#i need to... end her.... affectionately... somehow...

He held doors open for you even when you were twenty feet away and then just stood there waiting like an idiot. He memorized your schedule 'by accident' and somehow always ended up near your locker. He started hanging around Mr. Clarke’s classroom after school even though science made his brain hurt, just because you were there.

He’d stare during lunch, chin in his hand, smiling like a complete loser while you rambled about scholarships and college applications and how you couldn’t wait to see the world outside Hawkins.

Tommy caught him once and snapped his fingers in his face. “You’re doing the heart-eyes thing again.”

“The what?”

“The pathetic, princess-in-love look. It’s disgusting. I need you to get it together.”

He didn’t get it together.

If anything, he got worse.

The whole school knew. The way he lit up when you waved at him like you waved at everyone else. The way he’d drop whatever he was doing if you so much as looked like you needed help.

Everyone knew.

Except you.

You, apparently, were immune to the obvious because in your head, Steve Harrington was just. . . Steve Harrington. Popular. Nice, lately. Weirdly friendly. Probably like that with everyone.

You never noticed how his entire world tilted toward you.

You had bigger things to think about.

Like getting out of Hawkins.

Mr. Clarke had stopped you after class a week ago, papers tucked under his arm, glasses sliding down his nose. He’d cleared his throat in that hopeful way teachers did when they were about to ask for a favor.

“I’m starting a peer tutoring program,” he’d said. “Colleges love community involvement. It would look very good on scholarship applications.”

You’d said yes before he even finished the sentence.

Anything that helped you leave.

You didn’t hate Hawkins. It just never felt like it belonged to you. It felt small, like a sweater that shrank in the wash. Your dreams didn’t fit here. You wanted big libraries and campus buildings covered in ivy and lecture halls and cities where no one knew your last name.

Your family supported you completely. Your mom already saved college brochures in a neat stack on the kitchen counter. Your dad bragged about you to the neighbors like you’d already made it.

Leaving didn’t feel sad.

It felt necessary.

So you signed up to tutor, figuring maybe a freshman or two would show up for help with algebra or biology. Maybe no one at all. You wouldn’t have blamed them.

Which is why, when you walked into the library after school and followed the little handwritten sign that said PEER TUTORING →, you weren’t prepared to see Steve Harrington sitting at one of the tables.

Waiting.

For you.

For a second, you genuinely thought you’d walked into the wrong place.

Steve didn’t belong here. The late sunlight through the windows caught in his hair, turning it gold, and he looked so out of place it almost made you laugh.

Then he saw you.

And his whole face changed like someone had flipped a switch inside him. He sat up straighter so fast he almost knocked his chair over.

“Hey,” he said, a little breathless, like he’d run here. “Hi. You’re— uh. You’re the tutor, right?”

“. . . Yeah,” you said slowly, adjusting the strap of your bag. “Are you lost?”

His heart actually stuttered.

Lost. God. If only you knew.

“I mean,” you added quickly, “this is the tutoring area. If you’re looking for the magazines or—”

“No,” he said too fast. “No, I’m supposed to be here. I signed up. For tutoring. With you. I mean— not with you specifically. I mean— I guess it is specifically. But like, academically. For school. Obviously.”

You blinked at him.

Steve Harrington. The guy who once asked if The Great Gatsby was a real person.

You stared at the neat pile of books in front of him.

“. . . You need tutoring?” you asked, genuinely confused.

He rubbed the back of his neck. “Yeah. Turns out if you don’t pay attention for, like, three years straight, stuff catches up with you.”

You laughed softly and that sound hit him straight in the chest.

God. He’d do anything to hear that again.

“Oh,” you said, pulling out the chair across from him. “Yeah, that makes sense. Don’t worry, I’m pretty good at explaining things. What do you need help with?”

Everything, he almost said.

But not the homework.

He needed help with how you were sitting across from him, sleeves pushed up, pen tucked behind your ear, already focuse like this was the most important thing in the world. He needed help with how you bit your lip when you concentrated. How you leaned closer to his side of the table without even realizing it.

Instead, he slid the biology book toward you with slightly shaky hands.

“Cells,” he said. “They’re. . . confusing.”

You smiled at him like this was totally normal. Like he was just another student.

And Steve swore he’d never wanted to be anything more and anything less at the same time.

“Okay,” you said. “We’ll start easy.”

Easy. Right.

Except nothing about this was easy for him.

Because every time your fingers brushed his while passing a pencil, his brain short-circuited. Every time you leaned over to point something out, your shoulder bumping his, he forgot what planet he was on. He nodded along to explanations he barely heard because he was too busy staring at your mouth forming the words.

You thought he was struggling with science.

He was struggling with you.

“You’re actually catching on pretty fast,” you said after a while, surprised. “You’re not as bad at this as you think.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. You’re trying. That’s, like, ninety percent of it.”

Trying.

If you only knew.

He’d rearranged his entire schedule to be here. Asked Tommy to quiz him the night before so he wouldn’t look completely clueless. He’d even read the first two chapters so you wouldn’t think he was hopeless.

All because you were here.

Because the idea of you leaving Hawkins one day, chasing some big, shiny future, while he stayed behind. . . it twisted something ugly in his chest.

He wanted you to fly.

He just selfishly wished he could go with you.

“You know,” you said absently, scribbling notes for him, “I didn’t think anyone would actually sign up for this.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah,” you said with a little laugh. “But I’m glad you did. It’s nice helping someone.”

He swallowed.

“Yeah,” he said. “Me too.”

You kept talking and Steve just. . . stared.

Not in a creepy way. Not on purpose.

He just couldn’t help it.

You had this little crease between your brows when you concentrated. You explained things with your hands, fingers tapping the table, drawing invisible diagrams in the air, and every time you leaned closer to underline something in his book, your shoulder brushed his and his brain turned to static.

He tried, really tried, to look at the page.

Cell membrane. Cytoplasm. Nucleus.

None of it stuck. All he could think about was how close you were.

“Okay,” you said, tapping the paper, “so think of the cell like a tiny city. The nucleus is like the mayor’s office. It controls everything. Does that make sense?”

Steve blinked.

You were looking at him so earnestly, waiting for his answer.

“Yeah,” he said quickly. “Yeah, that actually. . . helps. A lot.”

Your face lit up, proud and pleased. “See? I told you. You’re not bad at this.”

God.

He thought, distantly, that this had to be some kind of cosmic joke. Hawkins High’s former golden boy reduced to putty because you told him he understood a metaphor.

Pathetic.

He’d fought monsters. Literally. And this, this tiny smile from you, was what took him out.

You kept teaching, and he kept pretending to follow along, nodding at the right times, scribbling down notes you handed him. But half the time he was just memorizing you instead. The soft little “okay” you said when he got something right.

By the time the session ended, his chest hurt. Not in a bad way. Just. . . full. Like he’d swallowed too much feeling and didn’t know where to put it.

“Same time tomorrow?” you asked, packing your bag.

He tried not to sound too eager. “Yeah. Yeah, that’d be great.”

Great. Like this wasn’t going to be the highlight of his entire day.

The week after that, something was different. You didn’t notice it at first because you were busy, always busy but Steve Harrington started showing up in your life.

The first time, you were juggling way too many textbooks outside your locker, stack wobbling dangerously, and before you could even adjust your grip, a pair of familiar hands reached out and took half the weight.

“I got it,” Steve said.

“Oh— thanks,” you said, surprised. “You don’t have to—”

“It’s fine. I’m strong. Carrying books is kind of my thing.”

You knew it was not but you laughed, and he swore he’d carry the entire library if it meant hearing that again.

Then you started noticing him at your debate competitions, leaning awkwardly against the back wall of the classroom, pretending he was just “walking by” even though debate club met on the opposite side of the school from literally everything he did. Every time you looked up mid-argument, there he was, watching you like you’d hung the moon, clapping a little too hard when you finished.

In class, he’d somehow snag the seat next to you before anyone else could, sliding into it with an almost shy, “This taken?” even though he knew you’d never say no. He’d save you a chair at lunch, push it out with his foot like it was nothing, cheeks pink when you thanked him like he’d done something special.

And the tutoring sessions. God, the tutoring sessions.

He started getting good. Like, actually good.

He showed up having already read the chapters. He remembered things you’d explained days ago. Once, he even corrected himself mid-problem and you just stared at him like he’d grown a second head.

“Wait,” you said, leaning closer to check his work, “this is right. Steve, this is completely right.”

“Yeah?” he asked, trying to sound casual, failing miserably.

“Yeah. That’s really good. Good job, Steve.”

Good job, Steve. It was such a normal thing to say.

You said it the same way you’d say it to anyone else. But to him, it felt like you’d reached into his chest and squeezed his heart. He actually stopped breathing for a second.

Heat crawled up his neck, ears burning, stomach flipping stupidly like he was thirteen again.

“Oh. Uh. Thanks,” he muttered, staring very hard at the paper so you wouldn’t see the way his smile went soft and helpless.

You didn’t notice, just kept going, already onto the next question.

He thought, distantly, that if you ever said you were proud of him, he might actually die on the spot.

He thought about asking you out a hundred times.

Every single session.

When you leaned over him to point at a diagram. When your knees bumped under the table. When you smiled and told him he was improving. When you got excited explaining something and grabbed his sleeve without thinking.

The words sat on the tip of his tongue.

Do you maybe want to get coffee sometime?

Do you want to go to the movies?

Do you want to go out with me?

But then he’d look at you talking about scholarships and universities and all the places you were going to go, all the things you were going to be, and something scared inside him would whisper, She’s out of your league.

You were brilliant. The kind of person teachers wrote recommendation letters for without being asked.

He was. . . Steve.

Former jerk. Former king. Current disaster with questionable grades.

Even if no one else believed it, even if the whole school thought you were lucky to have him hovering around, Steve secretly thought the opposite.

He felt lucky you even talked to him.

So instead of asking you out, he did the only thing he knew how to do.

He tried harder.

He memorized your favorite authors after overhearing you talk about them with Nancy, went home and borrowed the books from the library just so he’d have something to say. He stayed up reading half-asleep, underlining sentences he thought you’d like. The next day, he’d casually drop, “Oh, yeah, I started that book you mentioned,” like it was no big deal while internally panicking.

Your face would light up every time. “Wait, really? You’re reading that?”

“Yeah,” he’d shrug. “It’s pretty good.”

You smiled at him, completely oblivious, and launched into a ten-minute rant about the book and he listened like it was the most fascinating thing in the world.

And Steve sat there every single day thinking the same hopeless, aching thought. If he was brave enough, maybe one day you’d finally see what everyone else already did.

How completely, ridiculously, stupidly in love with you he was.

The opportunity came wrapped in cheap tinsel and paper snowflakes taped crookedly to the hallway ceiling.

You were hunched over the library table with Steve again, pencil tapping against your lip while you explained balancing equations for what felt like the fifteenth time, when the intercom crackled to life with some overly cheerful announcement about the Snowball Dance.

You barely registered it beyond a vague mental note that the gym would be unusable for the next week because student council would inevitably turn it into a dance zone.

Steve, on the other hand, heard the words Snowball Dance and nearly swallowed his tongue.

He tried to act normal, nodding along while you talked, but his brain had completely abandoned chemistry and latched onto one thought like a dog with a bone.

Dance.

Dance meant dates.

Dates meant asking someone.

Which meant maybe, possibly, if the universe was feeling merciful, he could finally ask you. His palms started sweating so bad he had to wipe them on his jeans.

You didn’t notice. You were busy drawing little diagrams and saying, “See? You just move the coefficient here.”

When the session ended, you both started packing up, you sliding your color-coded notes into neat folders, him shoving books into his bag with way too much nervous energy, when a familiar voice drifted over.

“Well, if it isn’t my two favorite nerds.”

Nancy.

You looked up immediately, smiling. “Hey.”

Nancy leaned against the table, eyes flicking between the two of you in a way that felt suspiciously knowing. “I was actually looking for you,” she said to you. “What are you wearing to the dance?”

You blinked. “The dance?”

“The Snowball,” she said patiently. “This weekend. You are going, right?”

“Oh. Uh, yeah. I think so. My mom found this amazing blue dress in the back of her closet. It’s kind of old, but it’s nice.” You shrugged, like it didn’t matter.

“And who are you going with?” Nancy pressed, way too casually.

You laughed. “No one? I mean, I’m not entirely sure anyone’s even going to ask me, so I’ll probably just show up and hover near the snack table or something. It’s fine. I mostly just want the extra credit for attendance.”

Steve felt like someone had just set off fireworks inside his ribcage.

Nancy’s gaze slid to him slowly and then she gave him the look.

It was long and pointed and screamed, If you don’t ask her out right now, I will personally strangle you, Harrington.

Steve panicked.

Nancy patted your arm. “Well, you’ll look pretty no matter what,” she said. “Jonathan’s dragging me, so at least we’ll all suffer together.”

You smiled. “Have fun.”

She shot Steve one last sharp stare before walking away.

The silence that followed felt deafening.

Steve’s heart was beating so hard he was convinced you could hear it. You were still organizing your bag, completely unaware that this was possibly the most stressful moment of his entire life.

Just ask her.

It’s not that hard.

It’s literally just words.

He opened his mouth.

Nothing came out.

He closed it.

Tried again.

“So,” he started, voice cracking like a middle schooler’s. He cleared his throat. “So. Uh. The dance.”

“Yeah?” you said, slinging your bag over your shoulder.

“You said you didn’t have a date.”

“Yeah,” you said. “It’s fine though. I’m not super big on dances anyway.”

Right. Cool. This was fine. He was dying.

“Well,” he rushed out, words tripping over each other, “maybe you. . . I mean— if you wanted we could, uh, like go together? If you want. Totally cool if you don’t. I just thought, you know, since we’re already tutoring and yeah.”

He wanted the floor to swallow him whole.

You just stared at him for a second. Then you smiled. Like he’d just offered you something nice and simple and not the entire fragile state of his heart.

“I’d like that,” you said. “Yeah. I’ll go with you, Steve.”

He stopped breathing.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah,” you laughed. “I mean, you’re basically the only person I talk to after school anyway. Might as well.”

Might as well.

It shouldn’t have made him that happy.

But it did. It really, really did.

The days leading up to the dance were unbearable for everyone around him.

Because Steve would not shut up.

He talked about it constantly. At his locker. In the hallway. During lunch. To Tommy H. and Carol. To random freshmen. To literally anyone who made eye contact for longer than two seconds.

“Do you think blue is, like, a flower color? Should I get her a flower? Is that too much? Do girls still like flowers? What if she hates flowers? Oh my god, what if she hates dancing—”

“You’ve been on actual dates before,” Carol groaned. “Why are you acting like this is your first crush ever?”

“Because it kind of is,” Tommy muttered, annoyed. “He’s gone full loser. It’s painful to watch.”

Steve didn’t even argue. He just grinned like an idiot and kept talking about you.

They were sick of it but he couldn’t help it. He felt like his life was about to start.

When the night finally came, everything felt. . . good.

And then you walked in and you looked like the only thing in the room that mattered.

Steve forgot every single word he’d ever learned.

You smiled when you saw him, waving a little.

“Hey.”

The night blurred after that. He held your hand during slow songs. You talked in the corner about everything and nothing, about college applications and your favorite books and stupid childhood stories. He told you things he didn’t tell anyone, about feeling lost sometimes, about not knowing what came after high school, about being scared of messing up.

You listened and for the first time, Steve felt seen.

You laughed together, danced badly together, shared terrible punch and even worse cookies. At one point your head tipped back when you laughed and he thought, distantly, If this is all I ever get, it’s enough.

Walking you home felt like the end of a movie. His heart was so full it almost hurt.

At your doorstep, you turned to him, smiling, cheeks flushed from the cold.

“Thanks for tonight,” you said softly.

“Yeah. Yeah, of course.”

Then you leaned up and kissed his cheek.

His brain shut off completely. He thought he might actually pass out.

And then you smiled at him. “Thank you for being such a great friend, Steve.”

Friend.

It hit harder than anything else. Harder than a punch. Harder than rejection.

Friend.

His heart didn’t just drop. It shattered.

He stood there, frozen, mouth open, watching you disappear inside.

The door clicked shut.

He didn’t move. Just stood on your porch for ten whole minutes, staring at the wood grain, replaying everything in his head and feeling stupider with every second. Of course. Of course you only saw him as a friend. Why wouldn’t you? You were you. He was just some guy who needed tutoring and followed you around like a lost puppy. What made him think you’d ever look at him the way he looked at you?

He laughed once, bitter and quiet.

Idiot.

Absolute idiot.

But then something in his chest twisted, stubborn. If he walked away now, he’d regret it forever. So before he could talk himself out of it, he turned back and rang the doorbell again.

Please don’t be her parents.

Please don’t be her parents.

Please—

The door opened.

It was you.

Hair slightly messy, earrings gone, rings off which told him you were already winding down for the night.

“Steve?” you said. “Did you forget something?”

You stood there in the doorway looking at him like this was the most normal thing in the world, like boys didn’t usually show up on your porch ten minutes after dropping you off at midnight looking like they were about to either confess their love or throw up.

Your hair was half falling out of whatever you’d done to it for the dance, little pieces soft around your face, earrings gone, makeup smudged just enough to make you look real and tired and warm instead of polished and perfect. You had on an old sweater, sleeves too long, swallowing your hands, and Steve thought, distantly, that this version of you might actually kill him faster than the dress did.

“Steve?” you asked again, gentler this time. “Are you okay?”

He opened his mouth.

Nothing.

Closed it.

His brain was screaming at him to abort mission, go home, save whatever dignity he had left, but his heart was louder, pounding so hard he swore you could probably see it through his shirt.

“I— yeah. I mean. No. I don’t know,” he said, running a hand through his hair, messing it up for once. “Can we— can we talk for a second?”

Your brows pulled together immediately, worried. You stepped out onto the porch and closed the door softly behind you so you wouldn’t wake your parents.

“Of course. What’s wrong? Did something happen?”

Yeah, he thought. I fell in love with you and you called me your friend and now I feel like I got hit by a truck.

Instead, he just looked at you.

God.

You were looking at him like you cared.

Like you were already bracing to help him.

It made everything worse and better at the same time.

“I just—” He exhaled hard, hands on his hips, pacing once like he was about to give a presentation. “When you said that thing earlier. The friend thing.”

You tilted your head. “What thing?”

“When you said thanks for being such a great friend,” he said.

“Oh.” You smiled a little. “Yeah. Because you are. You’ve been really sweet lately, Steve. Like, really sweet. You didn’t have to come to my debate stuff or help me carry books or—”

“That’s the thing,” he blurted.

You stopped.

He looked at you like he was about to jump off a cliff.

“I don’t do this for my friends, okay?” he said. “I don’t match ties and memorize your stupid study schedule and wait outside tutoring for forty minutes just to walk you there for my friends.”

You blinked.

“. . . You wait outside tutoring?”

“Yeah,” he said helplessly. “All the time. Because you always show up early and I didn’t want you sitting alone.”

Your brain stalled.

“I don’t read Jane Austen and whatever that other one is— Brontë?— for my friends. I don’t buy strawberry milk when it’s disgusting just because you like it. I don’t sign up for tutoring I don’t even need just to sit across from someone for an hour for my friends.”

Your mouth fell open a little.

“. . . You hate strawberry milk?”

“It’s terrible,” he said immediately. “I don't get how you drink it.”

You stared at him. “Huh,” you said faintly. “So you didn’t match your Snowball tie to my dress on accident?”

Steve froze.

“. . . You noticed that?”

“It was literally the exact same shade of blue,” you said. “I thought it was a coincidence.”

He let out this small, broken laugh and covered his face with his hand. “Oh my god. I spent two hours at the store trying to match it. Nancy almost killed me.”

“Oh,” you breathed.

Oh.

All those times he showed up. All those little things. The books. The seat saving. The tutoring. The way he looked at you like you were saying something important even when you were just rambling about mitochondria.

Your stomach flipped.

Steve dropped his hand and looked at you again, eyes wide and terrified and so soft it made your chest ache.

“I like you,” he said, finally, simply, like it cost him everything. “Not like a friend. Not even a little. I’ve liked you for months. I just— I didn’t think you’d ever look at me like that. You’re. . . you’re you. And I’m just me.”

You frowned immediately. “Steve.”

“No, let me finish before I pass out,” he rushed. “I just needed you to know. Even if you don’t feel the same. I just— I couldn’t go home with you thinking I was doing all this because I’m nice. I’m not that nice. I’m selfish. I do it because I want to be around you all the time. Because you’re my favorite person. Because when you talk about leaving Hawkins, it freaks me out because I can’t picture this place without you in it.”

Your heart was beating so loud you could hear it in your ears.

He swallowed.

“So yeah. That’s it. I like you. A lot. Like, embarrassingly a lot.”

For a second, neither of you said anything.

And then you stepped closer.

Steve immediately tensed like you were about to reject him and he was bracing for impact.

Instead, you reached out and grabbed the front of his jacket.

He short-circuited.

“Steve Harrington,” you said slowly, “you absolute idiot.”

His heart dropped. “Oh.”

“I thought you were just being nice,” you continued. “I thought you felt bad for me or something. I didn’t think. . . I mean, why would I think you liked me?”

He stared at you. “Why wouldn’t you?”

You gestured vaguely at yourself. “I’m me. I carry six books at all times and talk about scholarships for fun.”

“Yeah,” he said softly. “Exactly.”

Your throat tightened.

“Oh,” you whispered.

Oh.

The way he looked at you suddenly made sense.

Everything did.

You laughed a little, shaky and fond. “Steve, you’re such a dork.”

He smiled nervously. “Yeah. Yeah, I’ve been told.”

“But,” you said, stepping even closer, “for the record. . . I don’t go to dances with just friends either.”

His brain stopped working.

“. . . What?”

“I said,” you murmured, cheeks warm, “I wouldn’t have gone with you if I didn’t like you too.”

The hope that lit up his face was so bright it almost hurt to look at.

“Wait. Really?”

“Really.”

“Like. . . like like me?”

You rolled your eyes, smiling. “Yes, Steve. Like like you. You’re cute. And you carry my books. And you listen to me talk about boring stuff without falling asleep. That’s basically marriage material.”

He laughed, breathless, disbelieving.

“You’re serious?”

“Steve,” you said softly, “I’ve liked you for a while. I just thought you were out of my league.”

He stared at you like you’d just told him the sky was purple.

“Out of— are you insane?”

You both laughed, nervous and giddy and a little overwhelmed.

And then you were just. . . standing there.

Close.

Really close.

His hands hovered awkwardly at your waist like he didn’t know if he was allowed to touch you.

You noticed. So you took pity on him and slid your hands up into his jacket, gripping the fabric.

His breath hitched.

“Can I kiss you?” he asked, like it was the most fragile question in the world.

You smiled.

“Yeah,” you whispered. “You can.”

He leaned in slow, like he was scared you’d disappear if he moved too fast, one hand cupping your cheek so gently it made your chest ache. His lips brushed yours soft.

When you pulled back, you were both smiling like idiots, foreheads touching, noses bumping.

Steve let out a quiet, shaky laugh. “So. . . not just friends?”

You smiled, kissing him again. “Definitely not just friends.”

Your phone buzzed.

Stuck - incoming trauma. Come in once you get here.

You were just about to respond when another message came through.

Dana said it's ok

He always knew exactly what you were thinking.

The automatic doors slid open for you with a soft hydraulic sigh, letting in a brief breath of night air before sealing the chaos back inside.

You'd met enough of Frank's co-workers, either within the walls of the ER or outside of them at social gatherings, to feel relatively comfortable with coming in and waiting for him.

But still, even after all this time, you had never quite gotten used to the whiplash of stepping into the pitt.

You were used to the clacking of keyboards, the never ending drone of co-workers on calls in their offices next to you, the clink of coffee cups at client luncheons.

Here, monitors chimed in uneven rhythms, gurneys rattled over polished floors, voices overlapped, sharp and urgent, the smell of antiseptic and burnt coffee settled over everything.

The click of your heels made people glance up.

Your tailored outfit contrasting against a sea of scrubs and hospital blues made them steal a second look. The way you walked with the kind of composure that made people move half a step out of the way without realising why, made them stare.

"Well well well." Abbot was the first to clock you. "To what do we owe the pleasure, your honour?"

You flashed him a grin. "Pleasure's all mine, doc."

"What did Abbot do this time?" Shen teased, taking a sip of his coffee as he eyed you.

"No need to worry gentlemen, you’re safe. I'm not here on business today."

"I knew she missed us." Shen nudged Abbot in the ribs as you walked past which made you roll your eyes affectionately.

The others were quick to notice you after that, some calling out greetings, others talking in low murmurs as you headed towards the nurses station.

Dana glanced up, a wide smile spreading across her lips at the sight of you.

"If it isn't my favourite wag," She slid her glasses off as she rounded the desk to meet you.

"If it isn't my favourite charge nurse."

"Don't tell Lena you said that." Dana teased as you embraced her in a warm hug.

"Oh- I got you something." You exclaimed, reaching into your bag as you pulled away.

"What-"

"-remember that pastry place you love right near my office?” You said as you fished a container out of your bag. The scent of pistachio hit you instantly.

“Of course I remember.” She shook her head, unable to fight the smile on her features as she tried to look stern. “You shouldn’t have.”

“But I did.” You grinned. “Don’t worry, I got more so no one thinks I’m playing favourites.”

You pulled out several more containers, placing them onto the counter.

“Alright, lawyer barbie coming in with snacks.” Mateo called out, jogging over at the prospect of sugar right at the start of his shift.

Dana slapped his hand away as he reached for a croissant. “You’ll start a feeding frenzy in here. Take them to the break room.”

You shot Mateo a grin as he huffed before begrudgingly complying.

“Thanks barbie!” He shouted out over his shoulder.

"I wouldn't let Langdon find out you're putting crumb prone items in your birkin." McKay teased as she and Whitaker wondered over.

"What's the point of a bag if you don't actually use it?" Whitaker queried, glancing down at your bag on the counter.

"Exactly." You emphasised. "I'm pretty sure that's almost a direct quote from Jane Birkin herself."

Dennis blinked. "Who?"

McKay and Dana giggled at the look on your face.

"Never mind." You said, shaking your head.

Dennis just shrugged and followed after McKay towards the breakroom.

"You might have a different view when you find out how much that bag costs." McKay muttered to him.

Javadi spotted you next.

Your name left her mouth with immediate excitement, her face lighting up.

“Hey you.” You smiled. “What are you still doing here?”

"Oh- it's busy." She gestured vaguely. “Just helping out with a few things."

“Hmm.” You glanced over pointedly in Mateo’s direction. “I’m sure that’s the reason.”

“Shh.” She swatted you playfully, her eyes lighting up at your attention despite the heat creeping up her neck.

“Javadi, we need you in Room 7.”

“Coming!” She called back before whipping around back to you with a finger pointed. “Do not say anything to him.”

“I would never.” You said solemnly, your lips twitching as you tried to stay serious.

“But this conversation isn’t over missy.” You called out after her as she hurried away.

Garcia, who had just finished up in Trauma One, made a beeline for you instantly.

“Lawyer barbie.” She smirked as she approached, her eyes dragging down your figure. “You here to pick up ER Ken?”

“Luckily for him, yes.”

A few scattered laughs. Someone muttered something about date night. It wasn’t new - you’d been around enough that your presence didn’t raise eyebrows anymore, although the stares were definitely here to stay.

She inclined her head. “He’s descrubbing in bay one.”

"Thanks."

She watched as you walked away, shaking her head slightly.

"Lucky bastard."

-

He didn't see you at first.

He was sliding off his gloves, goggles pushed up into his hair, a few strands falling across his forehead. A crease sat between his brows - evidence of hours spent thinking too fast, too hard.

You leaned against the doorway, watching him for a second - just long enough to feel that familiar flutter in your stomach that was yet to go away.

"Dr Langdon."

He turned immediately.

There was a flicker of surprise, then warmth, then something softer - something that always felt like it belonged only to you.

"You're early."

Your heels echoed off the walls of the bay as you walked towards him.

"Actually, I'm on time."

"For you, this is early."

You raised a brow. "For your sake, I'll let that one slide."

"Because you know it's true."

"Because-" You countered lightly. "I missed you."

Frank smiled, sliding a hand around your waist, tugging you in closer.

"I missed you too."

He glanced through the glass toward the board and winced.

"So." You pursed your lips slightly as you looked up at him. "Are we making this show or what?"

"We're making it." He said firmly. "I just have to wrap up a couple of things."

He glanced down at you. "Is that ok?"

"Of course. I've always got emails to read."

He squeezed your side before spotting something behind you, his brow furrowing.

"Why is everyone crowded around the breakroom?"

"Oh, I bought pastries from that place Dana loves."

He huffed out a tired laugh. “What is it with you and feeding people in here hm?”

You shrugged, a smile spreading across your lips. “Maybe it’s my love language.”

"Well-" He started, his mouth twitching. "I'm glad they're distracted because that means I get to do-"

He leant down and captured your lips in a brief kiss.

"-this." He murmured against your lips before kissing you once more.

"Ok." He moved back like he had to physically pull himself away to stop himself from kissing you again.

"I'll be back."

His eyes darted down to your lips once more, making you smirk.

You inclined your head.

"Go on. The quicker you get done here, the quicker we can make out in the car before dinner."

Frank Langdon had never moved faster in his life.

-

You folded into the rhythm of the pitt with surprising ease.

You settled into one of the chairs at the nurses station, typing emails on your phone. Every now and then one of the staff would stop by for a chat or to ask a legal question (totally hypothetically of course).

Eventually you put your phone down and quietly observed the ebb and flow of patients, the unspoken communication between staff, the way tension built and broke in waves.

In particular, you watched Frank.

There was something grounding about it - the way he worked, the way people responded to him. Calm in the middle of noise. Precision in the middle of chaos.

Every now and then he'd find your eyes, the ghost of a smile appearing on his lips.

"I'm done." He eventually announced as he walked past you towards the lockers.

"I'll be quick." He assured you before you could say anything.

You shot him a knowing look, slightly shaking your head before turning your attention back to your phone.

Frank had only been gone for a few minutes when the energy shifted.

It started as a raised voice, muffled by a curtain.

Then it sharpened.

Then it was loud enough to cut through everything else.

"I said I don't want her fucking touching me!"

The words snapped through the department, turning heads in unison.

You straightened slightly, eyes tracking the source.

One of the curtained bays, half open. A patient, male, late thirties maybe, sitting upright, agitation radiating off him in sharp, restless movements.

And standing in front of him - Javadi.

"I've been waiting all this time, just for you to tell me that all I need is some stitches, and she can't even manage to do that?"

"I just didn't get the needle deep enough the first time, it won't happen again." Javadi assured him.

"-I don't care!" He barked. "I've been stuck down here for five hours and you're not even sending a real doctor to check on me? It's bullshit."

His eyes stayed on Mateo as he spoke, like he couldn't even be bothered to acknowledge the woman in front of him.

"Sir, she's just trying to-" Mateo began.

You slowly stood up from your chair.

Across the floor you could see Abbot and Robby hovering, assessing if they needed to intervene.

Out of the corner of your eye, you could see Frank coming out of the locker room.

You were the closest one to Javadi.

"Sir-" Javadi tried again.

"What's your name?" The patient practically spat, finally turning his rage towards her.

You could see her trying to hold steady - but her wide brown eyes betrayed her, glassy now, like a startled, cornered doe.

"Sir I-" Javadi tried one more time, her voice cracking.

"No seriously, I want your name." He jabbed a finger into her chest as he rose to his full height.

Abbot, Robby and Frank all moved immediately, but you beat them to it.

"Because I'm going to sue you and this hospital for wasting my fucking time and endangering my health by sending me an incompetent student."

You knew this wasn't your business. But there something about seeing another woman be talked to like she was lesser than - something that you'd seen time and time again in your profession - that made you veer from your usual logical, calm approach.

And you'd be damned if a man was going to be the one to tell him off.

He needed to learn that women were not things to be pushed around, and you were more than happy to be the one to do it.

Your footsteps were measured as you crossed the floor - not rushed, not hesitant. Intentional.

The kind of pace that made people notice before you even spoke.

"Sir." You called out.

Your voice wasn’t loud.

It didn’t need to be.

It cut cleanly through the space anyway.

The man turned, irritation already loaded and ready to fire - until he actually looked at you.

"I'd stop talking if I was you."

You came to a stop beside Javadi, holding his gaze without flinching.

"Who the hell are you?"

"I'm her lawyer."

Javadi’s head snapped toward you, her mouth parting in shock.

Silence rippled outward.

Frank froze where he stood.

"Oh my fucking god." Santos breathed out.

"What the hell is she doing?" Robby muttered.

"Beats me - but I think we're about to enjoy a show." Abbot whispered back, a smirk on his lips as he watched on in open delight.

The man let out a short, disbelieving laugh. "Sure you are sweetheart."

You ignored that, folding your arms across your chest.

"You're not going to be suing anyone."

"Oh yeah?" He scoffed. "And why's that?"

"Because before you can even open up your phone to search up 'lawyers near me', you'll have already been served with your own lawsuit."

The man snorted, a smug look still on his face. "I haven't done anything wrong, I just want someone half decent to treat me - although clearly that's beyond this place."

You took a step closer, expression calm, almost disinterested.

"Per section 47 of the Hospital and Health Boards Act, harassment and obstruction of staff employed by a public health service while they are performing their duties is an offence."

"That's not-"

"Interrupt me again." You said lightly, "and we can skip straight to the part where you're escorted out."

He hesitated at that. Just for a second.

You continued smoothly, each word placed with surgical precision.

"Section 48 states that the maximum penalty for contravening section 47 is $150,000. Of course, it would also be open for us to pursue damages-"

You gestured around you.

"And judging by what everyone else in this room has witnessed - all of who I'm sure would be more than happy to testify on my client's behalf - is that your refusal to cooperate combined with targeted, aggressive behaviour has caused not only a disruption to this hospital but also significant psychological stress to my client."

You took a moment to study him.

“Based on that, I’d say she has very strong prospects of claiming aggravated damages in the sum of oh I don't know..." You trailed off, pretending to think.

"An additional $200,000?"

Javadi blinked.

Frank was staring at you now, something unreadable flickering behind his eyes.

The man shifted, uncertainty creeping in. “You’re bluffing.”

You tilted your head, just slightly.

"Maybe I am."

Then, softer - but sharper you added, “are you willing to test that?”

Silence stretched.

Long enough to make it uncomfortable.

Long enough for doubt to settle in.

You could see anger rising in him, could see the look you’d seen on the faces of so many insecure lawyers before him who couldn’t handle being bested by a woman.

“I’m going to find out your name.” He pointed at Javadi, his finger trembling with rage. “And I’m going to find out your name.” A wrinkled finger pointed at you now.

Frank's fists balled at his side, gearing himself up to intervene if the man so much as thought about touching you.

“And I’m taking this shit to the news, to social media, to anyone who’ll listen about how you’ve treated me here today. I'll ruin you.”

Robby moved forward at that.

Abbot grabbed him. “She’s got this.”

You could see Javadi’s panic rising again.

“Do that.” You said calmly. “And we will sue you for defamation.”

You leant forward just a fraction.

“And if you take it to trial, which I sincerely hope you do, I will hire a private investigator to track down your co-workers, friends, family, anyone you've ever even said so much as one word to.”

His face darkened, flushing an ugly red.

"Then I will subpoena them," You continued, voice steady, "drag them to court and put them on the stand - where I will slowly wring out every dirty secret, every mistake you have ever made until you are left with not a single shred of credibility in the eyes of the judge.”

Then you stepped back half a pace, giving him space.

Any trace of smugness had drained from his face.

“So let me make this very simple for you. Unless you want your dirty laundry aired in open court, I suggest you take one of two options.”

You held up a finger. “First option is you cooperate, apologise, and continue receiving care like every other patient here-“

You gestured towards the exit.

“Or your second option is that you apologise. And then you leave.”

The word landed heavier than it should have.

Final.

The man looked around.

At Frank. At Javadi. At the rest of the staff who were very much watching now.

No one moved to help him.

No one backed him up.

His bravado cracked.

“…This place is a joke,” He muttered, already rippping at the hospital band around his wrist.

“I’m going somewhere else.”

“Please do.”

He hesitated - like he expected someone to stop him.

No one did.

Mateo moved forward just enough to hand him some gauze, purely out of habit. He snatched it before turning toward the exit.

You cleared your throat.

“I think you’re forgetting something.”

You knew you were pushing it.

But there was something about the way that he looked at the staff with such disregard, at Javadi and you with so much contempt.

"And have the decency to actually look at her when you say it."

He opened his mouth like he was thinking about retorting.

He shut it reluctantly when he met your cool gaze.

He met Javadi's eyes briefly, like it was physically paining him to do so.

“…I’m sorry.” He mumbled reluctantly.

Javadi stood still, her body slightly behind yours now.

Everyone watched in silence as he walked out.

Abbot slowly made his way to stand beside Frank.

“Hell of a woman you’ve got there Langdon.” He murmured under his breath.

Frank's eyes stayed glued to you.

“…I know.”

You turned to Javadi the second you were satisfied he was gone.

She watched as your face morphed, softening into something more recognisable, more like the sweet girlfriend of her co-worker who brought pastries and gossiped with her about boys.

“Are you ok?” You placed a hand on her shoulder. “That was awful.”

She opened her mouth but no sound came out as she stared at you.

“There’s pastries in the break room." You added. "You should go have one.”

You turned back toward the rest of the room.

And froze.

Because everyone was staring at you.

And Frank- Frank looked like he was trying to replay the last two minutes in real time.

You blinked. “What?”

“That was-” Whitaker started, then stopped entirely.

Princess just pointed at you. “You just... did that.”

Javadi shook her head slightly as if finally coming out of her daze. “Is that actually… real? What you said? About the damages and stuff?”

A pause.

Then you shrugged, completely unfazed.

“Oh. No. I made all of that up.”

Dead silence.

Perlah's eyebrows shot up. “You - what?”

“Yeah." You shrugged again. "I don’t know anything about health law, but it sounded pretty convincing."

“What- but-weren’t you afraid he was going to figure it out?” Javadi asked.

“Are you kidding me?" You grinned. "That was so fun. I’ve always wanted to legally blonde someone.”

You glanced around when you got no reaction, blank stares reflecting back at you.

“You know… I’m taking the dog dumbass!”

Santos snorted at that.

Princess cracked immediately after, the tension snapping clean in half.

That loosened a shaky laugh from Javadi, like she couldn’t quite believe what had just happened.

Frank didn’t laugh.

Not at first.

He glanced over at Robby to see a frown threatening to appear on his features.

Like he was debating whether to chastise you for lying to a patient, or maybe chastise Frank for letting you in here.

“I think you might be the coolest person I’ve ever met.” Javadi stated.

“Then you need to get out more kiddo.” You teased, touching her chin affectionately as your eyes still scanned her face for signs of upset.

“Seriously, go eat something.”

Your turned to Robby and Abbot. “Can one of you tell her to eat and go home?”

Abbot raised his hands, “don’t look at me, she’s one of Robby’s flock.”

Robby studied you for a moment. Then glanced at Javadi, who was looking at you like you’d just rewritten the laws of physics. Then turned to you again.

The second you raised a brow teasingly, like you were daring him to try and fight back, his shoulders dropped as his resolve crumbled.

“Barb-“ He cut himself off, his nose flaring slightly in exasperated annoyance before saying your first name slowly. “-is right, eat and go home.”

Javadi huffed. "Fine."

You nearly toppled over as she unexpectedly embraced you in a tight hug. "Seriously, thanks."

You watched her go, co-workers immediately pouncing on her on the way to the break room to gossip.

The department settled slowly, like a shaken snow globe drifting back into place.

Finally satisfied your job was done, you turned to Frank.

You finally got a chance to properly look at him, letting your eyes run down his figure.

He had changed into a pair of dark grey slacks and the chocolate brown knit you had gotten him for his birthday.

Your eyes dragged back up to his face, shooting him a smile.

“Ready to go?”

He nodded numbly, like he was still in a daze.

You said your goodbyes to everyone, most of who were still staring at you.

Perlah, Princess, Whitaker and Santos watched as you and Langdon walked past, your birkin swinging at his side, your arm threaded through the crook of his elbow on the other.

"Did that really just happen?" Whitaker asked once the two of you were out of earshot.

“I don't know, but mark me down as scared and horny.” Santos answered, making Whitaker snort.

“So… I guess we definitely know who wears the pants.” Perlah observed after a moment.

Princess turned to her. "You seriously didn't know before this?"

“Langdon? A sub?" Santos remarked dryly. "Shocker."

-

Once you were outside you turned to Frank, glancing down at your watch.

“Ok we definitely aren't making dinner, but we might actually make-“

“Screw the theatre.”

You looked up at him, confusion knitting your brows.

“But you’ve been wanting to go for months.”

“You hate the theatre.”

“I don’t hate the theatre-“

“You fell asleep last time.”

“Because I’d worked a 16 hour day!”

Frank huffed, nothing but amusement shining in his eyes.

“I like the theatre because you like the theatre.” You insisted. “I’m happy to go baby.”

“I know, and that’s why I appreciate you.”

He paused.

“But I want to take you home.”

“Oh-“ You started, confusion clouding your expression.

Then you saw it - the shift in his gaze. The hunger, unmistakable, as his eyes traced the length of you.

“Oh.”

A slow, mischievous grin curled at your lips as the energy between you shifted.

“Did that seriously turn you on?”

“Yes." He said, his voice low. "Unbelievably so."

Your cheeks flushed as you held his gaze.

You were so used to tempering this side of you for other men, dimming your sharpness, softening your edges, driven by the fear of emasculating them.

As if he could read your mind, he pulled you closer to him.

"Do you have any idea what you looked like in there?"

"Terrifying?"

He let out a quiet laugh.

"Brilliant." He corrected.

His gaze softened, but didn’t lose its intensity.

“You are the sexiest, smartest, most driven woman I’ve ever met."

He lingered there for a moment, like he wanted you to really hear it.

"And you're mine."

Without another word, you pulled him flush against you, guiding his head down until your lips met in a deep, lingering kiss.

He exhaled shakily as the two of you pulled away, his tongue darting to wet his bottom lip like he was starving and wanted to savour the taste of you.

"I honestly don't even know if I can wait till we get home."

You smiled, slow and teasing.

"Well-" Your hand slid down the front of his sweater, fingers grazing deliberately. "If you get charged with public indecency, I'll get you off."

His eyes darkened at your double entendre.

Then he shook his head, more to himself than to you.

"I want to take my time with you."

Your expression softened just slightly.

"Well in that case, take me home just Frank."

He let out a breathless laugh before kissing you again - softer this time, but no less certain.

"Yes ma'am."

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You don’t answer.

“Goddamn door’s stickin’ again,” he mutters, slamming it shut behind you with a grunt once you’re in. “Gotta hit it twice now. Like I’m tryin’ to put down a damn zombie. I swear, one of these days this whole piece’a shit’s just gonna fall apart while I’m drivin’. Hood’ll fly off, wheels’ll roll in opposite directions, and I’ll just sit there like an asshole in the middle of the road.”

Joel was a man of many words. Too many, as you always liked to say. There wasn’t a sentence he didn’t lace with a curse or a complaint, but that’s just what made him Joel.

He slaps the dashboard affectionately, like it’s a stubborn old dog. “But she’s got character, y’know? Can’t just toss her out. She’s earned her miles.”

You glance at the cracked windshield, tape curling at the edges, smelling the familiar faint scent of gasoline and old leather.

He’s already shifting into gear, one hand on the wheel, the other resting on the back of your seat. The truck lurches forward with a wheeze, and Joel mutters something under his breath that sounds like a curse (once again).

You weren’t sure when exactly your life veered off of course—which wrong turn, which bad decision, which moment of weakness landed you here, tangled up with this sleazy, grumbling old man who smelled like motor oil and cheap soap and somehow still managed to get under your skin in all the worst ways.

Joel wasn’t your boyfriend. Hell, he wasn’t even really a friend. He was just…there. A warm body, a familiar mouth, an orgasm when you need it the most.

And yet, here you were asking your fuck buddy to help you run errands, as if that was something normal.

“Tommy called this mornin’,” he starts, like he has been waiting all day to talk about it. “Said he needs help fixin’ the fence again. I told him, ‘You break it every damn week, maybe stop leanin’ ya fat ass on it.’”

He snorts, clearly pleased with himself. “Didn’t like that much. Got all huffy. Said it’s not his fault the wind knocked it down. I said, ‘Bullshit. The wind didn’t eat three burgers and leaned on that damn thing.’”

You glance at him, unimpressed. He doesn’t notice.

“Then he starts goin’ on about how I never answer my phone. I said, ‘Maybe if you stopped callin’ me every time a nail pops loose, I’d be more inclined.’ Told him I’m not his damn handyman. He said, ‘You’re not doin’ anything else.’ I said, ‘Exactly. Let me keep not doin’ it in peace.’”

He shakes his head, muttering, “Idiot’s gonna be the death of that damn fence. Or me.”

He glances at you again, expecting a smirk, a laugh, something. But you’re just staring out the window, arms crossed tight over your chest.

Joel frowns, drums his knuckles against the steering wheel, a soft, rhythmic tap that fills the quiet. His eyes flick back to the road, then to you again.

“What about you, sweetheart?” he asks, voice casual but slightly unsure. “How was your day?”

You shrug, barely. “Forgot my eggs on the pan.”

He snorts. “Shit. Bet the whole house smells like rubber now.”

You nod, still not looking at him.

He chuckles, shaking his head. “One time I damn near burned my kitchen down doin’ that. Left the stove on, went outside to yell at the neighbor’s dog—little bastard kept barking like a maniac—came back in and the whole pan was blacker than my coffee.”

You shift slightly, arms still crossed, but your mouth twitches. Just a little.

Joel catches it. Keeps going.

“Whole place smelled like shit. Like scorched tires and disgusting rubber. Took a week to air it out. Had to throw the pan out too—thing looked like it’s been through a war.”

A quiet laugh escapes as a huff, involuntary and short.

Joel glances over, smug. “There she is.” He taps the wheel again, slower this time. “You alright?”

You don’t answer. Just shift again, pressing your hand to your stomach, feeling that sharp pain tearing through your insides.

Joel notices. But he doesn’t say anything. Not yet.

“Where d’you want me to take you, sugar? Grocery store? Liquor store? Straight to hell?”

You mutter, “Just grocery store.”

“Good. I was runnin’ low on stuff too.” He answers, looking at you, expecting a smile—a something. But you just look out of the window.

He asks again, slower this time. “You really good?”

You nod, but it’s tight. Joel doesn’t push—not yet. Just mutters, “Alright then,” and pulls out onto the road, one hand on the wheel, the other drumming on his thigh.

The ride to the store is mostly filled with Joel’s annoying voice: a steady stream of complaints about traffic, gas prices, and some guy who apparently parked too close to his truck last week. You let it just wash over you, eyes fixed on the trees and strip malls outside the window, while your stomach cramps in slow, mean pulses.

Inside the store, the fluorescent lights are too bright, buzzing faintly overhead like a swarm of insects.

You move through the aisles on autopilot, grabbing the essentials: a bottle of ibuprofen, a bag of chips you probably won’t eat, a chocolate bar you definitely will. You pause at the feminine hygiene aisle, grab a box of pads and one box of tampons—just to be prepared for everything.

And Joel…well Joel, of course, is nowhere near the checkout. You find him two aisles over, standing toe tp toe with a man in a hoodie, voice raised just enough to draw attention.

“I’m tellin’ you, it’s real damn fish,” Joel is saying, gesturing wildly with a can of tuna in one hand. “You think they’re just grindin’ up mystery meat and callin’ it tuna for fun?”

The other man scoffs. “I’m just sayin’, it don’t taste like fish. It’s like…fish adjacent.”

Joel’s eyes narrow. “You ever seen a cow in a can? No? Then shut the hell up.”

You sigh, stepping in before it escalates. “Joel.”

He barely glances at you. “Tell this guy tuna’s real damn fish.”

“I’m not doing this,” you mutter, grabbing his arm and steering him toward the checkout. “Come on.”

He lets you pull him away but not without a parting shot. “You’re the reason the country’s goin’ to hell, y’know that? Can’t even trust a man with a can opener anymore.”

You don’t respond. Just shove your items onto the band and pretend you don’t know him while he mutters under his breath about “fish truthers” and something about “goddamn grocery store philosophers.”

Back in the truck, you toss the bag into the backseat and climb in, settling into the passenger side with a sigh. Joel’s already midrant, one hand on the wheel, the other gesturing like he’s still in the store, still arguing with the guy in the hoodie.

“I’m tellin’ you, it’s fish. Tuna is fish. I don’t give a shit if it’s in a can or swimmin’ in the damn ocean.”

You don’t even care anymore.

Because this is Joel—a man who’d argue with a stranger over canned tuna like it was a matter of world security. A man who was always loud, always wrong, and always ready to throw hands over the dumbest shit.

But he could fuck. God, could he fuck. And when this whole thing started, that was the only part you let yourself care about.

The rest? The attitude, the mouth, the sleaze—you told yourself you could ignore. Just noise. Just background. Even while it’s annoying.

Joel keeps going, voice low and gravelly. “I swear, people get one opinion and suddenly they’re a damn marine biologist. ‘Oh, tuna’s not real fish.’ What’s next? Chicken’s not real poultry? My dick’s not real meat?”

You snort, but don’t look at him.

Joel catches it instantly. “You agree with me now, right?” he says, smug as hell. “Knew it. Knew you were on my side.”

You shake your head, staring out the window. “I’m not on anyone’s side. I just think it’s funny you almost fought a man over a can of fish.”

He scoffs, still grumbling about the tuna guy when his voice drops into something lower, lazier—familiar. His voice softens, just a notch. “You got everything you wanted, hon?”

You nod, slow. “Yeah.”

He watches you for a second longer, then shifts his gaze back to the road. “Need to go anywhere else?”

“No, but…thank you.”

“Oh, my polite girl,” he says, grinning all cheeky. He reaches over and pinches your cheek, rough fingers warm and calloused.

You huff, batting his hand away. “Don’t.”

He chuckles, leaning back against his seat. “Got adrenaline runnin’ through my veins. You should’ve just let me fight that dude.”

You glance at him. “You still there?”

Joel scoffs. “Ain’t lettin’ myself get disrespected like that. People piss me off,” he mutters. “Whole damn store full of idiots. Got me all wound up.”

He glances at you, then back at the road. “Could use a distraction. Somethin’ to take the edge off.”

You shake your head.

He smirks to himself, voice dipping into that slow, familiar drawl. “Could bury my face in somethin’ soft. Shut my mouth for a while. You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”

You don’t even look at him. “Shut up.”

That actually makes him pause.

“Woah,” he mutters, glancing over. “Usually you like my tone.”

You don’t respond, keeping yourself from insulting him.

He watches you for a second longer, then scoffs. “What, now you wanna get on my nerves too?”

You still don’t say anything.

Joel shakes his head, muttering, “What’s the matter with you today anyway?” Then, under his breath, half a joke, half a threat: “All stuck up. Need me to fuck it outta you?”

You roll your eyes while shifting, pressing your palm tighter against your stomach, jaw clenched.

Joel watches you for a second longer, then leans back in his seat with a low exhale. “Ah,” he mutters. “So that’s what this is.”

You glare at him. “Don’t.”

He grins wider. “You on your period, sugar?”

You roll your eyes. “Jesus, Joel.”

“What?” he says, all mock innocence. “I’m just observant. You get all quiet and mean, start holdin’ your tummy like that. I’ve seen it before.”

You mutter something under your breath and look out the window.

He leans in a little, voice dropping. “Y’know, I used to see this girl who loved gettin’ fucked on her period. Said it helped with the cramps. Said I was better than Midol.”

You groan. “You’re disgusting.”

He chuckles. “Yeah, but I’m not wrong.”

A beat of silence. The truck hums beneath you, tires rolling over cracked pavement.

Then Joel shifts, glancing at you again — slower this time. “You want me to take you home?”

You shake your head. “Don’t feel like being alone.”

He nods once, like that settles it. “Alright.”

Without saying anything, he reaches over—rough palm warm through the fabric and lays his hand over your tummy. Rubs once, slow and firm, like he’s done it before.

“C’mon,” he mutters. “Let’s go back to my van.”

You furrow your eyebrows.

He shrugs, voice low. “I’ll crank the heat. You can lay down, steal my last clean shirt, bitch about my mattress. I won’t even try anything.”

You raise a brow.

He smirks. “Unless you ask real nice.”

You roll your eyes, but he’s not done.

“Could even rub your tummy,” he adds, voice syrupy. “Or your thighs. Or whatever else’s achin’. I’m versatile like that.”

You snort. “You’re a menace.”

“Damn right I am,” he says, grinning. “But I’m a menace with a heated van and a soft spot for cranky girls who forget their eggs on the stove.”

You try not to smile. Fail.

He sees it. “There she is,” he says, satisfied. “Knew I’d get you.”

You sigh, long and slow. “Fine. But I’m not in the mood for your shit tonight.”

Joel taps the wheel, already pulling into a turn. “Good. I’ll keep it to a low simmer.”

You shake your head, but you don’t stop him. And he doesn’t ask again.

Joel doesn’t shut up the whole ride back.

He’s still going on about the tuna guy, about “idiots with opinions and no taste buds” and how “this country’s gone soft, that you can’t even trust a man with a can opener anymore.”

Every few minutes, he reaches over to poke your side, just enough to make you flinch and swat at him, which only encourages him more.

You’re too tired to argue, and the cramps are starting to dig in deeper, like something inside you is twisting just to be cruel.

By the time he pulls up to the van, the sky’s gone a dull gray, the kind that makes everything look washed out and tired. The van’s parked in its usual spot—half on gravel, half on dead grass, tucked behind a sagging fence that leans like it’s given up.

There’s a busted lawn chair tipped over in the dirt, a rusted grill that hasn’t seen fire in years, and a pile of wood that might’ve once been a table.

It’s a mess. But it’s Joel’s mess. And somehow, that makes it feel…familiar. Even safe in a twisted way.

He hops out and circles around to your side, opening the door for you with a dramatic bow.

“Ma lady,” he says, voice syrupy.

Inside, the van is exactly how you remember it.

Dim, cluttered, smelling like cigarettes, old leather, and something vaguely wooden. The red curtains are drawn, casting everything in a soft, crimson gloom. Then there’s a pile of laundry in the corner, a half empty mug on the counter, and a pair of boots kicked off near the door.

The bed’s unmade—sheets rumpled, blanket half on the floor—but it’s still comfortable. You know it.

It’s the same bed where Joel first pulled you down with that crooked grin and promised to show you some “lovin’ and care,” and then fucked your brains out.

You sit down on the edge of it now, letting out a low groan as you clutch your stomach.

Joel watches you for a beat, then makes a soft, exaggerated cooing sound. “Poor baby,” he says, like he’s talking to a wounded animal. “Need some water?”

You nod, and he moves to his tiny kitche, grabbing a bottle from the mini fridge. It’s not cold, but it’s water so you take it with a quiet “thanks.”

He eyes you for a second, then gestures vaguely towards your jeans. “You need to change or somethin’? I got a shirt you can wear. Big n’soft. Smells just like me.”

You raise an eyebrow. “That’s not a selling point.”

He smirks. “Sure it is. You love how I smell.”

You don’t answer that with a response, but when he tosses the shirt your way—a faded green thing that’s probably seen more oil stains than laundry detergent—you take it anyway.

It does smell like him. Cigarettes, sweat, and something warm and earthy underneath. You change in the cramped little bathroom, peeling off your jeans with a wince and tugging the oversized shirt down over your thighs.

When you come back out, Joel’s already stripped down to his boxers, scratching at his stomach with one hand and tossing his fannel into the laundry pile with the other.

“Gotta take a shower,” he mutters. “Sweat my damn ass off today arguing with that guy.”

You don’t look at him, but you can hear the way he grunts as he moves, the way the floor creaks under his weight. He’s big—broad and solid, with a belly that presses against the counter when he leans over it, soft and round and unapologetic. He doesn’t suck it in. Doesn’t hide. Just scratches his ribs and yawns like you’re not even there.

“You stay here, yeah?” he says, nodding toward the bed. “Look—heating pad.”

He pulls it from under a pile of flannels and plugs it in, testing it with his palm before handing it over. “Old man like me needs somethin’ warm for his back, but you need it more than me right now, hon.”

You take it without a word, pressing it to your stomach as you sink back onto the bed. The warmth is immediate, soothing. You close your eyes for a second, breathing through the ache.

Joel steps closer, leans down, and presses a kiss to your forehead—rough lips, scratch of stubble, the faintest scent of wood and sweat.

“Stay here, baby.”

You don’t argue, don’t roll your eyes. Just curl onto your side, the heating pad tucked against your belly, and listen to the sound of the water starting up in the tiny shower stall.

The van creaks as Joel moves, his body brushing the narrow walls, muttering something about how “these damn doors keep shrinkin’” as his stomach bumps the frame.

You don’t look, even while the door is open.

You’ve seen it before. The way he moves like he owns every inch of himself, the soft weight of him, the stretch of his skin, the way he doesn’t flinch when he catches his reflection. It’s not confidence, exactly. It’s just Joel. Unbothered. Unapologetic.

And somehow, that’s the part that makes you stay.

The water shuts off with a metallic groan, and a moment later you hear the soft thud of Joel’s feet against the floor, the creak of the bathroom door swinging open. Steam rolls out in a wave, curling into the cool air of the van.

He steps out, towel slung low around his hips, belly damp and flushed pink from the heat. His hair’s slicked back, droplets clinging to his chest hair, trailing down the curve of his stomach.

Then, his eyes land on you, curled up on the bed like a cocoon, Joel’s oversized shirt swallowing your frame. The heating pad hums faintly beneath the blanket, but your face is pinched, one hand still pressed to your stomach, the other curled into the sheets.

Joel’s expression softens. “Oh, honey girl,” he murmurs, stepping closer. “You look like hell, don’t you?”

You don’t bother answering. You’re too tired, too sore, too wrapped in the dull throb of your own body to do anything but breathe through it.

He crouches besides the bed, towel shifting slightly on his hips, and reaches out to brush your hair back from your forehead. His fingers are warm, still damp, and surprisingly gentle.

“There she is,” he says, voice low and fond. “My little grump.”

You close your eyes, letting him touch you. comforting. Familiar. His hand moves to your head, stroking slow, then down to your shoulder, thumb tracing lazy circles into the fabric of his own shirt.

“Hurts bad?” he asks.

You nod, barely.

He sighs. “Alright. Scoot over.”

You do, and he climbs onto the bed besides you, the mattress dipping under his weight.

The towel stays on (barely) as he settles in behind you, one arm draping over your waist. His hand finds your stomach, warm and broad, and he starts to rub in slow, steady circles.

“Like this?” he murmurs.

You hum, the pressure easing something deep inside you. He keeps going, patient and quiet, his breath warm against the back of your neck.

After a while, his hand drifts lower, to your hip, then your thigh. Kneading and soothing. His touch is firm but careful, like he’s trying to press the pain out of you with his palms.

You melt into it, tension bleeding out of your muscles one knot at a time.

Joel leans in, lips brushing your temple. “Told you I’m better than Midol.”

You don’t answer, but your body does—softening under his touch, breath slowing, eyes fluttering shut.

“You’re warmin’ up,” he murmurs, voice low and rough. “Feelin’ better?”

You hum, eyes half-lidded. “A little.”

He leans in, lips brushing your temple. “Good. Hate seein’ you all curled up like that. Makes me wanna fix it.”

His hand drifts up, slow and warm, brushing the hem of the shirt. He pauses just beneath your ribs, thumb tracing lazy circles into your side.

“These girls also sore?” he murmurs, voice low and rough.

You don’t answer right away. Just let out a soft, miserable whine and nod, eyes still closed.

Joel hums, like he’s been given permission. “Yeah, figured.”

His hand slides up, careful and slow, until he’s cupping you through the fabric. No pressure, just warmth. His thumb strokes gently along the curve, feather-light.

“Mm,” he murmurs. “All swollen. Poor things.”

You let out a shaky breath, but you don’t stop him. You don’t want to. So he keeps going, slow and steady, massaging with the kind of care that makes your chest ache in a different way. Something that makes you feel safe and seen.

His hand quietly drifts lower, just a little—not quite crossing any lines, but close enough that your breath catches. He notices. Of course he does.

“Y’know,” he says, tone going sly, “I wasn’t kiddin’ earlier. Had a girl once swore up and down that a good fuck was better than any painkiller.”

You groan, but it’s half-hearted. “Joel…”

He grins against your skin. “What? I’m just sayin’. Could be medicinal. Therapeutic, even. I’m a giver like that.”

His hand slides a little farther, palm warm against the top of your thigh now, thumb pressing slow, soothing circles into the muscle.

“Bet I could make you forget all about that ache,” he murmurs, voice like honey and gravel. “Real gentle. Real slow. Just enough to take the edge off.”

You don’t answer, but your body does. Your hips shifting slightly, breath hitching and already a small pulse inside your underwear.

Joel chuckles, low and pleased. “That’s what I thought,” he says, brushing his nose along your jaw. “Feelin’ better already.”

There’s a pause—not awkward, just quiet and then you murmur, barely above a whisper, “I’d bleed all over your sheets.”

Joel’s hand stills for a second. Then he lets out a soft snort, amused but not mocking.

“Y’think I care?” he says, voice low and rough. “Sugar, I can throw ‘em in the machine. Hell, I’ll toss ‘em out if I have to. Ain’t like they’re made of gold.”

You don’t say anything. Just stare at his sheets, jaw tight.

He leans in, brushing his nose against your temple. “Ain’t nothin’ about you that’s disgusting. You hear me?”

You shift again, uncomfortable in a way that has nothing to do with your body. “It’s not exactly…sexy.”

Joel huffs. “Who said anything about sexy? I’m talkin’ about you. Hurtin’. Needing somethin’. I don’t give a damn what time of the month it is. You think I’m scared of a little blood?”

You glance at him, uncertain. He meets your eyes, steady and sure.

“I’ve seen worse,” he says, smirking. “Hell, I’ve bled more than that just tryin’ to fix the damn carburetor.”

You let out a reluctant laugh, small and shaky.

“You know i’m right” he murmurs, brushing a thumb across your cheek. “Ain’t nothin’ you could do that’d scare me off. You wanna lay here and groan, I’ll rub your back. You wanna cry, I’ll hold you. You wanna ride me bloody, I’ll lay down a towel and thank you after.”

Your face burns. “Joel.”

He grins, unbothered. “What? I’m just sayin’. You don’t gotta be embarrassed. Not with me.”

You look at him, really look, and there’s no judgment in his eyes. Just that same crooked affection, that strange mix of sleaze and sincerity that somehow makes you feel…safe.

You exhale, long and slow, and let your head fall back against the pillow.

“Okay,” you whisper.

Joel leans down, presses a kiss to your forehead again—softer this time, lingering.

“Good girl,” he murmurs. “Now stand up. Let me take care of you.”

Joel shifts behind you also standing up, the bed creaking under his weight as he leans over to the far end. You hear the soft rustle of fabric, the tug of a pillow being yanked free from under a pile of laundry, the click of the heating pad being unplugged and moved.

You blink up at him, glassy eyed. “What’re you doing?”

He doesn’t answer right away. Just lays a pillow down near the end of the bed, smooths the heating pad over it, then tosses a towel on top.

“Gonna make you a little nest,” he says, glancing over his shoulder with a crooked grin. “Get you all warm and comfy. Then I’m gonna fuck the pain right outta you.”

You huff, but your body’s already responding—a slow, low ache curling in your belly, different from the cramps. Deeper. Thicker.

Joel pats the towel. “Lay down on your tummy, sugar. Right here. Let that heat hit you where it counts.”

You hesitate, but only for a second. Then you shift forward, letting him guide you down. The towel’s soft against your skin, the heating pad radiating warmth through the fabric, straight into your lower belly. You exhale, already feeling the relief.

Joel stands behind you, hands smoothing over your hips, adjusting you just so. “There we go,” he murmurs. “Nice and easy. Just like that.”

You bury your face into the sheets, the scent of him everywhere—smoke, sweat, soap.

Then he leans down, presses a kiss on your thigh, and whispers, “Just let go, baby. I got you.”

You feel the slow, deliberate tug of your panties being eased down.

“Is it… is it dripping blood?” You tense.

Joel pauses for half a second. Then he lets out a low, appreciative sound, voice thick with that familiar drawl.

“Nah,” he murmurs, leaning in close. “It’s drippin’ heaven, baby.”

You groan, burying your face into the sheets. “You’re disgusting.”

He chuckles, unbothered. “Yeah, but you’re still lettin’ me touch you.”

You don’t argue. You can’t. Not when his hands are back on your hips, warm and steady, not when his voice is in your ear, all gravel and heat.

He shifts behind you, the rustle of his towel hitting the floor barely audible over the sound of your own breathing.

One hand slides down, fingers brushing between your thighs, exploring your folds. “Already wet,” he murmurs, almost to himself. Then, lower: “Need me to prep you?”

You shake your head, barely. You just needed relief.

He exhales, rough and quiet. “Alright.”

He pushes in slow, careful, just the tip and then stills, breath catching in his throat.

“Jesus,” he mutters, voice rough. “You’re so damn tight like this.”

You whimper, hips twitching under his hands.

He leans over you, lips brushing your hip. “But feels like heaven, baby. All warm and snug and squeezin’ me like you missed me.”

You bury your face in the pillow, flushed and aching, but you don’t pull away.

He pushes in slow, inch by inch, his breath ragged, hands gripping your hips like he’s holding himself back by sheer force of will. You’re warm and tight around him, body pulsing with heat and ache, and he groans low in his throat.

Joel groans, rolling his hips just a little. “Could stay right here all night. Just like this. Deep and slow. Let you milk the pain outta both of us.”

You whimper, burying your face into the sheets once again, the stretch deep and aching but good. So good.

Joel stills once he’s fully seated inside you, chest heaving. Then, with a low grunt, he shifts—knees bracing on either side of your thighs, his body rising over yours.

And then he lowers himself, slow and heavy, until his belly settles against the small of your back, warm and solid.

You moan, the weight of him pressing you deeper into the heat of the pillow, the pressure on your belly somehow soothing and overwhelming all at once.

“Too much?” he murmurs, voice rough but careful.

You shake your head, breath shallow. “Just…heavy.”

He chuckles, low and fond. “Yeah, I know. Big ol’ bastard, ain’t I?”

You huff a laugh, even as your lungs work a little harder under him.

Joel shifts, just enough to take some of the weight off your ribs, his forearms bracing him up. “Tell me if it’s too much. I’ll hold myself up. Don’t want you passin’ out on me—not unless I earned it.”

You roll your eyes, but your body relaxes under him. The weight of him is grounding, comforting in a way you didn’t expect. Like being blanketed in heat and muscle and the steady rhythm of his breath.

The bed creaks again as he starts to move—slow, deep thrusts that rock the whole frame. The headboard taps the wall in time, a soft, rhythmic thud that fills the space between your moans and his low, filthy praise.

“Fuckin’,” he breathes. “You’re so goddamn soft under me. Like a warm fuckin’ peach, ripe and drippin’.”

You whine, half from the ache, half from the way his words go straight to your spine.

He chuckles, low and filthy. “That’s it, you just lay there, sugar. Let me do the work. Let me press all that ache outta that sweet little belly. Ain’t no Midol in the world that hits like this.”

You cry out, feeling him hit that one spot in you.

Deep, dragging thrusts that make your breath catch and your fingers curl into the sheets. Every inch of him presses into you, every roll of his hips sending a fresh wave of heat through your belly.

“Shit, girl… I’m stickin’ to you. Sweat, blood, all of it. My belly’s glued to your back like we’re welded together.” He murmurs.

You’re already so sensitive—from the cramps, from the heat, from everything he’s done to you tonight. Every stroke against your walls feels like too much and not enough all at once.

And then he shifts just right—hits that spot deep inside once again, and you gasp, a high, broken sound, and your thighs tremble.

Joel stills, just for a second. “Oh, baby,” he groans, voice thick with heat. “You gonna cum already?”

You can’t even answer. It’s already happening—your body clenching around him, breath stuttering, pleasure crashing over you like a wave you didn’t see coming.

Joel groans, low and guttural. “Fuck, that’s it. That’s my girl. So goddamn tight, milkin’ me already.”

You whimper, overwhelmed, and he leans in, pressing a kiss to your cheek, your jaw, your neck—his weight just pressing you down more.

“Didn’t even have to work for it,” he murmurs, voice all grit and honey. “Just slid in and you broke for me. That sweet little body was beggin’ for it, huh?”

You’re still trembling beneath him, body limp and flushed, breath catching in your throat as the last waves of your orgasm ripple through you. Joel stays buried deep, his weight a warm press on your back, his breath hot against your neck.

He leans in. “That helped? Made your cramps all better?”

You nod, still dazed, cheek pressed to the mattress.

He grins, slow and smug. “Told ya I’d fuck those cramps right outta that pretty little belly.”

Then he looks down again, and you feel the way his breath hitches—the way your hips twitch, the way the blood is dripping down his cock.

“Look at this fuckin’ mess,” he mutters, voice thick with heat. “All that blood and slick… drippin’ down my cock like you needed it.”

You cry out under him, body limp and flushed, when Joel grinds in again—slow, deep, relentless. The overstimulation sharp and sweet all at once.

“Sensitive?” he rasps, voice thick with heat. “Good. Daddy likes it like that.”

He shifts his knees wider, bracing himself, and then he thrusts deeper. So deep. You gasp, the pressure sharp and overwhelming, like he’s pressing into something you didn’t even know was there.

“Shit,” he groans, voice thick and ragged. “You feel that, baby? That’s me hittin’ the end of you.”

You whine out loud, hips twitching, the pillow under your belly pushing everything tighter, more intense.

Joel leans in, his belly heavy on your back. “Can feel your little womb flinchin’ around me,” he mutters, filthy and reverent all at once. “Like it’s beggin’ me to stay.”

You moan, overwhelmed, and he grinds in again—slow, relentless, like he’s trying to brand the shape of himself into you.

“You’re shakin’ like a leaf, baby.” He coos. Overstimmed, overstuffed, and still takin’ it. That’s my girl. That’s what I like.”

“Joel—“ you whimper, your head already floaty.

“I know, honey.”

The bed creaks beneath you both, the heat from the pad, the weight of him, the stretch—it’s all just too much and not enough. You’re drowning in it, in him, in the way he fills every inch of you.

Joel kisses your shoulder, then growls, “You’re gonna come again, baby. I can feel it. Gonna milk me dry, ain’t you?”

And with the next thrust—deep, slow, all in—you do.

Body shaking, cunt releasing all kinds of fluids and your breath knocked away.

“Second one’s always the messiest.“ he whispers, pulling out an inch and looking at all the mess you did. “You’re somethin’ else, you know that? Sweetest little thing I ever ruined.”

You’re wrecked. Muscles slack, thighs sticky, brain fogged. And before you can calm down, he moves again. Gentle, deliberate rolls inside your cunt and your body jolts like it wasn’t expecting more.

You gasps, voice all breath and disbelief: “You’re still? Joel… I can’t take no more…”

And he just leans in, mouth hot at your ear, hand now sliding up your ribs to hold you still.

“Shhh… hush now.” A low, lazy murmur. “You said that last time. And look at you—still here. Still takin’ it.”

He starts pressing in deeper, making you see stars.

“Mmm… this one’ll fix those cramps up real good. Better than any damn pill ever could.”

You try to speak, to protest, but all that comes out is a broken moan. Your legs twitch. Your breath stutters. And he feels it—the way your body starts to tighten again, even before your mind catches up.

He slows down, just enough to make you feel every inch, every drag of him inside you. His hand stays between your legs, fingers slick and steady, working your clit with maddening precision. You’re trembling, overstimulated, breath hitching with every pass of his thumb.

“C’mon, baby,” he murmurs, voice low and wrecked. “I know it’s a lot. I know you’re sensitive.”

You whimper, hips twitching, trying to pull away—but he just follows, keeps you pinned with his weight and his mouth at your ear.

“But you’re takin’ it so good,” he breathes. “So fuckin’ good for me. Just one more. You can do that, can’t you?”

You shake your head, but it’s useless—your body’s already betraying you, clenching around him, grinding into his hand like it’s got a mind of its own.

“That’s it,” he whispers. “Let me feel you. Let me help. Gonna fuck those cramps right outta you.”

And then he adds: “That little belly will thank me later.”

You’re too raw, too full, too far gone—and he knows it. He wants it.

“Cum for me,” he growls, thrusts deep and slow. “Give me that third one. Let me feel you fall apart.”

And you do—again—with a cry that’s more sound than breath, your body seizing around him as he fucks you through it, coaxing every last wave of pleasure from your overstimmed, aching core.

Your thighs clamp under his hips, your cunt pulsing so hard it borders on pain. You sob through it, too sensitive, too full, and still he doesn’t stop, dragging it out until you’re writhing, begging, soaked and ruined.

He groans deep, guttural, and his hips stutter, grinding in deep, and staying there. His voice is a rasp: “Fuck… that’s it. That’s it, baby. Take it. Take all of it.”

You feel him spill inside you, hot and slow, his whole body pressed tight to yours, breath ragged against your neck. You’re shaking. Floating. Gone.

“God damn it—my fuckin’ back—” he grits out, voice cracking as he drives in deep one last time.

He groans, loud and low, like it’s being torn out of him, and you feel it—the heat, the weight, the way he spills inside you like he’s been holding it back for hours.

“Shit… that’s it… that’s it…” he mutters, forehead pressed to your shoulder, body trembling. “Gonna need a fuckin’ ice pack after this. Jesus.”

You can’t help it—you laugh between all that overstimulation, breathless and wrecked, still clenching around him.

He huffs a laugh too, catching his breath. “Don’t you dare laugh at me, woman. I just threw my back out makin’ you see stars.”

He doesn’t pull out. Doesn’t move. Just stays there, heavy and warm, muttering into your skin.

“You good, darlin’?” he murmurs, voice low and warm. “Still breathin’? ‘Cause I ain’t sure I am.”

You hum something soft, too gone to answer, and he chuckles—a slow, wrecked sound.

Finally, with a grunt and a muttered “Alright, here we go…”, he shifts his weight, pulls out slow, and pushes himself up. His knees pop again. His feet hit the floor of the van with a heavy thud, and you groan because you can’t feel your body.

“Sticky little thing. You know what you look like down there? Goddamn…like strawberry cream pie, baby. Red white and split open and spillin’ sweet all over me.”

You sigh, dragging a hand over your face. “Ugh, Joel… you’re so disgusting.”

He just grins, slow and lazy, like he knows exactly what he’s doing to you.

“Yeah?” he drawls, dragging two fingers through the mess and smearing it along your thigh. “Then why you blushin’, huh?”

You try to glare at him, but your face is hot, your body still trembling, and you can’t stop the way your hips twitch when he touches you again.

“Shut up,” you mumble, voice thin and wrecked.

He grabs a towel, wets it from the bottle, then kneels between your thighs.

But before he even touches the towel to your skin, he leans in and drags his tongue through the mess he left behind. Blood, come, sweat all of it.

You gasp, hips twitching, eyes flying open.

“Joel—”

He just chuckles, low and wrecked, licking his lips like he’s savoring it.

“Tastin’ like honey,” he mutters, voice thick with heat. “Sweetest thing I ever put my mouth on.”

You groan, half mortified, half melting, and he grins like he knows exactly what he’s doing to you.

Then he takes the towel and starts to clean you sweet and slow, gentle strokes, careful not to press too hard.

“Easy now,” he murmurs. “Let me take care of you, darlin’. You earned it.”

He leans over, brushing your hair back from your face.

“Y’wanna stay like that, or y’want me to change you?”

You groan into the pillow. “Can’t move.”

He chuckles, low and fond. “Alright, alright. Let’s get you up, sweetheart.”

He slides an arm under your belly, the other under your chest, and lifts you slow—careful not to jostle you too much. You wince, legs trembling as you shift upright, and then you see it.

The sheets.

Blood and come smeared across the fabric in thick, dark streaks. A mess. Your mess.

You gasp, eyes going wide. “Joel—your sheets—”

But he’s already shaking his head, brushing a kiss to your temple.

“Don’t you worry ‘bout that. Sheets can be washed. You? You’re what matters.”

You blink at him, still dazed, still flushed, and he smiles, soft and crooked.

“C’mon. Let’s get you cleaned up proper.”

He helps you to your feet, one hand steady at your waist, the other grabbing a clean towel. The van rocks gently as you both move, and he groans again.

“Goddamn suspension’s worse than my knees.”

You laugh, leaning into him as he guides you to the little bathroom, and he mutters something about “gonna need a chiropractor and a cigarette” under his breath.

Sleazy!joel Masterlist

Btw guys, i finally have an Ao3 acc. I’m trying to post all my fics also there but i can’t promise anything because i’m struggling to understand that damn website lmao😭 but if you like to check it out here is the link!

I hope yall enjoyed sleazy!joel hehe and again, happy new year everyone! I hope you all started safely and happy and i hope this year will be just a little bit better! 🫶🏻

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Michael was not a snoop. At least, that’s what he always told himself, and others for that matter.

To Michael, a snoop would be someone who looked to find something. Searching and invading other people’s privacy.

But Michael, he was simply, curious. So painfully curious that some would say nosey. 

Michael had been this way since a child, innocently curious to the point of mischief. His mother would often chastise him for wandering one door too far, or opening one drawer too many.

But importantly, to Michael there was a difference between a snoop, and a curious simpleton like himself. 

To him that difference was very important.

Unfortunately, nobody else seemed to agree. Especially not you.

Sauntering into your living room, you leaned against the door frame with your hand on your hip.

Michael watched you, admiring your walk and the way your hips swayed effortlessly. He slowly trailed his gaze up your frame.

He wasn’t a lustful man, but something about you made him yearn.

“Michael.”

His gaze finally found your face. Your eyebrows were knitted together with frustration. The expression told him everything he needed to know. 

“Oh god, she knows” he thought to himself as he nervously bit his lip.

And you did. Immediately, somehow, every time.

"Have you been going through my things?"

Michael had been avoiding eye contact. But now, he looked up from the couch. Far too quickly.

"No."

He answered so fast that even he himself didn’t believe it. You narrowed your eyes, tilting your head as you stared at him.

"Michael."

"I haven't." he said quickly. Then he paused. 

"I mean, not really."

Your jaw dropped.

"Not really?"

Sighing dramatically, Michael rubbed a hand over his face. This wasn’t how he planned for this conversation to go. 

Ideally, he was hoping the conversation wouldn’t happen at all. 

In all fairness, he had every intention to behave himself. He really had. The day started innocently enough.

You'd left for work that morning after reminding him—twice—not to touch anything.

The reminder was accompanied by a hard glare. You knew your boyfriend all too well, and to be frank, he was very nosey.

Michael remembered that look.

It was the same look you gave him when he wandered off into rooms he wasn’t supposed to be in. Or when he opened cabinets and drawers that didn’t belong to him. Or when he just asked entirely too many questions.

Michael was deeply affectionate, and if he could literally fuse with you he would. He yearned to know as much as he could about you, to his detriment.

You bit the inside of your cheek.

“I just know you weren’t going through my stuff while I was gone.” 

You raised an eyebrow as you tapped your manicured fingers on your arm.

Michael could have melted into the couch, he was so embarrassed. He hadn’t intended to poke around, but one thing led to another and before he knew it, he was in your closet.

Still, attempting to maintain innocence, Michael smiled innocently and tilted his head.

"Why would I do that baby?"

"Because you're nosy."

"No, I'm curious."

"That's not better."

At the time, Michael had laughed.

Now, several hours later, he was beginning to realize you may have had a point.

The first thirty minutes after your departure had gone well, surprisingly.

He watched television. Ate cereal. Walked around the apartment. Admired the plants you'd somehow managed to keep alive.

Michael was a restless man, and he often need to move his body to be content. Whether it was dancing, or poking around his girlfriend’s apartment, it was just too hard to sit still.

Then he noticed the bookshelf. And the bookshelf wasn't the problem.

The photo sticking out from one of the books was. Michael had only intended to straighten it.

That's all. Just straighten it.

Instead, he'd found himself staring at a photograph of you at sixteen years old.

There was little you. Braces, oversized jacket and the most miserable expression he'd ever seen.

He laughed so hard he'd nearly fallen onto the floor. And after that?

Well.

Things escalated.

One photo album became three. Three became an old memory box. The memory box led to a stack of school papers.

The school papers somehow led to an old wallet of yours. Which led to the ID cards.

Michael had spent nearly twenty minutes sitting cross-legged on your living room rug examining every driver's license photograph you'd ever taken.

Each one demonstrating different periods of your life.

Including your experimental style. Each era somehow worse than the last.

He couldn't stop laughing. He was so tickled.

The woman currently standing in front of him was beautiful. Unfairly beautiful.

The woman in those photographs looked personally victimized by the Department of Motor Vehicles.

"Michael."

His attention snapped back to the present.

"What?"

You pointed to the table in front of Michael.

"Why is my 1979 driver's license on the coffee table?"

Silence. Michael could have kicked himself for forgetting to check all flat surfaces before you came home.

"...I can explain."

You closed your eyes slowly.

Like someone praying for patience.

"I knew it!"

"I wasn't snooping!" Michael exclaimed, holding his shoulders high like a child that had been caught doing just that.

"You are literally holding my old driver's license."

"I was appreciating it."

Your eyes flew open.

"Appreciating it?"

"Yes."

"You were making fun of me."

Michael pressed a hand to his chest.

"I would never."

The offended look on his face lasted approximately two seconds. Then he started laughing again.

You groaned. "Oh my God."

"I'm sorry."

He wasn't. Not even a little.

"Look at this picture."

"No."

"Come here."

"No."

"Please."

“Baby, I’m not trying to embarrass you!” he approached you, gently pulling you to him by your hand. He gingerly wrapped his arms around your waist.

You buried your face in your hands. Michael's laughter softened. When he looked up again, the teasing expression had disappeared.

"Can I tell you something?"

You hesitated.

"What?"

He glanced down at the pile of photographs spread across the coffee table. He gently swayed back and forth with you in his arms, lulling you. His smile grew smaller, gentler.

"I like seeing all this."

Your eyebrows knitted together.

"The embarrassing photos?"

"Everything."

His voice was quiet now. The playful energy replaced by something more sincere.

"The pictures. The old IDs. The report cards."

You stared at him. Michael picked up one of the photographs. You couldn't have been older than ten. Missing front teeth, hair sticking out everywhere. You were grinning proudly while holding a science fair ribbon.

His thumb brushed the edge of the photo.

"This was you before me."

Something in your chest tightened. Michael looked up. His large brown eyes were impossibly earnest.

"I don't know."

He laughed softly.

"I think it's amazing."

"Amazing?"

"Yeah."

He looked around your apartment. At the books. The photographs. The little trinkets scattered throughout the shelves.

All the tiny pieces of you.

"You have all these stories." 

He sat down on the couch, gazing at the photos again.

The way he said it made your face grow warm. Not because he was flirting. Because he wasn't.

Not intentionally.

Michael simply had a habit of loving things completely. Most other people would look at something, compliment it, and go on with their day. 

Michael was different. He would gaze at things that interested him as if he had never seen anything like it. It was child-like, and one of the things you loved about him. He looked at everything with fresh eyes.

And unfortunately for you, that now included every strange little detail he'd discovered about your life.

Including the terrible driver's license photos. Especially the terrible driver's license photos.

Sitting down next to him, you remarked,

"You're ridiculous."

Michael grinned. He pulled you into his chest, intertwining his fingers with your own.

He pressed a gentle kiss to your head and then your temple.

"You love me."

You rolled your eyes. But neither of you missed how quickly he'd answered. Or how true it sounded.