belonged there.

You gasped, mouth falling open, fingers clutching his arms like they were the only steady thing in the world.

Joel couldn’t move.

Not yet.

Not when it felt like this. Not when it had been five goddamn weeks of aching and silence and empty rooms and dreams that ended in nothing but sweat and a hollow bed.

His eyes opened slowly. Just to see you.

Your brows drawn together, lips parted, a soft shine in your eyes that had nothing to do with pain.

You weren’t crying.

But it was close.

So was he.

Joel braced himself above you—one forearm pressed into the mattress, the other hand gently pushing your hair back—and kissed you.

It wasn’t messy. It wasn’t greedy.

It was reverent.

He kissed you like he needed you to understand. That he never wanted to be without you again. That no one—no person, no place, no damn argument—could ever replace what you were to him.

When he finally moved?

It was slow. Careful.

A pull, and a push.

He exhaled, voice breaking. “You feel so good, darlin’.”

You whimpered beneath him, nails pressing into his shoulder blades.

Joel didn’t rush it.

Every movement was like worship. Like penance. Like he was apologizing with his body—saying all the things he hadn’t known how to say before.

He rolled his hips again.

Your mouth fell open. “Joel—”

“I know,” he breathed. “I know, baby. I missed you. Missed this.”

Your eyes met his. And for a moment, everything went still.

Just heartbeats.

Breath.

Bodies pressed together like they’d never come apart again.

Joel kissed you again, deeper this time, hand slipping under your back to hold you closer. And then?

He moved faster.

Not rough. Not harsh.

Just urgent.

Like he couldn’t stand the space between your skin and his.

You moaned—high and sweet and wrecked—and that sound went straight to his chest.

Joel groaned low. “That’s it,” he rasped. “That’s the sound I been waitin’ to hear. Five weeks without it, and I thought I’d lose my damn mind.”

You clung to him harder. Wrapped your legs around his hips, anchoring him there.

“Don’t stop,” you whispered. “Please don’t stop.”

Joel’s rhythm shifted—deeper, harder, but still loving. Still present. His forehead dropped to yours, eyes half-lidded, breath hot on your lips.

“Never gonna stop again,” he muttered. “Never lettin’ you walk out that door.”

You arched beneath him.

His name left your lips again, this time softer. A plea. A promise. A prayer.

Joel held you tighter.

“You fit me,” he panted. “Like you were made for me. Like you always fuckin’ have.”

Your breath hitched. Your eyes fluttered shut.

And Joel watched every second of it.

Because that’s what he’d missed most.

You. Just like this. Not just the sex. Not just the body. But the way you looked at him like he was worth it. Like you saw him, even when he couldn’t stand to look at himself.

He fucked you like it mattered.

“That what you needed?” he asked, thrusting again, a little harder. “Needed me to fuck you like you belong to me?”

You nodded—whimpered—and he growled.

“Say it.”

“I belong to you.”

“Louder.”

“I fucking belong to you, Joel!”

That was all it took.

He grabbed your thigh, hitched it higher on his waist, and slammed into you. Again. Again.

The bed creaked. Your cries filled the room. Joel’s voice—low, hoarse, reverent—was in your ear.

“Missed this pussy so bad,” he panted. “Missed how tight you squeeze me. Missed how you fuckin’ moan when I hit that spot—right there—yeah, you feel that?”

You squealed—a sound so pure and broken it made Joel want to cry.

He couldn’t stop.

Didn’t want to stop.

Not when you were wrapped around him like this, clinging to him, crying out his name like it was the only word you remembered. Not when you were looking at him with that shattered kind of love in your eyes. Like you’d missed him just as much.

Your thigh was hooked high on his hip. Your hands were in his hair, on his back, gripping, clawing, grounding yourself. Joel could barely think—could barely breathe—with how tightly your body hugged his.

“Fuck, baby,” he panted, voice strained. “This feel good to you?”

You nodded fast, desperate. “So good—so good, Joel, I missed you—I missed this—I—”

He caught your mouth in another kiss. Swallowed the words. Gave you everything in return. His thrusts hit deep, perfect, the way only he knew how to give. And he listened for it—that cry you made when he angled just right. When he found that spot and pressed into it, unrelenting.

“There?” he murmured, dragging his hips again.

You sobbed. “There.”

Joel grinned against your cheek, even as sweat ran down his back, even as his muscles ached and trembled.

And then you were saying things—soft, half-broken, whispered against his ear like confessions.

“I love you,” you breathed. “I never stopped. I never stopped.”

His heart clenched.

He pulled back just enough to see your face, still moving inside you, still holding your gaze like it was holy.

“I love you,” he said, voice breaking. “Been lovin’ you since the start. Been waitin’ for you to come back so I could say it again.”

You kissed him—messy, desperate, teeth clicking.

“Don’t let me go again,” you whispered.

“Never,” Joel swore. “Not a fuckin’ chance.”

Then he slid a hand between your bodies. Found your clit. Pressed two fingers to it, circling slow, firm, just the way you needed.

You screamed.

Your whole body arched beneath him—taut, electric, unraveling. You came hard, pulsing around him, your voice sharp and open in his ear.

And Joel—fuck—Joel lost it.

You clenched down, and he was gone. Buried deep, his body locking up, breath stalling in his throat. He groaned loud, raw, like the release had been dragged from his bones. His forehead dropped to your shoulder as he came inside you, holding you as tight as his arms would allow.

Everything was you.

Your scent. Your breath. Your body. Your voice still saying I love you like a prayer.

Joel stayed there, wrapped around you, chest heaving against yours. The room was warm now—sweat-slick skin, tangled limbs, the sheets pushed down and forgotten. Your bodies were still joined, hearts thundering in time.

You didn’t speak.

You didn’t have to.

His breath slowed against your shoulder, nose tucked into the crook of your neck, and you ran your fingers through his hair—soft, slow strokes. He could feel your pulse beneath his lips, steady and alive. Like you were anchoring him there. Like if he let go, the world might slip again.

He didn’t want to move.

But eventually, he had to.

Joel exhaled slowly and began to pull away, his hands careful at your hips. He didn’t want to hurt you—didn’t want to lose that closeness, not even for a second.

Still buried deep, he paused.

Then he slid out of you, slow and reverent.

You whimpered softly, body shivering at the loss. Joel glanced down, and the sight of it—his cum, white and hot, spilling from you—had his throat going tight. His stomach clenched.

“Jesus,” he muttered. “Look at that.”

You shifted on the bed, stretching slightly, and the movement only made more of him leak out of you, trailing down your thighs.

Joel cursed again. His voice was raw with wonder and regret.

You looked at him, flushed and glowing. A lazy, content smile pulled at your lips.

“Gonna gawk, or you gonna hold me?” you teased gently.

He huffed a breath—half a laugh—and climbed back into bed, gathering you into his arms like you were something fragile. He tugged the blanket up over both of you, let your head rest on his chest, one hand smoothing over your back, the other tangled in your hair.

For a while, it was just that.

Breathing.

Touching.

The afterglow wrapped around you like another blanket, and Joel held you tighter, like maybe he could trap time. Keep it from moving forward and tearing this moment away.

But it did move.

And eventually, you spoke.

“Can we talk?” you asked quietly.

Joel stiffened—barely. He nodded. Cleared his throat. “Yeah. Yeah, of course.”

You lifted your head just enough to meet his eyes. “I didn’t leave because I stopped loving you.”

“I know,” he said softly. “I—fuck. I know.”

Your eyes searched his. “But I needed more, Joel. I needed you. Not just your body, not just your actions. I needed your voice. Your thoughts. I needed to know what was goin’ on in your head when you shut down like that.”

Joel looked away.

The guilt was sharp. Cutting.

He exhaled, rubbing at his face. “I’ve always been like that,” he admitted. “Since… since Sarah. Since everythin’ after. When shit gets too much, I just… just go quiet. I don’t know how not to.”

You laid your palm over his chest, right above his heart.

“It hurt,” you whispered. “When we fought, and you walked away from me with silence. It made me feel like I didn’t matter. Like I was yelling into a void.”

Joel’s eyes flicked back to yours. Pain settled behind them, low and heavy.

“I don’t want you feel that way,” he said hoarsely. “I just… I didn’t know what to say. I didn’t wanna make it worse. Didn’t wanna say the wrong thing and ruin everythin’.”

“You not saying anything was the wrong thing,” you said gently. “That’s what hurt us.”

He nodded slowly. Took your hand in his. Pressed his lips to your knuckles like they were sacred.

“I know. I see that now.” He swallowed hard. “I want to fix that.”

Your expression softened.

“I don’t expect you to change overnight,” you murmured. “I just want to feel like you’re in this with me. That when things get hard, you don’t disappear.”

Joel’s grip on your hand tightened.

“I won’t,” he said. “You have my word.”

Silence fell again—but it was warm now. Comfortable. Like a sigh through the sheets.

After a moment, you nestled closer.

“I missed this,” you whispered. “Not just the sex. Just… this. You. Me. Quiet.”

Joel pressed his lips to your forehead.

“I missed you every damn day,” he said. “House was too quiet. Coffee didn’t taste right. Nothin’ did.”

You smiled. “You make shitty coffee anyway.”

He chuckled. “Hey now. It’s improved. Slightly…”

You laughed softly and tucked yourself against his side, a perfect fit.

Joel stared at the ceiling for a while, then turned his gaze down to you.

“I’m gonna try. I want this—you. For long as you’ll have me.”

You looked up at him, eyes shining again.

“Forever sound okay?”

Joel kissed you, slow and soft, like it was the easiest vow he’d ever made.

“Forever sounds perfect.”

Guys, it feels really good to be writing something different, other than terms & conditions. I love t&C, I really do, but something new never hurt anyone once in a while!