#djo angst

"More pwetty." She gestured dramatically at the pile of autumn leaves you'd been slowly collecting, as if you were personally offending her with an insufficient quantity.

You laughed, the sound carrying across the yard, and Joe - who had been helping man the grill - felt it hit him right in the heart. That laugh. God, that laugh. He watched you rake together another pile, your hair falling loose from its clip, your sweater riding up to expose a stripe of skin at your waist that his eyes were trained on.

"Ready?" you asked Cora, and she nodded on time with the gravity of a judge delivering a verdict.

"One… two…"

"Fwee!"

You fell backward into the leaves together, Cora's shrieks of delight mixing with your own breathless laughter. She immediately climbed onto your stomach, bouncing with that destructive toddler glee, sending red and gold leaves fluttering into the air like confetti.

"Again!" she demanded.

So you did it again. And again. You gave her piggyback rides across the lawn, your knees had become grass-stained, your voice hoarse from neighing like a horse at her request. You pushed her on the swing until your arms ached, higher and higher, catching her at the apex of each arc while she threw her head back and squealed at the sky.

Joe flipped burgers and tried not to stare. Tried not to memorize the way you looked with his niece's hand tucked trustingly in yours, the way you slowed your pace to match her stumbling steps, the way you listened to her endless, nonsensical stories with genuine interest, crouching down to meet her eyes like her words were precious.

"She's relentless," his sister said, appearing at his elbow with a platter of buns. "You don't have to let her monopolize your girlfriend, you know."

"She's fine," Joe said, too quickly. "They're fine."

His sister followed his gaze, saw the soft, stupid expression he wasn't bothering to hide, and smiled knowingly. "Oh, I see."

"You don't see anything."

"I see my little brother mentally picking out baby names, but go off I guess."

Joe threw a napkin at her. She laughed and walked away, victorious.

The afternoon wore on in that drowsy way autumn afternoons do. The sunlight slanted lower gradually, turning everything honey-colored and slow. You could feel the day settling into evening, the air growing cooler, the energy of the party softening into contentment.

You and Cora had migrated to the base of the old oak tree at the yard's edge, its trunk massive and gnarled, its leaves a canopy of rust and gold. She'd had found a "fairy house" in the roots - a small hollow between two thick tendrils of wood, carpeted with moss and last year's acorns.

"We nap," Cora announced suddenly, her eyes heavy, her earlier frenzy finally catching up with her small body.

"You want to nap here?" you asked, amused.

"Wif you." She climbed into your lap without waiting for permission, her familiar weight settling against your chest. She smelled like grass, sugar and that particular warm scent of clean. "You be da bed."

"Okay, bug." You adjusted your back against the tree trunk, finding the most comfortable angle you could. "Just a little rest."

She tucked her thumb in her mouth, her other hand finding your hair, winding a strand around her finger the way she had all afternoon on the piggybacks. Her eyelashes fluttered, fought, failed. Within minutes she was heavy and limp against you, her breath deepening into the rhythm of sleep.

You should move. You should find her mother, deposit her in a proper bed, rejoin the adults. But the tree was supporting your tired back, and Cora was radiating warmth like a small furnace. The afternoon had wrapped itself around you like a blanket. Your own eyes grew heavy without you really even noticing. The sounds of the party faded to a pleasant murmur. The last thing you felt was Cora's hand relaxing in your hair, her thumb slipping free of her mouth as she settled deeper against your heart.

You let yourself drift off for just for a moment.

Joe found you twenty minutes later.

He'd been looking, though he told himself he was just checking, just being responsible. The grill was cleaned, the burgers eaten, the sun sinking toward the horizon in a blaze of rose and amber. He'd grabbed a throw blanket from the couch - just in case, it's getting chilly - and followed the path you'd worn through the grass.

Then he stopped. And stared. And felt his heart physically clench in his chest.

You were asleep under that oak tree that held so many of his own memories, your head tilted back against the bark, your mouth slightly open, your chest rising and falling in the deep, even rhythm of exhausted contentment. And Cora - his niece, his sister's daughter, not yours, not yet at least - was curled into you like you were the safest harbor she'd ever known. Her face was smushed against your collarbone, one hand still tangled in your hair, her legs drawn up to her chest and held close by your arm.

The blanket fell from his hand.

He should take a picture. He knew he should take a picture. But he couldn't move, couldn't breathe, couldn't do anything but stand there and let the future crash over him in waves.

He saw it all, suddenly, with devastating clarity. Not abstract imaginings but specific moments, textured, colored and real.

You, seven months along, too uncomfortable to sleep in the bed, reading on the couch at 2 AM while he rubbed your feet and promised this would all be worth it. The nursery you would obsess over, every detail perfect had to be perfect, while he teased you about nesting but secretly loved watching you prepare. The way you'd look at him across a hospital room, terrified, fierce and ready, right before everything changed forever.

He saw you like this - like you were now - but in their living room, their child asleep against your chest while you dozed in the glider they'd bought secondhand and refinished together. He saw himself covering you with a blanket, pressing a kiss to your forehead, to the soft forehead of their baby's head. He saw years of this. Soccer games, skinned knees and bedtime stories. He saw you teaching their daughter to braid hair, their son to be gentle. He saw the tantrums, the milestones and the million ordinary moments that made up a life built together.

And he saw himself, older, standing in a doorway much like he was now, watching you with grandchildren maybe, still looking at you like you were the miracle he didn't deserve but got anyway.

This, he thought, his throat tight with want. I want this. I want her. I want them. I want everything.

He didn't realize he'd made a sound until Cora stirred, murmuring something against your neck. You didn't wake - too far gone, too trusting in your surroundings - but your arm tightened around her instinctively, protective even in sleep.

Joe crossed the grass quietly, retrieved the fallen blanket, and approached with confidence of a man who finally understood what they wanted. He draped it over both of you, tucking it around Cora's small feet, around your shoulders. Then he sank to his knees in the grass beside you, close enough to feel your warmth, to hear the soft twinning of your breath.

He reached out, hesitantly, and brushed a leaf from your hair. His fingers lingered, tracing the curve of your ear, the line of your jaw. You sighed in your sleep, leaning into his touch, and something in his chest broke open and rebuilt itself, stronger, oriented entirely toward this - toward you, toward them.

"I love you," he whispered, even though you couldn't hear. "I love you, and I want to build everything with you. The mess, the noise, the sleepless nights, the tiny shoes by the door. I want to be scared with you. I want to be tired with you. I want to watch you be a mother and be the one who gets to support you, learn from you, grow with you."

He looked at Cora, at the peaceful slackness of her sleeping face, and imagined your features there. Your eyes, your smile. Or his. Some perfect combination that would make him weak every single day.

"She's not even ours," he murmured, half-laughing at himself, "and I can't - I can't breathe looking at you. How am I going to survive our own kid?"

You shifted, your eyes fluttering open, unfocused and drowsy. You found him immediately, like you always did, your lips curving in a sleepy smile.

"Hey," you mumbled. "How long was I out?"

"Not long." He stroked your cheek with his thumb. "You looked peaceful. Didn't want to wake you."

You looked down at Cora, still heavy against you, and the tenderness that softened your face made his heart physically ache. "She crashed hard. Poor bug wore herself out."

"She's not the only one." He stood, holding out his hands. "Come on. I'll carry her inside. You can have the chair by the fire, I'll bring you tea, and you can pretend to be social for twenty more minutes before I make excuses and take you home."

"Such a good boyfriend," you teased, but you took his hand, let him pull you up while carefully transferring Cora's weight to his chest.

She stirred, protested weakly - "Bee?" - but settled quickly against him, recognizing family even in sleep.

"I've got her, bug," he murmured, pressing a kiss to her curls. "Go back to sleep."

You walked beside him across the yard, your hand in his, the blanket draped over your shoulders. The fairy lights were flickering on as the sun said its finally goodbye, painting everything in soft, forgiving glow.

"You okay?" you asked, noticing his silence, the intensity of his grip on your hand.

He stopped at the patio door, Cora warm and real in his arms, you radiant and glowing beside him. He looked at you with everything he felt laid out bare in his eyes.

"Yeah," he said, and his voice was rough, honest, open. "I'm just… I'm really happy. And I really want to keep this. All of it. With you."

You didn't ask what he meant. Maybe you knew. Maybe you felt it too, the weight of potential, the shape of a future pressing close enough to touch.

So you just squeezed his hand and said, "Me too, Joe. Me too."

“Joe have you seen my hat?” 

The sturdy fabric of the bag felt coarse against your elbows as you rummaged through it, trying to find the sunscreen while ticking off other things on your mental checklist. 

“Yeah it’s right here.”

You heard him shout from the other room. The light buzzing of the air conditioning in the background being the only sign that the thing was even on, the heatwave so intense it infiltrated every single room, every crack, every pore. 

“Okay,” you muttered under your breath, hand wiping your forehead as you took a second to catch your breath. The door creaked open before Joe stepped towards you, a muffled thud indicating his arrival since you had your back towards him. He stretched out his hand without saying anything and you cocked your head when you saw your beige sun hat held tightly between his fingers. 

“Oh hun, you didn’t have to bring it over, I would’ve gotten it from the other room.”

“That’s okay, I wanted to check if there was anything else I could do anyway.”

You looked around you, assessing the mess on the hotel bed. Camera, towel, flip flops, book, water bottles, peanut butter pretzels, sunglasses,... Wait, sunglasses, you froze for a second when you only saw Joe’s pair. 

“My sunglasses…” 

It came out confused and questioning, you swore you had them only a couple of minutes ago. Joe coughed lightly and pointed at his head sheepishly as he nodded towards you. 

Your mouth fell open, your hand immediately going to the top of your head and sure enough, they were right there. 

“Thanks.”

You didn’t spare him another look as your brain already moved on to the next thing, holding the bag open and starting to collect all of the stuff that was splayed out onto the bed.

“Joe, could you grab the scissors? I still need to cut the tags off of the new beachtowels. And I need…” 

His hand grabbed yours and you paused, looking up at him with a questioning gaze.

“You need a break. Sit down.”

You opened your mouth in protest but he lifted a finger and cut you off before you could speak.

“Sit, this is supposed to be your holiday.”

You gave in and sighed quietly when the skin of your bare thighs came into contact with the cool, soft duvet.

“It’s supposed to be yours as well.” 

He could pretty much hear the pout in your voice and put a hand on his hip.

“Do I look stressed to you?” 

You knew the question was rhetorical so you didn’t even bother answering while you watched him gather the rest of the stuff, playing with the cap of the sunscreen because you just needed something to keep your hands busy.

“Did you apply sunscreen?” 

He checked, looking over your body to see if there was any sign of the familiar white sheen. You didn’t fail to notice how his eyes paused on your chest for a split second and decided to capitalize on the moment. You shifted your weight onto one leg, hip cocked to the side. 

“Maybe you should reapply.” 

The corners of his mouth turned upwards as he slowly walked over to you, eyeing you up and down with no shame whatsoever. 

“You wanna make it to the beach today? Cause I can promise you we’re not gonna leave this room once I get my hands on that body properly.”

A giggle escaped your lips as you tugged at his shirt, pulling him in for a kiss, heart fluttering when you felt him smile against your lips. He pulled back, playful smile still there.

“I want to, I really want to, but you need some sun.”

“I can get some Vitamin D right here.”

He cocked his head to the side and rubbed the skin of your waist until goosebumps appeared.

“That was so bad it’s not even funny.”

“Hmm, I thought it was pretty funny actually.”

“Alright jokester let’s go.” 

He grabbed your sunglasses off of your head and slid them over your eyes before picking up the beach bag and taking your hand in his, pulling you out of the room.

One step outside and you were already sweating, the blistering heat beating down on your backs as you made your way to the beach. The closer you got the clearer the sound of children playing and parents yelling became. The beach wasn’t packed, just pleasantly busy.

You could see Joe’s face completely light up when the beach came into view. He always loved the ocean, having spent most of his childhood close to the sea anyways it always felt like he was back home with his loved ones.

After looking around, and dodging a couple of overly excited kids running with melting ice cream cones you settled on a peaceful looking spot where the only other tourists were an elderly couple. An elderly lady with a pink cap on, seeking shelter in the shade of her striped blue and white umbrella while presumably her husband laid in the sun, arms and legs sprawled out and already resembling a pink starfish.

Joe shoved one of the water bottles into your hands, urging you to drink before laying out the beach towels and organizing your stuff.

“I want that thing empty by the time I get back.” 

He leaned down and rummaged through the bag in search of his wallet, casually ignoring the deep sigh you let out. You’d never been much of a drinker. In fact, you drank so little that it sometimes worried Joe. Like on 12-hour airplane rides, when he noticed you hadn’t gotten up to use the restroom once.

“That just can’t be good for you .” He’d said while he watched you take the tiniest sip of apple juice the stewardess got you. You’d just shrugged in response and he’d let it go, but since then he always made sure to have water on him, fully expecting you to one day end up with kidney stones or something.

“I’m not joking babe.” He glared at you as he got up, playing with the little bow on your bathing suit.

“I know you aren’t.”

He watched you as you unscrewed the cap and made eye contact while you downed over half the bottle. Trying your best to give him your most seductive look, just to watch him squirm.

His Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed, the strict glare having turned into something softer, more malleable.

As he leaned in closer, he grabbed your waist with his free hand. “I regret leaving that hotel room.”

You choked back a laugh and he kissed your cheek in response before turning on his heels and making his way to the teenagers renting out umbrellas.

Settled on the towel, you grabbed the bottle of SPF and started working on your arms and legs as you eyed Joe making conversation with the teenage boys. The boys laughed while he made big gestures with his arms before the conversation came to an end when he rubbed one of the boys’ heads affectionately.

Wallet in one hand, umbrella in the other, he stalked over to you, shit eating grin already on his face.

“There you go madam,” he clapped the sand off of his hands after he fixed the position of the umbrella, tilting it so you were fully in the shade. 

“Why thank you sir.” You slid your sunglasses back into your hair as you were finally able to look up at him without being blinded by the sun.

You’d been at the beach for a couple of hours when you started feeling queasy, assuming the lack of lunch was the culprit. Hot weather always lessens your appetite. Just as Joe returned from a dip in the sea, you started sitting up and were surprised to notice how much effort it actually took. Your muscles felt like they were made out of lead. Joe’s eyes were following your movements as he got closer, you didn’t just feel slower, you also looked slower. “You okay honey?” Mild concern laced his voice as he eyed you reaching for the bag, but since he was closer his hands got there first. 

“What do you need?”

“Maybe some water and pretzels? I feel weird.” The bag rested on one knee while he squatted down, eyes scanning over you subtly while he grabbed the food.

“You wanna go back to the hotel?” Fingertips made contact as he passed you the bag of pretzels and the cool water drops felt heavenly when they should've been barely noticeable.

A shake of your head didn’t do anything to soothe him and he got a little closer, lifting his hand up to rest on your forehead.

“You’re really hot.”

“Tell me something I don’t know.” You made a face while you opened the see-through plastic bag.

He looked up to the sky dramatically and threw his hands up in the air.

“God help me with this one.”

Something caught your attention, your gaze pulled towards the ocean instead of Joe and he observed you while you seemed to stare out into the distance.

“Babe?” No response.

“Baby?” No response.

It wasn’t until he shook your shoulder that your head slowly turned back towards him, dazed look still on your face.

“Okay, we’re going back.”

“You sound stressed.”

“I’m not stressed, honey.” He tried to soothe you, worried, yes. Stressed, not yet.

Time seemed to slow down while he gathered all your stuff and returned the umbrella to the teenage boys, still keeping an eye on you from afar while you sipped from the water bottle he basically pushed onto your lips, looking around like a lost child.

“Can you walk?”

You hadn’t even noticed he’d returned, mostly focusing on the fuzzy, lightheaded feeling that seemingly appeared out of nowhere. You looked down at your legs, and then back up at Joe. He was speaking, but it sounded muffled, or like gibberish, or a combination of both.

His worry grew when he realized you’d only taken a couple of sips after he noticed the water bottle in your hand.

“Okay, we’re gonna piggy back this shit.”

He didn’t even wait for a reply from you, not interested in wasting any more time in the heat as he grabbed the bag and put it over his shoulder before helping you scoot in the other direction that you were sitting.

You seemed more and more out of it, no way he was trusting you to fully hold onto him for the short walk back to the hotel, so he grabbed both ends of the towel you were sitting on and pulled them towards his torso, taking you with it.

His skin felt cool against yours when you slowly wrapped your arms around his neck.

“Shit you’re burning up…” 

“Mhm…” 

That’s all he got from you the entire way back to the hotel. His steps rocked you softly, and in any other circumstance, it would’ve felt comforting. Now, it made you feel even more nauseous so you tried to focus on anything but that. His hand on yours while the other still clutched the towel, the feeling of his muscles under your cheek while you rested your head on his shoulder. The warm wind, feeling like a heavy blanket draped over your body, not offering any solace.

To anyone else, it seemed cute, peaceful. To you, it didn’t really feel like anything because your consciousness was hanging on by a thread. Joe though, his brain was going into overdrive. Making a mental to-do list, changing the order of tasks he came up with depending on what would bring you the fastest relief.

Fill the bath with lukewarm water

Get you the Gatorade he’d forgotten in the tiny fridge

Wet a towel to put on you

Close the blinds

No no, that wasn’t the most efficient way.

Bath

Towel

Gatorade

Blinds

He hadn’t even noticed he was walking into the hotel lobby until one of the receptionists smiled politely at him. 

“You still with me honey?” His voice seemed distant, yet sharp and your vision was blurry when you opened your eyes slightly. Hallway? Wait, you were back at the hotel? 

“Why are we back?” 

The slurred voice reminded him of that one night when you’d had a couple of tequilas. Not good, considering he knew you were stone-cold sober.

“You’re a bit too warm, darling, gotta cool you down.”

“Oh.”

After he put you down on the bed, he knelt in front of you. Worry growing when he saw you struggling to keep your head up.

“Hey hey, look at me.” He caught your shoulders, taking in your flushed cheeks and confused look.

“I’m fine,” you mumbled, though the edges of your vision started to blur.

“You’re not. Stay put.” He was already moving, stalking over towards the bathroom when a couple seconds later, you heard the faint sound of running water fill the room, before making his way back, damp towel in hand.

“This is gonna feel cold,” he warned before draping it over the back of your neck and shoulders. A hiss escaped your lips at the temperature difference, but soon enough you felt the relief outweigh the sting.

“Here.” A bottle of Gatorade was placed into your hands. He must’ve already grabbed it from the minibar fridge without you even realizing it.

He observed you while you took slow sips, brushing damp strands of hair from your face.

Perception of time was not something you possessed at that point but he stayed crouched in front of you, rubbing comforting circles on your knee, eyes never leaving your face, constantly scanning for any discomfort, looking for signs that needed urgent care.

After a while, he got up to go check on the bath. Helping you in gently, murmuring reassurances when you flinched at the temperature. 

“I know, I know, you’re okay. It’ll help, I promise.” If you didn’t feel so bad, you could’ve cried right then and there at his comforting tone.

The only time he left you was to go grab the rest of the Gatorade from the other room, still gently urging you to keep sipping.

Slowly but surely, the color returned to your face and with it, his heartbeat seemed to ease up a bit.

By the time you were dry and changed into one of his shirts, your body had settled down and the room had stopped spinning. No longer feeling nauseous, you leaned against the headboard, watching him as he brought over the quesadilla and another bottle of Gatorade he got from room service.

He set it down carefully in your lap as he went to grab his own food before joining you in bed.

“Overdid it a little, huh?” He smiled softly, his voice much more gentle compared to the underlying panic it was laced with earlier now that he could see you were okay.

A lip bite and a side-eye were all you gave him. 

“Maybe.”

He leaned over to kiss your temple.

“Yeah well, I don’t care how good you look in that bathing suit. Tomorrow we’re staying in.”

A blush crept its way onto your cheeks.

“It’s okay, we can do fun stuff in here as well.”

Now it was his turn to give you a side-eye before shaking his head, grinning.

His head lifts slowly, reluctantly, as if pulling himself from a trance. And the look on his face steals your breath. It's wonder, pure and undiluted. The kind of wonder that makes his eyes sparkle in the darkness, that softens every angle of him into something almost holy. The smile that spreads across his face is slow and private, meant for you alone in this quiet space you two crafted by hand.

"She was fussing," he whispers back, like he's confessing a secret. His voice carries that particular roughness of someone who hasn't used it in hours. "I didn't want to wake you. You've barely slept in - " he counts on his free hand, fingers spreading against his knee, " - four days? Five?"

You creep across the carpet, careful not to wake her with the sound of a creaking floorboard, and sink onto the couch beside him. Up close, you can see the fatigue painted beneath his eyes, the faint creases that weren't there a month ago. The wild disarray of his hair where she's been gripping it in her tiny fist - several strands stand perpendicular to his scalp, a testament to her surprising strength. But he looks alive. Like he's never been happier - minus your wedding day. The skin of his chest reflects a light sheen of sweat in the lamplight, and you can see the rise and fall of his breathing, the way it attmepts to synchronize with hers, as if their bodies have already learned to communicate in rhythms you haven't quite deciphered.

"Can I?" you ask, reaching out.

He shifts, careful, so careful, supporting her head with one broad palm while he transfers her into your arms like the hospital nurse taught him. She's warm, and the weight of her in your arms again somehow anchors your entire world. You press your lips to her soft head gently - that newborn smell overwhelming your senses, possibility the baby powder but also something uniquely her, like rain on the warm pavement the night you brought her home and sweet milk with the vague vanilla of the lotion you use - and feel your heart expand in your chest until it aches.

"She has your hair," Joe says quietly. He's watching you both with an intensity that makes you look up. "See? That little swirl at the crown." He leans in, close enough that you can feel his breath on your cheek, and traces the spot with one gentle finger. "I kept staring at it while you were sleeping. Couldn't stop. It's like… a fingerprint. Proof that she's really ours."

You look down following his finger. He's right. That tiny whirl of dark hair, so fine it's barely there, spirals in the same direction as yours. The rest of her hair is lighter, ambiguous in color, but something in your gut tells you it'll slowly darken to match his.

"She's going to end up with your color though" you counter, smiling. "Look at that single dark strand. Definitely Keery."

He laughs, delighted, and reaches out again to trace that hair focal. His nail is bitten short, ragged from nervous habit, but his touch is feather-light. She stirs slightly, her rosebud mouth working in her sleep, a bubble of milk forming and breaking on her lower lip. They both freeze - partners in crime, co-conspirators in almost disturbing the peace.

"Sorry," he breathes, grinning at you, eyes crinkling at the corners. "Still learning the volume settings."

You settle back against the back of the couch, arranging her against your shoulder, and Joe immediately shifts to make more room for you both. The couch is old, a vintage find from an antique store in Brooklyn, and it creaks in protest as he adjusts his weight. His arm slides around your waist, pulling you into the warmth of his side, and you feel the steady thrum of his heart against your shoulder blade, the solid reality of his weight reminding you of the family you now had.

"You're incredible," he murmurs into your hair. His chin rests on top of your head, his stubble catching in the strands. "You know that?"

"Joe - "

"No, I mean it." He turns serious, that expressive face settling into lines of profound sincerity. He shifts to look at you directly, and you see the reflection of the window in his eyes, the dark outline of trees against navy sky. "I keep thinking about… that day. In the hospital. When they handed her to you, and you were so exhausted you couldn't even lift your head, but you smiled like you'd just won everything. Like she was worth every second." His voice cracks slightly, and he clears his throat, looks down at his free hand where its settled on your thigh. "I didn't think I could love you more. I was wrong."

You feel tears prick your eyes - hormones, exhaustion, overwhelming love, some combination that makes everything feel raw and beautiful and it's too much. "You did pretty okay yourself. The way you cried when she grabbed your finger…"

"I was overwhelmed," he defends, but he's smiling, that self-deprecating twist that you fell in love with years ago. He demonstrates now, holding up his index finger, showing you the spot where she'd latched on with surprising strength. "She was so small. I was terrified I'd break her. I kept thinking, this is it, this is the moment everything changes. And it did. It has." He looks down at her, at the tiny hand that's escaped her swaddle and curled into a fist against your collarbone. "I didn't know it could be like this. That I could feel this… full."

The baby sighs in her sleep, a sound like contentment, a small ah that escapes her parted lips. You both go quiet, watching her. The cushions ruffle softly as Joe sets it in motion again, creating a gentle rock of your bodies that seems to soothe all three of you. The rhythm is hypnotic, and you feel your own breathing slow to match it.

"Remember when we used to talk about this?" he asks after a while. His thumb has found your hip, rubbing small circles through your t-shirt. "Back when we were just… driving around, no particular place to be, making up ideal futures?"

You do. Late nights in his old car, the one that smelled like vinyl and the vanilla air freshener he refused to replace, music playing low enough to talk over. Windows down, summer air rushing in, his hand alternating on your knee or the gear shift. Mapping out lives you weren't sure you'd ever have. Two kids, maybe, he'd said once, fingers linked with yours, eyes on the road but his attention entirely on you. A dog. A house with a porch. You, always you.

"We didn't know anything," you say, laughing softly.

"We knew enough." He presses a kiss to your temple, then another to your shoulder, then - stretching carefully, his ribs expanding with the effort - to the downy top of her head. His lips linger there, eyes closing, and you watch his face transform into something so tender it makes you melt. "We knew we wanted this. Whatever this turned out to be."

What it turned out to be is 3 AM feedings and diapers stacked on every surface and a love so vast that it takes your breath away. It's Joe singing Beatles songs off-key while he changes her, because he read somewhere that babies like familiar voices, and "Blackbird" is the only one he can remember all the words to in a sleep deprived state. It's the way he brings you water without asking, how he learned to swaddle faster than you did, how he texts you photos when you're in the shower because she smiled, I think it was real, come see. It's finding him asleep in the nursery chair at dawn, her on his chest, both of them with identical expressions of peaceful abandon.

It's this - right now - the three of you breathing together in the blue-dark quiet, no place you'd rather be.

"I used to daydream about this," he admits, his voice dropping to a rumble you feel more than hear. "Before. When we were trying, and it was hard, and I didn't know if…" He trails off, swallows. You feel the movement stop against your back, the hitch in his breathing. "I'd picture it. You, me, a baby. I'd imagine what it would feel like to hold her. To be a dad." He looks at you, and his eyes are bright again, that wonder undimmed. "It wasn't even close. The real you - the real her - it's so much better than anything I could've imagined."

You lean your head back against his shoulder, turning your face into his neck, and breathe him in - soap and skin and the faint sweetness of baby lotion from where he's been holding her. His hand finds yours holding her, fingers resting together, gentle. His palm is warm, slightly calloused, and you remember suddenly the first time he held your hand, in a movie theater years ago, how his thumb had traced the same pattern it's tracing now.

"Thank you," he whispers, fierce and soft all at once. "For her. For this. For giving me everything I didn't know I needed."

You want to tell him that you didn't do it alone, that she's half him, that the gratitude goes both ways and sideways and spirals out in every direction. But words feel insufficient, so you nudge his chest slightly with your shoulder and let the silence speak for you.

The baby stirs again, more insistently this time. Her eyes flutter open - dark and unfocused, searching, the blue-gray color all newborns share, the color that might change or might not, that holds all her potential futures. She blinks, slow and deliberate, her tiny eyebrows drawing together in an expression of profound confusion.

Joe makes a sound, that particular coo he's developed, the one that means I'm here, I've got you, you're safe. It's a soft hey, hey, hey, rhythmic and low, and he leans forward, his face filling her vision.

"Hey, little love," he murmurs, and his whole face transforms, becoming blinding sunlight, becoming home. His eyes crinkle again, his mouth softening into a smile so gentle it looks like it hurts. "We're right here. We're not going anywhere."

She stares at him, or in his general direction, her gaze drifting all round his face. Her mouth works again, that rosebud opening and closing, and he brings his finger to her palm, lets her grip it. Her fingers close around his, so small they don't even wrap halfway around, and he gasps softly, that same wonder fresh and new all over again.

"Look at that," he breathes, turning to you, sharing this miracle. "Look at how strong she is."

He brings their joined hands to his lips, presses a kiss to her knuckles, then turns her hand and kisses the palm, the wrist, each tiny finger. She watches him, or seems to, her dark eyes tracking movement even if she can't quite focus. When he hums, a low vibration in his chest, she lets out a small coo back at him.

"You're so good at this," you whisper, and your voice sounds thick, emotional.

He looks up, surprised, his eyebrows lifting. "At what?"

"At loving her. At being her dad." You shift her slightly, adjusting your hold, and she makes a small sound of protest that has you both scared. But she settles, her breathing evening out again. "You make it look easy."

"It's not," he says quietly, honestly. "I worry constantly. About everything. Is she eating enough, is she too warm, is that sound normal." He laughs, a soft huff of air. "But the loving part? That is easy. That is the easiest thing I've ever done."

He reaches out, then, and touches her cheek with the back of his finger, the way you'd test a fever or check silk for quality. Her skin is impossibly soft, so fragile and new. She turns toward his touch, that newborn reflex, rooting even in her sleep.

"Sometimes I just watch her breathe," he admits. "I know that's crazy. But I'll put my hand on her back and feel her ribs expand, and I'll count. Just to be sure. One, two, three. In and out. And I'll think, we made that. We made breathing."

You lean into him again, feeling the warmth radiating from his skin, and together you watch her. The mobile turns, casting slow shadows. The radiator ticks again. Somewhere, a car passes on the wet street outside, tires hissing through puddle-spray, and then it's quiet again.

"I love you," you say, because it's the only words big enough, and even they feel small.

"I love you too," he answers, immediate and certain. He turns his head, presses his face into your temple, inhales. "I love you both so much it scares me."

Joe’s arm is heavy across your waist, his ring finger - his left ring finger, where you placed it last night - pressed to your hip bone, the metal cool a stark contrast to the heat of his body. He wakes not gradually but all at once, gasping like he’s surfaced from deep water. His eyes snap open - hazel, wide, filled with sleep - and find yours immediately.

Then he hears it. The symphony of phone screens lighting the dark. The mechanical heartbeat that has replaced the silence of your secret.

He reaches over, knuckles brushing the glass table where he left it last night, and retrieves his phone. The screen illuminates his face in blinding blue. Seventy-three text messages. Four hundred and twelve Twitter mentions. A voicemail icon blinking red, angry, insistent: Jessica (Publicist) - 0:42, 1:15, 0:08.

“Oh,” he says. The word falls flat. “That's a lot.”

Your own phone buzzes against your foot where it fell. You reach down, and the screen burns your eyes with its brightness:

Sister: (3 missed calls) Mom: (2 missed calls, 1 voicemail) +1 (212) 555-0199 (1 missed call) Twitter: 12,488 notifications

You open Twitter. The app lags, stuttering under the weight of the storm brewing. When it loads, and the first thing you see is a hashtag pinned at the top in trending red: #JoeKeeryMarried. Below it, #WhoIsShe. Below that, #IndexFingerMysterySolved.

The top tweet is a clip of the stage moment from last night - him raising his hand, the silver band catching the spotlight, his mouth forming the words I already am. It has 2.4 million views.

You scroll. You can’t stop scrolling.

‘he was wearing it on his INDEX FINGER for MONTHS we were literally looking at our faces’ ‘the way he said “already am” with his whole chest I’m deceased’ ‘CNN is reporting his publicist is “in crisis mode” this man really said fuck the contract’ ‘WHO IS THE WIFE. GIVE US THE WIFE. WE NEED TO KNOW IF SHE DESERVES HIM’

“Joe,” you say. Your voice sounds like it’s coming from under water.

He’s staring at his own screen, thumb hovering over the voicemail from Jessica. He presses play and holds it between you, speaker on, and her voice fills the living room - strained, professional, but panic setting in:

“Joe. It’s Jessica. It’s six-fourteen AM. I’ve had seventeen calls from major outlets in the last twenty minutes. CNN is running the concert clip on a loop. Your NDA with the label specifically prohibits revealing personal relationships that could impact marketing - this is a contract breach. I need you to sit tight. Do not post. Do not leave the apartment. I’m sending someone to draft a statement, but we need to discuss damage control immediately. Call me. Do not - I repeat - do not engage with paparazzi.”

The voicemail ends. The silence that follows is heavy, velvet, suffocating.

Joe looks at you. Searching for your reaction, his face is shadowed, unreadable. Then he drops the phone onto the couch. It bounces once, twice, and lies still between you like a grenade with the pin pulled.

“They know,” he says. His voice is steady, but his hand is shaking when he reaches for you. “They know I’m married. But they don’t know who you are still.”

He cups your face, his palms rough and warm, forcing you to look away from the screen, away from the million screaming voices. His thumb traces your cheekbone, wiping away tears you didn’t realize was there.

“Jessica’s scared,” he whispers. “She’s going to tell me to hide you. To deny it. To spin the truth.” He leans forward, pressing his forehead to yours, his breath mixing with yours. “But I won’t. I told the world I was married. I’m not taking it back. I’m not hiding this again.”

The hardwood is cold beneath your bare feet as Joe pulls you up off the couch and you migrate to the kitchen as one organism, the apartment still dim with dawn only starting to break. The couch's chaos follows you like a dead weight. Joe moves ahead slightly, his shoulders a wall you hide behind, his left hand reaching back to keep contact with your hip as you walk, maintaining the circuit of touch as if breaking it might sever something vital.

The kitchen floor tiles bite cold through your sleep pants as you slide against the cabinets to the floor, knees drawn up - the two of you needing to feel something to process the situation. Joe sits across from you, a laptop carefully balanced on his thighs. The screen throws blue light upward, carving his cheekbones into sharp geometry, turning him pale and slightly distant as he focuses.

You’ve left your phones piled on the counter - two black rectangles stacked, still vibrating intermittently, a low-level earthquake shivering through the marble. Outside, the city is beginning to wake, but inside, the air feels pressurized, like your struggling to breathe.

Joe opens the laptop to draft an email to Jessica. The cursor blinks after I won’t deny her. I won’t hide her again.

He looks up at you. His eyes are red-rimmed, exhausted, but the focus is absolute. He is looking at you like you’re the only fixed point in a spinning room, like you’re the coordinates he’s trying to navigate to.

“If they want a statement, let's give them a statement” he says. “Control the narrative ourselves.”

“What’s do we even say?” you ask.

He closes the laptop. The snap echoes in the quiet space. He sets it aside and crawls across the tiles to you, predatory, purposeful. He settles between your legs, his hands bracketing your face, his thumbs resting in the hollows beneath your ears. His weight is solid, grounding as he forces you to maintain eye contact.

“The truth,” he says. He kisses your forehead, your eyelids, the tip of your nose. Each touch is deliberate, a translation. “But we give them rules.”

He retrieves the device and opens a blank document. He types slowly, cautious of the word choice that could make this even worse, the wedding band catching the sickly fluorescent light with every stroke.

'We were married six months ago in a private ceremony.' Delete. 'We were married six months ago.' Delete. 'I am married.' Delete.

He looks at you again, his expression softening, cracking. He reaches for your hand, brings it to his mouth, kisses your ring. His lips are chapped and warm.

“I want to say that I’m happy,” he whispers against your knuckles. “I want to say that I’ve never been happier, and that’s why I couldn’t hide it anymore. But they’ll twist that. They’ll make it consumption. They’ll want pictures.”

Your phone buzzes. Then his. A synchronized convulsion as his eyes spark with the answer.

He types:

'This morning, I confirmed that I am married. My wife and I have chosen to keep our relationship personal rather than secret. There is a difference. We are grateful for the support, but we will not be sharing details or photographs. Our marriage is not content. Please respect our privacy as we navigate this new reality.'

He turns the screen to you. The words are firm, polite, immovable - a barrier.

“It’s good,” you say.

He posts it to his Instagram story - white text on black background - and to Twitter. The immediate response is invisible as he shuts the device off. The apartment seems to compress further, as if reflecting the internets response, sharing, screenshotting, dissecting. The building itself seems to hold its breath for the two of you.

Joe sets it aside. He looks at you. Really looks. His gaze travels from your disheveled hair down to your bare shoulders, to your hands clasped in your lap - the left one gleaming with silver - to your ankles, and back up to your face. It is a gaze of possession, but not ownership - recognition. He memorizes you in the silence.

Outside, a car horn blares. Then another. The distant whup-whup chorus of car doors closing, and light chatter that's pools around the building.

His phone rings. Jessica flashes across the screen. He silences it. It rings again. He silences it again. Then he picks it up, holds down the power button, and shuts it off. The screen goes black.

“What are you doing?” you ask concerned.

“Setting boundaries” he says. He powers off your phone too, his thumb pressing the button with finality. The vibration stops. The noise stops. The digital screaming fades to nothing, leaving only the hum of the refrigerator and your shared breathing. “No more managers. No more trending topics. Just us, and the walls, and the time it takes to get our footing.”

He stands, holds out his hand. His ring gleams on his left hand, steady and unafraid in the morning light that is finally starting to break through the blinds, warm and welcoming.

“Come with me, we're gonna suffocate in here” he says.

━━━━⊱⋆⊰━━━━━━━━⊱⋆⊰━━━━━━━━⊱⋆⊰━━━━

The hallway of your building absorbs sound through the velvet. The amber light fixtures cast pools of warmth against the eggshell walls that usually comfort, but now feel like the throat of something that might swallow you whole. It smells like lemon disinfectant and old carpet, the scent of neutrality, of buildings that exist to house rather than shelter.

You stand at the elevator, Joe beside you. He has dressed for war. The white t-shirt stretched across his shoulders like armor, the cotton worn thin enough to show the shift of muscle beneath. Dark jeans. Boots that click against the tile with authority. His hair is damp, combed back but already beginning to rebel, curling at the nape of his neck and falling into his eyes.

He has pulled the hood of his grey sweatshirt - his favorite, the one you’ve stolen multiple times, that smells like cedar and detergent - up over your head. His fingers linger on your face as he adjusts the fabric on your mask and sunglasses, tilting your chin up to check that you’re hidden, protected. His touch is methodical but his eyes are soft.

“They’re here,” he says, his voice resonant in the empty hallway. “Looked out the window on the way down. There are forty, maybe fifty. News vans.” He pauses. His eyes search yours, dark and serious, pupils blown wide with adrenaline. “We can take the service elevator. The garage. Hide.”

You look at him. You remember the index finger - the sideways promise. The secret. You feel the ring on your hand, heavy now with significance, no longer a hidden code but a symbol.

“Front door,” you say.

Something fierce and proud lights in his expression, a fire behind the hazel. He nods.

The elevator dings. The doors open. The walls are mirrors. You see yourselves reflected into your memory - him tall and broad, you small and hidden, your hand swallowed in his, the two of you becoming a pair finally like you had promised all those months ago. He pulls you against his side, his arm a steel band around your waist, and stares at the reflection with a kind of defiance, chin lifted, eyes hard.

When the doors open to the lobby, Marcus the receptionist is there. His uniform is strained across his shoulders, his face shiny with sweat, eyes wide and panicked. He looks at Joe, then at you, his gaze dropping to your joined hands, to the silver bands visible even in the dim light.

"Mr. Keery," Marcus says, his voice barely above a whisper, cracking on the second syllable. "It’s... it’s a lot out there."

"I know," Joe says. He squeezes your hand - three pulses. I’m here. I’m here. I’m here. "Front door, Marcus. Can you open it?"

"Service elevator - there’s a car waiting - "

"No." Joe adjusts his grip on your hand, lifting it slightly, making sure the rings are visible, catching the lobby’s chandelier light. "We’re walking out the front. I'm not smuggling her out like contraband. She’s my wife."

The word lands like a weight in the lobby. My wife. Marcus blinks. Then he straightens his shoulders, adjusts his cap, and nods.

"Yes, sir."

He moves to the door. Through the glass, you can see them - a wall of bodies, a forest of lenses and microphones, a galaxy of intrusion. The light outside is white, blinding, merciless, reflecting off SUVs and satellite dishes.

Joe turns to you. He blocks your view of the door with his body, filling your vision completely. He cups your face, his palms cradling your jaw, his fingers warm and dry and certain, forcing you to look only at him.

"Eyes on me," he repeats. His thumb brushes your cheekbone, feather-light, tracing the bone. "I’m your horizon. You look at me, and you walk toward me. Nothing else exists."

You nod. Your throat turning dry.

He leans down, kisses your forehead, his lips burning a brand into your skin.

Marcus opens the door.

The sound is a physical assault to your ear drum - cold and shocking, breaking over you. Light - so much light, white and blue and explosive - detonates in your retinas even through the sunglasses.

"JOE! JOE, LOOK HERE!" "MRS. KEERY! WHAT’S YOUR NAME!" "HOW LONG WERE YOU HIDING!" "ARE YOU PREGNANT!" "DID YOU SIGN A PRENUP!"

The questions are bullets, shrapnel, tearing through the air. You flinch, shrinking into yourself involuntarily, but Joe’s arm is there to steady you, solid as an oak, pulling you forward into him, anchoring you to the earth. He has transformed into a monolith. His shoulders are squared, his spine a steel rod. He angles his body between you and the worst of it, a human shield. His jaw is set, his eyes narrowed, scanning the crowd with a look that is not quite hostile but is absolutely immovable.

You try to keep your eyes down at first, watching your feet - your sneakers, his boots, moving in tandem across the pavement. But you can't help yourself to look up. Not at them. At him.

He is scanning the crowd now with a look of absolute command. He raises his free hand in a stop sign - a command, not a request. The ring catches the sun, a flash of silver, a beacon just like it did last night.

"Good morning," he says, and his voice carries, rough and sure, cutting through the noise like a blade through silk as the crowd falls silent under his command. "This is my wife. We’re walking to the corner store. We’re going to buy coffee and orange juice. Then we’re coming home. You will not touch her. You will not shout at her. You can take your pictures from the sidewalk. If you step into the street, we’re going back inside, and you get nothing."

A murmur. A rustle of confusion. But they listen. They part like water, cameras still raised but quieter now, respectful of the boundary he’s drawn with his voice and his presence.

He turns back to you, just slightly, his eyes finding yours, checking in. The gaze is soft, reassuring, a lifeline. Stay with me.

He moves. You follow.

The crowd has formed a walkway, walls of bodies and lenses on either side. You see flashes in your peripheral vision - explosions of white, pop-pop-pop like a gunfire - but you look at the freckle on his neck, at the pulse beating in his throat, at his hand holding yours with a grip that could crush bone but instead cradles you. You stop hearing the shouting. It becomes a distant noise in the background, something outside while you are inside a bubble. There is only the warmth of his back against your shoulder, the solid reality of him, the smell of his soap and sweat and the cedar from his sweatshirt that you wear.

The corner store is three feet away. Two. The bell above it waits, brass and still. One foot.

Joe turns to you. For a split second, the fortress walls lower. He looks at you with such open tenderness, such unguarded love, that the cameras behind you erupt in a frenzy, sensing the shift in behavior, capturing a moment that was meant only for you. He guides you through the door. The bell jingles, bright and ordinary and absurd.

Inside, the fluorescent lights buzz like insects. The air is cold, refrigerated, smelling of deli meat and newspaper ink and floor cleaner. You stand in the aisle, shaking, your breath coming in short gasps. Your adrenaline crashes, leaving you hollow, buzzing.

He takes your face in his hands now, lowering the mask slightly, blocking out the store, the clerk, the world beyond the glass. He wipes a tear from your cheek with his thumb - when did you start crying?

"You did it," he whispers smiling. "You walked through it."

The walk back is different. The sun has shifted, climbing higher, turning the white glare into gold. The reporters are gone and you walk beside him, shoulders brushing, hood fallen back. Your face is visible. Your hair. Your eyes. The sweatshirt hangs loose on your frame, but you wear it like armor now.

Joe holds your hand up, slightly, displaying the rings. He is not hiding anymore; he's showing anyone who will look. His thumb strokes your knuckles as you walk, a continuous caress, a reminder.

At the building door, Marcus holds it open waiting. His expression has changed - no longer fear, but something like respect. "Welcome home, Mr. and Mrs. Keery," he says.

Joe’s eyes soften, crinkling at the corners. He looks at you, checking to see your reaction to hearing it out loud for the first time. You smile, and something fierce and exciting passes between you.

The elevator seals you in. The silence is immediate, holy, pressurized, like descending into deep water or ascending into heaven. You lean against the mirrored wall, and Joe presses against you, his forehead dropping to your shoulder, relishing the moment.

"I looking back at you the whole time," he mumbles, his voice vibrating against your collarbone. "Only you mattered."

"I know, I was watching you too."

He lifts his head. In the enclosed space, under the artificial lights, he looks exhausted, exhilarated, alive. He takes your left hand, brings it to his mouth, kisses your ring, then his own, then presses both your palms together, fingers interlacing.

The apartment door closes behind you like an airlock sealing. The silence is absolute. You lean against it, your spine flat against the wood, the grocery bag crinkling in your hand, forgotten. You realize you're shaking - adrenaline coming down, the aftermath, a chemical residue of courage, your nervous system trying to process the transition from war zone to sanctuary.

Joe takes the bag from you. Sets it down on the counter where both your phones still lay - discarded. Before you know it, he's already rushing back to you, his eyes locked into yours, crossing the space between you in two strides.

His hands find your hips, thumbs brushing your across your sides like he’s reading braille, like you’re a language he’s still learning, will always be learning. He's face is buried in your neck, trailing kisses from your jaw down your neck, forcing you to roll you head back and giving him access.

"You did it," he says, his voice rough, between kisses.

"We did it."

"They saw you. But they didn't get you."

You turn your head and kiss his check, tasting salt and home. "The rings worked," you say, nonsensically, but he understands.

"They're not hiding places anymore," he agrees. "They're..."

"Shields," you finish. "Small, silver shields. Around just us."

He smiles, that crooked beautiful smile, the left side lifting higher than the right, and lifts your hand, turning it so the ring faces the fading light. It gleams, steady and unafraid, throwing a small circle of reflection onto the wall behind you - a tiny sun, a private star. "Tomorrow, the world will still be there. The questions won't stop. But right now - "

"Right now," you interrupt, pulling him toward the bedroom, toward the sanctuary of sheets and skin and whispered promises, your fingers twisted in his, "It's just us and... I want to hear you say it again. Not for them. For me."

He follows, shedding his shirt in the hallway, his defenses falling as he crumbles into you, the weight of public performance lifting from his shoulders with each step until he’s just Joe, your husband, the man who once wore your secret on his index finger and now wears your truth on his left hand, following you into the dimming room where the outside world cannot reach.

"My wife," he says into the hollow of your throat, reverent and certain, his lips against your pulse, as outside the city screams your name but cannot touch you, as two silver bands combine as one - public knowledge, private possession, finally, finally safe.

You stopped sleeping in the bed. It was too wide, too permanent. You started camping in the living room on an air mattress, surrounded by your exhibition notes, because the bedroom felt like a lie. You were supposed to be memorizing train schedules for Paris, not argue with contractors about lighting fixtures.

The second month, the hallucinations started, but they weren't of monsters - they were of routine. You'd wake up at 3:00 AM automatically, your body trained to European time, expecting to hear the shower running, expecting to pad into the bathroom and find him shaving with that cheap foam that smelled like pine. Instead, silence. You'd text him - Good show? - and he'd reply at dawn his time, twelve hours later, with videos of the backstage crew, the after-parties, the cities you were supposed to be exploring together.

You knew the rhythm of his post-show high. You knew he needed someone to ground him, to hand him water, to listen to him decompress. And now that someone wasn't you. It was a stranger. A roadie. A handler. You saw the photos - him laughing with the band, with fans, with people who got to occupy the space you'd vacated. You started archiving his Instagram stories not because you cherished them, but because you were analyzing them for evidence of replacement. Who was standing where you usually stood? Who had their hand on his shoulder?

You stopped eating. Everything tasted like the road - gas station coffee, airport sandwiches - but without the context, without the motion, it was just ash. You lost twelve pounds. Your cheekbones became geometry, sharp and accusing.

You didn't tell him. When he FaceTimed from Berlin, you angled the camera carefully, kept the lighting low, told him the gallery prep was exhausting but exciting, that you were thriving. You said "I'll be there for the Paris shows" - a lie, the exhibition opening was that same weekend - and you watched his face relax, watched him believe that you were fine, that his absence wasn't carving a cavity in your chest.

You stopped saying I love you because it hurt too much to feel the words travel thousands of miles and land flat on a hotel screen. You said miss you instead. Then just goodnight.

By the third month, you were dissociating during meetings. You'd find yourself staring at the gallery walls, wondering if he was awake in Amsterdam, if he'd remembered to take his vitamins without you there to shake the bottle at him. You stopped going home after work. You slept in the supply closet at the gallery, curled under a coat, because the apartment had become a mausoleum to a life you weren't living.

Jess found you there - the supply closet - on a Thursday. You hadn't been home in three days. She drove you to her apartment. She fed you soup. She watched you stare at the wall and told you, "I'm calling him."

You grabbed her wrist with more strength than you'd had in weeks. "Don't. Don't you dare. He's got four days left. He's ending in Paris. If he knows, he'll leave early. He'll tank the last shows. I can't be the reason he - "

"You’re killing yourself," she said, her voice breaking. "You’re actually killing yourself."

"I just need him to come home," you whispered. "I just need to get to the opening. Then it'll be fine."

But you knew it wouldn't be fine. You'd forgotten how to exist in a stationary world. You'd forgotten how to be the girl who didn't wake up in a different postcode every morning.

He came back on a Sunday. You weren't at the apartment. You were at the gallery, you were making adjustments on the exhibition, running on forty-eight hours of no sleep and black coffee. You'd told him to meet you there - that you were too swamped to leave, that you couldn't wait to see him, that everything was great.

He walked in at 9:00 PM, his duffel bag slung over his shoulder, still in his travel clothes, smelling like airports and winter rain. He looked smaller than he did onstage, shadowed, exhausted. He looked like your person.

You were standing on a ladder, adjusting a spotlight, and when you turned and saw him, the room tilted. You hadn't prepared for the reality of him - solid, three-dimensional, here. You'd prepared for the screen. For the delay. For the distance.

"Hey," he said, his voice rough.

You said nothing. You just stared, the screwdriver shaking in your hand.

He took in the scene - the bags under your eyes, the bones of your wrists, the way your clothes hung empty, the fact that you were trembling so hard the ladder was rattling. His expression shifted from exhaustion to confusion to something terrible and dawning.

"You look…" He stopped. He dropped his bag. "Baby, come down from there."

You climbed down, but your knees buckled when you hit the floor. He caught you, his hands going to your waist, and you gasped - not in relief, but in pain. His touch was too much. It was sensory overload. You'd lived in a muted grayscale for three months and now he was Technicolor, loud and warm and overwhelming.

You flinched, hard, and stepped back. You saw the hurt flash across his face, raw and immediate.

"Sorry," you mumbled, wrapping your arms around yourself. "Sorry. I'm just… I'm cold."

"It's seventy degrees in here," he said softly. He stepped closer, studying you with the intensity he usually reserved for scripts. "Y/N, what happened?"

"Nothing. I'm fine. The show opened Tuesday. I'm just tired."

"Tired," he repeated. He reached out, tentative, and touched your cheekbone. His thumb came away with the hollow beneath it, the sharp edge. "You’ve lost weight."

"Busy," you said, stepping away again, pretending to check the wiring on a display. "You know how it is. Lots to do."

He was quiet for a long moment. Then: "Jess called me."

The screwdriver fell from your hand, clattering against the concrete floor. The sound echoed through the empty gallery.

"She called me from the car," he continued, his voice getting tighter, higher. "She said you haven't slept in the apartment in three weeks. She said she's been watching you starve yourself. She said you had a panic attack in the supply closet yesterday."

"She shouldn't have - " Your voice was a whisper.

"She said you've been lying to me," he said, and now his eyes were wet, his hands shaking. "She said every time I've talked to you for the past two months, you've been performing. That you're not fine. That you're not even close to fine."

The shame was a living thing, crawling up your throat. "I couldn't tell you," you said, the words falling out, broken. "You've never toured without me. You don't know how to do it without a safety net. If I told you I was falling apart, you'd have left. You'd have canceled Paris. I couldn't be that person. I couldn't be the reason you - "

"I asked you every single day if you were okay," he said, his voice breaking. "Every day, Y/N. And you looked me in the eye - well, in the camera - and you lied."

"Because you were happy!" you shouted, suddenly, the volume tearing your throat. You turned on him, tears finally coming, hot and humiliating. "You were glowing! You were finally getting everything you worked for, and you didn't need me there dragging you down with my bullshit! You had the crew, the band, the fans - you didn't need me staring at you with my sad eyes because I couldn't handle being left behind for once!"

He stared at you, stricken. "Left behind," he repeated.

"I've always been there," you sobbed, the truth excavating itself from your chest. "Always. In the cheap seats, in the dressing rooms, in the ER in Prague when you had the flu. That was my job. That was my whole… my whole thing. And this time, I had to stay, and I didn't know how. I didn't know how to be the girl who waits. I didn't know how to be the girl who has a career that matters just as much as yours. And I was so scared that if I told you I was drowning, you'd realize you didn't need me anymore. That you could do it without me. That you were better without me."

He moved then, fast, crossing the space between you, but he stopped just short of touching you, his hands hovering. "Can I hold you?" he asked, his voice wrecked. "Please? I need to hold you, but I need you to say it's okay."

You nodded, a jerky motion, and then his arms were around you, pulling you against his chest. You felt the sob tear out of you, ugly and jagged, as you finally let yourself feel the shape of him, the solidity. You'd spent three months holding your body rigid, and now, in his arms, you felt yourself shatter completely.

"I kept waiting for you to tell me to come home," he said into your hair, his voice muffled, desperate. "I kept waiting for the text saying you couldn't do it. I would have left. I would have walked away from every show, I don't care. I was miserable without you. I was flying blind. I kept reaching for you in the hotel rooms and you weren't there, and I thought… I thought you were finally realizing you had better things to do than follow me around."

"Never," you choked out.

"I need you," he said, pulling back to frame your face with his hands, forcing you to look at him. His tears were falling freely now, tracking down his cheeks. "Not as my road manager, not as my travel partner. I need you as my person. And I'm sorry. I'm so sorry I didn't see it. I'm sorry I believed you when you said you were fine. I knew. I knew the tone of your voice was wrong, and I let myself believe it because it was easier than facing that I was hurting you by being gone."

"We've never done this before," you whispered. "I didn't know how."

"We'll learn," he said, pressing his forehead against yours. His breath was warm, familiar, alive. "But you have to promise me. No more performances. No more protecting me from your pain. When you're drowning, you tell me. Even if I'm on stage. Even if I'm across an ocean. You tell me, and I'll find a way to throw you a rope."

"I thought I was being strong," you said.

"You were being alone," he said softly. "And you never have to be that again."

He kissed you then - not the desperate reunion you'd imagined during the long nights, but a careful, reverent press of lips, a relearning of shapes. He kissed your eyelids, your tears, the hollows of your cheeks. He held you like you were made of glass, like you were precious, like you were home.

"I brought you something," he said after a moment, reaching into his jacket pocket. He pulled out a keychain - a cheap, plastic Eiffel Tower from the airport gift shop in Paris. "I bought it the first day there, thinking I'd give it to you when you flew out for the weekend. When you didn't come… I kept it in my pocket. A reminder that you weren't there. That I wanted you to be."

You closed your fist around it, the plastic digging into your palm, a small, tangible anchor.

"We need to fix this," he said, looking around the gallery, at the exhibition you'd built in your fugue state, at the wreckage of your health. "We need to get you help. Real help."

"I know," you whispered.

"Together?"

You looked at him - travel-worn, terrified, his hands trembling as they held yours - and nodded. "Together."

He didn't carry you out. He walked beside you, his arm wrapped firmly around your waist, holding you up without taking over. You left the lights on in the gallery. The exhibition could wait. You needed to go home - not the apartment that had become a tomb, but to him, to the place where you learned how to be still without being alone.

In the taxi, he didn't let go of your hand. He traced patterns on your palm, whispering promises about therapy, about boundaries, about learning how to have two careers without losing each other. You leaned your head on his shoulder, breathing in the cedarwood and sweat, and finally, finally, let yourself believe you were allowed to need him.

You don't answer. You can't - not yet at least. You're across the room in three strides, and your hands are already in his hair before your brain can form a thought - fingers sinking into fluff that are softer than you expected for what's been done to it, finer, like cornsilk or sunlight made tangible.

"Joe," you breathe, raking back, watching the curls catch and coil around your knuckles. The bleach has transformed the texture completely, turned it into something that begs to be touched, that clings to your skin like it wants to be claimed. "What - "

"Finished the show," he says quietly, watching your face with dark eyes. "Stranger Things. Wrapped Steve. And I just... I wanted to look in the mirror and see something different. See me."

Your heart cracks open. You grip tighter, pulling him gently by the new blonde strands until his head tips back, exposing the long line of his throat. "You didn't tell me."

"I wanted to know if you'd still look at me the same way," he admits, hands finding your hips, pulling you between his knees. "Without him. Without the hair you used to tug on when we'd - "

"I would look at you any way you came," you say, and your voice is rough, thick with the sudden emotion of it. This is closure. This is rebirth. This is Joe choosing himself, shedding the character like skin, and you can't stop touching it - these soft, messy locks that represent freedom. "But this..." You run your thumbs through the strands at his temples, then back, scratching lightly at his scalp, watching his eyes flutter in bliss. "God, Joe, it's so soft."

His laugh is shaky, relieved. "Yeah?"

"Yeah." You grip fistfuls at his crown and tug, just enough to make him gasp, and the sound shoots straight down your spine. "Stand up."

He obeys, unfolding those long limbs, and you don't retreat. You keep your hands locked in his hair, walking him backward toward the bedroom, learning the new topography of him with every step. The strands are still long at the top, encalpsulating your fingers, fluffy still at the nape where you can feel the metal of the clippers still, the contrast making you dizzy.

"Can't stop touching it," you confess, mussing it, smoothing it, pulling it again just to feel the weight of it, the way it slides through your fingers. "It's like silk. It's like you took all that pressure and turned it into gold."

"I feel like me," he says, and his hands are frantic on your waist, under your shirt, urgent with the need to reconnect after a week apart and a massive risk he took. "For the first time in years, I look in the mirror and I don't see Hawkins. I don't see Steve."

"Then let me see you," you whisper, and push him onto the bed.

He falls back willingly, blonde hair fanning out against the navy sheets like a halo, too bright, too beautiful. You climb over him and immediately bury both hands back in it, raking through, watching them stand up and settle, tangled and wild. He arches into your touch like a cat, humming, his eyes falling shut.

"Keep doing that," he begs, voice gravelly. "I’ve been waiting to show you. Waiting to feel your hands in it."

You lean down and kiss him, deep and claiming, and your fingers never stop moving - twisting in the strands, massaging his scalp, pulling just hard enough to make him groan into your mouth as you kiss him. The texture is addictive, the weight of it different, you feel like you're touching something precious and new and entirely his.

When you pull back slight to begin with the buttons of his shirt. His hands fly up to stop you. Yet you persist - "No. Let me."

His hands fall back onto your hips again grounding you, your right hand slowly moves down, each button opening with a small pop - your left hand never leaving his hair, petting, stroking, learning. When the fabric falls open of his own shirt finally, you run your palms down his chest, then immediately return to those platinum waves, gripping tight.

"Sit up," you command softly pulling him up. "I want to feel it against my skin."

He sits up, wrapping his arms around you, and you press close, burying your face in the curve of his neck, nuzzling into the waves that tickle your cheek. He smells like dye and shampoo and warm skin, and when you grip the hair at his nape and tug his head back to suck at his throat, he moans, loud and unguarded.

"Like that," he chants as you scrape your teeth over his pulse, your fingers tight. "Pull it harder, c'mon - "

You do. You grip fistfuls and pull his head back sharply, exposing his throat completely, and he shudders, his hips bucking up against yours. The power of it - the way this new soft hair gives under your hands, the way he surrenders to the sting - makes you wet, makes you reckless.

"Touch yourself," you breathe against his ear, releasing one hand to guide his down, then returning immediately to tangle in those blonde waves. "I want to watch you while I hold you like this."

His eyes flash dark, surprised, but his hand moves to his belt obeying your command, sheading his jeans, and then he's gripping himself and you're gripping his hair, your fingers buried deep in the platinum strands, pulling and releasing in a rhythm that matches his strokes.

The sight is devastating - his wrist working, his stomach muscles jumping, his new wild hair, messier from your fingers, his glasses slightly askew where they'd fallen forward. He looks like art. He looks like freedom.

"Fuck, your hands in my hair," he gasps, working himself faster. "Can't think when you pull it - feels like you're pulling me apart and putting me back together - "

"That's exactly what I'm doing," you whisper, and you grip tighter, tugging his head back to claim his mouth in a messy kiss, swallowing his moans. You don't stop touching, your fingers obsessed with the symbolism of it all.

When he cums, it's with his face turned into your palm, his hair spilling over your wrist like sunshine, his body shuddering under yours. You keep your hand there, stroking through the sweaty, tangled mess you've made of it, gentling him, grounding him.

"Welcome back," he pants, smiling dazed against your shoulder.

You ease him down onto the pillows and curl against his side, your hand immediately returning to his head, fingertips tracing lazy patterns through the blonde strands, combing them back from his forehead, unable to stop.

"For the record," you murmur, your voice heavy with sleep and satisfaction, "I think Joe without Steve is my favorite version of you."

He turns his head to kiss your forehead, then guides your hand back to where he likes it - deep in the waves at his crown. "Then stay here and keep touching me. Remind me who I am."

The first thing you notice is the sound of rain. Its not the dramatic, thunderous kind that commands your attention, it's soft, a persistent pitter-patter against the glass - like a second heartbeat, gentle as a lullaby. The second thing you notice is the warmth at your back, rising and falling in a rhythm that matches the rain.

You try to shift, but a hand tightens slightly at your waist in response. "Hey," Joe murmurs, voice rough with sleep. "Stay."

It's not a command. It never is with him. It's a single please wrapped in its own syllable, like a rough purr against your ear. You settle back against him, your cheek finding a familiar place in the hollow above his shoulder, and he makes a satisfied noise - something like a hum crossed with a sigh - it vibrates through his chest and into yours.

"What time is it?" you ask, though you don't really care. Time is irrelevant here, suspended the glorious glow of a Saturday afternoon passing by, like the light filtering gently through curtains that never quite close all the way.

"Doesn't matter," Joe says, and you feel the words blow against your hair, his lips barely moving. "We're hibernating."

You smile, though it takes some effort. Actually.. Everything takes effort right now. Your throat feels like you've swallowed sandpaper, and there's a dull, persistent ache behind your eyes that no amount of Tylenol seems to fix. You'd tried to hide it this earlier in the morning - made coffee you couldn't taste properly, laughed at a joke that wasn't funny as funny as the reaction you'd given, insisted you were fine when Joe's eyes had narrowed in that way they do when he knows better, like he can see through skin and bone right to the truth of you.

But Joe has never been easy to lie to.

He'd found you an hour later, curled into the corner of the couch with your knees pulled to your chest, shivering despite the his favorite sweater wrapped around your shoulders you'd stolen from his closet. It swallowed you whole, the sleeves well past your fingertips, the hem finishing mid-thigh. But it smelled like him and you'd buried your face in the collar, breathing deep, hoping he wouldn't notice.

"Okay," he'd said softly, appearing from the kitchen with tea that had been laced with honey, just the way you liked it. "New plan."

That was how you ended up here, in his bed, buried under a mountain of blankets that smelled like fabric softener. He'd fed you soup from the deli down the street - chicken noodle with a little too much pepper, just perfect, and then he'd simply climbed in beside you, fully clothed still, like it was the most natural thing in the world. Like taking care of you was as essential to him as breathing was.

Now, hours later, the soup is a warm memory settled in your stomach, and the tea has done its work on to soothe your throat. But the exhaustion remains, heavy as wet wool, and Joe seems determined to carry the weight with you.

"You're warm," you mumble, though you know you're actually the warm one, feverish and flushed.

"I know," he says, and you can hear the smile in his voice. "You're burning up. I'm monitoring the situation."

"By napping?"

"By being here." His hand is spread wide across your ribs, thumb tracing idle patterns near your breast that make your breath hitch. "I'll have you know I'm extremely committed to the role."

You laugh, and it turns into a cough, ragged and ugly. Joe doesn't flinch. He waits it out, his hand resuming its soothing circles, until you collapse back against him, breathless and embarrassed.

"Sorry," you whisper.

"For what?"

"Being - " You gesture vaguely, though he can't see it. "This. Needy. Gross."

Joe shifts, just enough to press his forehead to your temple. His skin is cool where you were burning, deliciously so, and you turn into it instinctively, seeking relief. He lets you, angling his head to give you better access, and his next breath ghosts across your cheek.

"You're not gross," he says, and there's an edge to his voice now, something fierce beneath the softness. "You're sick. There's a difference. And you're not needy - you're needed." A pause. "By me. Always."

You heart breaks in your chest, it's warm and a distinct from the fever. You want to argue, to deflect with humor or self-deprecation, but Joe knows your signs. His hand finds yours under the covers, fingers slotting between yours with the ease of practiced precision. He brings your joined hands to his chest as you turn further to face him, pressing your palm over his heart. It beats strong against your skin.

"Feel that?" he asks.

You nod, throat tightening.

"That's yours," he says simply. "Even when you're 'gross.' Even when you're sick or tired or convinced you're too much. That heart doesn't care about any of that. It just... knows. It knows you."

The rain intensifies outside, a sudden rush against the window like applause, and you blink rapidly, overwhelmed with the situation. Joe notices and he shifts again, maneuvering until you're tucked into his side, his arm secured around you, comforting, around your shoulders. He throws one leg over yours, its heavy and reminding you that he's there, and you feel utterly surrounded by him, by his warmth, weight and care.

"Sleep," he commands gently, lips brushing your hairline. "I've got you."

"You'll stay?" The question escapes before you can stop it, small and vulnerable, and you hate how young you sound, how desperate you are for him.

But Joe just pulls you closer, until there isn't a breath of space between you, until you can feel every rise and fall of his chest in sync with your own. "I'm not going anywhere," he promises. "I'm your big dumb weighted blanket for as long as you need."

"You're not dumb," you protest, but it's weak, slurred with the exhaustion pulling at your deeper.

"Shh," he soothes. "Just rest. I'll be here when you wake up. I'll always be here."

You drift on the hum of his voice, on the steady thrum of his heart against your palm, on the rain's gentle percussion. The last thing you feel is his hand resuming its pattern on your back - circles and figure-eights, meaningless and perfect - and his whisper, so soft you might have imagined it: