#myfics

Your methods weren’t scientific, but you had instincts. You always asked yourself the same quiet questions before setting anyone up:

What are they seeking?

What do they need?

And are they open to love, truly open?

Joel Miller failed the last question before it could even be asked.

He didn’t strike you as someone waiting for anything.

He struck you as the kind of man who’d wake up before dawn just to be alone with his coffee and the sound of his own breath. The kind who preferred the ache of his joints to the vulnerability of comfort. The kind of man who built his world out of habit, routine, and distance—and kept it that way because it hurt less.

He didn’t smile at people. Didn’t linger in town square to chat. Didn’t extend kindness unless necessity forced it from him. He wasn’t polite. He wasn’t soft. He was older, rough-edged, and entirely uninterested in being understood.

That was the truth of it.

So when Tommy leaned back in his chair that day, voice teasing but eyes glinting with something deeper, and said, “Find Joel someone,”—you knew exactly what he was doing.

He wasn’t asking. He was testing you. He had picked the one man in Jackson who didn’t want to be chosen.

And maybe… maybe he thought you’d fail.

But something about that challenge stuck in your ribs.

Because while Joel wasn’t looking for love—while he’d built his life so carefully around the absence of it—you couldn’t help but wonder:

What if he used to believe in it? What if he still did, quietly, deep down, in a place too bruised to admit it out loud?

And worse—what if the only reason he didn’t believe anymore was because no one had looked at him like he was worth choosing?

Not until now.

༶•┈┈୨♡୧┈┈•༶

The first time you tried to bring it up, he was in Tommy and Maria’s kitchen, sleeves rolled to his elbows, stirring something that smelled like heaven and looked like effort.

The scent hit you before you saw him—garlic, thyme, maybe something smoked. It wrapped itself around the room like a warm quilt, rich and unexpected. Joel stood over the stove, jaw tight in concentration, a hand towel slung over one shoulder like it belonged there. His brow was furrowed, focused, almost peaceful in that gruff, guarded way of his.

You hovered in the doorway, heart thudding traitorously in your chest.

You were used to being approached by people who wanted your help—who smiled too wide, who leaned in eagerly, who whispered, “Do you think there’s someone out there for me?” Not… this.

Not trying to coax someone toward the idea of love like it was medicine he’d refuse to take.

He didn’t look up when you entered. Or if he noticed, he didn’t acknowledge you.

You lingered by the counter, clutching the edge like it might give you courage. The silence felt loud. You hated that it made you feel twelve years old.

He finally glanced over, barely. “You need somethin’?” His voice was flat, more gruff than unkind, but still edged like a warning. You were an interruption.

“Oh. No,” you said quickly, shaking your head. “Just—this smells amazing.”

He grunted. Actually grunted. Like a bear in a flannel.

You resisted the urge to roll your eyes and instead muttered something under your breath—something like “charming” or maybe just “Jesus Christ.”

You cleared your throat. “So… do you like cooking?”

He turned his head a fraction, enough to eye you sideways. “It’s food.”

You blinked. “That wasn’t really an answer.”

He shrugged one shoulder. “I cook. So I can eat.”

You gave him a flat look, but he was already turning back to the pot, stirring like you hadn’t said anything at all.

༶•┈┈୨♡୧┈┈•༶

Dinner at Tommy and Maria’s was always warm—familiar, comforting, threaded with laughter and the scent of something slow-cooked—but tonight, it buzzed with a quiet, unbearable tension.

Joel’s food was, of course, incredible.

Rich and rustic, seasoned to perfection, made with the kind of care he’d never admit out loud. But he ate like it was nothing. Like he hadn’t spent hours making it. He was already halfway through his plate by the time you’d taken your second bite, chewing in near silence, shoulders hunched like he was bracing for a storm no one else could feel.

You sat across from him, napkin folded delicately in your lap, heart tapping anxiously against your ribs.

Tommy was loving this. His smirk was nearly unbearable—eyes flicking from your face to Joel’s with all the subtlety of a man watching live theatre. He knew exactly what you were trying to do. He could see the way you kept glancing down, folding and refolding your napkin, trying to find the perfect opening to ask a question you weren’t even sure Joel would let you finish.

You took a breath, then another.

Wiped your mouth—gently.

“This is delicious, Joel,” you said, hoping your voice didn’t betray how hard your palms were sweating. “Really. It’s… so good.”

He nodded once, without looking up. “Mm.”

That was all.

Tommy bit back a grin and reached for the bread.

You looked at him helplessly, and he looked about ready to combust from holding in his laughter.

You pressed your fingers to your water glass, steadying yourself. And then—“So,” you said, voice a little too bright, a little too casual, “do you cook often for other people? Or… someone in particular?”

Joel’s fork paused. Slowly, he looked up.

His brow furrowed, deep and unmistakable. That classic Joel Miller expression that hovered somewhere between mild confusion and why are you still talking to me?

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

You tried to smile, but it landed halfway between charm and panic. “Nothing. Just… this kind of meal seems like something you’d make for someone special.”

He blinked at you. Once. Twice.

Then, “This a dinner or a damn interview?”

The words landed sharp. Not cruel, but cutting in that quiet, measured way only Joel could manage. Dry. Dismissive. Final.

It shut you up.

༶•┈┈୨♡୧┈┈•༶

After that night, after the dinner table rejection that hummed in your chest like an ache you didn’t know how to name, you decided there was no use in subtlety.

You had tried soft. You had tried polite. You had tried slipping things in like compliments folded into napkins, but Joel Miller was not the kind of man who read between the lines.

So the next time you saw him—three days later, tightening fencing wire behind the stables, sleeves rolled and brows furrowed in that eternal expression of someone perpetually unimpressed—you walked right up, leaned against the gatepost, and said, “Hypothetically… if someone asked you out, would you even go?”

He didn’t stop working. Didn’t glance at you. Just muttered, “Not interested in hypotheticals.”

You huffed, pushed off the post, and walked away.

Two days after that, you caught him hauling firewood into the school kitchen, face flushed from the cold, jaw tight. You handed him a cloth to wipe his hands and asked, “Would it kill you to let someone care about you?”

He blinked at you, deadpan. “You tryna get yourself assigned latrine duty with all these damn questions?”

You rolled your eyes and let the door shut behind you.

It became a pattern—awkward, pointed, persistent.

You asked him at the tool shed while he was oiling his shotgun, the scent of steel and turpentine between you, your voice feather-light but your eyes fixed carefully on his profile.

“What’s your type, anyway? If you had to pick?”

He didn’t even glance up. “People who mind their business.”

You tried again during patrol prep, the morning still damp with frost, his belt heavy with knives and yours with hope.

“You ever get lonely, Joel?”

He grunted without missing a beat. “You ever stop talkin’?”

After that, you told yourself you’d stop.

That maybe Tommy was right, maybe Joel Miller was the one locked door even your heart couldn’t open. You weren’t built to beg, and love shouldn’t have to be pried loose from someone like a tooth. So you promised yourself: no more questions, no more attempts. He didn’t want to be known.

But the promise frayed faster than you'd expected.

It had been a soft evening—one of those rare Jackson nights where the world felt quiet and intact, where the sun dipped low and golden behind the trees and the sky blushed lilac at the edges, and everything smelled faintly of woodsmoke and the promise of spring.

He was sitting on the porch steps outside the meeting hall, arms resting on his knees, posture taut like he was keeping the world at bay even while it softened around him.

You hadn’t meant to approach—not really—but something about the hush in the air and the loneliness curling at your ankles pushed you forward before you could stop yourself.

“Joel?” you asked gently, your voice low and full of something raw you didn’t try to hide this time.

He didn’t look at you, but he didn’t walk away either.

You sat down a few steps above him, enough distance between you to feel it. Enough hope left to try again.

“You really don’t think there’s anyone out there for you?” you asked softly, the words slipping from your lips like petals dropped into water, barely a ripple, as if saying it gently enough might keep it from shattering between you.

The air had cooled into dusk, the kind of quiet evening that made the world feel suspended—trees swaying in slow rhythm, the scent of smoke clinging to your clothes, light from the porch lantern casting golden shadows that didn’t quite reach him.

Joel didn’t answer right away.

He exhaled, slow and sharp, and the sound of it felt like something snapping—not loudly, not dramatically, just the quiet, unmistakable give of something that had been holding too much weight for too long.

And then, with his eyes fixed somewhere over your shoulder, his voice came low and flat and brutal.

“What I think,” he said, “is that you don’t know how to mind your own damn business.”

You blinked, lips parting just slightly, but he wasn’t finished. His gaze never touched yours, his jaw tight with the kind of bitterness that had lived in him too long to name.

“You wanna feel needed?” he continued, each word cut clean and cruel. “Go find someone who gives a damn. It ain’t me.”

And then—he looked away.

Not in shame. Not in regret. Just turned his head with the finality of someone who had decided you no longer existed.

Your breath caught in your throat, small and sharp like the echo of a sob that hadn’t made it out. You stood slowly, hands stiff at your sides, your body moving before your mind caught up, every inch of you suddenly aware of how foolish you must have looked—how fragile your hope had been.

“I’m sorry,” you said quietly, but the words felt like they belonged to someone else. You didn’t even know what you were apologizing for—existing, maybe. Caring.

He didn’t look up.

You turned, your steps uncertain at first—just the gentle scrape of boots on wood—but soon they quickened, like maybe if you moved fast enough you could outrun the heat rising behind your eyes or the way your throat had gone tight and narrow, like your heart was trying to climb out of it. Your shoulders curled inward as you walked, a soft, instinctive folding—as if you could shrink yourself into something smaller, something less noticeable, something easier to leave behind.

By the time you reached the path, the sky had deepened to a bruised indigo, the sun swallowed whole behind the trees, and the wind that had once carried the scent of pine and firewood now felt sharp and cold against your skin, like it knew it had overstayed its welcome.

And Joel?

Joel just sat there.

Still. Silent. Staring at nothing like the world around him had gone quiet too.

He didn’t flinch when Ellie approached—her footsteps uneven, heavy with the kind of angry purpose only a teenager could carry—but he didn’t greet her either. Just kept his eyes on the dark horizon like it might tell him what he’d just done.

Ellie stopped at the bottom of the porch steps, hands shoved deep into her jacket pockets, her brows drawn so tight they nearly met.

“That was mean,” she said flatly, her voice cutting through the air like the crack of a branch underfoot.

Joel blinked, slow and deliberate, then rubbed a hand over his jaw, the scrape of his calloused palm loud in the silence.

“Ellie,” he muttered, low and tired, “how many times do I gotta tell you—it’s rude to eavesdrop.”

She rolled her eyes so hard you could hear it in her exhale.

“Yeah?” she shot back. “You know what else is rude? Being a complete asshole to someone who’s literally just tryin’ to care about you.”

He didn’t answer, just shifted slightly in his seat, his shoulders tight and his mouth pressed into a hard, straight line, like he was holding something back but wasn’t sure if it was words or regret.

“She wasn’t asking to annoy you,” Ellie went on, climbing the first step now, her voice lower but no less sharp. “She was asking ’cause she sees somethin’ in you. Which, frankly, is a goddamn miracle.”

Joel turned to look at her then—just barely, just enough—and the soft light caught the edge of his face, carved in angles and shadows, every line telling the story of a man who had carried too much for too long, who had forgotten softness because it had stopped surviving in his hands.

Ellie’s voice came quieter now, stripped of its usual armor, her hands still buried in her jacket but her posture more uncertain than defiant.

“You know I never met my mom,” she said suddenly, her eyes fixed somewhere beyond him, like the words were too fragile to look directly at.

Joel blinked, the shift in conversation jarring, his brow tightening in the center like something had caught him off guard and he didn’t quite know how to hold it.

Ellie shrugged, quick and small, like she regretted saying it the second it left her mouth. “I don’t know,” she added, voice softer now. “I guess I wouldn’t mind you… y’know. Finding someone.”

She said it like it was no big deal, like it hadn’t just cracked the air in two.

But Joel was still staring at her, still unmoving, still caught on that sentence—not the words themselves, but the space between them, the unspoken ache in her tone, the confession she hadn’t made outright but had wrapped in something lighter so it wouldn’t break the both of them.

“I mean,” she went on, her voice wobbling only slightly, “someone who’s good. Who could maybe… I don’t know. Be around. Help. Talk to me sometimes. If you weren’t. Not that I need it.” She swallowed. “Just… wouldn’t hate it, is all.”

The wind shifted again, cool and clean, brushing past them like it too was afraid to speak.

Joel looked at her like he hadn’t known—hadn’t let himself know—that there was a piece of her still searching for something she’d never had. Not just safety. Not just shelter. But softness. Guidance. A presence that could fill in the shape of something maternal, something gentle, something lasting.

Something like love.

And maybe, for the first time in a long while, Joel didn’t feel defensive. Didn’t feel the need to retreat behind some cold remark or hard silence.

He just sat there, staring at this kid—his kid—and realized with a slow, dawning ache that in all his effort to protect her from the world, he hadn’t stopped to think she might want more than just protection.

She might want family.

༶•┈┈୨♡୧┈┈•༶

Tag List: (for future i think i will tag #cupidofwyoming for each chapter instead of a tag list because a lot of the time the tags dont work for some reason?! that way you guys can still find the chapters on my blog xx)

@joelmillerswife9 @meanderingcaptainswanmusings @mrfitzdarcyslover @noeeeeeeel @lostinthestreamofconsciousness

@fitzwlliamdarcy @mystickittytaco @millerdjarinn @missladym1981

@bardot49 @valkyreally @jeongiegram @fpsantiago @rattyfishrock

@wildthyng @quicax3 @alesomoza99 @sunfairyy @heartagram-vv

@4allthestars @vickie5446 @needz1nk @sadsydneystuff-blog @sunndroppp @kristinababy @cuteanimalmama @dailyobsession

@dulcebloodhnd @rigoler @brittmb115 @lizziesfirstwife @nandan11

@cinderblock24 @astroid-wanderer @ashleyfilm @lizzie-cakes

Dana held his gaze a second longer than necessary, like she was still deciding if this was worth it. He only held the look, resisting the urge to fill the silence. That never went well with her.

“Check on Mel," she said, finally. "See if she needs a breather.”

Frank’s grip tightened slightly on his stethoscope.

So that’s what this was.

He knew Mel had had a hard day, but for Dana to notice it… That wasn’t nothing. And he didn’t like where his mind was going with it.

“Is this because of Becca?” he asked. “Her sister. Or the deposition?”

She paused again, assessing him. It was unsettling how Dana could do two things at once—stapling papers, swapping clipboards into the right stacks—while people kept dropping more in front of her. Like she had an extra set of hands.

He could’ve used one of those himself.

“Somehow…” Dana sighed, pausing just long enough to give him an unimpressed look. “You’re the only one she seems to listen to.”

Frank shifted his weight, fingers still worrying the ends of his stethoscope. That didn’t feel like a compliment.

“I don’t care why,” she added, already reaching for the next clipboard someone dropped in front of her. “I just need two hours to wrap this up.”

Frank glanced past her at the floor—busy, loud, no room for anything extra—and then back. People moved in and out of rooms without pause. He didn’t have time to think about what she might’ve meant by that. Mel was his resident. That was reason enough.

“So you’re looking the other way.”

That got her attention. Dana’s eyes flicked up, sharp over the rim of her glasses.

“This time,” she said. A beat, just long enough. “Next time—”

He raised a hand slightly, cutting it off. He didn’t need the reminder—about boundaries, about residents, about the way Dana was looking at him like she’d already put it together.

“Yeah. Got it.”

She held his gaze another second, like she was checking if that was actually true.

“Good,” she said, already turning back to her paperwork. “Now, go.”

Langdon nodded once and turned away, slipping back into the chaos of the floor. There wasn’t much room to think out there, which was probably for the best.

He went in search of Mel.

It wasn’t easy. Frank checked nearly every spare room on the floor, up the stairs, even the bathrooms. He found her in one of the back rooms—the ones they only used when things got out of hand.

Apparently, they weren’t there yet.

Yet.

The lights were off, but through the small glass window, he could see the familiar line of her blonde braid. She was facing the monitor, back to the door, completely absorbed. He stepped inside carefully, easing the door shut behind him, trying not to make a sound.

She didn’t turn.

The monitor was on, its soft glow steady in the dark—enough to hold her attention, enough that she didn’t notice him come in.

“Dr. King,” he said.

She startled, a small, sharp movement. Then she saw it was him, and her shoulders dropped just enough to notice.

He caught it. It meant more than it should have.

“Dr. Langdon,” Mel said, letting out a sigh.

Then he noticed the monitor was connected to her index finger. Not a full cardiac setup. Just a pulse ox. Still.

He frowned slightly.

“Everything okay?”

For a beat, Mel looked visibly embarrassed. He immediately regretted it—he hadn’t meant to put her on the spot, just to make sure she wasn’t feeling sick.

She shifted on her feet, glancing down at the pulse ox. Her fingers moved like she was about to take it off, then stilled. She left it where it was. As if he had changed her mind.

“Yeah. Yeah, I just—” she frowned, the frustration he’d seen all day flickering back into place. “I just needed a minute.”

Carefully, Frank watched her avert her eyes, glancing back at the monitor. It seemed easier for her—looking at the screen instead of at him.

So he did the same.

The waveform moved steadily across the display, climbing and falling in a familiar rhythm. Eighty beats per minute. Nothing alarming. He focused on that, giving her the space she seemed to need.

“Yeah. Me too.” He nodded toward the screen. “So what are we looking for—PVCs?”

Premature ventricular contractions. Early beats from the ventricles, out of sync with everything else. Nothing dramatic. Well, until they were. But she knew that already.

“I hope not. Are there?”

He leaned in slightly, studying the trace for a second longer than necessary.

“No. You’re good. Textbook sinus.”

Mel had always had trouble picking up his sarcasm, but that never really stopped him from using it anyway. Frank smiled, hoping it might ease the tension, but her attention had already drifted back to the monitor, following her own heartbeat across the screen.

“I like watching it. The monitor.”

“Yeah?” He turned his attention back to it.

“It’s… I don’t know. It’s steady. You can just... follow it. Know there’s another beat coming.” Mel paused, then added, “Usually.”

That got a laugh out of him. At least it wasn’t a code blue.

“Happy that’s still the case."

It somehow made sense—how she would turn to patterns like this to soothe herself. It was quiet, constant, and real. He wondered if it had anything to do with watching her own body function, being aware of it alive as everything else unfolded around them.

"Do you do this a lot?”

“No.” She shook her head slightly. “I used to. When I was a student. ICU rotation—sepsis case and…” She trailed off, shaking her head again, as if the memory wasn’t something she wanted to finish. Cases did that more often than they should. “I haven’t done it in a while.”

Frank watched the waveform climb and fall.

“Probably a good sign.”

“Yeah.”

The small room was silent but for the low beat of her heartbeat filling the space.

“So,” he said after a moment, nodding faintly toward the screen, “why are we doing this now?”

In the dim light, he caught the reflection of her pale hair shifting—and the worry in her eyes. Her brow furrowed again, and Frank had to bite back the urge to fix whatever was frustrating her.

This wasn’t something he could solve for her.

So he waited.

“Becca was discharged,” Mel said, keeping her gaze forward. A beat. “She took the antibiotics and left for Middle Hill.”

“That’s good,” he said, still watching the steady rhythm on the screen.

“She also… dismissed me.”

That made him glance over.

“How?” He frowned. He knew how close they were, and how hard it had been for Mel to adjust to her sister’s independence. Even so, it was hard to believe she’d just ditch her like that.

She didn’t look back at him, eyes fixed on the monitor.

“I thought we were watching the fireworks.” Her eyes stayed on the screen. A pause. “It’s the Fourth of July. We always go. There are swings in the park. We sit there and look at the sky and—” Mel stopped, shaking her head slightly. “That’s what we do. That's what we've always done. Why would she hide that she had a boyfriend from me?”

Frank turned his gaze back on the monitor, giving her space.

“Maybe she wanted that part of her life to be hers.”

“But that doesn’t make sense.” Her voice tightened, just slightly. “She told me they were going to the park. For fireworks. The same park.” A beat. “Why would she choose him over me for fireworks?”

The waveform climbed, fell. Climbed again.

“We have a system—” Mel faltered. “—we had a system, and…”

He could feel her breaking down beside him. But Frank was unsure if she needed space to say whatever she needed to figure things out in her head, or for him to put it plainly: people did strange things about what mattered most.

The beating increased its rhythm, going to a hundred per minute, and Langdon glanced at the screen, more out of habit than concern.

“Hm. Tachycardia. Sinus. Still benign.”

She didn’t react to that.

“What if she chooses him over me from now on?” Mel's voice was thinner now, less controlled.

“That’s not going to happen,” he said, turning toward her, trying to reassure her.

But she was too deep in her head, eyes unfocused, glossing over. Her voice was strained now, her lower lip trembling.

“What if it does? What if she gets all the good things in life and I’m left stranded at work for whole days? What if she abandons me, then?”

“Mel. She won’t.”

“I don’t want to be alone, Dr. Langdon.” A small, uneven breath.

"Frank," he corrected her.

Then she turned to him, desperate.

“I don’t want to be on the swings alone.”

“Hey—”

He’d never seen this much emotion from her all at once, and Frank was more shaken by it than he wanted to admit. He didn’t know what to do with it—whether to treat her like any other colleague, or like Mel, who always seemed a little like a deer in the woods, experiencing everything for the first time.

She shook her head quickly, like she could stop it, but it was already slipping.

“I don’t—” Her voice broke, frustration collapsing into something else. “I don’t understand.”

For a second, he hesitated—just long enough to think about it.

Then he didn’t.

He stepped closer, one hand coming up, tentative at first, before settling at her shoulder.

“Hey,” he said again, quieter now.

That was enough.

She folded into him, sudden and shaking, like whatever she’d been holding in finally gave way. Her hands caught at his scrubs, and he steadied her, one arm wrapping around her without thinking.

“It’s okay,” Frank murmured, not sure if it was, but saying it anyway.

His cheek grazed her temple, and his fingers brushed the ends of her braid, as if she could feel it as reassurance.

She didn’t answer, just held on, shoulders shaking as the monitor kept its rhythm beside them. It hovered around a hundred, and he glanced at it, searching for something—anything—that might help her feel better.

“Hey—hey.” Frank's voice softened, one hand steady at her shoulder. “You’re not alone. She went to the fireworks with someone. That’s not the same as leaving you.”

“It feels like it,” Mel said into his shirt, her grip tightening slightly.

“Yeah.” He nodded once, even though she couldn’t see it. “Doesn’t mean it is.”

Those were words he wished he could’ve heard a lot more often. But even if no one had ever said them to him, the least he could do was make sure she knew.

You're not alone.

Frank kept his eyes on the monitor over her shoulder, watching as Mel’s heartbeat slowly returned to a normal rhythm. It took a while, but he didn’t move, just held her, his fingers idly tracing the ends of her braid.

Like the stethoscope, he was always picking up new habits without meaning to.

He just wished this wasn't a new one.

After a while, she said, “Okay.” And her voice was small, but steadier.

He eased back just enough to look at her, not letting go completely.

Frank braced himself for Mel’s eyes to be teary, but it would be a lie to say he wasn’t affected by how bright they looked, this close to his face, even in the dark.

He swallowed, hesitating, then stepped back.

Mel didn’t seem to register the shift in him.

Maybe that was for the best.

Frank let out a quiet breath, forcing his attention back to something safer—something he could actually do something about. Using her own tactic, he glanced back at the monitor, at the steady rhythm moving across the screen, and grounded himself in it.

“Maybe you should give her some space," he said. "And maybe let yourself do things with other people, too.”

Out of his embrace, Mel seemed to be watching him, but at his words, she shook her head faintly and dropped her gaze again.

“I don’t know how to do that,” she said. “I’m always at work.”

And wasn’t that an understatement? Ten hours into a single shift, and Frank already felt at least a week older.

“Yeah.” He let out a quiet breath. “Honestly, I feel the same.” And it felt good to share it with someone who understood, for a change.

He watched her then, the shift of her weight, the hand rubbing her elbow as her eyes returned to the monitor. She was obviously affected by what had happened, but somehow, in his eyes, it made her more human. Flawed, and, against his better judgment, beautiful, like the person he had met months ago.

“For what it’s worth, I think you’ll figure it out.”

Mel met his eyes, shy. She nodded once, barely there.

“Thank you," she said.

And then she smiled, softly.

He couldn’t help but smile back.

Frank dipped his head, telling himself his job here was done, wishing things could be simpler for her. He gave her the space she seemed to need, stepping toward the door.

But instead, he found himself hesitating—wanting to stay, to do more, to fix what he could.

To fix everything.

“Hey, Mel?” Frank said, already shifting back a step, his hand brushing the edge of the door. “You still going to the swings?”

She looked at him the way she did, so surprised someone was directing a question to her, and shook her head faintly, eyes dropping again.

“I don’t know," she said quietly. “I don’t know where else to go.”

He didn't give her a moment to decide.

“Then go there.” He nodded once, like that settled it. “I’ll meet you." Frank smiled at her. "I don’t really feel like watching the fireworks alone this year.”

He could see her blushing. Mel's eyes were so wide, he was sure he could see her cheeks turning red, even in the dark.

“But… your family?”

“I had plans. I changed them." He shrugged. As if it was enough explanation. "Consider me trying things with other people.” A beat. “With you.”

He could see it land—watch her try to make sense of what he meant.

And then the monitor chimed.

Frank glanced over. Her heart rate had jumped—one twenty, climbing. The waveform quickened, the rhythm still regular, just faster.

Mel noticed it too, scrambling to pull the pulse ox off her finger, like that might undo it.

Too late.

Frank smiled.

“Right.” She blinked, still processing. Breathing quickly, she smoothed her hair and pressed the mute button on the alarm, shutting it down. It died quickly, though not silently.

He gave her a small, almost reassuring nod, already reaching for the handle.

“Eight? At the park?”

Her doe eyes stayed wide, but she nodded anyway.

“Yeah.” Mel took a breath, trying to recompose herself. “Yeah, sure.”

“Good.”

He lingered just a moment longer, like he might say something else, then didn’t. Instead, he pulled the door open and stepped back into the noise of the ER, letting it swallow him up again.

"why...dude, what's with all the sims mods?" he asks, voice filled with genuine concern as he clicks into the mods folder. you panic and spring up, sending the chair back a bit with him still in it. your ass is directly in his face as you scramble, closing the folder.

tomura's eyes widen and he forgets the folder entirely for a moment as your shirt rides up, the small of your back exposed, the waistband of your underwear pulled slightly above the baggy sweats. he starts again and rolls his eyes.

"dipshit, just let me make sure there aren't duplicates, okay?" he pulls you by the waist into him again, your ass falling back onto him. he closes his eyes for a moment to regulate his thoughts.

the mods folder flashes back open. he scrolls through hundreds of mods, your body tensing as he pauses and reads through them all.

"what the hell are you doing to those poor sims" he laughs nervously as his cock grows tighter against you. you grimace as he closes out of it and goes into the save files folder.

he stops when he notices his name front and center, paired with yours.

he nods and stays silent, and you readjust in his lap. your eyes gloss over, unable to confront the clear tension between you two as you shift, his free arm lacing around your waist slowly, holding you tightly as he tries his best to hold back.

he closes out of the tabs and sits on the blank screen for a moment, clearing his throat.

"did...you need me to do anything else here?" he leans forward with you a bit, greedily inhaling your scent again as he awaits a response.

"hm...yeah, can you help me set my new speakers up? they won't connect for some reason." any excuse to keep him here.

"hmph. yeah, sure" he bites his lip and scoots the chair in, opening the program.

"they're plugged in, right?" he asks, and you nod.

"mhm, i'm not that dumb" you playfully lean back, your face all-too-close to his. he rolls his eyes and hums to himself as your weight presses more against him, and he's painfully trying to conceal how hard he is. if you don't stand, maybe you won't notice. he's so fucking close already, he's afraid any small movement will ruin it all.

you lean forward to turn the dial on the speaker and his breath hitches. he twitches in his pants and feels the moisture beading from his tip, hissing lowly to himself as you readjust again.

"jesus, _________. can you figure your shit out" he snips, and you laugh. he groans as he twitches again, dangerously close to finishing right here.

"sorry" your words come out as a whisper as he grips you closer now, his fingers tracing the exposed skin under your shirt as he fiddles around with the settings. you smile as he touches you.

you take it one step too far when you scoot back into him, using his thigh to steady yourself. as you grind into him, he loses control and feels himself cumming sporadically in his fleecy pants. he shakes against you, his head falling into your shoulder as he crumbles underneath you. he nearly crushes your brand new mouse as his hands clench, his uncovered fingers digging into your midriff. he shakes as you feel the moisture seeping from the material, leaking onto the back of your own pants. you don't dare to speak a word, you refuse to ruin it for him.

you go to look at him, but his head is still pressed against your shoulder, his baby blue hair draped over you. his breathing is slowing now, but he's still shaking.

"i'm sorry" he shudders before you can say anything. you grab his hand, still slung across your legs, and squeeze it.

"tomu, it's okay" you comfort him quietly as he continues to shake. you stand and he plants his face into his hands, soft tremors coming from the pale man.

you flip the armrests of the chair up and wrap your legs around him, facing him now. you stroke his hair gently and coax him to look up, his cherry eyes teary and glossed.

you kiss him gently, feeling the tears still running down his cheek. his lips are rough, but they taste like candied apples, and you hold his face in your hands as he falls into the kiss shakily.

as you pull away, he sniffles.

"i'm sorry" he repeats, and looks back down.

you kiss his head, his soft hair tickling your face. he wraps his arms around you and presses his face into you, his tears soaking the front of your shirt. you shush him and brush his hair back. you comfort him best as possible, but feel him hardening underneath you again.

"c'mon" you stand from the seat again, and take his hand. you bring him to the bed, and he sits slowly. you wipe the tears from his cheeks, and he shakes his head.

"why?" he asks quietly, and you kiss his nose, "why aren't you mad at me?".

you tug him into you, kissing him. he moans into the kiss this time, his cock tenting again. your mind swirls with thoughts of him inside of you, making him shiver and cum and whine. why would you be mad at him, your sweet pathetic leader?

no one else would ever see him like this. maybe it played a part in your arousal, knowing that this display was solely for you. that his orgasm was because of you. that he was crying because he was afraid he upset you. your scary, villainous, domineering leader was crying in your room, cock twitching desperately against his minecraft pj pants, because he just came from you sitting in his lap.

the heat between your legs swells as your tongue presses into his mouth, tasting the same sugary sourness from before. his tongue slides forcefully into your mouth, his saliva mixing with yours. he palms aggressively at his erection, trying to push it down nervously before you tug him by his sweater, pulling him on top of you. he instinctively grinds down into you, and as you feel him press against your clothed sex, you moan.

the heavy petting stresses you out. you can't keep kissing him and touching him without feeling him inside of you. tomura's eyes are half-lidded and hungry as you shove him back, and he looks at you nervously for a moment before you pull your pants off, urging him to do the same. he throws the pants off the bed, his cock springing free and tapping against his stomach. the knot in your stomach pulls deeper as you gaze upon the soft sky-blue tuft of hair leading down to his dick, his breathing ragged as you pull yourself on top of him again. you grind down, and he moans as the wetness soaking through your underwear squishes on his admirable length.

he's ready to cum again already, and you can tell from the way he grinds into you from below. you shift your underwear off, awkwardly shimmying as he helps you. he doesn't seem to care as he tugs at the garment, his hands exploring your curves with a greedy grip. as his cock rubs against you, you kiss him, coating him with the slick heat. you help position him against your tight hole, and he thrusts it in, stretching you with a snap. you throw your head back from the sensation and steady yourself for a moment before rocking back and forth, his moans and huffs growing louder. you ride him slowly at first, helping you adjust to his size, and he watches you bounce on him with a feverish daze. he grabs at your shirt and you allow him to bring it up over you, throwing it mindlessly. his hoodie comes off next, yanking haphazardly as you continue to grind and bounce on him. he bites his lip as he cums again, not holding anything back as the sticky seed coats your insides. you don't stop, feeling yourself growing closer. his orgasm brings you even further, and you gyrate your hips against him, his soft hair creating a friction against your clit that is fucking unimaginable. you moan and cry out, chasing the orgasm. you squeeze against him, the searing pain from being stretched before now replaced by a deep craving from the pit of your sex, needing more and more of him to fill you up. his pitiful whining grows in volume as his cock re-hardens inside of you quickly, and his hands grip against your hips and he thrusts from below as you slam down into him, furthering the sensation as his tip nudges your cervix. as you both rock into each other, your climax rushes over you, flooding his cock with a deep heat that sends him over the edge for the third time. tears brim his eyes again as he sprays your cunt with more pearly fluid, and your body shakes as you clench and rub the end of your orgasm out on him. your chest heaves as you both finish, and you fall on top of him with his dick still throbbing inside of you. he whines out and kisses you, tangling his fingers in your hair. the aftershock of your orgasm sends shivers through your body, and you pull yourself off of him. you already miss the feeling of him stuffing you with his cock, but he's spent. he shakes and squeezes his eyes shut, his legs and arms splayed out, vibrating.

you kiss his cheek and reach for something to help him clean up. you grab your shirt and wipe him off, and he frowns.

"didn't have to do that" he chokes out, and you shrug.

"i could never be mad at you, tomura" you say to him as you find clean clothes. as you dress, he drags a blanket over himself.

he nods and doesn't speak again for a moment. you climb in next to him, and he smiles weakly.

"promise?"

you nod. "pinky promise" you lace your fingers with his, the gloves brushing against your soft skin.

the two of you lay together in silence, growing more and more tired with each passing minute. you won't send him back to his room, you'd rather keep him here as long as possible. even if it was left unsaid, you loved him, and you spent every day worrying which day might just be the last. especially with the league growing in infamy, the unknown became scarier every day. but for right now, it felt more than okay. and for right now, you'd rather spend the time with him like this than having to worry about your futures.

"so what's up with that save file on the sims?" his voice snaps you out of your thoughts, and you groan.

"i think the next thing im gonna ask you how to teach me is hiding folders".

╰(*´︶`*)╯♡

Somehow, your bed feels empty. Worse, you feel alone.

“I want to see him.” You mutter to yourself, yawning into the heel of your palm before smoothing it over your cheek.

A few quiet moments pass, and you can hear your frustrated, sleepy breathing through the silence. Warm puffs of air breeze past your lips as crickets chirp outside of your window.

You worry at your bottom lip for a drawn out minute, indecision tugging at your brain.

Then, you remember that Sukuna had gifted you a key to his apartment last week.

“Happy six months. Come over anytime, babe.” He had said, placing a hand on top of your head.

Sukuna had punctuated the end of the sentiment with a sweet kiss in the space between his forefinger and thumb, right where your temple was.

You reach up and touch the spot, feeling vaguely pathetic because of how much you miss your gruff yet affectionate boyfriend.

The persistent thought repeats over and over.

I miss him. I miss him. I miss him.

Finally, you sit up with a resolute sigh and swing your feet out of bed.

You quickly bundle up and then grab your keys, nerves fluttering in your stomach as you run your thumb over the metal grooves of Sukuna’s apartment key.

In all honesty, you’re so excited to see him. You just hope that he won’t be too weirded out by you coming over so late.

You pick up your phone and start typing a heads up to him, deftly switching hands to open the door.

“Oh, shit. Hey.”

The familiar voice startles you, and you look up to see Sukuna standing right in front of you.

The roguish grin donned across his face is absolutely infectious. The lifted corners of his mouth only widen when you mirror his expression, the point of his canines complementing the sharp cut of his jawline. Even though every part of Sukuna seems rough, especially with his huge stature and penchant for swearing, his gaze is so soft and open whenever he stares at you.

It’s one of the many reasons why you love him. Plus, he looks too pretty with sweatpants hanging off of his hips.

He also has on a zipped open, baggy jacket that fully displays an olive green band tee. If you look closely, you can see peeks of his ruffled, rosy toned hair underneath the black baseball cap and jacket hood he had thrown over the mussed strands. He touches the brim of it with a hand to lower the cap further, and his sleeve slides down to reveal the tattoos inked above his wrist and further up his arm.

The shy gesture has you immediately jumping up to hug him, a stunned laugh leaving you but feeling happy nonetheless at his unexpected appearance.

“Sukuna!” You exclaim, heart warming when he reciprocates your joy and wraps strong arms around your torso.

Held in his arms, you realize the embrace provides a fond reminder that it really is the little things.

The brush of his cheek against your own, the faint scent of woodsy cologne, and the steady heartbeat beneath your fingertips when you slide your hands down to his chest.

He bends down to kiss around the crown of your head and then your smiling lips. He keeps his hands clasped over yours, and you can feel the rhythm of his heart quickening from your touch.

You hum into the press of his lips, keeping your hands softly resting on his solid chest.

Once Sukuna pulls away, he sends you a nervous look. You don’t think you’ve ever seen him embarrassed, so you practically swoon at how adorable his hesitation is.

“I was just about to call you. I know it’s late and I don’t mean to be weird but-” He bites his lip, and then rakes a large hand across the back of his neck, “Damn it, I missed you. Couldn’t sleep without my new teddy bear, I guess.”

He sweeps his sightline up to you, as if gauging your reaction, and you smile so widely that it hurts your cheeks.

“Really, baby?”

He gazes at you for a brief moment, drinking in your features and then letting out a smitten sigh, “Of course, baby.”

You start laughing as he steps closer to dot your cheeks and nose with a flurry of kisses.

“I missed you. I missed you. I fucking missed you, okay?”

“Okay, stop!” You breathlessly command, and he lets out a tired grumble.

“Okay, okay. Don’t act like you didn’t miss me either though.”

“I did. I was actually about to head to your place.” You sheepishly draw out his apartment key from your pocket, and it glints in the low light.

Sukuna smirks at your admission and then scans you from head to toe.

His eyes flit over your pajama clad figure approvingly, “Guess we had the same idea, huh? God, we are the fuckin’ cutest. Makes me sick.”

He fakes a gag at the end of his sentence, clutching at his stomach and rolling his eyes.

You push his chest with a sarcastic scoff and a scrunch of your nose, “Whatever.”

“You love me, and I love you.” He proudly declares, and then yawns into his hand.

You take in his sleep softened face, beaming at how handsome he still looks with heavy lidded eyes and disheveled hair. Sukuna remains striking even when obviously exhausted.

You love it.

And him, unfathomably.

“I do love you.” You agree, grabbing his hand and tugging him further inside your home, “Now, come inside. I love sleep too.”

He curls his fingers around yours, trying to hide his smile by bowing the brim of his hat and failing miserably.

“I think I’m already dreaming.”

_________________

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