#cariad there's something on... like... but...

With crossed arms, you take a seat on his bed beside him, staring at the floor. “Why me?”

“I just told you, because we’re not strangers. We love each other, don’t we?”

“No, Stanley.” You shake your head, lifting your eyes to his, clutching your bicep a little tighter when you see the panic in his eyes. “Why me?”

He takes a moment to respond, not to collect his thoughts and come up with a reason, but to give himself time. Time to prepare, to let go of the secret he’s kept well hidden under his facade. “Because I can’t imagine it being anyone else but you.” He lifts his eyes to meet yours, fingers twitching on his lap as if he were restraining himself from reaching out to you. “I don’t want anyone but you.” 

It’s not a lot, but it’s enough.

—

We won’t be awkward. He’d said, but Stanley is frozen in his place as he watches you inch towards his headboard. Even when you gesture him forward, to meet you in the middle, he stays rooted in place at the foot of the bed, standing like an idiot. 

With a sigh, you scoot back to him, taking his hands carefully and placing them at your waist. You keep your eyes on his as his fingers clutch the hem of your shirt, slowly lifting it past your head. His eyes shoot down for a split second, then they come right back to yours with a soft sigh. 

When it’s his turn, his breath stutters, your fingers pause briefly, his shirt pulled up halfway, before he nods his head and shuts his eyes while you pull it off completely. 

“We can go slow, or we can go fast.” You say quietly, tracing shapes mindlessly against his skin. “Whatever you want, Stanley, I’m okay with.” 

He only nods, placing a hand at your waist and the other on the back of your neck. Slowly, he lowers you down to the bed, gulping as he takes in the way you look under him– on his bed, naked. 

“I’ve never–”

“I know.” Your voice is soft, the way you look at him is soft, your skin, your eyes, you. “I know you a lot better than you think, Stanley.” As your fingers tangle in his hair, he dips his head down slowly, brushing his lips against yours to test the waters, before he presses onto you without hesitation. 

He pulls back the second he feels like he can’t breathe, lips shiny from your tongue, wet as he immediately makes a line of kisses down your jaw to your neck. He nips at your pulse point, relishing in the feeling of your fingers digging into his skin, repeating his actions just to hear you make that sweet sound again. 

Stanley pulls back a second time to see what he’s done, reveling at the sight of the deep colored mark on your skin– captivated by it so much that something stirs inside him. He turns his head to the side, offering his neck quietly in hopes you get his message. 

I did it to you, now you do it to me. 

Your lips latch onto his neck, a strangled sound rising out of his throat as you bite carelessly into his skin. His arms nearly give way when your hips lift to meet his, one hand flying down to your waist hastily to keep you at bay, as if the action alone was enough to push him over to the other side. 

“Impatient, are we?” 

A breathy chuckle falls past your lips and onto his skin, “Shut up.” 

Despite the calm tone in his voice, his fingers tremble as they travel down your stomach. He keeps his eyes on you, forehead pressed against yours, trying hard to ignore the tightness in his chest when his fingers press into you. 

Your breath catches in your throat, a choked-back noise falling past, and your fingers dig into Stanley's skin hard enough to leave a mark. 

“You alright?” He asks, gentle, like the kiss he presses against your forehead in hopes of soothing you. 

“Yeah,” You nod, easing up on your grip. “Just feels weird.” He inches his fingers a little deeper, watching your hips lift again, then flits his eyes back to you for any word. “Keep going, I’m alright.” 

Stanley tries to hold back, but the sounds you're making, the way your body is curving into his, cloud his head, his judgment, and his senses. His pace is unforgiving, fast but somehow still gentle, with his lips glued to yours, swallowing every sound you make. 

He pauses his movements when your hands tap his shoulder, your hips are still rocking against his fingers– barely– face twisted with pleasure. “You’re doing so well.” He whispers, swallowing dryly when your movements quicken at his praise. “You sound so pretty, sweetheart.”

He drops his head down to your neck when his name comes out of you with a whimper, he kisses mindlessly, breath hot against your skin. You haven’t even touched him properly yet, and he’s already losing his mind.

When your hips no longer lift, he pulls his fingers out of you slowly, kissing your cheek when you hiss at the loss of contact. He holds them awkwardly at his side, propping himself up with one hand beside your head. 

“You want some water?” He asks hesitantly, grabbing the bottle off his desk when you nod. He looks at anything but you while you sip, jolting when you press the cold bottle against his chest. “Rude.” He takes it from your hold, tossing back a long sip before returning it to its place. 

“You have condoms?” You ask, already moving to rummage in his nightstand, cheering in triumph when you find the box. 

He stutters when you draw him close, tearing the condom open carefully. “Don’t you need to like– I don’t know, rest? You’re not sensitive?” 

“We’ll go slow this time. This is different than just fingers.” His eyes trace over you carefully before nodding, holding his breath when you slip the condom onto him, and hiding his face when his hips buck involuntarily. “Do you want me to…?” You trail off mid-sentence, but Stanley understood you completely. 

He nods, at first hesitantly, but when you don’t make any moves and just stare at him, he nods again, firmer. “Please.” He sighs, hiding his face again.

The moment your lips wrap around him, his heart nearly seizes in his chest. His hips stutter, and he’s sure that if you weren’t holding them, he’d have bucked right into your throat without warning. 

Someone once told him sex didn’t feel as good when wearing a condom, he wonders if that person was lying to his face– because this feels just like heaven. 

Stanley doesn’t bite back his moan when you take him in fully, doesn’t shy away when your eyes lift to meet his; he stares back with flushed cheeks and pinched brows– something about that tells you he’s already close. 

His fingers tangle in your hair, grabbing a fistful to tug experimentally, something a friend of his had mentioned once: ‘It feels good in the moment,’ or something like that. His teeth sink into his lips when that draws out a moan from you, breath catching when the vibrations go straight through him. 

“If you do that again, I won’t last another minute, seriously.” He says shakily.

You pull off him briefly, licking your lips at his tuckered-out face. “Good.”

Your hand moves at the same relentless pace he’d shown you earlier, not letting up even when he nearly falls over from how good it felt. 

“You’re close, aren’t you?” You whispered against his skin after his body had curled down to yours. His hands grip your shoulders subconsciously, half needing something to ground himself to, half just wanting to touch you. 

He nods into your shoulder, stuttering out a broken plea, over and over again until his whole body shudders, and he’s filling the condom full. 

“Such a mess, pretty boy.” 

Stanley drags a hand down his face, still struggling to catch his breath. “Shut up.”

“Why don’t you make me?” His head lifts at the challenge, eyes darting to your hand as you carefully slip the spent rubber off of him and replace it with a new one. “Comfortable yet, Stan?” 

He pushes you down with a little more force than he means to, but when your body lifts from the bed to grind against his, he figures you would be alright with him not holding back anymore. 

———

Stanley has four days left before he leaves. 

He ignores you for the first two, an immature solution to keep his overflowing emotions at bay. But he still texts you to reassure you (and himself) that he doesn’t regret the other night, that he’s just sorting things out at home, and that he’ll see you soon. 

On his last night before deployment, Stanley finds himself sitting with you in his backyard, staring mindlessly as his dog chases fireflies out of the bushes. 

“Will you miss me?”

He knows it was a simple question; one where you’re not looking for an honest answer, just something sarcastic, an answer that was one hundred percent him. But it still hits him in a place he never imagined would hurt as much as it did. It sinks in slowly, present, like watching a doctor inject something into you. 

“Yeah,” he swallows thickly on the words aching to come out. “I guess.”

A weak laugh fills the silent air around you, forced, almost as if you felt the same way as he did. “I guess I’ll miss you too.”

“I’ll be back before you know it.” He says, whether to assure you or himself, he didn’t know. You can only muster up a nod in response, Stanley tries to ignore the sight of tears brimming in your eyes, and starts talking to you like it’s just another day. 

As if he wasn’t leaving you behind. 

—

Stanley’s been gone for three months. It’s short, a summer's worth, but it felt like forever. 

He’s still the same, with shorter hair and a stance that feels more rigid than composed, as if he wasn’t convinced he was as hardened as others thought. 

There’s less than a week before he has to leave again, he doesn’t know how long this time, a month or a year– maybe even longer– and Stanley’s feet carry him to the one place he’s been dreaming of since he set foot off the base. 

The door to your house mocks him as he lifts his fist to knock, breath caught in his throat because he isn’t prepared for what, or who, he’ll see on the other side of the door. 

But it opens before he can rap his knuckles against the cold steel, you’re in the middle of laughing at something someone inside says, utterly unaware that he was right in front of you. 

And then you bump into his chest with everything but grace, cursing under your breath at the, quote, brick wall you’ve just collided with. Your hand is on his chest, whether you knew it or not, and your eyes haven’t quite met his yet. 

“Missed me?” He asks softly, almost afraid of what you’ll answer with, nearly bashful about wanting to hear you say yes. 

“Stanley.” When your eyes meet his, he has to bite the inside of his cheek to keep himself from smiling too widely. Only offering half a smirk to maintain his cool image. “You didn’t–” a laugh of disbelief slips past before your fist hits his chest playfully. “You didn’t tell me you’d be home!” 

When your arms wrap around him, Stanley feels like he’s reached heaven. Melting into your embrace unashamedly, holding you tightly against his body until you pulled away. 

“Look at you,” you huff, eyes slowly tracing his figure. “Only three months, and you’ve gone through a second puberty.” 

He scoffs, “Don’t be ridiculous. It’s just muscle gain.” You respond with a shrug, watching as his eyes travel across you without a care, narrowing your own when he hums. “You’re just as pretty as the day I left.” 

“You’re an idiot.” 

“So be it,” he shrugs, slipping his hand into yours. “As long as it means I’m yours.” 

“Oh, wow.” You whistled, tugging lightly to bring him closer to you. “Did they teach you that in your training camp? How to woo someone with precision?” 

He hums, nodding his head. “Part of the manipulation tactics of war. Pretty interesting stuff.” A laugh breaks out when you shove him away from you, only for him to bring you back in even closer from behind. “I’m kiddin', sweetheart. You know that.” 

“Course I do,” a light kiss to his cheek makes his grip on you falter, just enough to let you turn in his hold. “I just like seeing you chase.” 

“Well, I’ll keep running after you my whole life if it means I get to hold you like this every time.”

—

Before you can get used to him, Stanley tells you he’s leaving again in a week. It’s quick, mumbled blearily into your hair as he awakes from slumber, and it pierces through your heart fast like an arrow. 

You try to pull away before he can take in too much of you. 

Yet, you still indulge in his every desire. You go to the street fair with him, you accept the ugly stuffed duck he wins for you, and you take a bite out of the nastiest fried food you’ve ever had when he holds it up to your lips. You do everything you said you wouldn’t do because he asks. 

Because this is Stanley’s last bit of freedom and pleasure before he’s off to board a Naval ship to god knows where for months, maybe years. A place where he couldn’t coax an employee to let him toss a few more rings on bottles to win his date a prize, a limited area where the closest thing to leisure was quiet hours when you weren’t on watch. 

You still have him for three days, but you tell him you miss him anyway.

“I’m right beside you, sweetheart.” He says with a laugh, but you can feel how heavy it is.

“I know,” he pulls you closer. “It just feels different when you don’t know how long you’ll be gone.” 

Stanley tries to make it up to you the next morning. Though it was executed poorly because he’s just given you a taste of waking to an empty, cold bed. 

He walks in with a tray, kicking his bedroom door shut before the dog can waltz in and demand a bite. Two plates, one undoubtedly his by the odd colored pancakes compared to yours– protein-rich, he tells you, they taste horrible from what you can remember. 

He talks to you in a hushed voice, for what reason you can’t decipher. Brings his fork to your lips so you can try a bite of his pancake, and holds a napkin to your lips when you make a face of disgust. 

It’s too domestic, even for you. 

“Do you know when you’ll be back?” 

Stanley sighs, not in annoyance, but in a way that feels like he’d just been handed the weight of the world. “Depends on where I end up. Could be months, could be years.” You only nod in response, moving the berries on your plate around. “You’ll still be here when I come back, won’t you?”

“I don’t want to wait around and wonder when you’ll be home, Stanley.” 

He shakes his head, “That’s not– I meant, will you still love me, even when I’m away?”

“I’ll love you for as long as I can.” 

It’s not the answer he hoped for, not a promised forever, but he accepts it anyway. 

—

Stanley spends the next day with his parents. He gets out of bed at seven in the morning despite your reluctance to let him go because his Ma wants him to come to church, and he’d rather let you sleep than drag you with him to listen to the pastor drone on about things he couldn't care less about. 

He runs deliveries with Pa, behind the wheel instead of nestled in the passenger's seat like before. Makes small talk with the customers and drinks nine full glasses of water before the sun fully rises because he couldn’t say no to the people who are kind enough to support his parents' farm. 

His phone dings as he waits for Pa to come out of the gas station bathroom, tugging it out of his pocket and flipping it open to see a text from you. 

Just had to fight Polly for the last slice of pie.

He laughs as the sight of you fighting a golden retriever over pie flashes in his mind, typing out his response as fast as the, quote, ancient, flip phone allowed him to. 

She’s an old girl. Let her win sometimes, would you?

He gets sent a frowny face in return, just as Pa wrestles the truck door open with that obnoxious knowing look on his face. “Are ya texting your sweetheart?” Stanley sighs in faux annoyance at his teasing, but nods his head regardless. “I remember when your Ma and I were like that.” 

“How did you and Ma handle being away from each other so long?” 

One look at his face, and he’s sure his Pa has him all figured out. “Oh, son,” he laughs, not in a mocking way, but in understanding because he’s been in Stanley’s place before, because he knows why he’s even asking. “It’s gonna hurt like hell, but it’ll be worth it in the end.” 

He starts driving home after Pa’s seatbelt clicks, radio static filling his ears. It’s quiet, but it’s too much. 

It startles him, the stray tear that cascades down his cheek. He tries to wipe it before his Pa can see it, but his hand reaches up to his face before Stanley’s can. “It’s alright, son.” 

Stanley tries to accept the possibility that maybe you won’t love him for as long as he will, but he can’t. 

—

He doesn’t tell you he cried at the thought of you no longer loving him. You don’t question the red under his eyes or the tight-lipped smile he gives you before he brushes past you to shower. 

His parents don’t stay for long, calling out from downstairs to tell you they’re going dancing —to relive their youth, they’d said. They aren’t that old, but you don’t argue with their reasoning. 

When the door clicks shut, you walk to the bathroom, knocking softly against the wooden door until Stanley replies with a loud ‘huh?’ 

“Can I come in?” 

A beat passes. “I’m showering.”

“I’m aware.” 

Another beat. “Alright then.” 

You twist the door open and find Stanley’s head popped out from behind the curtain, hair slicked back. “Hi.” You greet, as if he isn’t naked behind that curtain, as if this were something normal. 

“Did you want to join me or something?” 

“If that’s alright with you.” 

Stanley meant it as a joke. 

But now you’re standing with him under the stream of water, diligently working shampoo through his hair while his hands are wrapped around you in fear of you getting cold. It should feel suffocating, he thinks. But it’s so sweet that Stanley feels a cavity form at the thought of doing this with you again. 

He leaves tomorrow. 

The joke is on his tongue. The same one he said to you before he left for boot camp, the same one that ended up with you being tangled in his sheets, sharing a warmth that only came from two people who loved each other. 

He doesn’t say it. 

Arguably, against the words of a lot of his squadmates and friends, this was a lot better than sex. 

The feeling of your fingers carding through his hair, massaging shampoo into his hair, and washing it out with that same care. Your hands running along his shoulders to wash away soap, the laughter that follows when you reach that area, and your hands freeze in midair just before you could touch him. 

“You take such good care of me.” He whispers, faint, almost unheard. 

“Only because I love you.” You respond, sighing at the feeling of his thumb rubbing circles over your skin. 

He doesn’t say it back, not just yet. 

——

You try to leave Stanley before he can leave you. 

It’s the break of dawn, and he’s begging you not to leave. 

“You should spend the rest of your time with your parents.” You try to tell him, but his only rebuttal is that he’s spent his whole life with them already. He holds you close, grip loose enough for you to escape, just in case you truly wanted to leave him so early. 

Your body relaxes— melts, practically— into his arms. You curse yourself for giving in to him so easily, but don’t make any effort to leave a second time. 

Stanley holds you tighter. You feel like you can’t breathe. 

“I don’t want you to leave.” 

It comes out quick, a whisper, but loud enough for him to hear. Stanley doesn’t say anything at first, not that you expect him to.

“Don’t,” he sighs, nudging his head against yours. “Don’t say things like that.” You can hear it, despite his effort to muffle it; the slight tremor in his voice, the heartache that he tried to push down. “I might actually stay.” 

Your hold on him gets tighter. Stanley feels like he can’t breathe. 

It wasn’t supposed to turn out like this. 

It was supposed to be a one-time thing between two friends who loved each other a little more than anyone else. A parting gift– something fun. 

He wasn’t supposed to fall deeper in love. You weren’t supposed to let him any closer. 

“You know,” you start quietly, loosening your grip slightly. “When you first left, I tried to hate you.” Stanley hums in acknowledgement and lets you continue. “For how you left– our goodbye, I mean—”

“I didn’t like how we left things.” You admit, “That we had sex and said those half-hearted goodbyes that probably meant everything back then.” Then with a scoff, “I didn’t even say I love you back, Stanley.”

“It’s not like that this time, is it?” He asks, staring at your back when you move to sit up. He watches you shake your head, as you try to hide the tears behind your hand, while your shaking shoulders betray you. 

“I love you.” He says, “I’ll love you when I’m away, and love you more when I get back.” Your eyes are hidden, but you can hear Stanley moving to sit in front of you. “And even if you find someone else when I’m away,” he grabs your hands gently, moving them away from your face and to his lap. “I’ll still love you.”

“You don’t mean that.” 

Stanley, with the nerve, chuckles at your doubt. “I do. Have I ever lied to you?” 

You want to throw a rebuttal, but you can’t because no, he hasn’t. 

“I’m sorry I said I wouldn’t wait for you.” At your apology, his posture straightens slightly– almost unnoticeable. “I didn’t mean it, I was just upset.”

“Hey, you don’t have to explain to me.” He assures, smiling softly. “I’m sure I would’ve said the same.” It’s not a total lie, despite his composure and level-headedness (his words), Stanley was just like everyone else; someone who spoke before thinking in the heat of the moment.

“Does that mean you’ll wait for me?” 

The room feels smaller than before at his question, too abrupt, too expected. He doesn’t look at you, almost like he knows how you’ll answer, as if he knew you wouldn’t.

“There’s nothing else I’d rather do.” 

To some, the quiet was haunting. Lonely. Something to avoid. To you, it was peace. Safety. Something to cherish.

It was one of those rare evenings of quiet, untouched by the horrors of the world around you. Life seemed to hold its breath, suspended in a moment of tranquility. It wouldn’t last; it never did. But as you eased yourself through the door of the little cottage you and Remus owned on the outskirts of London, exhausted and wishing desperately to do nothing but sink into your husband's arms, you were desperate to make the most of it.

Remus was waiting for you, sat on one of the barstools at the kitchen island, bowed over the latest edition of the Daily Prophet – you caught a glimpse of the headline: MUGGLE FAMILY SLAUGHTERED IN BRUTAL ATTACK. You swallowed heavily, stomach twisting. You still hadn’t grown used to the fact that it was happening again. All the torturing, the purgings, the disappearances, the deaths… 

It was hard to forget all the people you had lost to this madness. To them. Lily, James, Marlene, Dorcas, Regulus, Mary, Sirius. Even Peter, strangled by his own false limb, as Harry had told them. Now it was just you and Remus left, wrapped around each other, clinging to one another as if it were the only thing keeping the world in place.

He looked up as the door closed behind you, and your heart clenched at the exhaustion that clung to his frame. Dark bags hung under his eyes, the warm brown lacking the sparkle they used to hold. You hadn’t seen it in a while, and missed it with a ferocity that was staggering. His hair was dishevelled, peppered with grey from a life of exhaustion and loss, his skin pale and slashed with scars – you had never seen anything more beautiful. 

His eyes softened, and his wedding ring glinted in the low light as he stretched out his hand to you. There was relief there, the kind of relief that came with loving something so completely and living in a world where they could be taken from you at any waking moment. “Hey, Dove.”

“Hey.” Your smile was soft and tired as you slid your fingers into his, letting him pull you between his legs. His hands smoothed over your sides, soft and comforting, large fingers warm through the material of your coat. 

You leant against him, tangling your fingers in his hair. Remus exhaled, shuddery and heavy, pressing his face into your chest, holding you close. “M’ glad you’re home, cariad.” 

You felt lighter like this, in his embrace, like the death and darkness that clung to every breath wasn’t as stark, as overwhelming. “So am I. It was a long day.”

You could feel the way Remus tensed against you, the way his shoulders bunched and his fingers dug further into your sides. “You’re okay? You’re not hurt?”

You smoothed a hand over the back of his head. “I’m okay. Just tired. And sore.”

And horrified. Voldemort had been at the height of his power during the first wizarding war, back when it had seemed exciting and thrilling to be part of something so big, before they knew just what it was like to lose something, to lose everything. Now, he was back, and seeing what he was fully capable of, knowing it better than most…

Remus pressed a kiss against your collarbone and lifted himself off the stool until he was towering over you, tucking you under his chin. He lifted one hand to thread his fingers through your hair, as if the soft strands were soothing to him, as if he were breathing you in. 

“I’ve got you,” he said lowly, swaying you softly back and forth. 

For a moment, you just let yourselves exist. Let yourselves feel the quiet, the peace, the softness, the love. Love was rare, in the midst of war – it was fleeting, it fell apart, personalities shifting under pressure, terror warping the brain, warping trust – and yet it was everything too, holding the very fabric of the world together. 

You had seen what the absence of love did to people in times like these. Saw how it twisted their hearts until black and white became grayscale and morals fell to the wayside. You were short in supply of people to love now, and those that you did were no better off than the two of you, fighting every day to turn the tide of a war that couldn’t be won. 

You sighed, burying your face into the soft fabric of his jumper, inhaling the smell of cigarette smoke and laundry detergent that was just so Remus. Your eyes fluttered shut as he cradled the back of your head, rubbing his thumb soothingly under your ear.

“Are you on duty tonight?” You asked, your words muffled into his chest.

Remus shook his head. “No, love.”

“Hmm, good. I’ve got you tonight, then.”

“You have me forever.” He leant back slightly to press a soft kiss to the crown of your head. “Now come on, dovey. I’ve got dinner in the oven and a new book to read.”

You laughed, pulling back slightly to smile up at him. Ah, there it was. That gleam in his eyes that made you feel like you were sixteen again, walking hand in hand through the corridors of Hogwarts with your friends around you, war nothing but a distant echo on the horizon. 

“And where do I factor into these plans?” You asked teasingly.

“Oh, you’re central to them.” He tugged you gently by the wrist to the sofa – it was an old thing, dents in the cushions that fit your bodies perfectly, fabric worn and stained in places from spilt coffee and hot chocolate and years of living. 

Your entire cottage was like that. You couldn’t afford much, even before the war when jobs all but evaporated and every spare second was spent either in a battle or in whatever hidey hole the Order had scrounged together for you to scheme in. It was harder still with Remus’ condition – not many people were willing to hire a werewolf, a fact that never ceased to make you seethe with rage whenever you thought about it. 

The cottage was small, cozy, and absolutely filled to the brim with books and blankets and candles. What had once been creature comforts had now evolved into a desperate attempt to stave away the frigid cold of the outside world and what was happening in it. 

The kitchen table was overflowing with scraps and paper and coffee mugs, a vase of flowers knocking on death's door sat in the middle. Bookshelves lined every wall, a combination of Remus’ classics and whatever genre had captured your attention. Plants dangled from the tops of furniture, in desperate need of watering, and a tv sat on a small stand next to a window whose linen curtains had been pulled tight. 

You hadn’t touched the tv for a while now. Every news channel only served as a reminder, and a reminder was the last thing you needed.

“C’mere,” Remus said, settling himself onto the couch and leaving absolutely no room for you. You didn’t complain, though. You knew what he wanted. Instead, you shed your coat and boots, letting them fall uselessly to the floor. 

He held out his arms, and you smiled as you all but climbed on top of him, turning your face into his neck. You sighed, feeling the weight of the world slowly leave you. Here, there were no wars, no dark wizards hunting for blood, no possibility of death looming around every corner. There was only you, and him, and a calm quiet that you clung to. 

“What’s on your mind, darling?” Remus asked, mumbling the words into your hair as he reached for the book lying on the coffee table. He didn’t open it yet, though, merely waited for you to respond. 

What wasn’t on your mind? You sifted through your thoughts, trying to find one that didn’t make your insides feel cold. You failed. 

“I’m worried about Harry,” you said eventually. 

This was, perhaps, the worst of your troubles. You didn’t care that he was seventeen and technically an adult, he was still just a boy. He was James and Lily’s son. Whenever you looked at him, all you could see was the baby you had held and spoiled and fought to watch over after his parents’ deaths. You hadn’t forgiven Dumbledore for sending him to the Dursleys instead of letting him live with you and Remus, and likely never would.

Remus made a comforting noise, smoothing a hand down your spine. 

“He’s just a boy, Rem. And he’s out there somewhere, hunting for these things, and we have no idea where he is or if he’s safe. We already lost James and Lily. We can’t lose him too.”

“We won’t,” Remus said softly, but his voice wavered, and you knew you had touched on a great fear of his as well. “He’s strong. He’s as brave as his dad, and as smart as his mum. He’ll be okay.”

“But he’s also reckless like James. And You–Know–Who wants him dead.”

“He’ll be okay,” Remus said again, and you weren’t sure if he was trying to convince you or himself. “He will. He’ll come back, and when all this is over we can get to know him better. Know him properly. Be there for him.”

You nodded, tucking the words away in your heart. “I’m so tired of all this. All this running, hiding. I’m tired of constantly checking that the wards on the house are okay, I’m tired of not being able to visit our friends' graves, I’m tired of not being able to just be with you properly without being terrified that the next time I say goodbye to you it’ll be permanently.” 

“I know,” Remus said quietly, lifting his free hand to cup the back of your head. He didn’t try to offer false assurances. Lord knew he was as terrified as you were. “I hate it too. I’m exhausted. I just want it all to be over. It scares me too, you know. Knowing that there are people out there who want you dead, who are hunting you down. Every time you’re out of my sight, it’s like I can’t breathe.”

He held you tighter, pressing light kisses against your hairline. 

“I can’t promise that everything will be okay,” he said. “I wish I could. What I can promise is that I love you. I love you, and I have loved you, and I will love you until we die. I can’t give you assurances, or tell you that it’ll be over soon. But I can give you this. Us. Quiet moments.”

You looked up at him, something soft breaking open inside your chest as you reached for his left hand and ran your fingers over the golden band there. “It’s enough,” you said with a small smile. “It’ll always be enough.”

You’d move eventually. To get dinner, to get hot chocolate, to settle yourselves in bed upstairs and wake to a new day of chaos and shadows. Now, though, you were content to lie there and listen to Remus read his book aloud, his arms around you and your mind quiet for the first time in weeks.

You used to be more prepared.

You used to be a lot of things. But this is the main one that bothers you now as you walk the damp road glowing under streetlamps, trailing the short distance to the gas station to buy soap and laundry detergent and paper towels and- Jesus, did you remember to get anything anymore?

Scatterbrained. That’s what your friends had called you after you were twenty minutes late to dinner one night, citing that you had forgotten it was happening and then lost your phone, your keys, your shoes. They’d said it with laughter and so you laughed too, but it was the perfect phrase for you now. Scattered brain. Brain in pieces. Fragments scattered over fifty states. Some you pass on your way to work and others you’ll never see again.

And you apologise, yes, you’re always apologising nowadays. Sorry, sorry, sorry, second nature, word vomit, like you can’t help the way it comes out of you.

Maybe it was for the best. Your newly crowned state of ‘forgetful’ would do you some good, you hoped. Better than never forgetting anything at all. That would probably be worse.

Between stormy showers, you had escaped your apartment and braced the cold night. Halfway there, the rain started again but you trudged on and barely noticed. What’s there to worry about? It’s not like you’re going home to anything, anyone, important.

The gas station was quiet. People avoiding the rain. There was only one guy filling his car, something old about him despite his young face, and not in a good way – as though his mistakes had aged him.

You head past them, ankles damp from puddles kicked up with your steps. A man leaves the store and he holds the door for you. You smile and nod in thanks and glide under his arm before it shuts behind you with a ding, a rusty bell marking your arrival.

You grab what you need first. Soap. Detergent. Aren’t you out of shampoo? You grab the cheap one that’ll smell like paint stripper more than the green apples it says it will. Scratching your damp hair, you know you should shower tonight. You bundle the paper towels under your arm and then round the aisle, finding the snacks. Bingeing in front of the TV isn’t exactly the most glamorous way to spend your evening. Probably not even remotely good for you. Still, you grab a bag of cheesy tortilla chips. The one behind it falls over and hits the floor.

“Fuck.” You mumble under your breath, annoyed, scooping your items awkwardly to pick it up and stuff it back on the shelf.

When you peer up, the chocolate bars call you – fuck it, what’s a Mars bar to a shitty night?

You grab one too and then head to the till. Ah, booze. That’s another thing. The 2000s films all told you that part. Drink wine and eat ice cream and watch some romcom or something. That doesn’t really happen nowadays. It’s all about scrolling until your brain switches off, and when it does, you don’t feel much of anything at all, and that’s the point – you think, you’re sure – to make it all go away. Who needs drugs when you’ve got a million and one people shitting their opinion across your screen every minute?

Your friends told you to get into online dating. Tinder is the new coffee shop meet cute! You don't think there's much cute about swiping on guys the same way you swipe on a second hand turtleneck with a red wine stain on the collar. Still, you suppose it would be nice to have someone. Anyone to call your own. Like you'll have somewhere to put all your muchness. Instead of stuffing it down with tortilla chips and chocolate and smothering it with the buzz of a dead brain. All this, you think, as you gaze at a red wine that's on discount for three dollars.

At the clank of glass bottles, you look.

Joel.

He’d grabbed a beer. Just a beer. There are some rain drops in his hair. Does he look older? No, it’s the light. Have you seen him at this gas station before? If you had then you surely would’ve avoided it. That one was closer to your work, you think, you’re not sure. But it doesn’t matter, because he’s here.

Joel glances at you.

It’s all so much more real then.

Dirty jeans with some paint on the knees and rubbed from his hands to his thighs, though there’s still some in the ridges of his knuckles. His shirt is dirty too but not as much – he must’ve abandoned a jacket in the car. It’s a shitty day, even he would be freezing out there. You swallow, a rock in your throat now leaving a dent in your stomach.

Joel pauses. Oh god, oh god, it’s you, and he’s not the panicking type but he hadn’t expected it at all. He marks the droplets in your hair and how your fingers are curled awkwardly to hold all you picked up – too stubborn for a basket, obviously.

How these months have passed.

So fast and so slow, too.

You thought you might be decomposing before you saw him again. And by then, you could knit the bones of your fingers together and finally be free of the guilt that comes from wanting someone so much - so much that it scares you to death.

For a brief moment, oh so brief, too brief, you forget, then you remember all over again, grieve once more, remember the long months you spent together, an eternal summer made up of clingy hands, quiet smiles, and warm spaces, then scalded when you got too close to the sun, became too much yourselves. Always so far away. He was. He could be right next to you and a hundred miles away too.

How long has it been? Two months, maybe.

You should be counting the days. That’s what grieving people do.

But maybe, unlike grieving people, there is something to be done when the person you mourn is still alive - rules to break and conventions to cast aside like spoilt fruit, phones to call and houses to drive to, and there are actual consequences, like the look on his face and the words he calls you, not just to you but to his brother and all he knows. Crazy woman. You could hear the laugh, this vicous sort of chuckle that everybody would share, thinking that you’re pathetic. You have tried so hard not to be seen like that anymore. Haven't you dealt with that feeling enough? The insignificance? The thing that will never fit? The only safe thing to do is not think about it - him - lest you hurt yourself more. How Joel smells and smirks and smiles, how his hand finds the small of your back, or how he wakes you up with a coffee and an apology about pulling you from your dreams at all. No, you can’t think of any of that, so you can’t grieve.

And Joel thinks to speak – politeness, that good old fashioned southern gentleman manners.

You turn away and head to the till, warm in the face, and Joel is left feeling a level of dejected that makes him hate himself.

The hell are you doing here like this?

You seem lonely. Cluttered. Overwhelmed. On a mission to not be yourself. He calls himself a hypocrite because maybe he's doing the same. He should have left work hours ago and been home eating dinner.

He swallows and hovers, letting you go to the clerk.

The bell above the door rings and a cloaked man comes in, shrugging his wet hood off.

He queues behind you, too close, and not just too close for Joel’s liking but too close for yours. The hairs on the back of your neck stand up. You peer back, a quick glance, then shuffle forward to get away from him. Joel observes it all with sweat on the nape of his neck and a scowl stitching his brow.

It’s a feeling, he can’t explain, he’d call it intuition if he believed in mumbo-jumbo like that, so instead it's common sense. Weird fuckin’ guy walks in, acting like that the first chance he gets. The winter night is dark and it’s wet out, and there’s nobody here who looks like they’ll intervene if she – you – gets upset.

No, it just isn’t right. Just ain’t right.

He puts the beer back. Swallows, then heads out of the store, keeping an eye on you through the window.

You pay.

You walk away very fast.

You don’t see Joel on the way out. But he sees you and says nothing, lets you go.

The other man is quick as he leaves the gas station. He peers around both ways, then sees you, and that’s when Joel’s hand finds the man’s chest, pushing him back. The man looks up at him wide-eyed.

“Think you’re meant to go that way, is that right?” Joel nods in the other direction.

“The hell?” the man grunts.

“That’s where you will be goin’ if you don’t get.” Joel gestures away, “Go on.”

The man gives up easily. He heads off then, shaking his head, tugging his wet hood up over his skull.

Joel’s jaw ticks and he sighs, and he watches you disappear into the dark and the rain, walking quickly. He gets in his truck. Tells himself not to go after you. But you are going the same way he’s going and the rain is horrible, and he’s a lot of things but he’s not an asshole – but maybe the asshole thing to do is pick you up and make this worse.

He passes you at first. Drive, old man, c’mon…

He slows before he realises. A few yards from you, he comes to a stop, tapping his steering wheel.

You recognise Joel’s truck, hell, you’d recognise it anywhere, and not just because of the obvious signs, like the big old branding Miller Contracting on the side with a hammer and a house in the head, smoke coming from the chimney. You pause, arms all crossed, holding a shitty paper bag that’s already tearing at the corners.

You walk past him, a stubborn thing. Joel tuts, honks, and drives forward again as he rolls down the window.

“Hey!” he calls, an irritableness to his tone, and you glance at him.

You keep walking because you don’t know what else to do without being a huge dick.

Joel drives slowly, a snail’s pace, keeping up with you.

“C’mon, let me take you home!” he tries again.

“I’m fine!” you yell.

“It’s five minutes- please, let me take you home.”

Your bag starts to fall apart in your grasp.

Pausing, you look at him properly then. The torrential rain drowns you in moments. Sighing, you look up and down, and you think about being an asshole to him so he will leave you alone, but truthfully, you’re still shocked to see him at all.

“You remember where I live?” you ask him.

“Just up that way…” he nods, “look, please?”

And he begs again. You sigh.

Shivering, you break and get in the car. You dump your bag in your lap and settle right at the edge, as far away from him as you can be in the confined space.

You hate yourself for it but you check the truck. You look for signs of other people having been here. There’s mud on the floor beneath your feet. The fans are closed, no cold air allowed in your direction. For kicks, you tug down the mirror to check yourself. It’s a little mucky, not wiped clean, a thick dusty thumbprint on the corner – Tommy, probably. You wipe the rain from under your eyes and shift your hair from your cooled complexion.

Flicking the mirror back up, you sniff and look at him.

And Joel is trying very hard to be polite. Respectful. Understanding. Even if it hurts.

Your presence in the car is like pressing an old bruise, one you push just to remember how it hurts.

“I…” he goes to speak, then realises he doesn’t have much to say, “you cold?”

He doesn’t wait, instead opting to turn the heat on.

You flinch when he does, at how his hand shoots out between the two of you. Joel catches it and thinks to speak but says nothing. You’re not sure what has you so jumpy. Like Joel would ever hurt you. He never tried to do that; in a way, that was sort of the problem, how little effort it took.

The truck rumbles down the street, newly fuelled, the rain beating the glass like bullets. You think it’ll shatter and pierce your skin with a thousand cuts and it still would be a warm compress to the agony of sitting beside Joel, pretending everything’s fine, and knowing it’s so clear that nothing is at all.

Joel glances your way.

“Thanks for giving me a ride.” You tell him softly.

“’s fine, it’s…” I’d do it a hundred thousand times, do this short journey, drive across town to take you from here to home. He swallows and feels pathetic, shifting in his seat, “shouldn’t be out late anyway.”

“I didn’t intend to be.” You tell him, jaw ticking.

“I ain’t tellin’ you what to do.” Joel’s voice is harsh and a reminder to both of you.

“Well…” you trail off with nothing else to say.

The rain continues on and threatens thunder too. You look up to the dark clouds that have muted the sky’s attempts at softening. A draft coming from Joel’s slightly open window bothers you but you won’t say anything.

Joel watches the shapes of raindrops cast on to your face as you drive under streetlights. Blurs of gold and orange, shadows and images brushing your face like he’s cloud-gazing, searching for shapes in the nothing.

“’s just here.” You say.

“I got it.” Joel’s voice is dismissive and almost amused at the prospect of him forgetting where you live, where you’d moved to, leaving the home empty for him to relish in.

“I saw you scare that guy.” You tell him.

“What guy?”

You glance at him, knowing, and it’s like looking at the sun, how it hurts you. You think you see a smirk on his lips. He doesn’t change.

“I got a switchblade on my keychain now, anyhow.”

“Jesus. You know how to use that thing?”

“Think I can work out how to stab somebody. If I have any issues, I’ll call you.”

“Good.” He murmurs.

Some more quiet, then he speaks again.

“Hey, I forgot to ask you. Did you take that big multipack of batteries when you moved out?”

“What?”

“You know, the huge one with all those different batteries in it – we coded it with that label maker.”

“Oh. Yeah.” You say, “Why?”

He scoffs, head shaking, “Had a power cut the other week. Damn batteries in my torch were dead, I couldn’t find any. I was in the dark for hours.”

“Oh. Sorry.” You say then.

“That’s alright.” He shrugs, “Least I know what happened to ‘em, and I’d rather you have them in an emergency than me. Worst case, I look like a damn fool bumpin’ into all my shit.”

You want to smile or laugh, but you bite the urge down. It slips out, right at the corner of your mouth, and Joel catches it. Always so quick to see your micro-expressions. He’s more perceptive than people give him credit for.

You’re sitting on his jacket, too. It has the same logo that the side of his battered truck has. You’ve worn this thing many times – when you get cold, when you forget your coat, or when you’d been straddling him, the zip down, your thighs bare. It always smelt like him, that was the thing, and all he’d done that day. Joel would beg you back then, let me buy you one, honey, this one’s all dirty, you don’t want this on you, and he even did, trying to convince you, but you preferred the one that he had.

“I don’t think I got anythin’ of yours. You need those batteries?”

“No, no, it’s fine.” His head shakes.

“You can have them – I don’t think I’ve touched them. Just sitting in a new drawer.” You pick at your fingernails and a shiver runs through you, cold from the rain, and Joel turns the heating up higher even when he starts to sweat, “Anything else you’re missing?”

He looks at you, wondering  if you’re being malicious or starting a fight, but he says, “No,” and tries to sound hard like he means it.

You hadn’t meant it any special way, but his response, so firm, unsettles you.

“Good.” You rasp quietly.

You tighten the noose around your upset, scared of letting it show.

Joel’s truck slows by your apartment building and he sighs. His grip tightens and loosens on the steering wheel, one hand leaving to push hair out of his face. He had only been here once when he was dropping off some of your things. Unsure of the area, he couldn’t help but scrutinise the place, the people, how weak the buildings looked. He even asked Tommy if he’d taken an odd job around there just to see if there were any problems localised to where you’d taken up residence.

He puts the truck in park. It all goes silent without the white noise of the AC.

“Thanks, Joel.” And it sounds like a whimper, maybe it is, “’m sorry.”

“For what?” Joel’s tone is tender now. He leans forward and tries to observe your expression, but you look away and make it all the harder for him.

“Uh, I-,”

“You got nothing to be sorry for. You ain’t do anything wrong.” He swallows hard, “You get yourself inside, alright? Get warm, get out of those clothes, ‘fore you get sick.”

“That’s just an old wives’ tale, I think.”

“Just listen to me.” He says this sadly. The rain taps the windscreen relentlessly, “For old times’ sake or somethin’.”

You nod and swallow, much softer and quieter than you had been. Forcing a brief smile his way, you grab your bag and head out into the rain.

He doesn’t drive off. You get on to the sidewalk and feel the weight of his gaze on your spine. Looking at that building, the one you’d run to – because, you suppose now, you had run here, took the first place that was remotely acceptable and moved everything out of your home with Joel so quickly you didn’t have time to feel anything about it – there is this gaping wound across your chest that tears open more and more.

Turning to peer at Joel now, you try to think before you speak but can’t.

“I didn’t want to break up.” you roar over the rain, a stubborn thing, looking back at him through the storm that blurs the world – makes you untrusting of everything you hear or see or feel – and Joel stares back at you through the half-open window, the glass misting most of him. You see his eyes clear as day. Always have.

“What?” he calls.

“I said I didn’t want to break up!” there’s a moment of quiet where the truth hangs high above you, then you know you must explain yourself, “I just… it felt like we were supposed to, you know?” Say you know, say you agree, “I felt like I made you… so unhappy all the time… and you said from the start that you didn’t want drama o-or chaos or anything like that, you didn’t have time for it, and… and we would argue and it would always feel so – just – like nobody was gonna win but we had to fight because… because if we didn’t fight then it meant we were happy and we weren’t!” you wipe rain from your face, from you brows and lashes and cheeks, “And I hate that I wasn’t happy. That I couldn’t make you happy. Because I really wanted to, Joel, I did… I did…”

“Hey now, don’t…” Joel gets out of the truck and slams the door and braces the rain like any good man would – without fear or vanity, “don’t ‘chu cry, don’t talk about makin’ me unhappy, ‘bout any of that stuff. You didn’t make me unhappy.” He leaves the truck and comes to stand in front of you, and his hands twitch to touch you and hold you and make this all go away, but he knows that’s not his place anymore.

“I did, I did, and the worst part is we didn’t even fight in a normal way! We both went quiet! And I went crazy and you got distant – is that even fighting? I’m not even sure what we thought we were doing to each other!” you sniff and cry and laugh, “But we did it wrong.”

“I know.” He says simply, like it’s an obvious truth, and his gaze flicks about your damp face and sees how your eyes wander the dark roads and the blurry sky and the passing cars with headlights that burn.

Joel pushes his hair from his forehead as it flattens against his skin, and the muscle of his arm is prominent under the streetlight.

“I do, I know.” This, he says more annoyed, but not at you. At himself, maybe, “I wasn’t tryna… be distant… or maybe I was, Jesus, I don’t even know anymore.” There is shame in this one, in the way his eyes drop and he looks down to his shoes.

Your chest is harsh with every inhale and exhale. There is a version of you that is many decades old now that wants to fight – fight the way you were taught not to. Always speak with a smile, never be confrontational, never raise your voice.

“You were!” you yell at him, brows all scrunched, “You refused to talk to me about anything, you pulled away, and whenever I said anything, you made me feel stupid! Like I was a… a silly kid for bringing something like that up!” your whole body vibrates now, an adrenaline junkie.

“I did not.”

“You did!”

“Well, I didn’t mean to.” He looks back up at you, very sincere, and he fights the dog fight, “Believe it or not, I actually liked that you were all heart… ‘nd no brain sometimes.”

“See!”

“I didn’t mean it like a bad thing.” He shakes his head and steps toward you, hand waving dismissively of the hurt his words held.  

Your brows scrunch, unsure, and your arms cross your chest. Maybe it’s a vain attempt to conceal how you feel. You’ve always tried very hard at that.

“You didn’t make sense to me a lot of the time – I didn’t mind that. What I couldn’t deal with is how you’d get so upset and mad and anxious that it made the whole house feel like it was in a damn tornado or something. You got any idea what a girl like you does to a space? And over nothin’, too, I never got what you were so upset about! And you’d never tell me!”

“You wouldn’t have gotten it!”

“How the hell would you have known that? You didn’t talk to me. You ain’t know a thing about what I do or don’t get. I sure as hell get this just fine. Don’t talk to me like I’m some asshole who didn’t feel a thing, I l-,” then he stops, pissed off with it all, at how conversations are like graveyards and you both hold spades, and there’s nothing good, nothing alive, down there, but you dig anyway because you must – because, like you said, you have to dig because of what it means if you don’t.

You gaze up at him, not so teary anymore. Still buzzed on adrenaline, whole body shaking, it’s hard to distinguish your nature from the natural. Is it you? Is it the cold? Is it the storm? Is this just the way you've always been, always felt, like the rain has never stopped? And you think you will always feel that way.

“How the hell was I supposed to talk to you when you acted the way you did? When you’d get sulky and brooding and you’d fuck off-,”

“Jesus…” he paces a little then, head shaking.

“You’d fuck off to whatever job you had going at the time – whatever room was the furthest away from me!”

“Fine, so I’m the bad guy. Have it. Fine. I don’t care.” he catches himself when he says that – stupid man, you’re right - he pulls away, shuts you down, makes you feel tiny.

You go very quiet. And it’s your relationship all over again.

Looking back at your apartment building, you breathe a big sigh, then turn away and head down the path to the double doors, stained with rain and dirt and all sorts, yanking the handle too hard and heading on inside. Your shoulder aches in its socket but you refuse to appear in pain.

Joel stares after you.

The animal in him says to cut his losses. Leave you here. The world would say he has no obligation to you anymore – to your happiness, your peace, the ease of which you fall asleep at night.

Then, there is the lover. He was always capable of it. For a long time, he hated himself for how it consumed him. The Hermit and The Lovers. They are the same card. They are either side of one angry man.

Locking the truck and not looking back, he heads down the path in a hurry, steps wide and heavy, and he knows what it means to fight now – to truly fight like this.

He slams the door open and follows the wet footprints up the stairs, two at a time, until he find you halfway up to the second floor.

“Hey!” he calls.

You look back, and you’d been trying very hard not to cry and to be annoyed instead. It might not do you any good but it felt more dignified than breaking down.

He is two steps below you.

“I wasn’t done fighting with you.” He says.

“I was done.” Your voice cracks.

“Well…” he blinks, “too bad.”

A big sigh leaves you and turns to fog – curse the winter, curse this storm – and you take in his soaked state, how he looks up at you. There’s something so familiar about it. His eyes.

He swallows hard. The lights all flicker. The wind picks up and you can almost feel it grate your skin.

“I didn’t want to break up.” He tells you then, “Don’t I get to say that as well? You go puttin’ words in my mouth, about… 'bout all you think I did and didn't feel or want or think. I didn’t want to break up but I thought that’s what you wanted.” He swallows, shifting where he stands, the light making his features lighter in some areas and darker in others – shadows over his bright eyes, his prominent nose highlighted, the wrinkles on his forehead on show, “I didn’t know a damn thing about being with a woman. I ain’t been with anybody since…” his head shakes, but you know – the woman who loved him for a little while, maybe, in her own way, who gave him a daughter and left him with her, “I didn’t know what to do… with all I had. But that don’t matter – I just wish you’d have talked to me, baby, why didn’t you just talk to me?”

Joel feels it all still. How he felt right at the start, at the middle, at the end – especially at the end, when he ripped himself into two futures; the one where he fought you and the one where he fought for you. He chose wrong, God, he knows that now.

“You were hard to talk to.”

“I’m sorry for that – that I made you feel like you couldn’t talk to me.”

You nod, sniffling. He’s so sincere. That’s the thing about Joel. He’s not a liar, and he probably wouldn’t even be a very good one. He doesn’t see a point in lying or telling stories or cushioning where somebody falls if that fall be honest and deserved.

“I am, baby, I swear.” He insists.

“’m sorry for how I was.” You mumble softly.

“It’s okay,” he takes a step up, nearer to you now, and you wipe your eyes and think to reach for him – what would it be like now? Would he feel different? “’s fine, it is.”

But it all feels very simple in that moment, when the lights flicker again, when the wind beats the building that tries to keep you both safe – maybe you could’ve tried to tell him how you felt more, maybe he could’ve tried to seem more approachable; like he cared, like he loved you, and you know he did.

“It’s not. It’s not. We’re not together. It’s not okay.”

“Nobody said forever.” He rasps.

You try hard to fight that feeling – that you should run, turn the place electric, make everything feel alive and constricting as you apparently had before, the emotional whirlwind that you are. Standing there makes that hard. Breathing the same air as him, looking at him as his light eyes trace your features, you are struck with this profound notion that it doesn’t have to be this way.

Nobody said forever. It wasn’t law. It wasn’t gospel. Your breakup wasn’t carved in stone.

And if he didn’t love you then he wouldn’t have followed you, right? Wouldn’t have pleaded his case to your jury, have your delicate hand as a ruthless judge?

Or Mother Nature. The will that drives his storm.

“I was just really sad.” You say quietly then.

“I know.”

Joel’s whole manner draws you in. His cool collectedness. How level-headed he can be. You stand here crying and he doesn’t make everything about your tears.

You shift on your step and wonder if he’ll move too, but he doesn’t. He waits for you like sunshine. You drop that useless brown paper bag of groceries to the floor with a thump. When your tiptoes are hanging off the step, when your body brushes his and he feels a warm puff of your breath along the bridge of his scarred nose, Joel breaks and his hands raise to your waist. He tells himself it’s to keep you steady. The tiles are damp and you can’t see straight. You might fall, might hurt yourself. Clumsy thing, he’s decided you are.

“I don’t know how to do this.” you whimper, “I don’t know.”

“You’re alright, baby, c’mere.”

And he kisses you then. Easily picks you up by the waist so your feet are lifted from the wet ground. He cradles you like satin. Your fingers knit in his hair and keep him still, and you can feel the warmth radiating from him through his clothes despite the rain, sure to dry faster than you will. It aches to be like this. You hoped you’d feel relief but there isn’t any yet – just this bullseye hurt, finding your weakest point and breaking you from the inside out.

Feeling your hot tears maybe, Joel lowers your feet back to the ground so a hand can come to your cheek and wipe the dampness away, stroking it back along your cheek. He pulls away for a brief moment, checking in, then kisses you once more, no less adoring than the first time. Maybe even more certain in his adoration. Accepting.

This is it. This is it. He feels very himself now. All pieces back together, a whole man, no longer running or fighting or searching.

He paws at you even, thick hands grabbing and pulling at your waist, your back, the crook of your neck, and you oblige so easily. It’s natural for you to let him find comfort in the shape of your body and how well you fit against him.

The lights flicker. You fear, when they come back on again, this will all disappear. But he – Joel – is still standing there with you on the precipice of a step.

When you pull away, out of breath and unsure if you’re still crying, you tug him wordlessly upstairs.

He follows, devout. He grabs the brown paper bag you'd walked so easily away from and he thinks you're scatterbrained too.

Shakily, you unlock your apartment. The door closes and Joel tosses your bag aside and instinctively goes for your jacket. His hands push it off your shoulders as he feverishly kisses you, some kind of urgency to him now, and you feel it too, how there is this time that needs catching up on. His beard scratches your chin and leaves it tender but you don’t care – can barely feel anything – just his hands and his lips and the sturdy weight of him as he pushes you back on to the kitchen table.

Legs either side of his waist, fingers tense on his shoulders, it takes little coaxing at all to get Joel’s hands at your trousers. He unbuttons them, rips the zip down, and works them off you. You hoist your hips to help. And then, when they’re abandoned on the floor, his hands return to your cheeks and nurture your face for a moment before one disappears between your legs to stroke at the wet heat burning between them.

Your hips twitch instinctively into him and a small whine leaves you. He pushes your thighs further apart and toys with your clit. Needy but not sensitive – you haven’t been touched here in a while. Joel knows how you used to get whenever the both of you would be too tired or not in the mood, and how your body would react to his when the time was right. Joel knows he can hardly talk. He’s been burning for you for so long that he swears smoke will slip from his collar.

His thick fingers draw circles into your clit and you suck the air out of his mouth, a sharp and shy inhale, a heat crawling to your cheeks.

“Joel…” you mumble softly.

“Mhm?”

But you say nothing else. His name grounds you. You rut into his fingers just as he digs into you, and his lips work at yours until you need to breathe and moan, so he dips away to kiss your cheeks, your temple, your forehead, the bridge of your nose, then down your neck to suck tiny bruises into your skin. He remembers what you’d said at the very start, when he'd first kissed down here so long ago. Not too visible – I have work to do and people to see. No, he may not have been a great listener, but he always respected what you wanted.

But he’d change, he swears it now, he’ll sit with awkward conversations and upset and conflict, he wouldn’t shy away from it and make you hide, hoarding all your muchness.

He slows his fingers to hear you whine, then speeds up once more until you’re moaning and tightening your legs around him.

Slipping then, tracing the path, he finds your aching hole that twitches toward him before he’s barely reached the edge. He slowly thrusts two fingers into you, testing you, and you clench and whine and roll your hips to take him. He smiles at the crook of your jaw, almost groaning. How easy it would be to take you here.

But Joel’s a gentleman. Quick sex on the table or the counter or the back of the couch may have been routine when you dated, but now he has something to prove, so he’ll take you like this here and then take you properly in the safety of your bed. Your sanctuary.

Fucking you on your table, two seats either side gathering dust, the man grunts in your ear – “You tell me right now if anybody’s had you since me.”

Your head shakes vehemently, appalled by the idea.

“No?”

“No, Joel, no, don’t even-,” and he wedges a third finger inside you and your words turn into gasps, “don’t even say that.”

“’m sorry, baby, I am.” He insists, words muffled against your well-kissed throat, “Any idea what it’s been like without you in the house?” your teeth scrape his shoulder and he shivers, “God, darlin’, it ain’t right without ‘chu – might’ve been my place when you moved in but it sure as hell was yours the second you left.”

“Joel…” you tighten and burn and sweat, tugging at his damp clothes, warmed by the weight of him.

Your whines and moans go quiet, breaths shallow and soft and focussed.    

“’s alright, you go on now, show me what I been missin’ – make me look a fool.”

Your orgasm hits you suddenly. With the time that’s passed, your whole body constricts and pulls him in, holds him accountable for what he did to you, and you moan right into his ear. He fucks you through it, a diligent man, hell-bent and heaven-sent. He kisses your jaw, the same spot, his spot, over and over, and if he weren’t a better man then he’d continue a brutal, punishing pace, but he’s not the punishing type, so he slows to feed your flames as your orgasm settles and he stops right before you get overwhelmed.

A damn fool, a stupid old fool - but a happy fool now.

With another kiss to your forehead, I'm your fool, I'm your fool, Joel hoists you up and crosses the small distance to your bedroom. He kisses your swollen lips that ache to have him just as he’s had you.

You scratch all over him and you remember the time he called you kitten – the only time, when your nails were unusually long and you scraped a maze down his spine on an occasion just like this one, bad kitten, he’d called you, nasty girl, look what you did to me, and he said it all with his head between your thighs.

Joel lowers you to the bed, hands tight and constricting your thighs, keeping your whole body cradled against him. Careful not to stop kissing you, feeling you, he reaches between the two of you to unbuckle his belt and force his trousers down, freeing his aching cock and satisfying it immediately by running it up and down your seam, nudging your sensitive clit, piercing your hole just slightly with his purple tip, already beaded with precum that he feeds you with a hiss that escapes his gritted teeth.

“Gon’ drag you home with me. Back where you belong. Jesus, how the hell did I let you leave?” he murmurs this against your cheek, still mostly clothed. He knows he should undress and do this properly, so he can worship you as he’d thought about for months. Fucked his fist thinking about. Ain't that such a terrible thing? He did it guiltily, for guiltily was the only way to do it.

His face drops to your chest and he tongues and licks at your clothed nipple, nipping and biting at your cold skin. When he’s taunted you enough, and you feel it too, nothing but a bundle of electric shocks, he pushes your shirt and bra up. Your peaked nipple craves the warmth his mouth offers as he sucks it between his lips and curls his tongue in circles to feel how it stiffens. Violent hands pull him closer and you’re not sure you’d ever been so desperate to feel him feel you, like it all makes you real and all the better for it.

At your little whimpers, Joel pulls away, worried he’d finish too fast if he listened to them for any longer as he drags his cock through your wetness. He pushes your shirt up over your head and throws it away, leaving you messy but comfortable, a chill to your skin, slightly dewy with the rain.

When he’s done with you, he tells himself he’ll take good care of you – dry every hair on your head and kiss every part of you twice.

Overly aware then of how he’d undressed you completely, he shifts up to kick off his jeans and then tugs his shirt over his head in one swift move.

Dragging you down to the end of the bed, he crowds your body and tugs you about him, sliding in slowly, your core hot and perfect and just as he’d remembered – better, even. You whine and keen and pull at him. Joel’s missed how your insistent hands search for him everywhere.

Joel can’t waste any time. A few thrusts to test your limits then he fucks you. Hands gliding to your waist and your ass and your thighs, he keeps you where he wants you and forces you back against him, his cock reclaiming its space, you offering it to him without words. Sweat builds quickly on his forehead and chest with his pace, enough to leave both of you breathless and fuelled merely by the desperation your separation had left each other. The bed bangs against the wall with every slam of his hips into yours.

Joel’s mouth is open against your decolletage, and he focuses only on the feeling burning from the way you tighten and shift back against his movements. You’re a pliant thing. Numb in the brain and electrified everywhere else. It flows through you like gold, veins set alight, remade in his image.

“Joel…” you whine, breathless, feeling all the places that will ache tomorrow but, for now, are blissed out.

“Shush, it’s okay, honey, swear, it’s alright.”

Regaining his senses, Joel kisses your jaw and then finds your mouth, kissing that too. Fuckin’ beautiful thing, you think you hear. One hand comes to your cheek and his thumb pets your jaw until it finds your lips, where he tugs your lower lip down to coax you open for him. You welcome him easily, his tongue in your mouth, tasting all he’s missed.

And in your bewitched state, you hardly process the feel of his hand lifting one thigh up and higher until you’re opened so painfully for him that you may cry.

“Don’t ever leave me.” You say, very quietly.

“No, no,” his head shakes, “no, ain’t gonna happen – that’s all done now, it ain’t gonna happen again. Tried not bein’ with you and it weren’t no good.”

Shifting then on to his hurting knees, he rams into you with such a force that you’re pushed up the bed, but Joel only drags you back down again and traps you there with a bruising force. Despite the temper of his hands, there is no denying that his actions are nothing short of adoring.

He’s a beastly man with a beastly appetite.

But something in you starts to pull tight. Your whines turn to pants that soon quieten.

“Right there, ain’t it?” he mumbles, “C’mon, honey, I missed you.”

It all snaps in one go. You come hard. Your legs trap him and you rut against him, searching for more of him that you might take, because you’d take anything he gave you. Part of you thinks to ask for it too – please, Joel, anything, I’ll take anything you want me to. There’s no time for shame in your need. Despite your craving, you come so savagely that you almost push him out but he tightens his hold and fucks you through it.

And when you start to come down, Joel murmurs, “Gonna come in you, sweet girl.”

No asking, no nothing – knowing you too well, knowing himself too.

“Please…”  

“Baby, in bed, that’s the only time you’re ever gonna have to beg me for anythin’ ever again.”

And he comes suddenly, hands firm on your hips, keeping you still as he grinds and fills you. A warm flicker tingles in your stomach. You quieten. His eyes are closed and his mouth is slack.

“Come again, pretty thing.” he tells you then, and his hand drops down to your clit, intent on pulling another one out of you. You whine and shake your head with no real conviction at all. “No, you’re gonna, I know you can.”

So, he sets a pace, quick circles on your bud and just above it, until you’re arching again and coming around his sensitive cock once more. This one is snappier. It comes suddenly and fades with ease, leaving you limp and tired. His hips crush yours and he stubbornly ignores the impulse to move from the overstimulation you cause him.

He kisses you gently then. Far gentler than he’d done anything whilst he’s been with you tonight. Maybe he’s trying to prove he can be.

Still, your hips move, hurting now, pushing yourself, and you think you’ve always been like that. Joel smiles at you, breaking his small kisses, and he runs a hand up and down your thigh, wanting to settle you. You follow his silent instruction and let your legs drop, a sigh leaving you, both in the pain of moving them and the relief in them relaxing.

“Easy, girl.” He tells you then.

Joel pulls out slowly, not to hurt you. Staring down at the place you met, his fingers dip between your thighs to push his spend back into you. You flinch and wince, sore now.

“Sorry.” you say.

“No, no,” he pets your cheek, “you were perfect, you are.”

“I’m not.”

On rare occasions, Joel had watched tears prick in your eyes when the act had ended. He never minded. The first time, it scared the living hell out of him. He thought you were running for the hills the second you got your pants on.

But no.

The emotional thing you are, the come down from your high often left you reeling.

Your jaw tightens and you’re teary again. Joel just smiles kindly and kisses your cheek. Grabbing blankets from the bed that had been dishevelled, he nods for you to sit up a little and, wiping your eyes on the back of your hands, you do so. He wraps the blanket around your shoulders.

“No need for cryin’, honey.” He tells you, “Gon’ take care of you now.”

And, like it was only yesterday he’d done this exact routine, he does what’s natural to him – cleans you up, dries the sweat from your skin with a towel, dresses you in sweatpants and an old t-shirt for a band you don’t listen to anymore. He persuades you to take two painkillers, knowing he’d pushed you as far as he could, and watches you down a glass of water.

He speaks to you gently. Offers reassurance often. Pretty girl. That’s right. You got it, you’re okay.

Until your mind has settled and you’re back with him properly, able to gaze at him in the dim light of your bedroom without tears in your eyes.

Only wearing his briefs, he’s still somehow warming you up under the blankets. You feel the weight of his cock against his inner thigh as you rest against him, your core close. You could so easily grind on him and wind him up all over again, but you're already hurting. His fingers trace circles on your shoulder whilst you map the hairs on his chest and the scar on his stomach from a construction accident he had many years ago – almost died, he’d told you, never trust a fool to do a man’s job, damn fence weren’t secure properly at all, fell right through it on to some rubble and metal and pipes - any further to the right and it’d have cut my intestines up like beef links.

“I saw you once.” He tells you then, and his voice is very quiet.

“Oh?”

“Yeah.” He says, “You ain’t see me, obviously. You were headin’ out somewhere. Runnin’ late, you were walkin’ all fast and looked frazzled. For a second, I forgot about…” his head shakes and he doesn’t think to say it – maybe you can just move past it now, be a new thing, “but then I remembered.”

“I get that.” You sigh, “Some days, it felt like having to remember over and over again.” You shift so you’re looking up at him and he adjusts you against his chest, “I saw you once. I mean, I saw your truck. You were getting gas. I ran the other way.”

“I ain’t that scary, am I?”

“No, I mean… no…”

“What?”

“You’re not scary. But… I think what we made of each other was scary. I’m not scared of you now. But, when we were separated… yeah, I was scared. Of what you’d do or say or how you’d look at me. Or if you’d be with anyone else.”

“That-,” his head shakes, “no, no, not even slightly, never, baby.”

His beard brushes your forehead, and he kisses your warm skin. Arm wrapping your waist, he hoists you more on to him, hips firmly pressed around his thigh and hip.

“Tell me you love me.” Your little demand reminds him of your most vibrant self – I know you love me, say you love me, go on, say it, and you used to nag him like that with the biggest grin on your face because you knew how to get under his skin just right, “If you mean it.”

Joel sighs, hands all over you, refreshing his memory, trying to erase the last time he’d seen you properly before now; all upset and angry and not saying any of it at all as you took the last box of your stuff – neatly folded and arranged, clothes cleaned, books in a neat pile on one side – and replacing that with this image of you here, content and curled up and warm, safe, held.

“Oh honey… I love you.”

joel miller masterlist if you like angsty fighting, you may enjoy moon-bug, and if you enjoy yearning smut then you may like unearthed

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