#cherry picker

You, now

Your hand was practically shaking off its hinges by the time you lifted your knuckles to the wooden door.

You blamed the freezing temperature as you gathered your courage. Just the cold. The porch light buzzed faintly overhead, casting a weak yellow ring around the doorframe. It made the wood look darker than usual, older. Maybe it had always looked like that. Maybe you were just seeing it differently tonight. You glanced down at your shoes. Snow was really caked around the rubber soles, slush seeping in through the canvas seams, dampening your socks. You weren’t entirely sure if you still had toes anymore; they were so numb. Just the cold, you told yourself again, that was why you were trembling so badly. Just the fact that Jackson’s first winter storm decided to roll in the exact same morning you decided to… well…

Adjusting your stance instead, you smoothed a wrinkle in your coat, then reached up, but dropped your hand again.

Ridiculous. You were acting absolutely ridiculous. It’s not like you were some lost kid on a stranger’s porch. You knew this man. You’d walked patrols with him, ate silent breakfasts across from him before said patrols at the mess hall, both of you always quiet with each other. A comfortable quiet you’d enjoyed, actually. And you’d been to his house before—once, last spring, when you’d offered to trade him the coffee beans some folks had passed through town with. In exchange, he’d carved you a little likeness of your favorite mare from the stables, sanded smooth and small enough to fit in your palm. You’d thanked him twice, though he’d just nodded once, gruff as ever. 

But that had been broad daylight. And this was… 

Before you could talk yourself out of it again, before you could check the stitch in your glove a third time or flatten the nonexistent wrinkle in your coat, you lifted your knuckles and quickly rapped on the door. 

Nothing happened. 

You supposed that was normal. It’s not like he’d be waiting on the other side of the door for you. He wasn’t expecting anyone, at least you’d hoped. So you stared at the grain in the wood, the little green wreath hanging there, memorizing the leaves and pine needles that decorated the braided branches, and then—

You heard the footsteps, quiet and shuffling, but heavy on the other side. Your stomach dipped as they grew closer. You knew the sound of them by heart, etched in your mind as the sound of safety. Camaraderie.  They followed behind you on trails, echoed in supply rooms, paused beside you at the watch post just before he would offer you the last thermos of coffee.

Your mouth was dry. You licked your bottom lip without thinking and immediately cursed at yourself—chapped. You’d forgotten balm. You never forgot your lip balm.

The footsteps stopped just on the other side.

You held your breath.

You, before

It had started—as many bad ideas do—in the Tipsy Bison one Friday night. 

The place was humming with music and chatter, the lowlights of sconces bringing an amber warmth to every surface. Someone was playing a Fleetwood Mac song on their acoustic guitar, a gentle strumming meeting your ears across the way. A couple men just off patrol were clinking pints a little half-heartedly after a long day out in the early winter frost at the bar. Someone had lit a fire in the hearth, a loud crackle punctuating the room now and again, and you could feel the heat rising in soft waves against your back from where you sat.

And beside you, smug as ever with a grin on her lips, cheeks flushed from her whiskey sour, was your best friend. Her glass was sweating onto the wooden table beside her, and her fingers tapped lightly against the rim as she watched you. 

You knew that look. You had a complicated relationship with that look. Secrets, trouble, you name it. Whenever she had a drink or two in her and she looked at you like that, you knew something was afoot. And usually it involved her over-interest in your love life. Or… lack thereof.

“I’m just saying,” she drawled, dragging her words out with that infuriating mix of innocence and glee, “if you’re so worried about it being awkward the first time, there are options. Experienced options.”

You made a face, tugging at the sleeve of your cardigan, already regretting letting her steer the conversation this way. “Like who? There isn’t exactly a whole sea of fish to choose from here. Half these people are partnered up and have kids now. And I swear, these guys born during the outbreak have zero game. ”

She let out a cackle. “Uh-huh. Like little five-year-old you really learned anything before the world went to shit.”

“Okay, fine. Enlighten me, oh wise one.” You rolled your eyes, but the corners of your mouth betrayed you, lilting up, amused. 

She leaned in, elbow creaking against the table, voice suddenly lower. “Do you know who took mine?”

You tensed. “Oh my god. Please don’t do this to me. I don’t want to know, I really—”

“Joel Miller.”

You nearly choked. You did choke, actually, spluttering on the air you’d inhaled, spit gone down the wrong lung. A few people around you turned to glance in concern as your hand went to cover your open mouth. “What!?”

She grinned wide, completely unbothered. “Don’t get all worked up! He’s hot.”

“Joel?” you hissed, voice already pitching with disbelief. “My Joel—but he’s—he’s my…he’s my patrol partner!”

“Your grumpy, brooding, carved-from-stone, sexy patrol partner,” she corrected smoothly, nodding. “Yep. That one. It was a little over a year ago, I was still kinda new to town. I don’t even remember how it started. But it’s like… a thing,” she insisted, her voice dropping again as she scanned the room conspiratorily. “His thing. He’s like Jackson’s Cherry Picker.”

You blinked. “Excuse me?”

She nodded, lips twitching around the rim of her glass. “I’m serious. I’d heard rumors, okay? I was so desperate to get rid of this… this thing that made me feel like I had a target on my back. Like hello! Town virgin over here!” she laughed as you covered her ever-growing loud mouth, and she quieted down, waving you off, “and then one girl told me he’d done the favor for her and her friend. I don’t know. He was really sweet though. He did this thing with his tongue and—”

You slapped your hands over your ears. “Oh my god, stop, I don’t want to hear any more—”

She laughed loudly and downed her drink, “Okay, miss prude. I’m just sayin’, if you could choose anyone, I’d go with him. Haven’t you ever wondered? Haven’t you guys gotten stuck out there together and had to cuddle up real close, and oh no, there was only one bed!”

You rolled your eyes, “Actually, we tend to be just fine thank you. Joel takes good care of us if we’re—”

She was grinning, teeth gleaming, her brows doing a ridiculous little dance.

“Oh, shut up,” you muttered, tossing a napkin at her across the table, trying to ignore the way your heart was thudding just a little faster than before.

Because the truth was—yes. 

You had wondered.

You, now

And then, the door was opening. 

A thick hand appeared first, resting on the wood as it pulled inward. The rest of him followed a beat later, somehow even broader, taller than you remembered. Barefoot, in sweatpants and a flannel sleep shirt that hung open at the collar. His hair was mussed like he’d just come from rest, or something close to it. It felt too intimate. 

“Mr. Miller—” you started, and immediately winced. “Joel. Hi. I—sorry, maybe this was… I might’ve picked a bad time.”

“S’alright, darlin’,” he said, voice low, rough from disuse. “Took me by surprise is all. What can I do for ya?”

You opened your mouth and promptly forgot how to speak.

Because how the hell were you supposed to explain this? That your best friend had told you between giggles and sips of her second whiskey about the favor he offered. That there were girls, maybe a few, maybe more than a few, who’d come before you for the same thing. That you were here asking for something he offered unbeknownst to most, passed along in rumors and blushing confessions. Never outwardly known or spoken of, but something only understood by the women who’d needed it once. Was it only once? And what did that make them to him, exactly? They weren’t partners, that much was clear. Not flings, either, at least you didn’t think so. He never talked about having partners or girlfriends. He probably wouldn’t even if given the chance. 

You wondered if he remembered them individually, or if they blurred together to him. God, what if he thought of them like a collection—trophies he’d caught and taken first place, people he’d…he’d conquered? What would it mean for your relationship going forward? The patrols that were usually comfortable and easy, would they be suddenly full of awkward silences, or worse, would he refuse to patrol with you at all?

There was a little smile spreading across his face at how god damn red you must’ve been turning. 

“S’a bit cold out there, ain’t it? All this snow.” he said, looking around outside, hazel eyes gleaming in the soft light, “Why don’t you come on in.” he offered, opening the door wider, spreading his hand out welcomingly into his abode. 

“Okay,” you barely managed.

Stepping inside, you felt more like an intruder than ever. The warmth hit you first, thick with the smell of firewood and something faintly herbal in the air. The hearth was already going, the flames crackling in a steady rhythm, casting deep shadows across the living room. A pair of reading glasses sat neatly on top of a copy of An Idiot’s Guide to Space on the side table, the title catching the light just enough to be legible.

“Make yourself comfortable,” Joel said, voice low and even, his hand brushing lightly against your back as he guided you forward. “I’ll get ya somethin’ to drink.”

You nodded but couldn’t speak, your mouth still dry, throat tight. Your body moved before your thoughts could catch up, sinking onto the couch opposite his recliner. The cushions gave easily beneath you, soft and lived in. The heat of the fire reached your skin slowly, unthawing your face, your toes, the stiffness along your spine that hadn’t unclenched since you’d stepped onto his porch. You took your time peeling off your gloves and setting them aside, pins and needles prickling the tips of them as they warmed beside the heat.

He returned a minute later, though you didn’t notice him right away—your eyes fixed on the fire, the way it danced behind the grate, and your mind had gone thin and fast with thoughts you couldn’t quite hold down. You startled only slightly when he appeared beside you and set the mug into your hands. It was tan, with a little owl stamped on the front. You stared at it for a long moment before lifting it to your mouth. Lemon and honey with a sprig of cinnamon. Your  favorite. 

You swallowed the first sip slowly, letting it move through you, letting the heat settle low in your stomach like you could track its path through every nerve. You tried to focus on that instead of everything else.

Across from you, Joel groaned softly as he eased into his chair. It wasn’t reclined now as he leaned forward slightly, elbows on his knees, mug balanced in both hands as he took a sip.

“Everythin’ okay?” he asked, eyes on you now.

“What?” you squeaked, then cleared your throat before continuing, “Oh, yeah, yeah, everything is fine.”

He kept looking at you, quiet, and you worried you’d turn red again before he lowered his gaze to the tea in his hands and gave a small nod, like he didn’t fully believe you but wasn’t going to press. “You just seem a little nervous, is all. Somethin’ happen?”

You shook your head and turned away, not wanting to meet his eyes. The lemon peel floated in a lazy spiral near the rim of your cup, and the rising steam pressed gently against your face, a kind of soft shield between you and whatever came next. You still held yourself stiffly, spine straight, shoulders squared like you were bracing for something, though you kept reminding yourself there was no reason to. This was Joel. You’d spent more time with him out of anyone, even your own best friend. You knew, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that he was a good man.

You took another sip. Then another.

“I just…” you began, the words thick in your throat. You exhaled, tried again. “I heard a rumor.”

Joel let out a short huff of amusement, his shoulders shifting as he leaned back more comfortably into the chair. “Oh yeah? What’s goin’ around the rumor mill these days?”

You watched him settle in, the way his hands stayed on the mug even as he relaxed. For a second, you wondered if he’d actually been worried. If he thought something had happened to you. If he’d been ready to help.

“It’s probably nothing,” you said quickly. “Just… something someone mentioned.”

He didn’t say anything.

You glanced up, half-hoping he’d read your mind. Maybe he’d say it first. Maybe he’d change the subject entirely and save you from the humiliation of asking him to take your virginity. But no, he was still watching you, still waiting, his face calm, unreadable in the firelight.

You looked away again.

“I guess I just—I heard that you… help people. Sometimes.”

There was a pause, only joined by a quiet sound as he set his mug down. You heard the shift of fabric, the creak of the recliner beneath him. When you looked up again, he’d settled back, legs spread slightly, one hand resting on the arm of the chair. Still composed, still listening.

“Help how?” he asked, but the tone had changed, lower now. Softer, careful and measured. Like he was giving you the space to choose your words. Like he already knew which ones were coming. He must’ve known, after all. He had to. Maybe he wanted to see you squirm.

You swallowed.

“Girls,” you said, and your voice nearly cracked, not from emotion but from how tightly you were holding yourself together. “Women, I mean. I heard that sometimes, if someone’s… nervous, or if it’s their… that you’re… that you’ve helped.”

There. It was out, more or less. Maybe a few words left unsaid, but it was there now, between you. A live wire, humming, waiting.

Joel didn’t lean back, didn’t shift, didn’t even glance away. He was just staring at you, barely blinking or moving. And then, after a long enough pause that you nearly opened your mouth again just to fill it, he spoke.

“Are you askin’ me somethin’, darlin’?”

You swallowed again, willing your courage, forcing the up and down of your head, nodding at him, eyes glued to his face, watching his expression. 

“I’m gonna need to hear you say it,” he told you, softly and without judgement, “And then we can talk about it.”

You set the mug down with careful hands, fingers lingering along the rim like they weren’t quite ready to let go. Your palms found each other in your lap, squeezing once, then flattening against your thighs. Courage, you told yourself. Be brave. You were twenty-five, for God’s sake. Frontal lobe fully developed, capable of decision-making, of risk, of owning the weight of your own choices. You’d killed infected, harvested crops, patched up fences, pulled your weight in every way that counted in Jackson. You’d grown up out of necessity, carried yourself through the years without needing anyone to hold your hand.

This shouldn’t have to be so hard. But it was. And still…this was the moment. You could feel it waiting there in the silence between you.

So you sat up a little straighter. Pressed your palms into your legs, just for the feeling of grounding, and tried to be brave.

“I’m asking you to take my virginity, Joel.” 

You did your best to sound determined, sure of yourself, some small reserve of confidence rising as you looked at him, eyes locked on his face. You furrowed your brow to keep yourself from faltering, zipped your mouth shut to keep yourself from over-explaining, even though every part of you wanted to fill the silence. But the plain and simple truth of it laid bare between you now. 

After a long moment of sitting there like that, the two of you watching each other carefully, he finally spoke.

“Why?”

The question caught you off guard. Your face faltered, your fingers tightened against your thighs, unsure you’d heard him right.

“W–Why?”

He nodded, very serious now. 

You hesitated. “Because… don’t you? I heard you… you do this thing. For women.”

“But why do you want it?”

Your face burned. You weren’t sure if it was the fire in the hearth or the question or how quiet the room had gotten now, but suddenly you could feel the heat rising into your scalp, behind your ears, into the hollows of your throat. Your fingers were tangled in your lap again, squeezing one hand with the other like you could press the answer into your skin.

You sat up a little straighter, and let your hands fall still once again. Brave. Be brave. 

“Because I don’t want it to be careless,” you said, “I don’t want it to feel like something I just let happen. And I don’t want to be with someone who only cares about what they’re getting out of it.”

You looked at him then, made yourself hold his gaze.

“I’ve waited a long time. And it hasn’t really been on purpose, but now that I’m here, I don’t want it to be meaningless. I want it to feel… like I chose it. Like I chose the right person.”

You felt your chest tighten. Your heart wouldn’t stop moving around inside you like it was trying to warn you of something, but it was too late for that.

“I trust you,” you said, quieter now, the truest thing you’ve ever said. “I think I trust you more than anyone else in the world.”

Joel let out a long breath, the kind that sounded like it had been sitting on his chest this whole time. He looked away from you then, toward the fireplace, the orange glow flickering against the lines in his face. One hand rubbed slowly against his knee, the heel of his palm dragging in a steady circle, over and over, like it helped him sort through whatever was moving behind his eyes.

You didn’t dare say anything.

You watched him, studied him. He was so handsome, after all. And something had changed, not that he had, not really. He was the same man who walked beside you on patrols, who shared granola bars and poured your coffee before his own. He checked your boots before a long route. Adjusted your gaiter once without asking, gloved fingers gentle against your jaw. You’d always chalked these things up to kindness, to the sort of responsibility a man like Joel Miller shouldered without complaint. But now, sitting here in his home, the fire warming your skin and the tension curling thick between you, you didn’t know how you’d ever seen them as simple gestures.

Your eyes traced the slope of his nose, the graying in his beard, how his hair had grown longer this winter and streaked with more silver. His thick fingers moved slowly against the fabric of his sweatpants, flexing, working some silent thought through his palm. You remembered those hands—gripping the handle of his revolver, steady and unshakable. Reaching back to stop you short with a firm grip at your elbow. Pushing you behind him when an infected got too close, machete already raised in his other hand, swinging hard through mold-thick bone. He’d protected you more times than you could count. And it had always felt… safe. Never like a performance. He didn’t ask for gratitude. He just... did it.

And then a thought struck you again, unwelcome, as you watched him—what if he said no? Could things ever go back to the way they were before? This was a line, a big one that you were crossing now. You didn’t know how to take it back, not now that you’d looked him in the eye and asked for something you’d barely ever admit to yourself was a want, not a need. You weren’t sure what you’d done, only that there was no coming back now. 

You weren’t afraid of him. But you were afraid of what this all meant, how different it felt now that he knew.

But still, you wouldn’t look away.

He sat there for a long time, staring into the fire. And then finally, he turned back to you. His eyes found yours, steady, clear.

“Okay,” he said.

Joel, now

Joel didn’t have very many rules left that he hadn’t broken.

He’d repented for his sins, said his sorries—more or less—and moved on. He knew there were still notches on his soul, marks he’d carry to the grave, but he held fast to a few rules he’d made for himself, lines he’d drawn in the sand and did his damndest not to step over. He liked what he did, took a special liking to the women who came to him, nervous, wide-eyed, asking for something they didn’t want to get from someone careless. It was never more than they bargained for, never more than they asked for. But he still enjoyed it.

He was open to just about anyone that came around, regardless if they were twenty or fifty, as long as they asked kindly and seemed like they were doing it for a reason that made sense. Not that it really mattered—if they were offering, he was taking. And he loved to take. Selfish, he knew that about himself by now. And still, he loved it.

But here he was, crossing the last line he’d drawn a few springs back, back when he first met you in Jackson.

You were the exception. Always.

From the beginning, he’d known he wouldn’t touch you, not in that way. No matter how much he wanted to. And he did, God, he did. Dreamed of you, thought of you, let his mind go places it shouldn’t, wondered how you’d taste, how you’d sound, what you'd look like beneath him. And on the nights when patrol took too long, when you had to share a tent or squeeze into the corner of some half-collapsed building, curled up together in the cold, your breath ghosting against his neck—he’d nearly lose his mind with your closeness and sweet scent. 

He wouldn’t take from you. He told himself you were off limits. You were so sweet, so good. He didn’t even realize you were a virgin, truth be told. And it sure didn’t help the way you were mustering up your courage in front of him, all doe eyed and nervous and trusting. But no, Joel never wanted to take this from you. Or anything, for that matter. All he ever wanted was to give. He always gave you the last sip of water or coffee, the last strip of jerky and the better seat when the fire got too smokey. He even made you that little horse out of pine because you kept choosing her for patrols, and you’d wept when it was her last ride before her retirement. He liked doing things like that for you. Liked to give. He would not take.

Joel would see you around with your best friend—hell, he’d picked her, when she came asking. She took as she wanted and went on her way, same as the rest. He saw you hanging around Jesse too, and that’s when he really had to keep himself in check. But when he brought it up one day, asked about it quietly on the trail, you’d brushed him off. You’d told him Jesse wasn’t your type. Joel remembered the way something small and mean and smug had sparked in his chest when you said it, right before the bigger wave of guilt rolled in. 

But here you were now. 

Looking like that. Fidgeting like hell, eyes darting around, nervous in a way he’d never seen before. It rattled him when you’d appeared on his porch. His first thought had been that someone hurt you. That something bad had happened. He was already halfway to grabbing the shovel by the door, ready to ask where the body was. Anything you asked, he’d do it. He knew he would. No question. 

And then you’d come out with the real reason you were here. 

It took you some coaxing, sure, you were nervous and trembling like a trapped fawn in a wolf’s maw. And once the words were out his blood surged before he could control himself. He had to breathe, distract himself, try to collect his thoughts and put them into neat little boxes before the wrong one burst open and he scared you off. He needed to be careful. He needed to think about what it would mean to break that last rule. If it would ruin what the two of you had, if you would look at him differently. If you’d regret it. 

But the truth was already there, pounding its way through his chest. He’d known the second you said the words that he didn’t give two shits about those rules. 

That was the last clear thought he had before he turned to you and said, “Okay.”

He watched your eyes widen, watched your tongue sweep across your bottom lip, and the last thread of his control nearly split just then.

“Okay?” you asked, barely above a whisper.

He nodded, lifted his hand, palm up, a quiet invitation.

You hesitated, only for a second, then stood with that same purposeful grace you always carried when you moved ahead on a patrol. Not rushed or uncertain. Chosen. Like your feet knew where to go before your head did. You crossed the room slowly, your breath held, and when your soft hand found his, it was like some invisible thread finally went taut.

Joel tugged you gently between his knees, both of your hands in his. He looked up at you like he wasn’t sure this part was real. The warmth of you so close, the gentle weight of your fingers resting in his, how your fingers still trembled.

“Are you sure?” he asked, breathless, quiet. He needed to be soft and gentle, your sweet face so pretty with how it was looking at him now, sure of yourself, but still nervous. 

You nodded, your thumbs tracing the thick of his knuckles. It made his skin pebble in goosebumps. 

“Usually when someone asks,” he murmured, “I make ‘em wait.”

He had to get through this part. Had to muzzle himself back into control, to know for certain. As much as he wanted to take, he would be good for you. For you, for you. Always for you. Like prayer, like penance, like something sacred in his keeping.

“Why?” you asked, quiet as a mouse, your brows furrowing. You really were adorable. Sweet enough to eat.

“To make sure they ain’t ovulatin’,” he said, and the line was meant to tease, but his voice came out tighter than he wanted. “Don’t need any mini-Joels walkin’ around, do we?”

He tried to smile, but thought it probably looked more like a leer, animal in the way his teeth shown in the firelight. 

Oh, was all you seemed to manage. 

Joel exhaled slow, like he could let some of the heat in him go that way, like he hadn’t just undone every restraint he’d spent years building. His hands slid up your arms, slow and steady, your sweater sleeves in the way. He wanted to feel you, your skin, your heat. He’d make himself wait.

“Don’t think I can do that with you, though,” he said, voice gone quiet again, “Been waitin’ a long time for this, baby.”

Your gaze flicked to his, searching. “You have?”

He nodded, “Christ, it’s all I’ve ever thought about.”

There was a long moment of quiet, of only the crack of the fire. As if waiting. Both of you, waiting for the other, held in the suspended moment before everything changed.

“I think about you too.” you confessed then, “All the time, Joel.”

The leash on the beast in him flew from his hands, and he was squeezing your arms harder, pulling you down into his lap. You yelped at the sudden movement, and it made him force himself to soften again, coaxing, to be gentle with his hands. He smoothed them up and down your arms, though the closeness of your thighs bracketing his turned his brain to mush. 

“I’m sorry, don't be scared, I’m sorry,” Gentle, be gentle, he scolded himself, “It’s just…you think about me, huh?” He cooed. “What do you think about, baby?”

You were nibbling at your lip again, eyes flicking down like you didn’t know what to do with yourself now that you’d said it aloud. He caught your hands and pulled them to his chest, pressing them flat so you could feel the thud of his heart beneath your palms.

“You can touch me, darlin’,” he said, almost a whisper. “It’s okay if I touch you?”

You nodded, wordlessly, eyes eager in their nervousness.

His hand reached up, careful, and brushed a piece of hair from your cheek, tucking it behind your ear, taking his time.

“So tell me,” he said again, “what you think about.”

Your voice came soft and certain. “Kissing you.”

His breath faltered, fingers twitching against your cheek, forcing them down and to settle on your hips. Something deep in his chest raged against his ribs  to be let out—this was the night, he was sure of it now, the night he finally snapped, lost every inch of control he’d ever clung to. He might go insane with you, here, in his lap, telling him about your dreams, your wants, your desires for him. 

“Do you wanna kiss me now?” he asked. 

You nodded. 

“Before you do,” he said, hands squeezing, “we need to talk.”

Your face shifted, the subtle kind of worry that made you look child-like, almost scolded. He saw your shoulders inch up like you were bracing for a lecture, and he hated that. He slid his thumbs under the hem of your sweater instead, just enough to brush the warm skin of your waist, soothing whatever tension lie beneath the surface.

“Have ya ever done anythin' before?” he asked, dipping his head slightly, trying to catch your eye. When you met his gaze, you shrugged, sheepish.

“I’ve kissed a boy before. Not like…” You sighed, glanced off to the side. “Not like with tongue or anything. And it was a dare.”

Joel chuckled at that, “A dare, huh?” 

You gave him a mock glare, your nose wrinkling in protest. “Don’t make fun of me.”

“Never,” he murmured, the smile still tugging at the edge of his mouth. He let the air settle for a second, then took another breath, slower this time. 

“You’re gonna need to tell me when somethin’ don’t feel good. When you want me to stop, alright?” He watched you closely now, his thumbs still rubbing careful, slow lines against your skin. “Pick a word that means stop. Don’t matter what it is, but you say it, and everything stops. We talk, figure it out. You won’t be in trouble, I just need to know you’re okay.”

You opened your mouth like you were about to argue, and he could see the protest already brewing, the way your brows pulled together, the way your lip started to tuck between your teeth.

“I don’t want you to stop just because—I know, er—-I’ve heard it hurts, a little, the first time,” you said, your voice quiet, almost defensive.

He shook his head gently. “It’s not about that,” he said. “This ain’t for little discomfort. I know you’re tough, I know you can handle that. But this—” he softened his voice again, “this is for if somethin’ don’t feel right in your gut. If you change your mind, or I do somethin’ you don’t like. You don’t owe me anythin’, you understand? I ain’t gonna be mad.”

Your teeth were worrying your lip again, eyes darting like you were thinking hard, weighing something heavy. He watched it all and felt the pull in his chest that came from how goddamn much he wanted to reach up and kiss the thought right out of your head. But this came first. You deserved this part too.

After a moment, you nodded. “Okay. Okay… what about… pickleback?”

He blinked, caught off guard. “Like the shot?”

You nodded again, smiling this time, your eyes downturned. “I love them.”

Joel huffed a low laugh. That smile…it had his belly doing flips like some kid. You were so sweet and shy, like you didn’t know what it did to him.

“Alright then,” he said, brushing his hands up your waist again, savoring the heat of your skin, the way you felt under his hands, “Pickleback it is.”

And god, you were so warm. He took a long breath through his nose, collecting himself, trying to keep his thoughts grounded instead of letting them scatter into the fire like ash.

“Alright,” he said softly, almost to himself. “C’mere, baby.”

One of his hands abandoned the skin beneath your sweater to slide up your spine, tracing each vertebrae to the base of your neck, just under the edge of your hair, and he felt the tremble in your body like a secret only he got to keep. Your eyes were so wide, mouth parted like you were bracing for something. But you didn’t look scared. Just... expectant. Waiting. Brave.

Joel tilted his head slightly, his nose brushing yours, and his breath was warm when it hit your cheek.

“I’m gonna kiss you now,” he said softly, his thumb brushing under your jaw. “And I want you to relax. Don’t worry about what you’re s’posed to do. You don’t have to do a thing, baby. Let me take care of you.”

You nodded, breath hitching just a little, and he waited until he felt the tiny flex of your fingers on his chest like you were anchoring yourself there.

Then he kissed you.

He pressed his mouth to yours with a slow, aching tenderness, just warmth and patience and the softness of your lips beneath his. He felt you gasp, just a little, and he moved slow as molasses, letting you settle into it. His hand at your neck stayed firm, thumb stroking over your jaw. He hadn’t realized just how much he’d imagined this moment until now, until your mouth pressed harder against his, until your hands were sliding up to grip at his collar as if you didn’t want him going anywhere. 

He pulled back then, a fraction, close enough that you were still breathing his air.

“You okay?” he asked.

You nodded again, lips a little wet, your eyes flicking down to his mouth, and Joel felt something in his chest cave.

“Good girl,” he said under his breath. “Let’s try that again.”

​​And he kissed you a second time, this one deeper, more certain—his lips parting slightly, coaxing you to follow. When your mouth opened under his, he groaned softly, chest tightening. You tasted sweet, like honey and lemon from the tea, and something else too. Something that was just you. Your hands gripped his hair now, fingers curling tight at the nape. He felt your tongue poke out between your lips, discovering and curious, and he met it with his own. You squeaked a little at that, and he couldn’t help but smile, pulling away once again. 

“Gimme your tongue, baby, let me see your tongue,” he coaxed, fingers tightening in your hair. 

You did as you were told, opening your mouth and sticking your tongue out at him. He couldn’t help but smile at you with fondness. “Relax, like this,” he murmured, showing you how, his own tongue flat in his mouth, patient. You mirrored him, and he reached up, licking at your waiting tongue, honey and lemon and cinnamon and a burn of desire filling his mouth, making it water, his stomach clench.

You let out the softest sound, a little hum deep in your chest, and Joel answered before he even thought about it. He wrapped his lips around your tongue, pulling just slightly: gentle, savoring you. Your eyes shuttered closed, sighing into him, your hips rocking involuntarily. He felt, beneath layers of clothing, a little pulse between your legs. 

“Oh, she likes that, don’t she, darlin’?” Joel asked when he pulled away again.

“You—” your voice was hoarse, almost drunk with desire, licking your lips, “you could feel that?”

He nodded, thumb tracing the curve of your jaw. “Can you feel me?” he asked, quieter now. “Feel how much I want you?”

You nodded, cheeks heating, “I like it.”

Joel didn’t wait. He kissed you again, deeper, hungrier, and you melted into him with confidence. Your arms looped around his neck, your breasts pressing to his chest beneath your sweater, body giving into him. His hands slipped beneath your top again, finding your skin, your back warm and smooth beneath his palms. He pulled you in closer, like you weren’t close enough already. He thought he could kiss you for hours. He thought he might go insane if he couldn’t. 

And between the moans and whimpers, you murmured to him between a kiss.

“Can I have your tongue, Joel? Please?”

Joel’s brain was so scrambled, monopolized by desire, that he did as he was told before he could think. And then his brain really did snap in half as your lips sealed around his tongue, and you suckled on the muscle, moaning, tasting, wanting. 

Joel groaned loudly, eyes rolling to the back of his skull, his hands beginning to dig into your skin. He needed you closer, closer. 

And when you released your gentle hold of him, lips connected again for another kiss, he was dragging your hips against him harder, sawing your little center across his thickening length beneath his sweatpants. It just wasn’t enough, not nearly as close as he needed you. 

“Oh fuck,” he whispered, kissing you harder, unable to take anymore, “fuck, baby, you’re killin’ me, grind on my cock some more, it feels so damn good, little thing wants me bad, huh?”

You gasped at his dirty mouth, but he couldn’t help himself, he was gone. Lost to it, hungry, hungrier than he thought he’d ever been for anything. All Joel could think about now was your pulsing, wet, puffy cunt beneath your clothes. How it would feel to not take, but give. And he’d give it to you so damn good. 

You pushed your hips down, and he guided you, hands back on your hips, pushing and sawing you on top of him. It was damn near heaven, friction and heat, everything he’d wanted. 

“Take this off, baby, please, is that okay?” he asked, pulling at your sweater. 

You were already moving, hasty, as undone as he was, both of you chasing the same edge. The fabric came over your head with shaking fingers, and suddenly you were bare in front of him, breathing hard, flushed all over. No bra. So that was it. The final nail in his coffin. The quiet, damning proof that you hadn’t just come over hoping he’d give you what you wanted—you’d known he would.

You’d decided. You’d trusted him. You’d made up your mind long before he opened the door.

“Joel,” you murmured, shirt off. 

He was staring. He knew he was staring. His brain was blank, white space as his mouth parted. His eyes drank you in like he’d never seen anything more perfect. He wasn’t sure he ever had, truth be told. 

As he shook his head to unscramble the thoughts, he heard his voice from far away: “Yeah, baby?” 

“I think I might go insane,” you said, your voice so soft it was almost a confession. “I feel—”

You wrapped your arms around yourself suddenly, like you needed to hold it all in, covering yourself, pushing your breasts together, fingers brushing your throat, your eyes darting away as if you didn’t know where to land.

He forced himself back to the present, maybe he’d been too quick, too forceful, too willing to give over all control to the beast in him that wanted so badly it made him blind. “What is it? Are you okay?”

You nodded—then shook your head, “I want you so bad I think I might…It hurts, Joel. I might cry if you don’t do something.”

Joel’s hands came up to your face, palms warm against your jaw, his thumb stroking the corner of your mouth. Your bare chest pressed to his shirt, burning him through the cotton. His breath stuttered in his throat.

“Don’t cry, hunny,” he murmured, kissing the tip of your nose, nuzzling into your cheek, “don’t cry, daddy is here, daddy is gonna take care of you. I want you so bad, just wanna take it slow for ya, is all.”

You were gripping his arms, rocking your hips harder, chasing that friction in his lap. Joel forced himself to keep his eyes open on you, as much as they wanted to roll back into his head again. Everything just felt so damn good when it came to you. He clenched his jaw, his hands anchored on you, guiding you. 

“I need more,” you whined, breath hot against his neck. 

“Okay, okay, what about this?” he said, voice rough with restraint, though he was smiling a bit.  He lowered his head to your chest, kissing your clavicle, licking a broad stripe between the valley of your breasts. So heavy and pretty, his for the taking. His mouth closed over one nipple, tongue flattening against it, and you gasped, arching into him like your body knew what to do before your mind caught up. Your fingers dove into his hair, tangling, tugging, your body trembling against his.

He sucked and pulled and bit on your pert nipple, inhaling your perfume, the smell of the hearth, the heat of your skin. Everything was a blur of a dream and reality, his memories of his fist around his cock just thinking of you like this mixing with the reality of it happening here and now. 

He was going insane. That was the plain truth.

He kissed up your neck again, tongue flat against your skin as he licked and nibbled his way to your jaw. Your sweet little moans filled his lungs, breathless sighs spilling out against his cheek, feeding something wild in him. He wrapped his arms beneath you and lifted you with ease, and you giggled as your legs locked around his waist, clinging tight while he started toward the hallway.

“No, no,” you whined, petulant, “want to do it here, in front of the fire,” 

“S’not right, baby,” he muttered, the sound breaking as he groaned and held you aloft, looking up at you, “should take you in the bed, where you’ll be comfortable.”

But you shook your head, tugged his hair, eyes wide and pleading, still shining with that sex drunk look in them. “Want you here,” you said again. “It’s warm… and it’s nice in here.”

“Alright,” he breathed, giving in without a fight. You were kissing him before he even settled you back down, greedy wet mouth pressing up into his, your arms wrapping tight around his neck. He lowered you onto the couch, eased you onto your back, and your legs opened for him, letting him into the cradle of you. You moaned as he pressed down into you, grinding slow and teasing.

“Such a pretty little thing,” he murmured, lips wandering lower again, down your throat, your collarbone. He kissed everywhere, licked and tasted, needing to map every inch of your skin. “Gonna take these off now,” he said, gaze flicking up to meet yours as his fingers slipped under your waistband. “That okay?”

You nodded, chest heaving, lips parted and kiss bitten.

“Words, baby, let me hear your pretty voice too.”

“Yes, please—please,”

“Atta girl,” he praised, and it rumbled deep in his chest. He began pulling your layers off, slowly, gently. Socks went first, plucked only with his forefinger and thumb, and he kissed the insole of your foot, his hand covering your frozen toes to warm them. He pulled off the rest, unwrapping his gift. His jaw nearly unhinged at the sight of you laid bare in front of him. He dragged his palms along your thighs, taking in the sight before him. Glistening, puffy, nearly dripping onto his sofa in front of him. You pretty pussy just waiting for him to devour. He could feel his cock answer in earnest, twitching, pre cum dribbling down the inseam of his thigh. 

“Oh, hunny,” he sighed, leaning the side of his head on your propped up knee, bringing you closer, dragging you up before him so he could get a better look. It felt like he might’ve started drooling, completely entranced by the way your perfect pussy clenched on nothing, begging for something that wasn’t there yet. Torture, that’s what it was, to leave her untouched this entire night.

“Are you going to…to touch me?” he heard you ask, so fragile and yet so brave. He looked up at you then, and watched, enamored, at your sweet face, your nervous eyes that were heavy lidded. 

“You want me to?”

You nodded vigorously, lifting your foot to rest on his shoulder, pulling him closer. Suddenly so confident in your want for him. 

He took your leg, kissed the inside of your calf, then bit into the meat of it in a playful little warning. You yelped, giggled, and kicked him lightly in the chest. “Bad,” he scolded, though there wasn’t a trace of real reprimand in his voice.

“You’re taking so lonngggg,” you whined, dramatic.

“Let me savor this,” he said playfully, kissing your skin again, warm mouth against warmer flesh, the heat of the two of you seeping into ever pore. He moved slowly, lips pressing, tongue tasting, his beard dragging in little teasing strokes along your thigh that made your skin pebble. He took his time climbing the soft inside of your legs, and he could feel you trembling, tightening in anticipation.

When he reached the apex of your thighs, he stopped to stare, because the firelight had turned you into something unreal. Glistening, soft, swollen with want. The smell rising from you was honey and sweat and something sweetly feral, and it pulled at him like gravity. He laid one hand gently over your pubic bone, the other hooking under your thigh to pull you closer, closer, until you couldn’t move away even if you wanted. He leaned in and blew across your glistening folds. 

You whined, hips jerking in his hold. “Hurts, Joel,” you whimpered.

“What does, baby?” he asked softly, voice teasing at the edges. “This?” He blew again, gentle and warm, and your puffy pussy twitched in response.

You shook your head, “Waiting—it hurts, she wants you. I want you.” 

She. As if his brain wasn’t already scrambled enough, you were using pronouns for your sweet, velvet keep. He felt his pulse pounding in his fingertips. Humming in a sort of understanding, he lowered his head. 

“Might feel a little weird, okay? You ever touch yourself before, hunny?” He asked.

You nodded, nibbling on the nails of your right hand. He kissed the top of your mound, eyes on your sweet face. “Have you ever had an orgasm before?”

“Yes,” you sighed, eyes beginning to close as he kissed along your soft thatch of curls. 

Joel let out a deep breath, reverent in his hunger, the sound shaking through his chest. He lowered his face until the bridge of his nose rested just above your entrance. He knew he was torturing you, stringing you along like this. But what if this was the only time he ever got to touch you like this? Every other woman had come to him once and left satisfied, done with him. If they returned, he always turned them away, told them he wasn’t built for more than the favor he gave. But you… you were different. He wanted to keep this. To savor this.

He wanted to remember how you looked right now for the rest of his life.

“S’gonna feel a little different,” he promised, voice rough as gravel. “But daddy’ll make it feel good. I promise.”

“Okay,” you breathed, reaching down to pet your fingers through his hair. The moment your nails scraped lightly against his scalp, another sound rumbled out of him, low and almost pleased enough to be a purr.

He could no longer deny you. He could no longer deny her. If he held himself back another second, he didn’t think he’d survive it. And he’d never be able to call himself a good man again if he dragged out this torture.

He started slow, a kiss to your little pearl, and it pulsed between his lips when he kissed again, suckling gently, your soft whines and breathy sighs rising above him like a symphony.  He licked a fat stripe from your perineum, his tongue like a basin for catching your nectar, drinking you, inhaling you, eating you. He tried to be kind, gentle, but once he’d had a taste, he couldn’t stop himself. 

Joel was a menace. He knew it. Growling under his breath, his breathing heavy and ragged, the beast in him was closer to the surface than he’d let it get in years. Muzzle off but leash tight, he licked and drank and sounded like he’d never eat again. He moaned into you, harmonizing with your sweet, desperate sounds, both of you moving without thinking, your hips pushing into his mouth while he rocked up against the bottom of the couch, the precum from his cock already staining the fabric of his pants.

“Oh,” you mewled, trembling, “oh, Joel—Joel, I think… oh god—”

The sound of his name like that on your lips, pleading and filled with want was a blow to his gut. He paused his grinding, knowing full well he could finish in his pants if he let himself go even one inch further.

He couldn’t take his mouth away from you. He wanted to tell you everything, wanted to praise you, to worship you, to admit how beautiful you were, how unreal you tasted, sweet and warm and soft like velvet against his tongue. He was losing his mind, forcing his heavy‑lidded eyes to stay open, to watch you fall apart for him. 

The hand that was placed upon your mound had started thrumming at your little clit so he could fuck your keep with his tongue, pushing and drinking you in, forcing your back to arch, your lungs to heave, throat crying out. And that’s when he felt the pulsing swell of your orgasm crest and rush through you, thighs shaking, heels pulling him in, digging into his shoulder blades as you brought him closer.

“Yes,” he swore, “That’s it, baby, fucking soak me, come all over my face, atta girl,” his voice was raw with desire, aching for it, and you let out one final scream of pleasure as he kept you there to ride it out, tongue pushing in, thumb circling your clit.

And as you settled, thighs trembling, he saw your throat bobbing, hoarse, eyes heavy and moist as you looked at him again, “Holy shit,” you whispered, giggling a bit. 

Joel wasn’t in the mood for playfulness anymore. Not with the way that feral, starving thing in him was thrashing now, begging, snapping at its leash. His cock strained violently through his sweatpants, painful and insistent, and he crawled over you like gravity had taken hold of him. His hands cupped the bowl of your skull, holding you steady as he kissed you, deep and claiming, pushing his tongue into your mouth.

“Taste yourself,” he commanded between breaths, “taste how fuckin’ good you are,”

You moaned into his mouth, and he thought he might scare you with how badly he wanted you, it scared him a little too. But you could feel his cock, and you were grinding on the outline of it, creamy folds pulsing around the cotton covered mold of him. He was groaning and pushing into you, sawing his hips hard into your cradle. 

“That feels so good, Joel, oh god, please, I want it, I’m ready, I’m ready,” you babbled, mouth soft and open for him as he kissed down your chin, along your jaw, to the shell of your ear. He sat back on his haunches, fingers shaking as he tugged his waistband down. He didn’t care to discard them fully, he was too lost in his need, his hunger. Monopolized by it, it’s all he could think of, giving you this. Giving you him. 

But as he brought his cock to lay across your belly, too heavy to bob up against his own, your eyes widened, a prickle of fear through them as you looked up at him. 

His hand slid to the crease of your hip and thigh, thumb settling right into that soft pocket of skin. He stroked you there, slow, reassuring. “S’alright, baby. You ever seen a cock before?”

You shook your head. “In pictures,” you whispered. “But not… not—” You lifted your hands to your face, peeking through your fingers like you were bracing for a jump scare. “It’s not gonna fit, Joel. Absolutely not.”

He chuckled before he could stop himself, but it wasn’t soft. It sounded rough, a little feral, like something wrenched out of him without permission. "We'll make it fit, honey," he said with finality.

He tried to school that feral part of him back, but then your hand moved.

You were reaching down, touching, your finger tracing the ridge of the head, making him hiss. You jerked your hand away, startled, but he caught your wrist with surprising gentleness. “S’okay,” he breathed, eyes falling shut as he tried not to lose what little control he had left. “Feels good. Maybe too good.” He guided your hand back, lacing his fingers over yours, helping you cup the weight of him. He rocked into your hand, slow and tight.

“So warm,” you whispered to yourself, “Soft, too, like velvet,” 

Joel hummed, lost to the way your delicate fingers felt around him as he rucked against you. The friction wasn’t enough, and he brought your hand to his mouth, spit into it, your eyes wider, and brought your hand back down. His head thrown back and mouth open, he let you play, no longer guiding, letting you explore. Your wet fingers traced him, teased him, wrapped around him, and he felt his vision spark white at the edges. He wanted to watch so badly but couldn’t, the feeling of your wet exploration, your learning of him, far too delicious to focus on anything but touch alone. 

“I want to try,” you said at last, “maybe just…just be slow,” 

Joel looked back down at you, but you weren’t looking at him, instead, you were staring at your own hand, enraptured by the way it moved over him, touching him like you were trying to memorize every vein and ridge. When you reached further, cupping his balls gently, he let out a groan that tore through him, a sound he couldn’t have held back if he tried. 

He gripped himself, shifting so he could slide through the slick honey you made for him, his cock jumping at the feeling of your warm keep. 

You moaned at the contact, hands flying to his forearms, gripping as you whimpered at the notch of when he finally prodded the entrance. 

“M’nervous,” you whispered. 

Joel leaned down immediately, cupping your cheeks in both hands again, kissing your mouth once, soft and grounding, trying to soothe the tremble running through your body. “I got you, baby. Daddy’s got you. Gonna take it slow, I promise. You ready?”

You nodded, arms slipping around his neck, fingers threading through his hair, pulling him close like you couldn’t bear even an inch of distance.

Joel’s mouth fell open, jaw coming unhinged as he pushed, slowly, like molasses, through your walls. They clenched down, as nervous as you were to his intrusion. He kissed you again, distracting you with his tongue, coaxing you through it, letting you mewl sweetly into his mouth as your body adjusted around him.

“Oh!” you squealed, “you’re—you’re in my belly,” you hissed as he pulled back a little, settling there. 

He pushed your hair back, your forehead dappling in sweat, “It’s alright,” he murmured, over and over, his voice a low litany. “It’s alright. Gonna hurt for just a minute. That’s halfway, baby. Only halfway. You’re doin’ so good. She feels like heaven.”

You were moaning, whether in pleasure or pain, Joel knew he needed to wait. He felt your walls pulling and pushing, constricting like a fist, all the blood in the thick vein that rushed along his shaft pulsing. He kissed your neck, your jaw, all to keep himself in line, to keep that shred of restraint, waiting. 

“Bein’ so good for me, baby,” he whispered, “How you feelin’, hm? Talk to me.”

You drew in a deep breath. “Feels funny,” you admitted, “but better.”

“Yeah?”

You nodded, eyes fluttering. “Keep going. Please. I want to feel all of you.”

Joel looked into your eyes then, searching, both of you a mirror of desire, of nerves, of want, “Okay, okay,” he cooed, pushing in a few more inches. Your neck arched back, eyes squeezing shut, and he tapped his thumb against your jaw, “Look at me, honey, daddy’s got ya,”

Your eyes opened, and your breath came heavier, and soon your grimace was turning into an ‘o’ of pleasure as he seated himself fully, his balls pushing into the cheeks of your ass. 

“Ohhh…” Joel groaned, “Ain’t that so good, sugar?” 

“Fuck, fuck fuck fuck,” you were whispering. 

Joel eased back just enough to look down between your bodies. You followed his gaze, chest heaving, watching with him as his cock slid out, slick with your release, veins streaked with white cream, the thick length glistening under the low light. His hair was damp, peppered with sweat and ecstasy.

“Holy fucking shit,” you breathed, eyes wide, watching him push back in, your neck arching with the stretch, head tipping helplessly into the pillows. “Please, please don’t stop—it feels—oh my god—it feels so fucking good—”

And finally, fucking finally, after what felt like ages of restraint, of being good, of holding himself and muzzling that mean dog in him, Joel let go of the leash.

He started fucking into you with full force, sawing deep, hard, relentless, watching the way his cock disappeared and reappeared inside you, dripping with slick. His jaw clenched, his body shuddering as he gave in to the hunger.

“You’ve got no fuckin’ clue,” he growled, “how long I’ve wanted this.” His hands moved to grip your hips so hard his knuckles blanched. “How long I’ve thought about you like this. Moanin’ my name with my cock deep in you.”

Your eyes were wide as you watched him, moaning his praises. Oh, god, oh god, tell me, daddy please tell me—

He couldn’t stop looking, watching himself move in and out of you like it was the only thing left in the world, and his mouth spilled every unclean thought he'd ever had. “You got no idea, baby. Wanted to fuck your throat every time you gave me lip. Wanted to bend you over the cabin floor that time we got snowed in, make her cry for me. God, I wanted you so bad.”

Sweat was dripping from his forehead, falling onto your belly, hot against hot. The room blurred at the edges, fire and muscle and want, just you taking everything he gave.

“Ain’t my fault,” he murmured, a crooked little smile tugging at his mouth. “You’re so fuckin’ perfect. This ass. That face. You’re perfect, baby. All mine now. My perfect girl.”

“Yes, Joel, I’m yours—I wanna be—it’s all I’ve ever—” you were gasping, hiccuping on a moan, nails dragging down his arms. “Please, come here, closer—”

He dropped over you again in an instant, kissing you hard, bellies sliding together, soaked in sweat, his rhythm never slowing. The couch rocked beneath you as he kept fucking into you, kissing you as if it might kill him if he stopped.

“I’m yours,” you whispered against his mouth, nails scraping into his scalp. “Fuck me like I’m yours, Joel.”

He bit into your neck, rough and deep, and you wailed, body tightening as he sawed into you. He forced himself to keep a steady rhythm, he would not ruin this by being an animal. He told himself he’d teach you one day how to take a good fucking, maybe bent over the armchair or over his kitchen counter, or maybe in the shower, but tonight he needed to still be gentle and good, keeping it steady for only you. 

His thumb found your clit and you jolted like you’d been shocked.

“N–n–no, too much,” you cried out, writhing, your hands pushing at him weakly.

“Say your word n’ I’ll stop, baby girl, come on, know you’re tough, know you can take it,” he growled, “wanna feel how fuckin’ tight she’ll get when she comes around me, come on now, be daddy’s girl and come for me.”

You were wailing, tears beading in your eyes, but you didn’t say your word, you nodded, kissing him, salt and wet and delicious as your breath came shorter and shorter. And then you froze, legs widening until your thighs were planted on the bed, taking your orgasm, letting him fuck you through it, your velvet keep a vice around his cock, a fist, threatening to choke the life out of him as you came. 

"I'm gonna come inside," he wanted, "I have to, I can't—"

"Yes, yes, yes," you whispered.

He was babbling praise in your ear as he held on through sheer force before his own body went taut and he was coming inside of you, unable to talk himself into pulling away. That’s a good girl, atta girl, what a sweet little thing takin’ daddy’s cock so good, that’s it, that’s it, yes.

And in the after, the two of you lay like that, bodies tangled and unwound, catching your breath while the sweat cooled and soaked into the old couch cushions beneath you. He kept his mouth on your shoulder, slow open kisses that tasted of salt and the faintest sweetness of your skin. Your fingers stroked gently at his hair, a soft and steady petting that calmed him. He felt the heavy rise and fall of your chest begin to ease, your heartbeat settling back into its natural rhythm, the thrum of it against his sternum.

“Thank you,” you whispered, the words faint and almost shy.

Joel hummed against your skin, his lips still wandering, kissing whatever they could reach. He did not know how to answer you without saying too much.

“What happens now?” you asked even quieter. 

He lifted his head, brushing a kiss to your chin, then the swell of your bottom lip, then the tip of your nose, giving himself time to think. “We’ll get you cleaned up, and you can...” He paused when he saw your brow crease, the worry clouding the softness that had been there a moment ago. “What is it?”

“I don’t wanna go home,” you whispered. “I don’t want this to be the last time. I want…I meant what I said, Joel. I’m yours, if you’d have me.”

He went still, just for a moment, watching the worry flicker behind your eyes. He hated that worry. Hated that he might be the cause of it. You were brave enough to say it, and he knew what that cost.

He’d lived a long time doing favors for folks, keeping to himself, giving women what they asked for without stepping past the boundaries they laid down. Jackson’s Cherry Picker. That stupid little nickname had stuck, and maybe he’d earned it. But he never took what wasn’t offered, they never stayed long after, and he never asked for more. They came to him wanting a lesson, a night, a rite of passage, and he’d give them exactly that. No promises. No expectations. 

And most days he convinced himself he liked it that way. It kept him unbound, kept things simple. And it kept him from wanting what he’d already lost too many times.

But simple had turned into lonely long before tonight, and he hadn’t even noticed until now, with you in his arms. You had been the exception from the beginning. But now…now…

He lifted his hand to your cheek, thumb brushing the heat there, and saw how much you meant every word you’d said. It would be the easiest thing in the world to tell you to go, to stick to the script he always used, to keep his life small and untouched.

But he couldn’t picture you leaving. Not after this. This was mind altering, a seismic change, like fault lines rearranged in his heart for you. A spell cast between you, irreversible and unseen. Whatever line you’d crossed together, it wouldn’t be uncrossed. And that’s what he wanted. He wanted to keep giving, to let himself soften and offer and pour whatever he had into your hands, if you chose that path with him.

“Stay here,” he said, more certain than he had felt in years, “Stay with me.”