#dbf trope

You don’t move over to the passenger seat.

Instead, you stay in the middle of the bench, your bare thigh just barely brushing against the sweatpants Joel threw on before coming to get you and Tommy from the bar. The tequila still lingers in your stomach, but it’s not the only thing making you feel woozy. The air in the cab is heavy, warm—it smells like Joel, even with the little tree-shaped air freshener hanging from the mirror.

You zone out, watching the winding road as you drive toward home, slipping in and out of sleep. Every so often, you jolt awake, your head going slack and crashing toward your chest. Joel hasn’t said a word. He just keeps his eyes on the road, hands at nine and three, lips pressed together in a quiet hum.

He flipped on the radio when you pulled out of Tommy’s complex. It plays softly, tuned to some classic dad-rock station. You recognize the late-night host’s voice from being in this exact situation before—riding home drunk, half-asleep with your dad.

From the corner of your eye, you watch Joel until the steady hum of the truck’s engine, mixed with the rhythm of his breathing, lulls you back to sleep.

You wake up again, this time to the sound of Joel mumbling. You notice the faint vibration against your cheek, you must have rested your head on his shoulder while you slept. Half-opening your eyes, you realize you’re in the drive-thru of a fast-food restaurant. Joel pays at the window, and you let your eyes drift shut again, leaving your head where it is, trying to ignore the way he smells; like lavender and musk.

Judging by the passing scenery, you’re only about five minutes from home when a sudden panic jolts you fully awake. You untangle the arm you somehow wrapped around Joel’s, carefully moving his hand from where it rests, palm up on his thigh. Squinting against your blurred, doubling vision, you turn your head toward him and whisper in his ear,

“Joel.”

You feel his whole body tense. The hand on his knee scrunches the fabric of his jeans, and the knuckles gripping the steering wheel turn white.

“What do you need, darlin’?” he asks, caution in his voice.

“Pull over.”

He turns to look at you, his nose just inches from yours. His expression catches somewhere between intrigue and terror.

“Why do you want me to pull over? Your daddy’s gonna lose his mind if I don’t have you home soon.”

“I’m gonna throw up.”

The second the words leave your mouth, you snap your head away from him, fumbling with your seatbelt as you lurch toward the passenger door. Joel cranks the wheel hard to the right, jumping a curb and bringing the truck to a rough stop halfway onto the sidewalk. You barely get the door open before you’re heaving, stomach acid and cranberry juice burning your throat.

Fucking awesome.

You try to push him away, but Joel insists on helping. He holds your hair back, rubbing soothing circles between your shoulders. It’s clear this isn’t the first time he’s done this.

Of course, it isn’t. Joel always picked Sarah up from the bar, or any party she went to. He preferred it—never trusted her to take a cab home from the city.

Honestly, it’s surprising you haven’t ended up in this position before tonight. You and Sarah went out most nights whenever you were both home.

Once you’re sure you’ve emptied your stomach, you drag yourself back into the truck. Sliding back into the middle seat, you rest your head on his shoulder for the remainder of the drive. Neither of you say a word.

Joel just lazily drapes an arm over the back of the seat.

Before long, Joel pulls into the driveway.

He tugs you from the cab, setting you down, but your knees buckle like a newborn fawn’s—weak, wobbly, Jello-soft.

He huffs, exasperation sharp, and scoops you up before you hit the ground, cradling you like it’s nothing.

“Hold onto my neck,” he mutters, and you do, fingers sinking into the soft curls at his nape.

Your head spins, booze-soaked, and a memory flickers—three years back, right after Mom died, you spiraling into vodka stolen from Dad’s stash night after night, chasing numbness until it became your only lifeline. You’d been drowning in it, dependency creeping in as grief hollowed you out, barely 22 and already cracking. That night, he found you half-passed out on the porch, bottle tipped over, voice breaking as he whispered, holding back tears,

“I can’t lose you too, Birdie.”

The next day, he’d turned to Joel, pressing the key into his hand with a hollow, desperate look.

“You’re family, Joel—keep her from breakin’ like she did…” He stopped, eyes wet, the unspoken weight of her absence hanging between them.

You try to blink it away, clinging tighter now as Joel digs out that same key—a copy he’s had since then. He’s been Dad’s rock ever since her silence took hold, and you know this closeness is a shard in that fragile trust.

With a quiet click, the door unlocks. He carefully shifts sideways, making sure not to knock your knees against the frame as he carries you inside. His footsteps are light as he moves through the living room, lowering you onto the couch like it’s nothing. He’s still strong, handling you with ease, but he’s smart enough not to haul you upstairs and risk throwing out his back. Maybe when he was thirty, he wouldn’t have thought twice. But now? Pushing closer to fifty, his knees and back have the final say.

You roll onto your side, hugging a throw pillow and burying your face in it.

Joel heads into the kitchen, reaching into the cupboard above the sink. He grabs a bottle of whiskey and the ibuprofen, then pulls down two glasses—one for alcohol, one for water. He shakes out two pills, one for now, one for the morning.

There’s no need to be quiet. Your dad is half-deaf, could probably sleep through an artillery strike without stirring. He’s the heaviest sleeper you’ve ever met—a huge perk when you were a teenager. You never even had to sneak out; you just left and came back. He never had a clue. And your mom? She checked out of being a parent long before you hit your teens.

Joel settles beside you on the couch, pulling your legs across his lap. His fingers move to the buckle of your shoe, and at the first brush of contact, a shudder rolls through you—goosebumps prickling across your skin. It feels too intimate. You think about telling him to stop, but you don’t. Instead, you just watch as he slips off both heels and tosses them beside the couch.

Then, he nudges your shoulder.

“Sit up.”

When you don’t move, he sighs, grabs your wrist, and pulls you upright.

“Here, drink this.”

He presses the glass of water into your hand, holding out the pill in the other.

“Like I was saying earlier, cowboy—you ain’t my daddy.”

“You see him around right now? No, he’s sleepin’ while I take care of you. Now drink the damn water.” His voice is even firmer this time.

You oblige, placing the pill on your tongue in front of him and tipping the cool glass to your lips. You sip, then chug the rest. You hadn’t realized how thirsty you are until the liquid touches your tongue—parched, like a neglected houseplant or someone rescued from the Sahara.

Joel takes a slow sip of whiskey, watching you over the rim of his glass.

“Atta girl. Finally fuckin’ listenin’ to me.” His voice is low, a gravelly purr.

The praise makes your heart—and your pussy—throb.

It also makes you choke on your last sip of water. You double over, coughing into your elbow, eyes watering.

“You good, kid? Don’t go dyin’ on me now; I just got you home safe,” Joel says, half-amused, half-concerned.

“I’m fine. Went down the wrong pipe.” Your face burns with embarrassment.

“Mhm. Alright, whatever. Eat.”

He hands you a grease-stained brown paper bag. The smell alone makes you salivate. You reach inside and shove a handful of fries into your mouth, sighing softly as the salt and grease coat your tongue. Joel, thankfully, either ignores it or does a good job pretending to.

“You want some?” you ask, mouth full, holding out the box of fries.

“Nah, I’m good. You need the carbs to help soak up all the liquor in ya, kid.” He chuckles softly. “You’re gonna feel it tomorrow.”

“I’ll be fine. I barely ever get hungover.”

“Enjoy it while it lasts. You hit my age, you go out drinkin’ like you did tonight, and you’ll feel it for a week.” He takes another sip of his drink, and you watch his Adam’s apple bob as he swallows.

You smirk.

“Oh yeah, so true! I keep forgetting you’re an old man.”

Joel doesn’t laugh. Just stares at you, unreadable. Then, slowly, he moves his hand from the arm of the couch down to your ankle, wrapping his fingers around it. He squeezes once before tracing slow, lazy circles into your skin.

“You’re on mighty thin fuckin’ ice, brat,” he mutters, exhaustion making his voice even growlier.

For a second, you consider pushing him further just to hear more of it. But then you remember how pissed he got earlier at the bar. Maybe best to let it go.

“Thank you,” you murmur. “For bringing me home. And buying me food. And holding my hair, even though you didn’t need to do any of those things.”

Joel snorts.

“I didn’t need you to tell me to take you home from the bar. Watchin’ you dancin’ on an old man told me you were plenty ready to leave.”

His expression twists slightly, like the memory alone makes him taste something sour.

“Tommy’s not that much younger than you. If he’s old, you must be ancient,” you tease. “And if it’s any consolation, I was only doing that to keep him from breaking some poor kid’s nose.”

Joel just watches you talk, nodding along as you babble.

“That’s why I texted you. He almost beat up some guy for hitting on me.”

“Well, did he deserve it?” Joel asks.

“Not really. He was pretty harmless. Tommy must’ve been jealous.”

Joel hums in agreement, still absentmindedly rubbing your lower legs, every now and then dragging his fingers down to your feet. It’s a harmless act—a paternal instinct, you tell yourself. It reminds you of the nights your dad would sit at the end of your bed, rubbing your shins to ease the growing pains that left you sobbing.

Your eyelids feel heavy.

You close your eyes and let yourself sink into the warmth of Joel’s touch.

“Where’s my phone? It was in my jacket last time I saw it,” you ask him.

“Oh, must still be in the truck. I’ll go get it, hold on,” he answers.

“No, it’s fine. I’ll grab it—I need to change out of this stupid dress anyway. You stay.”

You shift off his lap slowly, swinging your legs over his knees. The movement is careful, measured, and when your bare skin grazes over his crotch, you feel the way his body stiffens beneath you. He doesn’t say anything, he just watches, expressionless—but you don’t miss the way he swallows hard, his grip tightening for a second on his glass of whiskey before he sets it down.

As you head for the door, you glance back. Joel’s adjusting the throw blanket over his lap, his jaw clenched like he’s trying to will himself into stillness. You don’t say anything, but a knowing smirk plays at your lips as you step outside. //

The air is cooler than you expect, the contrast against your warmed skin sending a small shiver down your spine. You climb into the truck and grab your jacket from the floor of the cab, but as you lift it, something catches your eye. A crumpled sticky note, partially stepped on. You smooth it out between your fingers and immediately recognize the handwriting.

Thank you for supporting our small business—Sweet Berry Farm.

Your lips twitch into a small smile as you remember the bouquet of sunflowers Joel brought you the day you came home. They’re still sitting on your nightstand, petals a little wilted now.

You swing the truck door closed and step onto the porch, deciding to light a cigarette since you’re already outside. The porch swing creaks under your weight as you sit, leaning your head back and taking a slow drag. The tobacco is sweet on your tongue, the warmth settling low in your belly, making everything feel a little easier, a little looser. The quiet hum of the night wraps around you, and you get so lost in it that you don’t hear the front door open or close.

You only notice Joel when the swing shifts beside you.

“Your daddy know you smoke?” His voice is thick, a little rough around the edges.

You pause, cocking your head slightly.

“What he don’t know won’t hurt him.”

“I ain’t tellin’,” he murmurs, plucking the cigarette from your lips before you can react. He brings it to his own mouth, inhaling, the ember flaring bright, a red glow pulsing like a heartbeat.

“Too pretty to be smoking, though, darlin’,” he adds, exhaling, the smoke shimmering unnaturally in the dark.

You should roll your eyes, should brush him off, but you don’t. You just watch. The way the smoke curls from his lips. The way his chest rises slow and steady, broad and strong. The way his fingers linger near his mouth before offering the cigarette back to you.

Your mouth goes dry, and your thoughts scatter. Can he taste my chapstick? Why does he make smoking look so good? What do his lips feel like? What do they taste like?

You reach for the cigarette, but Joel notices the way you hesitate. His lips twitch.

“You still in there? You’re starin’,” he drawls, holding it just out of reach.

Real smooth, fucking weirdo.

You recover quickly, snatching the cigarette back with a huff.

“Not staring—zoning out. Headrush. Don’t flatter yourself.” You take another slow pull, but the warmth in your face betrays you. The heat that started in your chest is lower now, simmering beneath your skin, and when you shift in your seat, pressing your legs together, Joel notices.

His eyes flick down, then back up. He leans in, just enough that you smell the faintest hint of whiskey.

“Whatever you say, kid.”

His voice is low, teasing, and you officially lose any chance of pretending you have the upper hand. He knows exactly what he’s doing—he’s enjoying this.

You keep passing the cigarette between you, his fingers brushing yours each time. When it burns down to the filter, you stomp it out and flick the butt into the yard. You pull your phone from your pocket, exhaling slowly, but when you glance at the screen, your stomach drops.

Your eyes widen at the first notification.

(1:08AM)T-Mills: Had a lot of fun tonight, bird. We should hang out more. 😜 Srry Joel's such a fuckin’ buzzkill. 🙄

Your stomach twists. Whatever reaction flickers across your face must be obvious, because before you can even think to hide it, Joel leans in. His eyes flick over the screen, and before you can pull away, he snatches the phone from your hands.

“Is he fuckin’ hitting on you still? Jesus Christ.”

His voice is sharp, edged with something rougher, something possessive. His whole demeanor shifts—shoulders squared, jaw tight, fingers gripping your phone like he’s about to snap it in half. You can’t tell if it’s scaring you or turning you on.

“Joel, give me back my phone. Who cares if he is, anyway?”

You reach for it, but he jerks his arm away, forcing you to grab at his forearm in a weak attempt to pry it from his grip.

“Oh, I fuckin’ care. He knows better.”

Joel scoffs, shaking his head like he’s personally offended. His grip tightens around your phone, and then he mutters,

“You’re off limits, and he knows that.”

Your brain short-circuits.

Off limits?

Your hands go slack, any fight draining out of you. What’s the point? He’s stronger—he could keep it from you all night if he wanted to. You watch as he unlocks your phone, swipes to the camera, and snaps a picture of himself flipping off the screen. Then, he types out a message and hits send.

(1:27AM) You: Get fucked, Tom—The Buzzkill 😉

You huff out a laugh, shaking your head.

“You guys are both fucking pathetic.”

It must hit a nerve, because Joel’s expression changes instantly. His eyes darken, pupils blown wide—so wide, you swear you can see the whole damn moon reflected in them. But this time, he doesn’t look angry. Just… intense.

Heat licks up your spine.

Joel reaches up, cupping your face in his calloused hand. His thumb skims across your cheekbone, fingers trailing lower, slow and deliberate, tracing down the side of your neck. Your breath falters in your throat, and before you can stop it, a quiet whimper slips past your lips.

For fuck’s sake.

Joel grins.

“What was that, huh?” His voice is a low drawl, thick with amusement. “Thought I was the pathetic one?”

His thumb drags over your bottom lip, pressing lightly, tugging it downward. Your lips part slightly, breath shuddering against his fingertips. He doesn’t move any closer, just stays right there, hovering. You’re sharing air now.

You’re inches away from something irreversible.

You try to say something—anything, but before you can find the words, Joel closes the gap. His lips meet yours, rough and consuming, and you swear your pulse is loud enough to drown out the whole city.

Your body ignites.

You press into him, mouth parting wider, pulling his bottom lip between your teeth. You bite down, just enough to feel resistance before you soothe it with a slow drag of your tongue.

Joel’s fingers tighten around your jaw, tilting your chin up, deepening the kiss. His tongue slides against yours, tasting, exploring, claiming. His other hand grips your thigh, fingers digging into the flesh, pulling you closer. Your own hands find their way into his hair, twisting into the curls at the base of his neck, tugging just hard enough to draw a low growl from his throat. The vibration shoots through you like lightning, settling deep in your core.

It’s not enough.

Your pussy aches, you’re desperate for some kind of friction, anything to get some relief. You continue mapping out his mouth with your tongue, never breaking the kiss until you turn to swing your knee over his thigh. You hover, hands planted against his shoulders, thumbs pressing into the space between his collarbone and traps.You settle over him, straddling his lap. Or at least, you try to.

Joel’s hands clamp down on your hips, holding you still.

“Can’t do that, darlin’.” His voice is rough, strained. “S’not right. You’re drunk.”

His hesitation threatens to snap the moment in half, dragging him back to reality, but you refuse to let it slip away that easily. Your breath is still heavy, your heart beating relentlessly as you meet his gaze.

“I’m sober enough to know what I’m doin’.”

Joel exhales hard through his nose, shaking his head.

“Sure, but I don’t think you have a fuckin’ clue what you’re gettin’ yourself into, little bird.”

His pupils are still blown wide, but his face is serious again—his mind warring with his body. You can see it. The restraint tightening in his jaw, the way his fingers flex against your skin like he’s debating whether to push you away or pull you closer.

“We shouldn’t be doin’ this, your daddy’s gonna have my fuckin’ head.”

You tilt your head, voice dropping to a whisper.

“I’ll never tell, cowboy.”

That’s all it takes.

He breaks.

His hands tighten on your hips, dragging you down as his mouth crashes into yours. A sharp whine escapes from the back of your throat, swallowed up by the heat of his lips. Your nails dig into his shoulders, anchoring yourself against him, his pulse beneath your fingertips racing.

His tongue dances on yours, slow, like he has all the time in the world to take you apart piece by piece. The taste of whiskey lingers, sharp and heady.

You shift, rolling your hips against his thigh—chasing friction, desperate for more. He growls into your mouth, fingers surely pressing bruises into your skin as he holds you there, letting you feel exactly what you do to him.

Then—

Creak.

Joel tenses beneath you.

You barely have time to react before—

The swing creaks too loud, the night bending around you.

Snap.

The porch swing collapses beneath you both. You plummet backward, limbs tangling with his as you hit the ground.

And just before your head smacks against the siding of the house—

You wake up. (I'm so sorry for this please don't hate me I promise I'll make it up to you)

You wake to a skull-splitting throb ripping through your temples. Joel was right. You’re feeling it today. Sunlight slices through the curtains, white-hot and sharp. You roll over and bury your face in your pillow, It smells like smoke and shame; a faint echo of last night. Joel’s kiss burns through your head, rough hands and a growl daring you to forget. His “Go to bed, Bird” rings in your ears.

Fuck.

You groan, hauling yourself upright, stumbling downstairs. You’re half-hoping he’s there, half-dreading facing him—gonna be hard pretending nothing happened. But he’s not here, because he left you last night feeling like a mistake, leaving you feeling stupid for thinking he felt it too.

You walk into the living room. Your dad sits on the couch happy as ever, totally oblivious reading the newspaper. Your eyes drag to the coffee table and Joel’s whiskey glass still sits there, another reminder. The Cypress Hill t-shirt you’re in is wrinkled with sleep, pooling over your body, you haven’t looked in the mirror, unsure if you want to face yourself yet.

“Hey, Bird, you look like shit,” he says, eyeing you up and down.

Thanks.

“I feel worse than I look,” you reply, flopping onto the couch beside him. “Tequila’s never a good idea.” Your stomach churns at the thought, mouth-watering like you’re about to puke. You squint toward the kitchen, and the clock reads 10:38, at least you got decent sleep.

“You hungry?” your dad asks, brow arched, peering over the paper.

“Maybe. Probably should eat something, definitely need water.”

He folds the newspaper, tosses it on the table, and grunts as he stands. “I got called down to Dallas, some job’s fucked up. You know it was possible to install gutters fuckin’ backward?” He  huffs out half a laugh,” Oh, and the airs busted again—Joel’s gonna be here on his lunch break.”

You blink, relief creeping in, the coast is clear. “Wait,” you say, panicked, “Joel’s coming over?” You slow your voice, hiding the mix of dread and thrill. “Yeah, why? Probably be here soon. You cool with that?” He lifts a brow, probing your unease, but his phone rings before he can dig.

“Yup,” he answers, grabbing his keys from the hook by the door. “Love you, Tweety. See ya Wednesday-ish.” Then he’s out, leaving you alone with the heat and Joel’s looming shadow.

Cool… I guess?

You grab your phone, and tap the screen, anxious for what’s there.

Three new texts.

(9:04 AM)

Karlie: Girl are you good??? Did that dilf kidnap you? Give me the tea ☕

You’d rather not. She’ll escalate to 911 if you don’t reply.

(10:40 AM)

You: Hey, sorry, I’m good. Hungover as fuck, I’ll call later xox

(9:08 AM)

T-Mills: You okay bird? We’re ok right? I didn’t mean to make u uncomfortable. don’t leave me on read

You’d hoped Tommy would let it go, how did you tangle yourself with both Millers in one night? At least you didn’t kiss Tommy. You just let him grind on your ass in public, then you know, ended up on his older brother’s lap. You replay last night again. The bar, Brett? Brad? Ben—the kid Tommy nearly decked. The truck, Joel taking care of you. The dream, somehow ending better than reality. “We shouldn’t be doin’ this,” Joel's mouth claiming yours, then “Go to bed, Bird,” like a punishment, like you were a bad dog.

Fuck him.

You tap Tommy’s name and shoot off a response without thinking. It’s probably the only way you’ll do it.

(10:42 AM)You: It’s fine Tom, must have opened my phone half asleep last night. I feel like shit!!! Remind me to stay away from tequila next time

He replies instantly like he’s been waiting.

(10:42 AM)

T-Mills: Next time huh? Round two tomorrow??? 🎉

Fuck Joel. Let Tommy fix this.

You know what, fuck it. Maybe more booze and Tommy’s attention will soothe this ache.

(10:43)

You: 9pm, pick me up???

You check the last text.

(10:30 AM)

Joel: Is the a/c rlly broken or??

You laugh out loud.

What a piece of work.

Does Joel think you’d lie to get him over? You don’t even want to face him today. Shame washes over you like cold water, maybe last night was just a big fuckin’ mistake.

(10:45 AM)

You: ???? i just woke up, don’t know what you’re talking about lol 🤷

A text bubble pops up, vanishes, pops up, vanishes. You laugh again. Joel’s got his foot in his mouth, and can’t muster a reply.

(10:46 AM)

Joel: k.

K? Really?

Oh, fuck that guy.

You get off the couch, and head for the bathroom to scrub last night off. The image of Joel’s face before he said “Go to bed, Bird” feels permanently burned into your head. His eyes scared, like he fucked up, angry at himself, disgusted. Rejection stings your eyes, but it turns to anger the longer you stew.

If he wants games, you can play too.

You hop out with a plan. Black denim shorts, barely covering your ass, paired with a cropped Rangers shirt from your high school slut phase. The one with the neck cut out, it hugs your curves, makes your boobs look fantastic. You throw on a cropped flannel, put on mascara, and lip gloss, tying your hair into space buns to finish the look. You head downstairs, the silence is loud, not even the hum of the A/C, just you and your thoughts.

You try to eat the sandwich Dad left, but your mouth’s dry—it goes down like sand, Gatorade helps. Boots drag and a knock hits the door, you’re even sweatier knowing Joel’s there, alone now. You ditch the flannel, wrap it around your waist, and let him in.

Fucking get a grip.

It only takes a minute for your facade to crack. He looks gorgeous, toolbox in hand, curls tucked under a Rangers cap, in work pants with a toolbelt sitting low on his hips. He barely acknowledges you, only giving you half a smile as he walks in. You catch his eyes flick to your chest as he passes by you on the couch though.

Small victories.

He heads to the thermostat, fiddling with wires, ignoring you like you’re air. Anger jolts through you, tingling from your toes to your shoulders, but that toolbelt pulls it back to your core. Finally, he breaks the silence.

“Where’s your dad?”

“Dallas. Work trip,” you deadpan. Yes girl, give him nothing!

Joel hums, shakes his head, and then gets back to it.

You try to ignore him, but your competency kink wins. He mumbles about circuits and fuses, cursing under his breath and groaning as he works. You half-watch true crime on TV, but it’s no use.

“So,” you start, eyes on the screen, voice calm, bored, flipping to MTV, “why did you do it?”

Joel sighs, long and low. “Ain’t got words for it, kid. Shouldn’t’ve happened, was a mistake, end of.”

You laugh, bitter, leaning over the couch arm. “Cool, and now you’re gonna make it my fault? My problem? You started it, Joel.”

You stand up from the couch, legs moving toward him, face flushed with anger.

He stops, drops the pliers, and pinches his nose bridge, squinting. He locks his eyes on you—something unreadable in them, “See, this is why it never should’ve happened. You think I want this, Bird?” His jaw clenches, voice rough. “Think I’m happy fuckin’ everything up? For what? This?” You can hear grief crack through his voice.

“So answer my damn question. Why’d you kiss me?” you repeat, firm, smooth, the anger outweighing the anxiety in your words. 

“I don’t know, kid” he sighs, pain clear. “Because I’m weak. I’m fuckin’ weak and you…” He stops, eyes raking you, shaking his head, fists balled.

“You what?” you press, voice low and cutting, walking closer. “Just say it. You wanted it, Joel. Don’t blame me.”

“Wanted it? I’m fuckin’ haunted by it, Bird, by you.” It comes out as a snarl, his eyes glazed with shouldn’t and can’t.

You’re in his face now, “Then why’d you come here? You could’ve just said no to him.”

He grabs your shoulders and spins you, your back hits against the wall. His voice is a jagged whisper, “Because you’re a goddamn curse. I hate you for this. I hate me, but I can’t fuckin stop.” His mouth crashes down, rough, hungry, swallowing your gasp. His free hand finds your shirt hem, fingers searing your skin.

You lean in, tangling into him, hands grasping fabric, pulling closer. You’d crawl into his ribcage if he’d let you. He pushes back, caging you against the wall. Your head spins. You buck your hips, desperation met with metal and leather. You unbuckle his toolbelt mid-kiss. It crashes, tools scattering, narrowly missing your feet.

“You’re fuckin’ killin’ me,” Joel groans into your throat, panting. His mouth bruises your jaw, and trails fire down your neck, boot forcing your feet apart. “Tell me no,” he rasps, voice breaking, shifting his body weight to the knee that’s flush against you. His fingers hit your shorts’ waistband.

“Tell me to stop.”

You don’t, you can’t. You’ve never wanted something so badly before in your damn life. Your breath hitches as his hand slips under, grazing your skin, teasing the edge of your underwear, slow and deliberate, heat pooling low. He’s relentless, his teeth on your collarbone, one hand pinning your hips, the other circling where you’re soaked until your legs tremble.

“Joel,” you choke, arching into him.

“Fuckin’ say it, Bird,” he growls against your chest.

His touch intensifies, fingers teasing your entrance, barely dipping in. You gasp, “please” slipping out, hips bucking involuntarily this time. “I can’t do this,” he mutters, faltering, at war with himself; he doesn’t stop, he just keeps working you to the edge.

You manage to whisper, “I want this, Joel—you, I need you” your pulse hammers.

“You think you can handle that, little Bird?” He drawls, “Huh? You know what you’re signin’ up fo?”

His voice is sending you over the edge, a whine breaking free when a truck rumbles outside. Keys rattle, Joel freezes, “Fuck.” He pulls back slowly, eyes wild, hands leaving you just as the door bangs open.

“Birdie, forgot my damn wallet!” Dad booms, stomping in.

You shove your shorts straight, heart slamming. Joel steps aside, grabs his toolbox, jaw tight, muttering, “Gotta fix this damn thing.”

Dad strides through, tossing his keys on the table, squinting—Joel by the thermostat, you flushed, leaning against the wall trying desperately to look chill. “Still hot as hell,” he grunts, eyes narrowing. “Thought you said you were on it?” He snags his wallet from the counter, oblivious but sharp.

Joel clears his throat. “Fuse issue, takin’ longer than I thought.” He dives back into the unit, tools clanking, avoiding Dad’s stare.

Dad hums, skeptical, he glances down to the toolbelt. “Right. Looked like somethin’ else was goin’ on when I walked in.”

Shit.

Your stomach drops, but he doesn’t linger, just shrugs. “Don’t burn the place down while I’m gone.” He grabs your half empty Gatorade, “Love you Bird— bye Joel.” and heads out again, door slamming behind him.

Joel mutters, “Fuckin’ close,” twisting a wire, glancing at you—gaze loaded—then back to the A/C. It hums to life, cool air trickling out, tension thick as ever.

“Done,” he says, flat, packing his tools slowly, stalling. He straightens, toolbox in hand, but doesn’t move for the door. You’re alone again, the hum of the A/C doing nothing to cut the heat between you. His stare lingers, heavy, like he’s waiting for something.

“Why’d you stay?” you snap, voice sharp, stepping closer. “Could’ve bolted when he left.”

Joel’s jaw ticks, eyes flicking to the floor, then back to you. “Shouldn’t be here,” he mutters, rough. “Shouldn’t’ve come at all.”

“Then why did you?” you press, anger flaring. “You’re so full of shit—sayin'’ it’s a mistake, then pullin’ that?”

He steps toward you, close enough you feel his breath, warm and unsteady. “You don’t get it, Bird. I can’t—” He cuts off, shaking his head, fists clenching. “Fuckin’ hell.”

“Get what?” you bite back, staring him down. “That you’re a coward? Say it or leave.”

His eyes flare, guilt and want warring there, but he doesn’t answer. The silence stretches, taut, your pulse pounding in your ears. You’re inches apart, teetering, his hand twitching like he might reach out. Then he steps back, and turns, a low “Fuckin’ trouble” slipping out as he heads for the door. His gaze burns into you one last time, loaded with everything he won’t say, and he’s gone.

What the actual fuck?

You’re left reeling, his “ruinin’ me” echoes. The air cools, but the weight stays heavy. You slump down on the couch, staring at the whiskey glass, twirling the stupid necklace, even after that it still manages to ground you. Your skin still buzzes where he touched you, jaw to hips. The anger keeps churning, with something else now—want, raw, and fucking unshakable. Joel’s a coward, sure, but you’re not innocent. You pushed. You wanted it too. You sit back down on the couch, flipping through channels, trying to keep yourself distracted from the way you feel. You try reading and end up scrolling through your camera roll. Oh, fuck my life. You find an old picture, of Joel, Sarah, and Tommy. All of them wearing lifejackets, from a camping trip probably 5 years ago, Sarah had sent you it then, but it feels like this is the first time you’re really looking at it. Joel looks hot, Tommy, oh shit Tommy looks hot too actually, “goddamnit” you mutter to yourself.

Heat pools low again, unignorable now, he left you high and dry earlier—bastard. Guess you’re going to have to finish what he started yourself. You climb upstairs, shedding your shirt off halfway, it’s too hot, and you’re too pissed. You click your bedroom door shut, shorts sticking to your thighs as you sprawl on the bed, the curtains are half open, letting a warm glow in. You put your earbuds in your ears, and let your hands start to travel, letting the quiet of the hose settle while you drown it out with Pheobe Bridgers, Motion Sickness blaring loud. You slip the shorts off, leaving you in just your panties, and your fingers hover. You place the pointer and middle finger of your left hand on either side of your folds, scissoring them back and forth—slowly. Teasing your lips, barely grazing your clit. You’re already sensitive, you were so close to coming undone earlier, you know diving right would overstimulate you too quickly to enjoy. You want to take it slow, and draw out your pleasure for as long as possible.

You can’t stop thinking about the way Joel was looking at you downstairs, the way his brown eyes turned black, staring down at you like you were prey. The grip he had on your jaw, squeezing your cheeks, craining your neck towards him. You clench your thighs around your hand as the warmth at the bottom of your belly intensifies, you take your hand away, edging yourself.  You repeat this over and over until you’re practically soaking through to the mattress—desperate, your walls clenching around nothing.

You hear his rough, baritone voice in your head now, repeating over and over, “Think you can handle that, little Bird?” Your breathing grows erratic. Finally, you give in, sliding two fingers down, spreading your slick around the sensitive bud at the top of your pussy. You roll your fingertips over and over, teasing your entrance. You’re not sure if you’ve ever worked yourself up like this—it's agonizing, but feels so fuckin’ good.

You close your eyes tight, imagining your hands being replaced by Joel’s, his fingers fubbing merciless circles over your throbbing clit. A loud broken whine escapes your lips—”Oh fuck, yes, Joel”—as you plunge your middle finger in, curving it to reach your g-spot. You add another finger, then a third—stretching yourself out, picturing Joel fucking you with his fingers instead. The warmth simmering in your belly gets red-hot, pussy squeezing desperately around your fingers. You buck your hips into your hand, gasping every time your cupped palm creates a vacuum against you. Shockwaves jolt through your clit. You’re not being mindful now, no more teasing, you’re chasing your high, holding back sobs, biting your lip so hard you taste copper, right on the edge. A low rap hits your door. What the fuck? No. Who the fuck? You pull your earbuds out, “Hello? Who’s there?” you manage to choke out, trying to sound normal, but you don’t, and you know the answer. “ It’s me.” comes that low, gravelly voice through the door. Oh fuck, oh fuck, oh fuck. I'm never wearing both headphones again. You snap your head towards the door and start to pull up your panties and the covers over yourself—not that it would help you at this point, you’re screwed, fuckin’ naked and afraid. “Thought I heard someone whimperin’ my name,” he says, as the doorknob turns. The hinge creaks as the door pushes open. “Need a hand?” You conjure up the courage to look up to him, adrenaline courses through your veins; it feels like your whole body is on fucking fire. There he stands, broad and rugged in the doorway, his dark eyes locked on you. His flannel’s unbuttoned at the collar, work pants slung low, and his thick cock, the one you’ve been dreaming about strains against them—girthy, solid, the outline making your mouth dry. You freeze.

“I—I wasn't—” you stammer, but he steps closer, boots heavy on the hardwood, a smirk tugging at his lips.

“Heard my name, sweetheart. Don’t stop now.” His voice is molasses-thick, commanding but warm, like he’s daring you. “Show me what you were doin’.” You know what, fuck it. I don’t even care anymore.

Heat floods your face, and your pussy clenches at his words. Shaky, you spread your legs, tugging the blanket down, letting him see the mess. Your fingers were still slippery, panties soaked and needy, pulsing under his gaze. “Joel, I… I was just—” you whine, sliding them in your panties again, bringing a finger to your entrance.

He looms closer, eyes dark and hungry, his breath hitching as he watches. “Atta’ girl Show me how bad she’s been needin’ me. You wet like that just sayin’ my name?” Joel’s body weight shifts the mattress beside you before he rolls over to cage your body beneath his. Your heart is beating fucking erratically. His arms rest on either side of your head, completely silent as he moves one arm and trails a hand down from your collar, inching lower and lower. His fingers trace over your hardened nipples, carving an invisible line down your belly before stopping between your thighs. He places his hand over yours, like he’s the master to your marionette. “Oh, poor girl,” he coos—round puppy-dog eyes on yours again. “ Soakin’ fuckin wet. S’that all for me?” You want to speak but you can’t, you only nod. He guides a finger over the thin, soaked fabric of your panties lightly massaging your swollen lips. You’re still frozen, unable to form a sentence. You exhale a shaky breath that you hadn't realized you were holding—the faintest “please” escapes your lips. He keeps rubbing, harder now, dipping into the elastic of your underwear. “Left her cryin’ out for me earlier huh? Need me to fix her up?” his voice is low, drawl smooth—like honey. He lists his hand to cup your cheek in his big hand, making direct eye contact, searching your face for an answer. He drags his thumb across your cracked bottom lip, tugging it down, like he's trying to pull the words out. “Asked you a question, use your words darlin’,” his lips are ghosting your earlobe, whispering. “Tell me what you need, Birdie, I’ll make it all better.” You turn your head to face him, staring up through half-lidded eyes for a moment, before finding your voice again. ‘J-Joel, I need you,” breath hitching on every syllable. He slides his hand down between your thighs again, slowly moving your hand away now. Hand searching for the hem, hooking his thumb in, pulling your underwear off. He slides a finger down into the pool of slick between your legs, spreading it all over before he pulls his hand back. He brings it up and holds it between your faces. “I can tell, baby. She’s droolin' f’me. See that?” He rotates his hand, you watch as his finger glistens in the afternoon sun, and your jaw goes slack. Joel drags that same finger along his bottom lip and then sucks it clean. “Wanna taste?” He grabs your chin, tilting your head to give himself more access, and presses his mouth onto yours, gentle—swirling his tongue, exploring every inch he can reach. He lets out a little, strangled whimper. Did Joel Miller just whimper into my mouth? Holy fuck, he sure did.He pulls back off of your lips, you’re both collecting your panting breaths. He dips his head back down to the column of your throat, kissing along it, murmuring into your chest, “Sweet ain't she?” The room fills with stifled moans, labored breathing, and the creaking of weight under the bed frame. Joel is everywhere, taking up every thought, filling all of the space around you. Your head swims, hunger and lust flip-flopping in your belly. Nothing has ever felt so electric, so perfect. You’re impatient, painfully worked up, and you can’t take it anymore. “More, I need more, Joel,” you chant between gasps. “Please, make me come.”

“Say it again,” He says, pumping his fingers in and out, languid—slow.

“I need you to make me come.” You’re practically in tears now, his fingers circle your clit.

“So close. Try again, Bird.”

“Please, Joel, I’ll beg—I’m begging, don’t fuck around—you owe me.”

“Keep beggin’ for it, baby,” he says, voice low and rough. “You sound so pretty when you’re desperate.” He growls, shifting, and then he looks at you, all gentle. “Shouldn’t have left you like that downstairs,” apology soft, eyes guilty. His hands tug at his belt, pulling the work pants off, you see the outline straining against his briefs. You face him, grabbing at the waistband, tugging them down, you watch his cock spring free, thick and heavy against you. You pull him in closer to you, lips brushing against his ear. “Then make it up to me, cowboy.” His cock is even bigger than you expected it to be, It’s thick, heavy—girthy, and solid. Flushed pink and slightly curved, thank god you’ve been stretching yourself out for a while, because if not you’d be worried it would never fit. He groans, low and broken, ripping his shirt off, and throwing the blanket off of you, both fully naked now. He lets his eyes move down your body, “fuckin’ so pretty, been dreamin’ bout’ this for too long.” You whine and grab his cock, giving it a few slow strokes before moving even closer and lining him up to your entrance, sliding him up and down, through your folds, rubbing your clit with the leaking head, moaning. He grabs your hands and puts them above your head, rolling over on top of you, he leans down pressing at your entrance. “Sorry I left you like that earlier, baby,” he murmurs, voice filled with want. He pushes in, just the tip, allowing you to get used to the stretch before he slides in more. You moan into each other's mouths as he fills you up completely, inch by inch, slowly, It feels intimate, careful—like he's trying not to break you. He starts moving, deep and steady, dragging through slick walls, hitting that spot that makes everything throb. You're trying to match the rolling of his hips, hands move from above your head to his back, raking red lines down it. You wrap your legs tight around his torso, warmth coiling in your core, his hand is on your jaw again forcing you to look up at him. “You’re mine, Bird,” he whispers, breath hot on your skin. You shudder, breathing out his name. Your walls clench around him, squeezing his cock, every little sound you pull from him brings you closer to the edge, your pussy dripping as he thrusts, deeper, not rushed, building you up. His forehead presses against yours, sweat beading off of both of you, he picks up the pace. You bring one of your hands down between the two of you, rubbing circles. His thrusts get sloppier, he's staring down where you’re connected, watching you massage your clit, jaw slack, like he's hypnotized. He leans down to you, crashing his mouth to yours, all teeth and need. “You’re close, I can feel it. I’ve got you baby—let go for me,” That's all you needed, a tightness snaps low in your belly, and you come hard, soaking him. Your body is shivering as waves hit, you're squeezing around his cock, juices messy and hot down his shaft. Tears fill your eyes as you hold back a sob, you’ve never felt anything like this before. The intensity of the orgasm makes you raw, and emotional; your head spins. Joel groans, rough and low, “Fuckin' so perfect--mine ” his breath ragged, eyes dark with want.

But he’s close too. His thrusts turn sharp, urgent, cock pulsing. He pulls out fast, shaft slick and gleaming from you. He grips it, hand pumping once, twice—and he comes, thick ropes spilling across your mound, hot and messy over your trembling skin. He moans, head tipping back, cock throbbing in his fist as he rides it out, breath heaving.

Joel’s breath steadies, thick cock softening in his hand, cum streaked across your stomach. Guilt flickers in his eyes, but he grabs his flannel, wiping you gently. “Made a mess, huh, darlin’?” he murmurs, voice low. He fetches a warm washcloth, cleaning you with careful swipes—stomach, then between your thighs where you’re still slick. “Feel okay?” he asks, tucking the blanket around you, hand lingering on your arm.

“Yeah, Joel… I’m good,” you mumble, voice sleepy but warm. “You don’t have to go unless you want to."

He freezes, eyes darkening—guilt floods in fast, jaw tightening like he’s swallowing a blade. “I can’t stay, Bird,” he says, rough, standing up, grabbing his jeans off the floor. “Sarah’s callin’ tonight—said she’s got some news ‘bout school. I can’t be here, fuckin’ you, when she’s tryin’ to tell me somethin’ big.”

Your chest tightens—Sarah, still his anchor across the miles. “She’s in Boston, Joel,” you say, sitting up, voice sharp. “It’s not like she’s waitin’ by the phone—you’re just runnin’ again.”

He pulls his shirt on, belt clinking as he buckles it, eyes dodging yours. “Don’t matter,” he mutters, low, pained. “She’s countin’ on me.” He keeps talking, like he’s spiraling and can’t keep the words in, “Every second I’m with you, I’m lyin’ to her, to Kev. I’m here, balls deep in you, and she thinks I’m the dad she can trust. That’s what’s killin’ me.” His voice cracks, boots scuffing the floor as he turns for the door. “Lock up after me,” he says, quieter like it’s all he’s got left—then he’s gone.

You’re alone, body buzzing, sheets a mess. “We’ll Never Have Sex” by Leith Ross hums faintly from the forgotten earbuds on the floor. Too soon Leith, too fuckin soon, too fuckin late. Your phone buzzes It’s Tommy again.

(7:25PM) T-Mills: We’re still on for 2morrowr? 🐦🍺 Anger simmers beneath the afterglow. Honestly, fuck it. You decide to go. You text back,

(7:27PM) You: Yeah, dont be late! 😛 You toss the phone aside. Your fingers automatically reach for the necklace, “Seek the light” feeling heavier now.

Your eyes flutter open.

For a moment, you’re still there—straddling Joel’s lap on the porch, his hands gripping you, his voice rasping, “We shouldn’t be doin’ this.” Then—creak, a snap, falling. Your body jerks, eyes snapping open, heart hammering against your ribs, still aching from too many cigarettes and that dive bar’s fog machine.

Why does a dive bar need a fucking fog machine?

Your breath catches as you separate dream from reality. You’re not on the porch. You’re not in Joel’s lap. You are on the couch. And Joel is still here.

Oh, fuck.

His large frame slumps against the opposite end, one arm bent behind his head, the other resting heavy over his stomach. But it’s his hand that stops you cold—because even in sleep, he’s holding onto you. His fingers wrap loosely around your ankle, thumb pressed against your Achilles. The soft lamplight barely illuminates him, but you feel it, warm, solid, like he’s claiming you even in sleep. It’s worse than the dream; because this is real, and you want it too much. Another wave of heat crashes into you, tangling reality with fantasy.

Shit.

Your body hums, the ghost of his dream touch blurring with his real one, and you’re still a little drunk, making it impossible to think straight. You inhale, slow and deep, trying to ground yourself. Count to three, hold, and exhale. Again. Halfway through the second breath, Joel shifts, fingers flexing around your ankle. You freeze. His breathing stays deep, even. Then his thumb traces slow circles against your skin, like he senses you but won’t let go.

Shit, shit, shit.

You need to move. Carefully, you pull your leg free, but his grip tightens—just for a second, enough to make you flinch. Then he exhales, long and deep, and his fingers slacken. You slip away. Your bare feet hit the floor, but you don’t stand yet. You stare at him. His brows are faintly knit, lips parted, the tension in his face softened by sleep. But he still looks serious—like he’s dreaming of something that won’t let him rest.

You swallow hard and push up from the couch. Your legs wobble beneath you. You need air. You need water. You need to get your head straight. Your eyes scan the room for your jacket, remembering your phone is still in Joel’s truck.

Shit.

You tiptoe into the kitchen, glancing at the stove clock. The numbers glow green. 3:33Angel numbers.

Your dad won’t be up for a few hours. One less thing to panic about. You stand there, barefoot on the linoleum, picturing your father finding you tangled with Joel on the couch. Would it look harmless? Was it? You’re not convinced. Your thighs press together, aching, damp cotton clinging to your skin, the aftershocks of that dream about your dad’s best friend. Not the first. Not the last. Joel crashing here isn’t new either—especially when Sarah’s away. You’ve never asked why, but you guess it’s less about beer and more about not sleeping alone. Not your business.

You grab a bottle from the cupboard, fill it with water, and gulp half down, deciding to change before grabbing your phone. You settle on changing first. You need to pee anyway. Quietly, you climb upstairs, skipping the creaky fourth step. Your dad’s not waking up. Joel? You’re not sure. He’s not as easy going as he pretends. You’ve seen how protective he gets with Sarah, a single girl-dad, who probably sleeps with one eye open; a gun under the mattress. You push open your bedroom door, the phantom weight of Joel’s hand still lingering.

You slip the dress off, letting it pool at your feet in a heap of chiffon. You step out and cross to your dresser, pulling the bottom drawer. Your fingers skim pajama bottoms before grabbing shorts. Too short? Maybe. Fantastic for your ass? Yes. They’ll do. You throw on a faded Cypress Hill tee, stolen from your dad years ago. It’s soft, oversized, like armor. Probably as old as you. In the bathroom, the mirror confirms it.

Fucking yikes.

You pee, then swipe a makeup wipe under your eyes. Mascara smudges, sharpening your eyeliner wing. Small victories. You swish mouthwash, just in case.

Just in case what?

Jesus. Get it together.

That dream fucked you up. You creep downstairs, skipping the creaky step. The house is silent, thick with late-night stillness. You head for the door, then realize—Shit. No keys, no truck.

For fuck’s sake.

You scan the foyer, nothing. Kitchen—empty. Then you spot it. The lanyard peeking from his flannel on the recliner. You step forward, reaching,

“Fucking damnit—”

Pain shoots through your foot. You stumble, catching yourself. What the fuck? Your heels. Joel left them in the middle of the floor, a booby trap in the dark.

A low, groggy voice cuts through.

“What’re you doin’ with my shirt, kid?”

Joel’s voice is rough, gravelly like you’ve never heard. You feel his gaze in the dim light.

Your pulse kicks up.

Shit.

You drop the flannel like it’s burned you, spinning with the keys in hand. You weren’t doing anything wrong, but heat floods you like you’re caught.

“I—I was grabbing my jacket,” you stammer. “Didn’t mean to wake you, I—tripped on these stupid shoes and—”

He blinks slow, scrubbing a hand over his face, like he’s not sure you’re real.

“You ain’t in trouble, baby girl.”

You suck in a breath.

What the fuck was that?

Baby girl?

I hate him.

Your brain stalls, but Joel doesn’t notice. He shifts upright, murmuring,

“C’mon, lemme get it—stay put.”

“No, it’s fine, I got it. Just go back to sleep, or—”

Shut up.

You’re babbling.

Joel doesn’t respond. Just moves. And suddenly he’s there.

His broad silhouette looms as he steps past, taking the keys from your trembling fingers. He flips the deadbolt, pulls the door open, and night air rushes in.

You follow him outside, hugging your arms over your chest as you watch him stride toward the truck. He moves with the same easy confidence he always does, except now he’s—

Fuck.

The sweats he’s wearing aren’t exactly baggy. They’re more of a jogger style, and as he stretches into the cab of the truck…

They do great things for his ass. Joel reaches into the pocket of your jacket, pulling out your phone—along with your pack of Marlboro Reds. His fingers pause over the box, his eyebrows lifting slightly as a look of surprise crosses his face

“Tsk, tsk, tsk. Your daddy know you smoke?” déjà vu washes over you.

And then it hits you, full force.

Oh, shit.

Your dream.

The entire thing flashes through your mind like a fucking near-death experience, like your brain is short-circuiting under the weight of it. Porch swing. Joel’s lap. His voice, low and warning against your lips. “We shouldn’t be doin’ this.”

Your spine goes rigid, heat and ice fighting for space beneath your skin.

"Please don’t tell him, Joel," you say, reaching for any ounce of charm you have left. Puppy dog eyes, a pout, the whole arsenal. "I won’t hear the end of it."

Joel lets out a huff, shaking his head. "What he doesn’t know won’t hurt him, I guess.”

He slips his fingers back into your jacket pocket, retrieving the grey lighter tucked beside the carton. He taps a cigarette loose, twirls it between his fingers before dragging it under his nose, inhaling slow.

Then, as he’s done a thousand times before, he slips it between his lips and flicks the lighter.The flame glows bright against his face, the embers catching at the end of the cigarette. It’s surreal. Like you somehow manifested this.

He holds out your phone, nudging the truck door closed with his elbow. He leans back against it, taking a slow drag before exhaling a steady stream of smoke.

Your legs wobble, but you step forward, plucking your jacket from under his arm. You drape it over your shoulders, tugging it close. The breeze bites your bare legs, you’re absolutely underdressed. Joel’s gaze dips, then flicks back up. You snatch the cigarette from his mouth. His head jerks, surprised by your fingers brushing his lips. You inhale slow, and exhale slower. Cool. Collected. Totally unaffected.

You tap your phone screen, praying you have no texts from Tommy, that might send you to the fourth floor. You glance at Joel. He’s watching. His tongue wets his lower lip, then he bites down—quick, subtle. His expression shifts, lips pressing, brows low. That jaw tick.

“Not usually keen on sharing,” he says, taking it back with a shake of his head.

Cryptic. Four unread messages and a missed call light up your screen. You tilt it from his sight.

(12:59AM)

Dad: I’m going to sleep now, Birdie. If you need me, call. My ringer is on. Love you. If it’s an emergency, call Joel, okay?

When did we get back from the bar?

(1:23AM)

Karlie💗: I’m assuming that dilf got you home safe. Did he get hotter, or is it just the tequila speaking?

Yes. He has. I Hate it.

(1:43AM)

Mel: It was soooo good 2 see you tonight! Who was the old guy manhandling u?? Is he single?? Xox

Yes. Hope so.

Get it together.

(2:45AM)

T-Mills: Pick up the phone, Bird.

Your stomach drops. Ice slips through your veins. Tommy’s missed call. The parallels to your dream choke you. Your hand curls, nails digging little crescents into your palm. The burn confirms—you’re awake.

“So,” Joel cuts through your spiral, “who’s Karlie? And what’s a ‘dilf’?”

You freeze. You turn slowly. Joel leans against the truck, arms crossed, cigarette between fingers. Smoke drifts, and he watches with amusement.

Your screen goes dark.

“How much did you see?” you ask with resignation.

He smirks.

“Enough.”

Fuck. You groan, slipping your phone back into your pocket before leaning against the truck.

You need your own cigarette.

You open the pack and pull one out with your teeth, closing your lips around it before flicking the lighter. Flame flares, the end of it catches ember, and you inhale—deep into your lungs—before you exhale, tilting your head toward Joel.

"Sorry," you mumble with a shake of your head. "Don’t know what's wrong with them, they’re stupid."

Joel lets out a faint chuckle. "Don’t be sorry—hey now, hold up," he says. "Why are they stupid?"

You roll your eyes at him. "Calling you a dilf? Asking me if you’re single? Kinda dumb, if you ask me."

Joel exhales a scoff, clearly bothered. He adjusts his stance, resting his hip against the truck, taking another slow drag before tossing the cigarette and stomping it out on the pavement.

"You know, I was feeling pretty damn good about it, but now? Kinda hurt, can't lie." He exhales, shaking his head, feigning offense. "Thanks a lot, kid."

You breathe out a laugh. "No, that’s not what I meant—"

You sigh, crossing your arms over your chest. "You know what? You’re insufferable tonight."

Joel’s eating this up. You can see his eyes gleaming with amusement, his mouth turning up at the corner in a smile. That stupid dimple making an appearance, deepening as he shifts his weight again. His hand grabs your cigarette. It’s like a game now. Cat and mouse. Slow. Push and pull. The tension is thick, like smoke in your lungs. He spins it, takes a drag, exhales, smoke just dancing between you.

“Tell your friends thanks,” he mumbles, voice a rough drawl.

You clench your teeth.

He invades your space.

“But I’m not interested in ‘em.”

He towers over you, space shrinking, claustrophobic. His voice threads through your chest, forcing you to hold your breath.

His eyes sweep down, then up, he grabs your jaw, thumb dragging across your lip— tugging it open. He places the cigarette back between your lips, watching. Heavy-lidded. Silent. Insufferable. Heat burns into your head, and spreads low. You reach for it, fingers shaky. It’s nothing. The numbness is nicotine. Your stomach in knots from Tommy’s missed call. Nothing to do with him saying, “I’m not interested in ‘em.” It’s fucking’ something… can’t even lie to yourself, huh Bird?

Nothing to do with him being too close. You take a deep breath, and exhale slow through your mouth, steadying your pulse.

He’s studying you.

You tip your head with an eye roll.

“So I gotta break Mel’s heart? She’ll be crushed.”

He laughs, shaking his head.

“Yup. Tell her I’m flattered.”

“You’re flattered?” You snort, dragging again. “Not even tempted?”

It’s a joke. Harmless. His lips press, unreadable. The air shifts. His eyes map your face, weighing his words.

“Not even a little bit,” he says, low and smooth.

Your throat dries. It’s firm. Final. No question. Thank fuck it’s dark. You shift against the truck, breaking the moment.

“You’re insufferable,” you echo.

He hums, amused.

“You keep sayin’ that, Bird.” he pauses, or maybe he hesitates, “startin’ to think it means you like me.”

Your hand jumps—the cigarette singes your fingers, burnt down to the filter. He grins, dimple deep. You want to wipe it off his face. Smug fuck.

You narrow your eyes, huffing, pushing off the truck, flicking the butt away.

“You know, I liked you better asleep.”

He laughs as you walk off.

“I’m sure you did, baby girl.”

You keep your eyes ahead. Don’t give him satisfaction. Your stomach twists, heart pounding. Nails dig into your palm, quieting it. The storm door creaks. You curse under your breath. You can’t walk away unscathed. Joel won’t let you.

“Hey.”

His voice hooks you, low and careful.

If you were smart, you’d keep going. But your feet stop. You pause, hand on the handle. Joel’s boots thud, slow, purposeful. He’s giving you a chance to run. But he knows you won’t.

His warmth hits your back and you turn. Huge mistake. The space vanishes, he’s too close, eyes on your lips.

Oh, fuck. Here we go.

You brace yourself, expecting to wake. But you don’t. It’s not gravity—it’s him, and you’ve been falling since he touched you. Your fingers twitch toward his shirt like they’ve already decided for you.

He exhales shakily—then he’s there.

A hand curls around your jaw, the other tangling in your hair.

He’s kissing you.

Fucking finally.

It’s deliberate. Final. Like he knows how this ends.

You taste the smoke, alcohol, and heat as he parts his lips. You lean in, toes pressing for more. He groans, desperate, feral. Your nails sink into his chest. His hand shifts to your hip, gripping like he’s been dying for this.

You trail your fingers lower, dragging it out. His other hand slides up your back, rough palm snagging on the fabric of your tee as he pulls you tighter against him. Your chest presses to his, and you feel the wild thud of his heart matching yours—too fast, too hard. His lips slant deeper, a hungry edge to the kiss, and a low sound rumbles in his throat, vibrating through you. You tilt your head, chasing it, your fingers curling into his waistband, hovering there, can’t come back from this anyways.

Fuck, this is real. Like real, real.

Birds chirp—you pull back. Reality slams in. It’s practically dawn, the sky is starting to glow. Your chest heaves, lips sore from stubble. You’re stunned. Joel is silent. Just looking. He’s wrecked—eyes black, pupils blown, breath erratic. Like he’d devour you if no one stopped him.

Your throat’s dry. Brain’s static.

“Fuck.”

His jaw tightens. His hands hover near your hip, then drop like it he was stung. He’s regretting this. He drags a hand over his face, pinching his nose.

“Go inside, Bird—please.”

It’s rough, and uneven. But it sounds serious.

Your stomach drops.

“Joel—”

“Go to bed, Bird.”

Firmer, but softer underneath. Like if you stay, he won’t be able to stop. You nod once, then turn, stepping inside, and letting the door close behind you. Your pulse pounds. Your lips burn. Joel doesn’t follow. He stands there. Eyes on the ground. Shaking his head. Like he’s undoing it. Like you’re the mistake he’s leaving.

//Joel

Birds chirp, it’s near four now. You pull back, chest heaving, and her taste burns you.

Fuck’s sake.Smoke, beer, her—sticks to your lips, your tongue. Shouldn’t be doin’ this. You want your hands back on her, bad. It’s Kev’s kid, she’s too young. Shame bites hard, twistin’ your gut. Jesus Christ. Memories flood in, bringing more guilt with them. Thinking about how her mom’s death broke Kev. It left him fragile, and you’ve been here cleanin’ up since. You had sent her texts then when she was at school, dumb shit—“Miss your smart mouth, kid” selfies with half-open shirts, smirkin’ like an asshole. Every word a knife, flirtin’ while Kev fell apart. You cut it cold last Christmas— you had to, had to find a way to distract yourself, to stop the way her pull was crushin’ you under his trust. You tried to date, found yourself drinkin’ at Sam’s more in the last 6 months than you ever did in college, chasin’ women, some your age, some hers; but nobody really stuck. Nobody else made you feel soft, human, not like her. But now she’s here, lips still hot on yours, daddy sleepin’ upstairs totally fuckin’ oblivious to the sins you were committing. He’d fuckin’ kill you without hesitation, and you’d deserve it. Fuckin’ idiot. You drag a hand over your face, mutterin’ to the dark. Can’t shake it—heat’s sittin’ heavy. You kick the railing, hard, stuck starin’ at that door, breath short. You turn on your heels and walk towards your house, head hung low, muttering. What the fuck are you doing. You promised him you’d keep her from breakin’ and here you are, doing it yourself.