Existing without guidance

'Cause I'm not old, but I am tired / I'm not strong, I'm very weak / I'm not old, but I am tired / I'm not here, I'm somewhere else / I'm one hundred ninety-six in dog years / I have seen enough / I've seen it all — Halsey, Dog Years.

You haven't lived in the Boston QZ for your entire life, but it certainly feels like it— Your parents came in when you were eight years old, about a year after Outbreak Day, when the Quarantine Zone was still fresh, with FEDRA just starting to take over the country and people still willing to trust their government to keep them safe. It is the only life you know and, while it is not perfect, it's certainly better than facing the dangers outside FEDRA's protection: You grew up hearing stories of raiders and slavers and how the infected outnumbered people at an alarming rate, how it was utterly impossible to survive without the watchful eye of FEDRA and its harsh laws.

Things are comfortable, even though they're not good, and that's more than most people have. You mother died just before your tenth birthday, an innocent bystander caught in the crossfire between FEDRA soldiers and the freedom fighters. Your father, a violent smuggler with a penchant for booze and pills, spends more time outside the QZ's walls than inside the tiny one-bedroom apartment the two of you share.

You're used to being alone by now, working triple shifts at the speakeasy and having to sneak your way back home just as the sun is starting to come up, risking your life for a couple of ration cards — more if you're in pigtails, even more if your shirt is low cut — that barely cover the amount you have to pay to keep a roof over both of your heads.

Everything changes when, for the first time since your mother died, your father is gone for longer than a couple of weeks. Usually his smuggle runs last a week or two at most before he comes home, drinks himself to a stupor over the weekend and then leaves again by Monday morning. This time, when the two weeks are up and he doesn't come back, there's a small part of you that is happy for it. The bruises he's given you are just starting to fade, the cut above your eyebrow finally closing up when the doubt creeps in and you begin to wonder whether or not this is the time your father will not come back home at all.

By the end of the first month he's gone, you know something happened. You're not sure if he simply left you behind or if he's dead or injured somewhere, but you know this isn't normal. So, one early morning, you make your way to the northern district of the QZ, where you know Abe lives— He's the only one with a long-distance radio and no affiliations to FEDRA or the Fireflies, the man your father once said he'd contact if he ever needs to speak to you while he's gone. In over a decade of smuggling your father hasn't tried to reach out to you once, but he also has never been late, and you figure maybe Abe would be able to give you a proper answer.

You stay in line for five and a half hours, a handful of ratios stuffed inside your bra, but your meeting with Abe only lasts a couple of minutes: He eyes you with suspicion, scowling the moment you say your father's name, and then tells that he would require ten ration cards to tell you if there's a message, and then another fifteen to read said message if it does exists— With no refund of the initial ten in case your father hasn't contacted you at all. You know extortion when you see it, has faced it plenty of times — Most men are always eager to take advantage of a young woman with no one to back her up —, and twenty-five ration cards is simply not something you can afford without going hungry or risking loosing your apartment.

For the first time in your life, you're truly alone. There's no one to run to, no one to help you or save you in this situation and that is somehow worse than all of the beatings and offensive words your father has thrown at you for the past two decades, the financial weight of having to provide for yourself in a world that is rigged against your survival brings you the sort of desperation you have never felt before.

It is that desperation that brings you to Joel Miller.

Joel has always been a constant in your life; he had worked alongside your father when you were little, always a solid shadow at the edge of your childhood memories, but they had a rough falling out after your father double crossed him sometime during your teenagehood and had, since then, become competitors inside the QZ. Now he is mostly a looming threat, some dark nefarious figure that might take away your father's livelihood at any moment.

He is not the sort of man you ever want to mess with, especially because you're not sure whether he's the vindictive type— He may as well hold your father's wrongdoings against you and refuse to help or worse: he could rat you out to FEDRA, use the opportunity to usurp the loyal clientele your father has or use his absence to wipe him out entirely. But you hear from Joan that hears from Elizabeth that hears from Eric that Joel Miller is friends with Abe and you figure that, maybe, Joel would be decent enough to bargain with the man for you. So, with an offering of bathtub moonshine you steal from work and tears in your eyes, Joel makes the deal; the bottle is probably worth a lot less than what he could've charged you but he doesn't bargain, instead choosing to grunt, take the bottle and slam his apartment's door in your face. He shows up at your place two days later, just as you start to panic thinking that maybe he's conned you out of some liquor, with a blank face and bad news: There has been no message, and although Joel promises to check in with the radio guy periodically, your father doesn't try to contact you at all in the days after that.

After that, Joel becomes a constant fixture in your life: He walks you home from the speakeasy after your shifts, and he fixes your shower or reinforces your front door or drops by with new shoes or food after a successful run. You find ration cards in your coat pockets or slipped under your door whenever you start working the triple shifts again, though he has never admitted to being the one putting them there: Every act of care comes with stony silence or a scowl, but Joel is always there, solid and within reach whenever you need him. So, you do the stupidest thing you could possibly do: You repay him with stolen alcohol. It starts with the small bottle that you use to bribe him that first time, but you become bolder and bolter as the months crawl on, swiping bigger and more expensive bottles whenever you can.

The owner, a mean-looking man named Bryan, catches you red-handed on a snow-heavy night in December. The beating itself isn't the worst you've ever gotten — someone robbed you when you were fourteen, taking a whole's week worth of rations and your father had always blamed you for that, his punishment even more painful than the shiner the thief had given you — but it's close enough and, as you stumble home through the snow-covered streets in the skimpy clothes you wear for better tips, all you can do is think that you got luck: Bryan could've cut off your fingers, or raped you or killed you or a thousand other horrible things that would wield a lot more damage than what he did and most people wouldn't have batted an eye; Hell, half the people you know probably would've thought you deserved it.

You're halfway home when panic truly sets in, outweighing the pain and the cold as you start to do the math— You're fresh out of a job, with rent looming within the next couple of days and you still don't have enough cards to cover it, let alone all of the other expenses you have; the pantry is almost empty, a single loaf of stale bread that you've been rationing for a few days while you waited for payday, and you still need to pay your neighbor for the winter socks she's knitted for you.

You're so terrified at the knowledge that you'll be homeless within the next week that you don't even notice Joel approach until it's too late, his cracked hands grabbing your shoulders and pushing you away from the main street just in time to miss the FEDRA soldier patrolling the area.

You shriek, your brain taking longer than it usually would to understand what is happening. Joel pins your back to his chest, one hand wrapped around your middle while the other slams over your mouth— The rough touch to your tender face has you whimpering, pain blossoming all over.

"It's me. Calm down." He whispers, holding the position for a moment longer while the soldier walks past the alleyway the two of you are in before he lets you go. You try to keep your head down so your hair fall over the bruises that are already forming but your face is so covered in blood that you can see the red liquid has stained Joel's palm. He looks at it for a second as if he can't comprehend what happened before he's crowding you against the wall, his surprisingly gentle hands tugging your chin towards him.

"I'm fine." You say in the silence that follows, though that's very much not true. Joel takes in a deep breath, his entire face scrunched.

"Who did this to you?"

"Joel, it's—"

"Who?"

You bring a hand up, your fingers wrapping around his wrist; the touch is meant to stop him, your intentions on fully pulling his hand away but you find it grounding instead, as if simply feeling Joel's rapidly beating pulse point beneath your fingertips is enough to melt the anguish away.

"Bryan." You relent, because you know he won't let go otherwise. "I had it coming."

"He'll pay. He ain't got no right to—"

"I stole from him." The admission is small, the words barely coming out of your lips; you didn't mean to tell him, the last thing you want is for him to connect the dots and realize you had been stealing for him. "I'm lucky he didn't do worse."

Joel goes entirely still, his hand still gripping your chin, his dark eyes staring you down so intensely it makes you squirm. A beat, and then another, and you watch in real time as realization washes over him.

Joel drops your chin like you've burned him. "Goddamn it, kid. Are you really that fuckin' stupid? Don't cha think that—"

"Joel, please." You whine, your eyes welling up with tears. "I don't need this right now. I'm cold, and everything hurts, and I'm out of a job. Just… Just don't lecture me right now, okay? I don't need it."

For a second, you think he'll ignore and go on his tirade— He looks like he wants to, but then his jaw locks and his nostrils flare and that's it. Joel swallows his emotions down in such an efficient manner it awes you and you barely have time to register the blankness of his face before he's wrapping his own jacket around you.

"Let's get you home and cleaned up."

Home, as it turns out, is Joel's place. You don't have the energy to argue despite the fact that the only thing you want to do is to crawl under your blanket and cry until you pass out, and you sit by the kitchen table as he cleans your face and neck with a wet rag. The apartment is cold even though Joel does his best to insulate the windows, and you shiver in your wet clothes— both from the remnants of snow that seem ingrained inside your bones and the heatwave that followed from Joel's touch, your body burning up from inside out at every careful touch of his hands. Once you seem clean enough, he brings you a chilled bottle out of the freezer, the clear liquid sloshing inside and you're sure it's probably either moonshine or vodka; Most likely moonshine, illegally made by some of the people brave enough to cook up such a thing within the city's walls.

"Put it over your eye, or it's goin' to swell shut."

You do as he says, but your heart races inside your chest as Joel kneels in front of you, carefully unlacing your boots.

"Joel, what—"

"Need to get'cha out of these wet clothes." He mumbles, not looking at you. Joel helps you out of your shoes and socks, and then turns his back at you and busies himself on the stove while you change from your work clothes to his— boxer shorts, wool socks and a thick sweatshirt that you're sure must've costed him a small fortune. You're still cold by the time Joel sets a steaming mug of tea on the table, but you're more comfortable than you've been in months.

Something changes between the two of you that night, tangled together in Joel's bed, his heartbeat steady under your cheek and his hand in your hair as you cry yourself to sleep. You go back to your apartment the next morning but just to pick up your personal belongings, Joel as a bodyguard as you collect what you can inside his backpack; you don't have much anyway, and you donate all of your father's belongings to the family two apartments down— More out of spite than anything else, you keep his favorite pair of boots as a gift to Joel. He takes the boots with an expression that seems to know exactly what you're doing, presses a kiss to the top of your head as if he's done it a million times, and clears out a drawer for you in his wardrobe.

Bryan goes missing three days after you move into Joel's place, and then they find his body five days after that, his face beaten almost beyond recognition, every single one of his fingers broken. His son takes over the speakeasy and invites you back, probably because he doesn't know what you did— Joel doesn't let you go back, claiming he doesn't trust the son and that you deserve better than being harassed by drunk men all night. You take odd jobs here and there, wanting to contribute with your share of rations but eventually Joel convinces you to quit altogether: Between the smuggling and the temporary jobs he takes from FEDRA he's certain he can provide enough for the two of you, and that you shouldn't be risking and exhausting yourself over nothing. You try to pull your weight around the house then, keeping it cleaner than he ever did, stitching up his socks and jackets and trying to make a meal out of the crappy food FEDRA distributes.

Housewife is the word that Tess uses for you. She says it with a sneer, scoffing whenever Joel tries to deny it; he says you're just a kid, that you're too young to be on your own and that you need him. She says that you're too old to need a daddy, and Joel slams his fist down on the table and they don't see each other for a few weeks. By the time Tess is back, it's as if nothing ever happened— She doesn't apologize and neither does he, or maybe they've exchanged apologies somewhere you weren't privy to, but Tess doesn't quit with the insults. Kept girl, plaything, pet— All names she uses whenever Joel isn't around, and then ignores you completely whenever he is.

Truth is, you find that you don't mind the nicknames. Joel calls you kid, kiddo, sweet girl— Also only when the two of you are alone, using your name whenever there is anyone listening and you've come to understand that there is a lot about Joel that he doesn't show to the world: He's feared inside the QZ, most people crossing the street whenever he's around, doing whatever they could to stay out of his way and only coming to him whenever they needed something no one else could bring but with you he's the sweetest man you've ever dealt with, quiet yet caring in a way that you haven't seen from anyone else.

The first time the two of you kiss, it feels like you've been doing it for all of your life; Joel had been gone for a couple of days, a pill run beyond the QZ's walls that made you sleepless. Tess hadn't gone with him this time around, which only made everything worse— For all the woman hated you, you knew she'd give her life to protect his. He comes home so late it's almost morning, his clothes soaked in blood that isn't his and his knuckles scraped raw.

You're not sure which one of you moves first: He's crowding you the second the door closes, and then his lips are pressing against yours, hungry and desperate. He kisses you until you the both of you are breathless, the still wet blood from his shirt soaking into yours: A bond that no soap or water can wash away even after the proof of your bodies mending together is discarded.

Joel tells you about Sarah in the middle of the night, when his nightmare wakes the both of you and he can't hide the tears. He doesn't tell you exactly how she died, just that it happened on Outbreak Day, and you request stories of happy memories to get his mind off of it. He tells you about the soccer practices and early Saturday matches, about the hikes they used to go on with Tommy and about the time she begged him to paint her room pink and then had him repaint it with purple a couple of weeks later, when she decided she hated pink. Joel talks more than you've ever seen him do, long fully formed sentences rather than the short words and grunts you're used to and it's like you're seeing yet a new side of him— Something soft and sacred that he's been hiding from the entire world, even from those closest to him.

"She would hate the man I became." He says eventually, after a short lull between tales of Sarah's first day in kindergarten. "The monster I became."

You're not certain how to deal with the self-loathing in his voice, especially because you know it's true— Joel's a terrible man, broken and violent and capable of unspeakable things, and you doubt the little girl from his memories would be proud of him for it. You press a kiss to the top of his head much like he seems to enjoy doing to you.

"There's always time." You whisper. "As long as you're alive, you still have time to make her proud."

He leaves before you wake the next morning but greets you with a kiss when he comes home in the evening, his breath smelling of whiskey and pupils dilated from the pills he swears he isn't taking anymore.

The afternoon you run into Robert's goons beating the ever living fuck out of Tess, there is a brief second in which you consider walking away— She's been nothing but horrible to you even when you were at your most vulnerable, and you doubt she'd intervene in your favor if it was the other way around. But your feet move before you can second guess yourself, plucking a large plank of wood from a rubbish pile close to you and hitting the bigger of the men as hard as you can in the back of the head: You miss a little, hitting him in the back of the neck but he falls like a sack of bricks anyway, his skull cracking against the pavement. Tess is on the smaller guy before he can jump you, her knee pressing to his neck until he stops thrashing.

Tess doesn't thank you, but you can tell she looks at you differently after that, staring you in silence for long periods of time. When she calls you by your name rather than an insulting nickname for the first time, you're so stunned that she scoffs and walks away in the few seconds it takes you to respond.

"You should leave him." She tells you once, her eyes glued to the radio as she waits for the message from Frank. Joel's nowhere to be found, but you still feel his presence in the cramped apartment anyway as if his very essence loomed over your shoulder. "This is not healthy for either you."

"I would die without him." You mean it literally, too— Joel is your saving grace, the only person to offer you a hand and keep you warm and fed in this horrifying world.

"That's exactly why you should go." She says. "No man should own your soul like that."

You wonder if she's speaking from experience, and you wonder if it has anything to do with Joel but How Can You Mend a Broken Heart by the Bee Gees starts playing on the radio and then Tess is shuffling through the song book like a madwoman.

"80s?" You ask, worrying your bottom lip. You have yet to meet Bill and Frank, but you know how much they mean to Joel— Even if he would rather die than admit to it.

Tess shakes her head in denial, and the relief in face is clear as day. "1971. They got new supplies coming in."

"Do you think they'll have any yarn? Joel needs new socks."

"You deserve better than this." Disappointment washes over her face. "Better than a man that is using you to replace his dead daughter."

She's wrong and you know it; Joel doesn't treat you like your father ever did, there's nothing paternal about his touches and there is no replacing Sarah. But you'd be lying if you said you never envied her for having Joel as a father, even if she is dead now; the guilt you feel must show on your face because Tess' nose wrinkles.

"Or maybe you do. Maybe the two of you deserve each other."

The tone she uses is somehow more offensive than any petname she's ever used before. But the idea of belonging so deeply to Joel that even Tess can see it warms your inside so comfortably you can't find it in yourself to be offended by the implications of her words.

The first and only time Joel comes inside of you, you've been living with him for well over a year. It's been five months since the two of you shared your first kiss, and while you've both been using your mouths and hands on each other ever since, Joel's been hesitant to be inside of you— Pulling out is risky, and condoms expired for over two decades are probably even worse, so he pushes the idea away, making you come three or four times with his mouth until you're so exhausted you stop begging him to fuck you properly.

You're already two orgasms in, sprawled nude and sweaty on the bed while Joel fucks you slowly with his fingers. He bites and sucks at your neck, a collection of bruises of varying degrees of healing peppered all over your skin. Joel pulls his fingers away from you, rubbing his cock against your cunt.

"I'm going to put just the tip." He says, his voice just a little stern as if he's scolding you before you can even misbehave.

"Yes, daddy." You nod and, although you want to beg him to just fuck you already, you're afraid he might change his mind if you seem too eager.

Joel pulls back, leaning on his haunches, pushing your knee to the side. Your legs fall open and you push yourself on your elbow, wanting to see just exactly what he's going to do— Joel is a sight to behold, his chest flush and his breathing deep, his heavy cock gripped tight in his hand. You'd been intimidated by it at first, long and impossibly thick, but Joel has fucked your mouth so many times by now that you are certain you'd be able to take him anywhere he wanted. He presses the head of his cock against your clit and you moan as it slides to the side, coated in your slick.

"She's always cryin' for her daddy." He chuckles and you clench around nothing, his rough voice hitting you deep inside. "Winkin' at me like that, begging for my cock."

"Just for you." You say, so wet you can feel it sliding down to your ass. "Want you so bad it hurts."

Joel brushes his cock against your entrance, teasing, not yet pushing inside. " 'S okay, babygirl. 'M gon' make the pain go away."

The first stretch as he pushes the fat head inside is almost too painful, your head falling back as you mewl but Joel doesn't let you go very far, the hand not holding himself steady flying to your hair, pulling you up just enough so you can see where he disappears inside of you.

"Look at ya." He commands, thighs shaking from the effort of staying still. "Stretchin' so pretty around daddy's cock."

Joel rolls his hips, pushing just another inch inside before he pulls out, a string of your slick connecting the tip of his cock to your entrance. You clench, fingers digging into the mattress to stop yourself from seeking his hips with yours. He's just as wrecked as you feel, breathing deeply before he pushes inside of you again, just a little bit further this time, but still not nearly enough. You keen and give in, planting your feet on the bed to rock against him— His cock slides halfway in before his hand pushes you back on the bed by the hip. The two of you groan in unison, both from the touch and then the abrupt lack of it. His hand comes down onto your clit, slapping it so hard you almost scream, eyes rolling to the back of its sockets.

"Oh, you like that, naughty girl?" Joel asks, and then he gives your cunt another slap. He hums when you wail, sounding almost curious about this new thing the both of you have just discovered. "If you try that again, we're done for tonight, y'hear me? You'll take what I give you or nothin' at all."

You nod, eager, wanting nothing more than for him to be inside of you again. Joel gives your clit yet another slap and the sting makes your skin warm all over.

"Yes, daddy. I'll be good." You say as he rubs soothing circles to your sensitive clit. Joel brings his cock back to you, sliding in much easier than before; he fucks you slowly, no more than just a couple of inches— Just enough to drive you crazy, your entire body set aflame at the touch that is oh-so-pleasurable but still not enough. You hold your body taut, biting down on your bottom lip to keep yourself from pushing back against him.

"Fuck, she's stranglin' me, babygirl. Never seen a pussy so tight—" Joel grunts, his body flushed red from his thick neck down to his navel, sweat dampening the hairs on his chest. "She's just suckin' me right in, isn't she?"

"She needs you." You bring a hand to your mouth, shoving two fingers between your lips and wetting them before you slide your spit-slicked fingers to your chest, rolling your nipples between them. Joel groans at the sight, loosing control of his hips just long enough to push a third of his cock inside of you. "Please daddy, it's not enough. I need to feel you deep inside of me."

You can see the moment his resolve cracks. He hikes your legs closer to his hips and then slams his entire length inside of you— It makes you wail, your mouth falling open and your back arching. Joel topples over your, pushing his index and middle finger inside of your open mouth much like you'd done just moments before. You wrap your lips around his thick fingers, humming as he shoves them as far as he can; you've learned how to control your gag reflex in the past couple of months, Joel's cock big enough to slide down your throat with a single thrust, but the way his fingers push down onto your tongue make your throat close tight.

"Suck on 'em." He orders, hips pulling back until his cock is almost entirely out before plunging back in. "I wanna see you choke on your daddy's fingers while his big cock fucks you open."

You do as he says, mainly because there isn't much else you can do other than take his commands, giving his digits the same treatment as you would his cock, licking and sucking and taking them as deep as you can. Joel's cock hits the same spot inside of you again and again and you can feel him everywhere; you moan around his fingers until he seems to take pity on you, pulling his hand away from your mouth. He shifts positions, kneeling in front of you and hiking your hips on his thighs; you only miss the weight of his body on top of yours for a second, because then Joel is pushing your knees up to your chest and the new position make you even tighter, the pressure making it seem as if his cock has doubled in size. Joel also changes the pace of his thrusts, going slower now and yet somehow even deeper, making you feel every inch of him.

"I'm gonna come." You say, the pressure building fast.

"No you won't." You blink at him, disoriented by his words. Joel pulls back, slapping your clit just as he plunges back inside. "You're goin' to be my good girl and you won't come until I let ya."

"I can't—" You say, the words cut off by the power of his thrusts. "I don't know how—"

"Yes you do." Joel hums, and he sounds almost mean as he slaps your cunt again. "Fuck, she chokes down my cock when I do that. Sweetest. Fuckin'. Pussy."

The last three words are punctuated by slap after slap, the moans falling out of your mouth becoming more and more desperate; you weren't lying, you don't know how to stop yourself from coming but you do the best you can, trying to focus on the mold spots on the ceiling or the chipped paint near the window or anything that isn't Joel's cock pushing time and time again against that perfect spot inside of you.

"Please let me come." You beg, tears pooling on the corner of your eyes and trickling down to your temples. "I can't hold it in, daddy, please. Please please please, I can't—"

Joel pinches your overstimulated clit and you gush around him, body locking up as you come against your will. It makes you black out for a second, black spots dancing in front of your eyes but Joel isn't done. He slaps your tit this time, the flesh jiggling both from the slap and the power of his thrusts.

"Such a bad girl." He grits out, slapping your breast again but he doesn't sound angry at all. "Should punish you for that. Ground you 'n' everythin'. Gotta learn to listen to your daddy."

"I'll take it." You say, gasping for air. You blink at him, the tears still blurring your eyesight. "Whatever it is, daddy, I'll take it. Anything for you."

"Maybe I'll fuck that pretty lil' ass of yours next." Joel threatens, and you clench around him. "Or maybe I'll spank you so raw you won't be able to sit. Use a belt to make sure your not comin' from my slappin' you. Naughty lil' thing, bet'cha like that, huh?"

Your heart jumps to your throat at the mention of the belt, a thousand different memories — bad, terrifying memories — of your own father and his leather belt jump to mind and your eyes well with real, uncontrollable tears.

"Anything for you." You parrot yourself, your eyes locking with the place where Joel clutched to your thighs as if you were his lifeline. "I'm yours, daddy. Anything you want, I'll take it. I'm yours, I'm yours, I'm—"

Joel's thrusts become more erratic, fast and deep and not calculated as they'd been before. He comes deep inside of you, toppling to moan against the crook of your neck, his thighs flush with your ass. It's never ending, his sloppy thrusts slowing down but not stopping as he comes and comes and comes until you feel so full to pushes into your bladder.

"Mine." He says, his voice full of wonder as his aquiline nose traces your jawline. "My precious lil' girl."

It's not an 'I love you', but you're fairly certain it's the closest you'll ever get to one.

You've been nauseated for about three weeks straight by the time Robert steals Joel and Tess' battery. Joel's been toying with the idea of leaving the QZ for good for several months now, quietly planning your escape in the late nights were sleep evades him, trading the pills and the alcohol for something ever more addictive: Hope.

You're sitting cross legged on the bed, a worn copy of a James Patterson book on your lap as Joel cleans the injuries on Tess' face. You'd been jealous of their relationship at first, unsure if they were just smuggling partners or something more but Joel never looked at Tess the way he did you, never touched her with the tenderness he did you. You forget all about the adventure Alex Cross is going through on the pages in front of you as you watch them plan their — your — escape route, the dangerous plan of going after Robert and taking back what is rightfully theirs.

"We'll be back before sundown." Joel tells you, and then he waits for Tess to leave the apartment before he leans in for a kiss. "Get our bags ready, we leave tonight."

You nod, already missing his touch by the time he crosses the threshold after his partner.

It's pouring rain outside by the time they come back, and you've spent most of the day pacing around the cramped apartment. Your backpacks are ready to go, everything of value stuffed inside of it, but you keep checking and rechecking all of the nooks and crannies of the apartment, making sure you've taken everything out of every secret compartment that Joel has hidden around the place. You had been scared the first time Joel brought up the idea of crossing the country after his brother, terrified really, but you'd rather face the monsters — both human and not — outside of the QZ than stay behind without him.

In the months after that, the idea has grown on you, and now you can't wait to see what it is outside; you've seen the top of skyscrapers from the roof of some of the taller buildings inside the walls, and you've heard all of the tales, but seeing it with your own eyes seems like the most exciting thing to ever happen in your sad life.

Joel looks exhausted by the time he comes back, wet from the rain with Tess and a young girl in tow. You frown at her, and she reciprocates the gesture.

"Who are you?" You ask.

"Who are you?" She retorts, dropping her sopping backpack on the ground.

"Joel's wife." You don't even hesitate, the words you've been mulling inside of your head for weeks now falling naturally from your lips. Out of the corner of your eye you see Joel freeze, and Tess' head snaps towards you so harshly you think she might break her neck.

The girl squints. "Aren't you a little yo—"

"We had a change of plans." Joel interrupts the girl, dropping down heavily onto the couch. "Robert fucked us over, his battery was no good. Tess and I are takin' the girl to the Fireflies, and then we'll come back to get you."

"You don't smuggle people." You say, your heart dropping down to your stomach. Joel's able to get in and out of the QZ with relative ease because of the goods he brings for the soldiers, but smuggling a person — a child — out of the zone isn't something the soldier will easily turn a blind eye to.

"We do now." Tess is the one that replies. She exchanges a heavy look with Joel before sneaking out of the apartment, the door slamming in her wake.

"Joel." You say, sitting next to him. You see the girl look at you wearily before she starts roaming around the room, her fingers touching every little thing she could. "This isn't right. What do the Fireflies want with a child?"

"She's some bigwig's daughter or somethin'. Marlene is desperate, she's givin' us all we need to get to Wyoming."

"What's in Wyoming?" The girl asks.

"None of your business." Joel grits out, though his face remains turned to you. "It's too dangerous to take you with me but if Marlene does good on her promise, we're set, baby."

"And if she doesn't?"

"Then I'll come back home and we'll try again." He promises. "The girl is just another cargo, this is the same run I always do. The payout's just a hundred times' better."

You bite the corner of your thumb. This feels too reminiscent of your father's last smuggle run, a goodbye that doesn't seem final but feels like it— Like there's more, like Joel isn't telling you everything or perhaps making things seem less dangerous than they are. You nod, eventually, stomach still in knots.

Joel looks like he wants to reach for you, but one look at the girl makes him retreat; she's not even pretending not to stare, curled on the reclining chair and looking intently at the two of you.

"I'll talk to Abe. He knows how to contact Tommy— If I'm not back in ten days you're goin' to head to Abe's and tell him I sent ya. Hey, kid— Listen to me, this is important."

You nod, trying to focus on what he's saying. He watches you for a moment, making sure he has all of your attention before continuing: "If I'm not back in ten days, you're going to send a message to Tommy and tell him to meet you in Lincoln."

"Joel, how the fuck am I supposed to get to Lincoln on my own?"

"You're goin' to play an 80s song on the radio, and then you'll leave it playin' as you leave. Bill is goin' to meet you halfway there but you need to get out of the city first." He pulls your chin towards him, holding your face so he can look you in the eyes. "You have to get out of the city as fast as you can, y'hear me? You're goin' to follow the path on the map I'ma leave with you, and you're goin' to meet up with Bill. He's gon' keep you until Tommy gets there."

"You've never walked me through a contingency plan like this before, Joel." You try to blink the tears away. "If this is just like any other run, then I don't need this."

"Well, you never called yourself m'wife before, now have you?" Despite the call out, Joel has a small grin on his lips. You feel your face heat up with embarrassment, and you shrug.

"Tess calls me your housewife all the time."

Joel drops his hand, his eyes darting towards the young girl in the room as if he's just recalled her presence. "This is all hypothetical. This run is more dangerous than others, but I've survived worst. I been meanin' to tell you all'a this for a while now. Ain't gon' leave you on your own like your dad did."

Joel leaves an annotated map on the kitchen table— The same one he's been doodling over ever since he heard Tommy was in Wyoming, with escape routes from Boston and the safest and quickest ways to get to Tommy, the margins filled with extensive notes about the unsafe routes and places to avoid in the city; things are numbered and signed and there's a whole paragraph of symbols and codes Joel's come up with, the sort of detailed attention that means he's been working on this for far longer than you've noticed.

"How do I sneak out of the QZ?" You ask, staring at the map as if it's a bomb.

"James."

"The Jesus freak?" You frown. James lives a few doors down from you, a creepy-looking blond man that often has a bible in his hands and a superiority complex that makes you want to barf.

"He's cheap, and he knows his way 'round the place. There are two guns underneath the fourth floorboard by the wardrobe, you'll trade him one and keep one to yourself."

"Hypothetically."

"Yes, darlin'. Hypothetically. Only if I don't come back."

"You'll be here in ten days, won't you?"

"I will. Maybe even sooner than that." Joel promises again, holding your gaze steady. Still, you don't believe him. "I'll be here with a truckload of supplies, and then we'll skip town together."

They leave not long after that, a few hours short of sun up by the time Tess comes back with her pack and a clear exit for the three of them. Joel doesn't give you a prolonged goodbye, simply squeezing your waist and kissing the top of your head like he always does, but the terrible gut feeling that this run is unlike the others doesn't leave with him— If anything, it only seems to worsen in the dark, empty apartment.

You cry yourself to sleep and, distracted by your own anguish and the loud sound of your sobbing, you don't hear the song coming from Tess' radio.

The ten days are an absolute nightmare. You're sick most of the time, sleeping when you're not puking and crying when you're not sleeping or puking— It is Amelia, the young woman that manages the food bank closes to your apartment that brings up the possibility of you being pregnant; she catches you retching one morning outside of her food stall after a particularly strong waft of freshly baked bread, connecting the dots even before you can properly explain your symptoms; you have no proper way of confirming her hypothesis, not unless you want to go to a FEDRA-appointed doctor and alert them to your condition, so Amelia takes you into the backroom of her stall and offers you two different options: A ginger root for morning sickness, or a mugwort and pennyroyal concoction to make your problem go away.

You take the ginger root with shaking fingers, and Amelia simply holds you in silence while you cry.

When the ten days come and go with no sign of Joel, the dread settles so heavy it keeps you awake all night, and not even the bone-deep tiredness you've been feeling can make you get a wink of sleep. You give him some wiggle room, however, deciding to wait just a little longer before you contact Tommy— Joel is coming home any day, you're certain of it, and you'd feel silly to make a fuss just for him to walk through the door safe and sound. So you cry, and you vomit and you don't sleep and you wait.

For all of the despair you felt when you father went missing, you discover now that you never worried much about his safety— You worried that if he wasn't safe you wouldn't be as well, but it takes Joel leaving for you to understand the difference between worrying about someone to worrying about what will happen to you now that they're gone. A thousand different scenarios play through your head, from raiders to slavers to infected hoards to the fact that, maybe, he had simply left you behind: You're not certain which one hurts more, the idea of him being dead somewhere or the idea of him being alive without you.

You hold out hope for as long as you can but, by the fifteenth day, you know you can't pretend nothing happened anymore. You go to Abe early one morning, when the line is just starting to form and tells him exactly as you were instructed to: That you are Joel Miller's wife — which raises eyebrows from everyone in the room — and that you need his help. You give the codeword for Bill and Frank's home, and your estimated arrival there and, by the time Abe is done scribbling all of it down, you feel a little better about yourself; it's scary, and dangerous, but you've lived through scary and dangerous your entire life— And perhaps you haven't faced the outside before, but you've lived in a free-for-all war zone ever since you were a kid.

James isn't an easy man to find, but eventually you manage to track him down to an old building that is being used as a chapel— It's an old coffee shop that's been cleared out at some point, a few mismatching chairs stacked neatly in small rows. James gives you a warm smile when you walk in, your backpack clutched tightly to your chest, but it's visible that he doesn't recognize you.

"Joel sent me." You tell him. "Miller."

The smile slides off of James' face, and he takes a moment to regain his bearings; and despite being used to bad reactions when it comes to dropping Joel's name, the clear dislike on the man's face only increases your worries. James takes you to a backroom behind the church that he's assembled into something that might pass for an office, arms crossed over his chest— He's tall and lanky, non-threatening for most people but there's something about him that keeps you on your toes.

"I need out of the QZ." You explain, plucking the handgun from your backpack before offering it to him. "Joel said you'd help me in exchange of this."

The man squints, but eventually takes the weapon from you, carefully examining it before he puts it on top of the worn Bible on his desk. "Where are you headed?"

"Wyoming." The word slips out, and you wince, unsure if you're supposed to tell him or not— Joel certainly wouldn't have shared anything more than strictly necessary. "That's none of your concern, though. I just need your help to get past the soldiers."

"I got family on the Wyoming border, I've been meaning to head there. What part of Wyoming are you going?"

"I don't have anything else to pay you for chaperoning me. I can get there on my own, I just—"

"I just said I'm headed there anyways." James smiles, his fingers interlaced in front of him. "Do you know how to shoot? It's a rough path, I could use someone to help me."

You hesitate for a long moment, but James doesn't seem to be in any rush. You don't trust him, not one bit, but your mind goes back to the life you might be carrying, to the fact that you had no guarantee that either Tommy or Bill would get your message or even believe you at all; you had someone else to think about now, the fragile little thing you had growing inside of you— You still had no proof you were pregnant, but you knew it to be true. Could feel it deep in your soul, as if your body had been warning you about it before your brain caught up to the possibility of it.

You pluck Joel's map from your backpack, pointing it to the general area Tommy is. "I need to go here. Somewhere."

James hums, and nods. "My community is in Colorado, but it's close enough to that area. A couple of weeks on foot, less if we can get a car."

"Why are you so far away from home?"

He taps two fingers on the Bible. "Spreading the Lord's words."

You have to bite your tongue to keep yourself from snorting. "I don't believe you when you say you don't want anything from me. Nobody does anything without payment."

"The Lord teaches us to be selfless, and help those in need. A young woman like you, crossing the country by yourself? You'll die before you cross state lines."

"Your community. Where is it?"

"Here." James points to the map. "It is close enough to the place you're going, Joel might even be at Silver Lake rather than Wyoming by this point. We're a very welcoming bunch."

You open your mouth to say you're not after Joel, but decide against it; James doesn't need to know why you're going and, maybe if he's scared enough of Joel, he might think twice before bringing you any sort of harm.

"Alright." You say, shoving the map back into your backpack. "Take me to Silver Lake, then."

The punk kids who always paid with change, for instance. You guessed they were in love with each other but scared to admit it. And the girls who liked milkshakes and wrote lyrics on their napkins – they were an up-and-coming rap duo, about to get big. The tall guys who came in hungry and filled up the corner booth? They had to be second-stringers for the Oakland A’s.

And then there was him. The handsome father. He came by every day at 2:15, right at the start of your shift. Silvering hair, scar on his cheek, and those dark, sad eyes. You knew there was a story behind them.

He only ever ordered a black coffee for himself, and a sliced-up banana for the baby. He always said thank you. You liked those thank yous. His voice was full, and it sounded kind, but you tried not to notice. And you tried not to notice the slant of his shoulders, or his big, thick hands, because the left one always wore a silver ring.

Handsome Guy was married. Of course he was.

“You can still daydream, though. It’s not cheating if it’s in your imagination.”

This advice came from your shift-mate. Casey was a decade younger than you, but you were in the same year at Mill College. She never made you feel behind for it, and she’d gotten you the job at the diner. During the lulls, the two of you did problem sets together.

At the moment, there wasn’t much homework getting done. Handsome Guy had just pulled up, and Casey was craning over the counter to stare at him through the window.

“He’s in his leather jacket today,” she said. “Somebody should outlaw that thing. And he drives some kind of blue vintage Chevy.” She wiggled her eyebrows at you. “The seats in those cars go all the way back.”

Your brain conjured an image of your legs on either side of Handsome’s hips, those big hands of his on your waist. Your skin grew warm.

“Stop putting impure thoughts in my head. We have a whole shift to get through.”

Casey grinned. “I’m not allowed to notice a customer’s car? What’s so impure about that?”

You busied yourself putting on a fresh pot of coffee. Handsome never complained, but you didn’t want to charge him for boiled-down sludge. The bell over the door tinkled, and Casey let out a sigh.

“Damn,” she said. “Have you seen his butt? Why can’t he sit in my section, just one time?”

“You really want one of your four-tops taken up by a banana and a coffee? Twenty-five percent of $5.50 is, like, a dollar.”

“He tips twenty-five percent? My friend. Homewreck him.”

“Yeah, that’ll end well.”

“When it all goes down in flames, it’ll be a good distraction from finals.”

You felt a twinge of panic. Finals only mattered if you could scrape together the spring semester’s tuition.

“Funny,” you managed.

You dodged Casey’s eye. She was strapped for cash too, but it wasn’t the same. Her parents would cover her if she came up short. 

You retrieved the highchair from the back room and made for Handsome’s table. He always sat in the same booth by the window. His daughter had big, curious eyes, and she gurgled as you came near, wrapping her tiny hand around one of Handsome’s fingers.

You bit back a smile and set up the highchair. Handsome glanced up at you, and something in his gaze softened.

“Thank you,” he said.

You liked the slow way he had of talking. It felt like all of his attention was here, like he never skipped over one thought to try and reach the next.

“No problem,” you said. “Coffee?”

He nodded. “Thanks.”

“It’s brewing. And the banana?”

“Yeah. Thanks.”

“Anything else?”

He always said no, but today he hesitated.

“How come don’t you wear a name tag?” he asked.

What?

“Oh,” you said. “I always forget it. And it’s not like the food tastes any different if you know my name.”

Handsome moved his head, not exactly a yes or a no. He didn’t say anything. Was he asking for your name? Why did he want to know?

He was such a solid man, and up close, it was hard to keep your thoughts in a line. Those eyes of his were too damn warm.

Maybe he was waiting for you to leave. You’d been lingering for way too long, hadn’t you?

You tucked your pen behind your ear.

“I should go get your coffee.”

“Okay,” he said. “Thank –”

“Thank me? You said that already.”

The comment fell out before you could stop it, and you cursed yourself for breaking your customer service mask. Whatever ideas you had about Handsome, they were just that – ideas. He always paid in cash, so you didn’t even know his name, let alone whether he’d share your sense of humor. Chances were he’d decide you were a bitch, and you’d lose your measly $1.10 in tips.

But Handsome didn’t seem to mind. Something playful spread across his face, an expression you’d never seen him wear before.

“Okay,” he said. “I take it back.”

“You what?”

“I take it back. No thank you for you.”

You failed to hold back a surprised grin.

“Ungrateful bastard.”

Handsome lifted an eyebrow. “You talk like that to all of your customers?”

Was he… flirting with you?

You glanced at his hand before you could think better of it. Still married.

Handsome followed your eyes, and his body went rigid. He moved his left hand to his lap and stared at the table.

It wasn’t your problem that he was married. You weren’t going to let yourself feel bad for clocking him, no matter how ashamed he looked at getting caught.

So what if he was hot? The man couldn’t even cut up a banana on his own.

“Coffee will be right out,” you said.

Handsome nodded at the table, and you made for the counter. Casey’s eyebrows were in the sky by the time you got back.

“Don’t look now, but Hot Dad totally watched you walk away,” she said. “What the hell did you say to him?”

“Nothing,” you said.

You glanced up at Handsome. Your eyes met, and his gaze dropped to his phone. He chewed his lip as he typed, like he was guilty about something. Probably texting his wife.

You sighed. You knew it wasn’t that big of a deal – plenty of married guys flirted, and there was nothing necessarily wrong with checking out other women. It wasn’t like Handsome had asked for your number. A few years ago, you would have shrugged all this off.

A few years ago, you hadn’t realized just how many guys were cheaters. You’d liked Handsome more when he was a fantasy, when you could tell yourself he was better than the rest of them.

You untied your apron.

“I’m going to take my fifteen.”

Casey’s brow furrowed.

“Really? We just started.”

“Yeah, I need a minute. Mind covering my table? It’s just the banana and coffee. He takes it black, usually one refill.”

“You don’t have to ask me twice.”

You thanked Casey, grabbed your cigarettes from the break room, and lit up outside. The buzz of nicotine woke you up, and you scolded yourself for taking your break so soon. The evening rush was terrible on Fridays, and now you’d have to marathon through it.

Your phone vibrated in your pocket. A notification from Illicit.

As escort services went, Illicit was bare bones. They didn’t run background checks on their clients. They didn’t schedule your meetups for you. But the cut they took was tiny, and at least they logged the locations of your dates.

You’d signed up as a last resort a few months ago, when a perfect storm of rent increase, car repairs, and an ER bill had cleaned through what little you had set aside for tuition. There was nobody you could have asked for help – you’d followed your ex out to California, and he was long gone now, living with the girl he’d said you were crazy for worrying about.

Stop. You didn’t need to be thinking about him today. The whole thing with Handsome had just gotten under your skin.

The message was from a new client, a guy who’d been reaching out on and off for weeks, without ever scheduling a date. For the last few days, he’d been radio silent. You’d thought he’d changed his mind.

Maybe something had changed it back, because a green check mark had appeared beside the guy’s name. He’d put money into his Illicit account. You clicked on the message.

Clint: I know it’s been a while, but I still want to meet you. Have you got any time tonight?

Clint: 10:00? For two hours?

You hesitated. Your shift ended right at ten.

Clint: I’ll pay double. If we don’t do tonight, I’m going to chicken out again.

Double pay. You couldn’t turn it down. Even if Clint wanted something awful in exchange, it probably wouldn’t be twice as bad as the average.

Angel: Ok. If 11 works, I can make it.

It had been impossible to choose the perfect call girl name, so you’d let the alphabet decide. Angel hadn’t been a bad pick, in the end. It seemed to send the right message.

Clint took a moment to respond.

You knew what was coming. The haggling. Some guys were open about it – asking to pay half now and half later, like you’d try harder if you had to earn it. That wasn’t too common. Most of the time, the men would just ask you to remind them the price, like it wasn’t listed clearly on your profile.

You never backed down, but you hated the implicit challenge – that you couldn’t be really worth what you charged.

Your phone buzzed again.

Clint F. sent you $500.00 – “11 it is.”

Well, fuck. He’d even tipped double – 25% of double.

Clint: Did you get it?

Angel: I did. Thanks. Not a lot of clients pay up front, and I hate having to chase them down about it.

Clint: I get it.

Clint: Is the tip good?

Angel: You’re good. Thank you.

Clint: You said that already.

Clint: I’ll send over my address. I’m near Lake Merritt. I can pick you up from the BART station there.

Illicit only tracked home addresses. Your gut said you could trust Clint, but that wasn’t enough to get you into his car. If your fantasies about Handsome were any sign, you weren’t exactly the best judge of character.

Besides, you didn’t live far from the lake. You’d probably be able to walk.

Angel: That’s okay. I’ll come to you.

Your phone buzzed again, and you checked the address. Sure enough, you and Clint were neighbors. Go figure.

You took a final, long drag of your cigarette. Five hundred dollars, and a client who seemed kind of decent. There had to be some sort of catch.

It was already 10:15 by the time you got back to your studio, and by then you reeked of fry oil. You turned up the shower to scalding and got to work scrubbing away the smell.

When you went out as Angel, you didn’t use your normal shampoo and conditioner. Everything she wore was scented like roses. All you had to do was inhale, and you’d feel like somebody else.

You needed the reminder. Angel was sexy in a way that you weren’t. She was nice. She never forgot to moisturize, and she was always freshly waxed. When she put on lingerie, she didn’t stare at herself in the mirror, finding all the places it dug in too tight and gapped too loose.

It didn’t come easily to you. You’d never really thought of yourself as sexy, or even especially beautiful. Not that you were ugly – with a little bit of effort, and the right makeup, you could make yourself pretty enough. But every girl could do that. You weren’t anything special.

When you first signed up for Illicit, you’d actually thought it would make you more confident. Your body was a commodity. It had to be valuable. But to most of your clients, all women’s bodies were commodities. You felt wanted sometimes, sure, but never desired.

You reached for the rose shampoo.

It was empty. Damn it.

You couldn’t wear mismatched scents – it would drive you crazy. You’d have to use only the everyday stuff. Citrus wasn’t as sexy, but maybe you’d get lucky and Clint would have a tangerine fetish.

You put the empty bottle back – you’d remember to chuck it tomorrow, really – and finished washing up.

It was always chaos getting ready in your studio. The room was tiny, and you’d never really set it up well. You knew you had it in you. You’d kept a good home when you were married. Maybe it was this place – this dark little go-between. It just didn’t feel like home.

Your dresser was jammed up against your bed, and it did double duty as a desk. You found your blow dryer on top of it, the cord half-buried by a stack of lecture notes. You worked it free, then sifted through your lingerie drawer.

Nothing extreme tonight. Exhausted as you were, you wouldn’t have the confidence to pull off a corset. You slid on mesh panties and a matching balconette. The bra was minimal enough to be comfortable, even if it didn’t push your cleavage up in the way your clients liked.

Hair and makeup was next – nothing heavy, the kind of “good girl” look that a man would expect from somebody named Angel.

10:46. You had a little bit of time. Clint had shelled out five hundred dollars. Maybe he deserved the fantasy.

You wriggled into a garter belt and a dark set of thigh-highs. The belt dug into your stomach, and the stockings got runs so fast that you hated wearing them, but they helped you feel a bit more like Angel.

Better. You kept the rest simple. It wouldn’t be on for long. Little black dress with a low-cut neck, and tall, heeled boots.

You looked too obviously like a hooker to walk around like this. You pulled your go-to coverup from your closet – a giant canvas coat, the one your ex had left behind – and threw it on over the dress.

In two and a half hours, you could go back to being you.

Walking up to a date was the part you hated most, and tonight was no exception. What if Clint had friends over? What if he hadn’t read the hard limits section of your profile?

You distracted yourself by studying Clint’s house. It was a two-story Victorian, but according to his instructions, he only lived downstairs. An old blue car sat in the driveway, and you were reminded for a moment of Handsome.

God, this had been a long day.

You stepped onto the porch and checked the time. 11:08. You set a two-hour timer and took off your coat. You rearranged your face into Angel’s. Then you knocked on the door.

It opened at once, and a ringing sound filled your ears.

Handsome stood on the other side.

What?

What was going on? Did you have the wrong house?

Handsome met your eyes, and his face went slack.

Some part of your brain noticed that he looked especially good tonight, in a tight dark sweater that stretched around his chest and arms. His hair was combed back, and he’d done something to his beard to make it all point the same way.

He was dressed up for something. No. Wait. Was he dressed up for you?

Were you the something?

Handsome looked from your face to your dress, and quickly back.

“Angel?” he said. “Are you… are you Angel?”

That voice didn’t belong here. It shouldn’t be saying that name. Static crawled up beneath your skin.

Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck. He’d messaged you while he was still in the diner, hadn’t he? How had he known who you were?

“You are,” he said. “Aren’t you? You’re her?”

Handsome’s eyes were wide. He took a step back, and for a moment he looked as horrified as you were.

The realization cut through to quiet your panic. If Handsome had planned this, he sure wasn’t acting like it. Your pulse began to slow, and you found your voice.

“You didn’t know?”

Handsome gave you an incredulous look.

“Does it seem like I knew?”

It didn’t. It really didn’t. Maybe he was lying, but you remembered how bad he’d been at hiding his ring in the diner. He didn’t seem the type to pull it off. You took in a deep breath. This wasn’t a trick. It was only a bizarre coincidence. You could deal with that.

“I don’t understand,” he said. “How did this happen? How are you her?”

Something about his spiral put you at ease. Clint, if that really was his name, didn’t have the upper hand. That meant it was up for grabs. You got to decide what happened next.

You looked into Clint’s eyes, and finally got a handle on what was happening. Clint was Handsome, and Handsome was a dick. He’d invited a call girl over so he could cheat on his wife. What had he said? It had to happen tonight? Was she out of town or something?

It didn’t really matter. Maybe you could care that Handsome was married, but you’d come here tonight to be Angel. Angel didn’t get to care that Clint was married.

“Everything is going to be fine,” you said. “I’ll never say a word about this. And if you don’t want to see me again, just get your coffee an hour earlier. I don’t clock in until 2.”

Clint nodded slowly. Some of the wildness faded from his eyes, and you thought you saw sorrow there again.

“You know what time I come in?”

“Clint. You come in almost every day, and you have the silliest order of all time. Do you not have coffee and bananas at home? Of course I remember you.”

You were mouthing off way too much – more than Angel would have – but the line was too blurry, and your blood was too hot. You couldn’t think straight if you were also trying to behave.

At least Clint seemed to have a thick skin. The edge of his mouth pulled upward.

“Fair enough,” he said.

He didn’t interrupt further, and you took another breath.

“So you and I are fine, moving forward. The only question left is what to do about tonight. I can go home, and Illicit can find you somebody else. They won’t refund your tip, but…” you had to say it. “But I can send you the extra $100, considering the circumstances.”

“Keep it,” he said. “It only seems fair. I put you out of work tonight, didn’t I?”

“Not necessarily,” you said.

Clint’s brow furrowed, and you hesitated for a moment. If you stopped talking now, you could accept his tip and head home early.

But another $400 sat on the table. You didn’t want to help Clint cheat, but if you left here tonight, that was two more meetups you’d have to do, and those guys wouldn’t be any better.

They definitely wouldn’t be better looking.

No. You couldn’t think like that. This was a job. This wasn’t a chance to get with Handsome. The guy you’d imagined didn’t exist.

“This isn’t what I expected,” you said. “But I don’t actually think it’s a big deal. Yes, we know each other, but not particularly well, and what happens here tonight will stay here. If you want to go through with our original plan, I’m fine with that, too.”

“You are?”

“I am. I’d actually prefer it.”

Clint fell quiet. He braced himself on the doorway and studied your face.

A strange feeling stirred inside your stomach. Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea. Clint was too good-looking. His face was too honest. When you looked back at him, it was hard not to only see Handsome.

Clint took a breath, and for the first time since his panicked once-over, his eyes dipped below your neck. He took in your exposed cleavage, and became very still. His gaze lingered on your hips, where the slinky fabric held close to your curves. His eyes found the bare skin of your thighs, and he made a soft noise. His throat bobbed.

Heat burned beneath your skin. He was such a big man. He’d always seemed so stoic in the diner. But here, tonight, he made no effort to hide all the ways he was affected.

“Okay,” he said quietly. He was still looking at your thighs.

It was hard to breathe when he looked at you like that.

“Okay,” he said again.

He tore his eyes back to your face and seemed to come back to himself.

“Want to come inside?”

You nodded. You were going inside with Handsome, and he still hadn’t taken off his wedding ring. Did that make this more or less fucked up?

He held open the door for you, and he let out a little huff of breath as you stepped in front of him. You could practically feel the weight of his gaze on your ass.

If you had any doubt left that Clint was married, his apartment erased it. The entryway led to an airy living room. A vintage table stood to your left, with brightly colored, mismatched chairs tucked around it. To your right, you found a long, leather sectional, decorated with a big throw made of granny squares. A wind chime dangled in the bay window, and in the lamplight you saw that the curtains around it were pink.

These decorations had not been chosen by a giant, scarred man who only ever drank black coffee. They’d been picked by the wife he was about to cheat on. It was hard not to be angry, especially when you saw signs of neglect around the place. The plants beneath the wind chime drooped yellow with overwatering, and dust had piled up around the moldings and windowsills, in all those hard-to-reach places that men never seemed to notice.

The door closed behind you. Clint held out his hand.

“Let me take your coat.”

You handed it over numbly.

There were a few rectangular patches on the walls where the paint looked a little too bright, as if pictures usually hung there and slowed the color from fading.

Had Clint taken down all the photos of his wife before you got here? But then why had he left on his wedding band?

You felt Clint’s eyes on you. He said nothing, but his body was stiff like it had been in the diner, when you’d first drawn attention to his ring.

There was a bench across from the coat closet. You sat down and unzipped your heeled boots. You expected Clint to watch as you revealed your thigh-highs, but he only stared around the room. His hand closed into a fist, then opened.

You rose to your feet.

“Here? Or the bedroom?”

“Not the bedroom.”

“Okay, then.”

You took a seat on the leather couch. Clint stayed standing.

“I haven’t done this in a long time,” he said.

He opened and closed his hand again. You felt a pang inside your chest. You knew he was being a jerk, but he just didn’t seem like one. He seemed… afraid. Maybe a part of him didn’t want to go through with this.

“We don’t have to do anything,” you said. “You can still change your mind. You paid for my time, but we can spend it however you want.”

He nodded. He took a seat on the far end of the couch. He still couldn’t seem to look at you.

“I want to do this,” he said. “I know this is the right thing to do.”

You bit your lip. You could feel yourself about to mouth off again. Angel would keep quiet, but… you looked at the sad, wilted calathea in the windowsill. Fuck it.

“Is this the right thing to do? I don’t think cheating ever really is.”

Clint’s attention snapped to you.

“Cheating?”

You gestured to his hand.

“Wedding band.” You motioned to yourself. “Hooker. Cheating. Unless you guys are poly, or have some kind of don’t-ask-don’t-tell arrangement.”

“Oh,” was all Clint said.

He looked down at his wedding band and traced his thumb over the metal. His body seemed to shrink around itself.

“I’m not cheating on my wife,” he said. His voice shook, as if he didn’t quite believe the words. “She died last year. She was murdered.”

Those sad eyes of his. Oh. Fuck. You were such an idiot.

“Oh, fuck,” you said. “I’m such an idiot.”

Clint looked up at you in surprise, and your face burned. Now you were even more of an idiot.

You should say something better. There were things you were supposed to say when someone died, weren’t there? You were sorry for his loss?

You couldn’t say that. It felt completely soulless.

But Clint had wanted company tonight – he’d wanted it badly enough to pay double. You couldn’t fix his pain, but maybe he just needed you to see it.

“I knew there was something,” you said. “I see you every day at the diner, and I knew you were hurting. I’ve thought a hundred times about how I can make it better. And then I come in here and accuse you of cheating.”

Clint gave you a strange look.

“Today,” he said. “In the diner. You disappeared, and your friend took my table. You thought I was trying to step out on my wife?”

“Um. Yes. I’m sorry.”

Clint shook his head. “I should’ve said something earlier.”

“No,” you said. “I jumped to conclusions, and it was unprofessional. I owe you an apology for acting like such a dick.”

Clint made a sound in the shape of a laugh. “That wasn’t a very professional apology.”

“It wasn’t an apology at all, I guess. But I am sorry.”

“I know,” Clint said.

You gave him a small smile. He let out a sigh.

“This isn’t going too well so far,” he said. “Is it?”

You turned to sit facing him on the couch.

“I’m here for you,” you said. “You’re the one who decides what ‘going well’ means.”

“Okay,” he said. He slid his right hand through his left.

“It might’ve been a mistake,” he said. “Trying this.”

A suspicion formed inside your mind.

“Is this the first time you’ve… since…”

“Yeah.”

Oh, God. You never would have pushed to keep tonight’s date if you’d known. Was he just going through with this because he’d spent so much money?

“Do you… Is it too weird, that it’s me? If you really think this is a mistake, we should do the refund.”

“No,” he said. “I have to do this. I have to try. Something needs to change.”

“Okay,” you said. “I’ll stay.”

“Thank you.”

His eyes dropped to his hands, and quiet stretched between you. He didn’t move toward you on the couch.

Your instincts said not to rush him, but you only had so much time. He said he wanted to do this. Maybe you could help him remember why. 

“It might help if you start by telling me what you want out of tonight.”

Clint nodded at his hands.

“Alright,” he said. “I thought tonight could be a… first step. I have these moments sometimes, where I’ll get excited to… see somebody. And then it hits me, what I’m doing, that I’m excited about somebody besides Grace, and I just…”

He cut himself off. His mouth opened, but no words came out. He gestured toward his chest.

You felt an urge to wrap your arms around him, but he’d left a couch’s worth of space between you for a reason.  You stayed where you were.

“It might just be too soon,” you said. “It’s okay if you aren’t ready.”

“I need to be ready,” he said. He lifted his head, and you saw that his eyes were wet. He gestured again at his chest. “It needs to not be like this anymore. I need something good that doesn’t hurt. Even if I hate myself for wanting it.”

“Hey,” you said softly. “You’re not wrong for wanting to feel better.”

“You don’t know that.”

“But you do?” you said. “We’ll have to agree to disagree.”

You were being too glib. You regretted it at once, but Clint’s mouth twitched.

He was in there somewhere, a real person, buried by emotion. If you could draw him out, get him thinking about something else, maybe he could enjoy himself.

“So you want to feel good tonight,” you said. “Is there anything specific that you want to do with me?”

Clint’s gaze dropped to the stripe of thigh between your stockings and skirt. He looked at your mouth, then back to your eyes.

“I don’t know,” he said.

Sure, he didn’t.

“You don’t know? Or you know, but you feel too guilty to ask?”

He lifted an eyebrow. “You can be kind of blunt sometimes.”

Fuck.

“Sorry. I’m not big on half-truths. I usually do a better job of being polite.”

“I didn’t say you should be. But it’s surprising for somebody named Angel.”

You hesitated, and Clint’s eyes flickered with understanding.

“Your name isn’t really Angel, is it?”

You shook your head.

“You just told me you don’t like lying!”

A tiny, incredulous grin had appeared on Clint’s face. There he was.

“This isn’t a lie,” you said. “My name is Angel. Some of the time. Come on, you’re telling me your real name is Clint?”

He blinked. “Is it not supposed to be?”

“Wait really? Your name is Clint?”

“You thought I made it up?”

“Of course I did! Guys always pick the most macho, Old Hollywood names they can think of. Rock, Leroy, Rebel… Titan.”

“You’re lying about Titan.”

“I really wish I was.”

Clint chuckled, and you found yourself smiling. He was gorgeous when he laughed.

“Sorry,” you said. “It’s not good form to talk to you about other clients.”

“I don’t want good form,” he said.

“There you go. Telling me what you want. What else?”

He paused for a moment. “What would you do if you were on a date with one of those other guys right now?”

Most other guys got right down to the main event, but you didn’t think Clint was ready for that.

“Um. Probably a blowjob?”

Clint’s eyes snapped to your lips.

“Yeah?” he said quietly. “You’d take me in your mouth?”

Oh, fuck. He really needed a license for that voice of his.

“Does that sound like something you want?” you asked. “We can go slow at first, maybe just my tongue.”

Clint’s chest swelled, and he adjusted himself inside his pants.

“Yeah,” he said. “Okay. Let’s try that.”

You got to your feet. “Do you want me to take my dress off?”

“Fuck,” Clint murmured. “I… Not yet. Yes, but it feels like too much.”

“Alright,” you said. “Keep telling me when something’s too much, okay?”

“I will.”

You walked over to his end of the couch.

Clint’s fingers pressed indents into armrest of the couch. He didn’t seem to know where to look – your face, your chest, your hands. His eyes darted to the empty wall, then back to you.

You took a step, and Clint’s knees brushed yours.

“Can you make some space?” you asked.

Clint spread his knees. You sank to the ground between them.

He felt so big up close. His bulky thighs seemed to surround you. Your hand reached out of its own accord to trace a swell of his muscle.

Clint inhaled sharply. His eyes were locked on your fingers. Slowly, you trailed your hand up the top of his leg.

“You’re so strong,” you murmured. “I can feel it.”

Clint’s brow creased, and you realized it probably sounded like a line. But it was true. What sort of life gave a man this kind of muscle? Roadwork? Construction?

But that scar on his face… the way he always paid in cash… and his massive hands, like they’d been swollen from years of impact. There was something dangerous about his strength.

Clint shifted in his seat. You let out a breath, then slid your hand farther up his leg.

Pressed on the inside of his thigh, bulging out against the denim, was the outline of his cock.

A whimper fell from your mouth before you could stop it. He was hard, and long, and straining to be released.

You looked to Clint. Was this okay with him? He was still staring at your hand.

“Should I stop?”

Clint hesitated, then shook his head.

You didn’t move.

“You promised to tell me if this was too much.”

Clint shook his head again. He wouldn’t look you in the eye. Something curled inside your stomach, the feeling that always came when you were Angel.

“It isn’t too much,” Clint said. The words were strained. “Please. Keep going.”

You brought your hand to his erection.

Clint shuddered. His cock twitched beneath your touch. The heat of him radiated out through the denim.

You gripped his shaft. Oh, God, he was big – girthy in a way that made you ache between your legs.

You glanced up at Clint. He’d gone very still. You swept your thumb over his tip.

His hand shot out and grabbed your wrist. 

He closed his eyes, and his mouth made a flat, tense line.

“Clint – ”

He pushed your hand away.

“Stop,” he said. “Stop. No. Please. I can’t have you touching me.”

He dropped your hand, and you brought it to your lap.

Your throat felt tight. Clint still wouldn’t look at you.

His hands shook at his sides, and he opened and closed them into fists. It was such a strange tic of his – like his body wanted to fight something that wasn’t there.

You sat back on your heels, but didn’t say anything. If Clint was anything like you, the panic would need a second to leave his system.

Slowly, his breath evened out. He ran a hand through his hair, and his eyes found yours.

“I’m sorry,” he said.

You forced your voice to stay level.

“Don’t be. This is why you wanted a professional, right?”

“Yeah,” he said. “I suppose it is.”

He wedged his hands into his pockets, then seemed to think better of it. He took them back out.

“It isn’t you that’s the problem,” he said. “It’s not that I don’t want you.”

“You don’t have to explain.”

“It was just, the second I felt your hands – ”

“It’s okay,” you said. “I understand. It didn’t feel right.”

His brow creased. “I don’t know if it did. I couldn’t pay attention to how it felt. For years, I only ever wanted one person, and I just kept thinking… I don’t deserve to feel this without her.”

“That isn’t true,” you said.

An emotion flickered across Clint’s face. “Maybe it is.”

You could tell he believed what he was saying. There was something getting in his way – something he’d tried and failed to power through. You kept quiet and let him wrestle with it.

“You’ve got to understand,” he said hoarsely. “It was my fault.”

He always spoke slowly, but now the words seemed to weigh him down.

“The kid who shot Grace, he was trying to punish me. And he was right to want me punished. I’m… I was a bad man for a long time.”

So he was some sort of criminal – or had been. Maybe it should have worried you, but you’d known already, hadn’t you? Illicit didn’t background check its users, and it attracted a certain sort of client. Technically, you were a criminal, too.

And Clint just didn’t feel dangerous. Your gut had been right when it refused to believe he was cheating. This time, you decided to trust it.

“I don’t believe you’re a bad person,” you said.

Clint shook his head. His eyes were dark pools.

“It should’ve been me who died,” he said. “I’m not supposed to have this life. What kind of a man would I be if I enjoyed it?”

Understanding washed over you. This was the thought that was strangling him. He didn’t just miss his wife – he owed her. He couldn’t forgive himself. He couldn’t even try.

But some part of him wanted to. He’d brought you here, hadn’t he? He needed something from you tonight.

You didn’t know if you could deliver. You didn’t how to make it right. It didn’t even feel okay to hug him.

“Tell me what you want,” you said quietly.

Clint sighed.

“I want you to get up off your knees,” he said. “It feels like you’re praying to me down there.”

This was definitely not the time to crack a joke about his God-tier cock. You kept your mouth shut for once, but maybe your face betrayed you, because Clint raised an eyebrow as you got to your feet.

“Let’s take a break,” he said. “Can we do that?”

“Of course.”

He pushed up off the couch. “Good. Want me to make you a drink?”

You were behind Clint when he stepped into his kitchen, so you saw the way his shoulders relaxed. He seemed easier in here than he had in the living room. Maybe he felt better when he was doing something normal.

And his kitchen was nice – small, but tidy, with bright, warm lights and a U-shaped wraparound counter. A highchair sat at the table, and the dishrack was full of tiny pink utensils. You smiled to yourself.

“Take a seat,” Clint said.

You boosted yourself up and sat on the counter.

Clint raised an eyebrow. “I’ve got chairs.”

“I noticed. I like it up here.”

He shrugged. “Fair enough. I won’t complain about the view.”

You glanced down and realized your skirt had ridden up, so the hem only barely skimmed the top of your thighs. You didn’t pull it back down.

“It’ll take me a second to find anything to drink,” Clint said. “These days we’re only an apple juice and coffee household.”

“So you do have coffee at home,” you said. “And are those bananas I see above the fridge? What is it – do we just cut them up better at the diner?”

Clint began to riffle through the cabinets.

“I like to get out of the house,” he said. “You try having only a baby to talk to.”

“I’ve never seen you talk to anyone at the diner,” you said. “Unless you count me taking your order.”

Clint’s neck went pink, and he didn’t respond. He turned and reached up to open the high cabinet above the stove. The hem of his sweater rode up, and his undershirt lifted with it.

“Alright,” he said. “We’ve got whiskey, and we’ve got instant hot chocolate. Guest’s choice.”

Above the waistband of his jeans, his back was golden and ridged with muscle. A thick, pink scar reached down from beneath his shirt.

He glanced at you over his shoulder. “Did you hear me?”

“Um. Either is good.”

He grabbed both, then put on the kettle.

While it boiled, he leaned back against the counter. He was on the opposite end of the U, directly across from you. His gaze fell on your thigh-highs, and he didn’t look up.

“We’re supposed to be taking a break,” you said.

“We are,” he said. “But… I want you to take those off.”

“Really?” you asked.

Most guys liked to fuck you while you still had them on.

“You told me to ask for what I want,” Clint said. “I want to see your thighs. All of them.”

“In a taking-a-break way,” you said.

He grinned. “Exactly.”

Something fluttered in your stomach. You unclipped your garters and rolled the stockings down your legs. Being careful not to make new pulls, you folded them into a pile, then set it on the counter beside you.

You felt a silly need to dodge Clint’s gaze. Your stockings were armor. Without them, there was no hiding the cellulite on your legs, and in your rush tonight, you’d left stubble around one of your knees. You didn’t exactly look like you were worth a thousand dollars.

The kettle whistled. Clint didn’t move. His eyes had gone black, and he was staring at your bare skin. You crossed your legs, and his gaze followed the new sliver of thigh you revealed.

Your heart stuttered inside your chest. His focus was so singular – it did something to you. But you knew he wasn’t ready to act on it.

“Clint,” you said.

He stirred and seemed to finally hear the kettle. He switched off the heat and poured two mugs of hot chocolate. He dolloped a healthy pour of whiskey into each.

“Is that any good?” you asked.

“We’ll find out.” Clint said. He picked up both mugs and crossed the kitchen to you. “Do you want the Lakeshore Diner one, or Bluey?”

“Bluey.”

Clint handed you the mug. “Careful. It’s still hot.”

It was, but not so bad you couldn’t hold it.

“It feels good,” you said.

Clint smiled softly. “Good.”

He made space on the counter and pushed himself up to sit beside you, close enough that his leg almost brushed yours. He cradled the mug from the diner, and his hands made it look small.

You nodded to it.

“Did you pay for that, or steal it?”

Clint grinned.

“If I confess, are you gonna to turn me in?”

“I might. But I have three in my apartment, so it’s a bit of a pot/kettle situation.”

“You’re a repeat offender?” he asked. “I knew you had a dark side.”

“Streetwalking isn’t a dark enough side for you?”

Clint raised an eyebrow. “Do you actually walk the streets?”

“Um. For transportation.”

“Then we’re both streetwalkers,” he said. “You should be paying me for my time.”

“Not if you aren’t putting out, I shouldn’t.”

He let out a surprised laugh. “Fair enough.”

You traced your thumb over the handle of your mug.

“Do you want to talk about it more?” you asked. “The not-putting-out of it all?”

He shook his head. “Not right now.”

He took a sip of hot chocolate, and you followed his lead. The mixture was sweet at first, but it burned as it went down.

“Okay,” you said. “This is not as good as either whiskey or hot chocolate individually.”

“Yeah,” Clint said. “But it ain’t bad.”

You took another swallow, and heat spread out inside you. Clint’s shoulder knocked against yours.

“No,” you agreed. “This isn’t bad at all.”

Clint nodded, and silence fell between you.

You took slow sips of the hot chocolate. Clint probably thought he hadn’t made it very strong, but he was a giant man and you’d skipped dinner. You had to pace yourself.

“You smell nice,” Clint said. “You always do. Like you’re in a commercial for orange juice.”

You’d just taken a mouthful of hot chocolate, and it took all your effort not to spit it back out. You swallowed too fast, and your throat burned as you laughed.

“Is that a thing you look for in a woman? Market appeal?”

Clint had clearly watched your entire doomed swallow. A laugh sparked behind his eyes.

“I didn’t mean it like that,” he said. “I meant…” he waved his hand. “Happy. Like those big groves of trees they always show, and people pouring really cold glasses for little kids.”

His cheeks were pink, and he seemed to be half laughing at himself. He was kind of a dork, you realized, underneath all his muscle.

“Okay,” you said. “Thank you?”

“Anytime,” Clint said. He leaned back against the cabinets and took another sip of his drink.

He smelled like aftershave, and a bit like mothballs. You wondered when he’d last worn this sweater – you’d never seen him in it at the diner. In the corner of your eye you could see him glancing at your legs.

Your whole body was aware of him, and you weren’t sure that was a good thing. You kept your attention on your mug. Bluey stared back at you.

“Is your daughter even old enough for this show?” you asked.

Clint shrugged.

“Not really. She likes it anyway, though. Little genius. Whenever it comes on, she’ll make this ‘oo’ sound at the TV.”

You raised an eyebrow.

“What?” he said.

“Nothing. Babies make a lot of ‘oo’ sounds, don’t they?”

Clint’s mouth twitched. “It’s a real specific sound. And the ‘b-l’ noise is a hard one for toddlers to make. Something about the way they move their tongues. She’s doing her best to say ‘Bluey’. I know my girl.”

“Does she say anything else?”

“Oh, yeah. She’s got a lot of opinions. You’d like her.”

He’d thought about you two together?

“What kind of opinions?”

Clint pointed at himself. “Da.” He pointed to the door. “Go.” He repeated both gestures. “‘Da go’. And when she means business, it’s ‘Da go go’.”

“She wants you to go away?”

“Nah. She wants me to take her to new places. She’s such a curious little kid – has to pick up every leaf at the park, always reaching for whatever I eat, like she’s gotta try it. I can’t wait until she can tell me what she’s thinking.”

Clint’s voice shimmered with pride, and an absent smile played across his face. He turned and caught your eye, and your heart seemed to tumble over.

For a moment, you wished this was an ordinary date, that you had an ordinary job, that he really was ready to move on, instead of just wanting to be.

“What are you thinking?” he asked.

You couldn’t tell him that. You took a sip of hot chocolate.

“Where’s your daughter tonight?”

He pointed upstairs. “Landlords. They spoil the shit out of her. How about you?”

“Do I spoil your kid?”

“No. Have you got any kids of your own?”

You shook your head no.

“Do you think you will?”

The night was starting to veer into confusing territory. You could change the subject, but… would it kill you to play along?

“I’d like to,” you said. “My ex and I wanted to have them, but it was never the right time. Now I think we just weren’t the right people.”

“For kids?” Clint asked.

“For each other.”

Clint opened his mouth, then hesitated.

“What?” you asked.

“I wanna know about you,” he said. “But I don’t know if it’s fair to keep asking. It’s not what you signed up for tonight.”

“You paid good money for this conversation,” you said. “Ask away.”

Clint frowned. “If you don’t want to answer, just tell me.”

“I will.”

“Okay,” he said. “Were you married?”

You nodded. “We were really young.”

“And…uh…”

“What happened?”

“Yeah.”

“I don’t know, really. I quit school to stay at home, and then he was never there. I picked fights instead of saying I missed him. He, uh, he cheated. In the end. He had been for a while.”

You swirled the dregs of your hot chocolate in your mug. “It’s all a bit of a cliché, isn’t it?”

“No,” Clint said quietly.

You glanced up at him. His brow was creased in the middle, and his eyes were dark. It would be all too easy to tip into them.

You busied yourself finishing your drink.

“It ended a while ago. It doesn’t feel so bad anymore.”

Clint didn’t press the subject, but you could feel him watching you.

“You do homework sometimes,” he said. “At the diner. Are you back in school?”

He’d noticed you doing homework?

“I am. I’m getting a degree in accounting.”

It wasn’t your favorite, but it would always pay the bills.

Clint looked at you sideways. “You don’t have the personality of an accountant.”

“What? I have the personality of a call girl?”

He snorted. “Definitely not. I don’t think call girls are supposed to tell off the guys who might be cheating.”

“I don’t make a habit of it,” you said.

“No?” Clint asked. “I’m special?”

Your face burned.

“I… I knew you before. It’s different.”

You resisted the urge to glance at Clint and focused instead on setting down your mug. “It does suck when the guys are cheating, though. I tell myself they’d just hire another girl if I didn’t do it, but that doesn’t take away the feeling that I’m hurting somebody.”

Clint fell quiet for a moment.

“I get it,” he finally said

He went to take a drink, then seemed to remember his mug was empty. He didn’t say more, and his gaze had turned inward. He traced his thumb over the knuckles of his right hand.

Was he thinking about his previous life – the bad man he claimed he’d been? The way he’d talked about his past felt so at-odds with the man sitting in front of you. But nobody was only one thing.

Clint caught you watching him.

“What?” he asked.

“Nothing.”

He hadn’t paid you to pry into his life.

“Come on,” Clint said. “I can tell that you wanna ask me something. If you don’t, I’m gonna feel bad for asking about you.”

“Okay,” you said. “For how long were you… doing other things?”

He nodded. “Almost thirty years.”

“You don’t seem old enough for that to be true.”

“The job chose me,” Clint said. “I was only a kid when I started.”

A tinge of sadness was back in his voice.

“Did you ever go to prison?” you asked.

“Twice. A long time ago.”

He searched your face, as if gauging your reaction. Was he worried about making you nervous?

“You can ask,” he said. “If you want.”

You could ask what he’d done, he meant. You wondered about it, of course. But did it really matter? He was somebody else now – a man who apparently hand-washed his daughter’s sippy cups. You’d already decided to trust him. And he was holding enough guilt as it was.

“Okay,” you said. “Did you get any prison tattoos?”

Clint looked at you in surprise. Then he began to laugh.

“That’s what you want to know?”

You shrugged.

“You’re not still doing… whatever put you in prison,” you said. “But if you got tattoos, you still have them. And you always wear long sleeves, even when it’s hot out.”

“Do I now?”

Clint was grinning at you, and your body felt warm – from the liquor, and maybe a little from all his attention. You weren’t drunk, not even buzzed, really, but your thoughts felt softer, a little safer.

“Come on,” you said. “Answer the question.”

“Yeah,” he said. “I got a few tattoos in prison. And a few outside.”

“Where are they?”

“The usual places,” he said.

“Like..?”

Clint held your eyes. He brought his hand to the inside of his forearm. Then his bicep. His chest, on the right side, where his sweater strained the most. The top of his thigh.

He hesitated, then touched the side of his stomach, right above his belt, in the place that led down to the vee of his hips.

It suddenly felt like a large portion of your insides had turned into liquid.

“Interesting,” you managed to say.

“Is it?” Clint said. His voice had gone very soft.

“You know,” you said. “I wouldn’t mind… if you wanted to show me. As a good, um, taking-a-break activity.”

Clint swallowed.

“They’ve gotten pretty old,” he said. “The tattoos. They might not be the kind of… tattoos… that you like.”

You held his gaze. “I very much doubt that.”

“Okay,” he said quietly.

He slid down from the counter and gave you a small, self-conscious smile. You felt a flutter of anticipation.

Clint pulled off his shirt, and you forgot how to breathe.

He took up more space like this – all the raw, bare strength of him, his thick middle and thicker chest, covered over by hair and crossed by scars.

And there was a softness to him, in his stomach, where he pushed out over his belt. Was this what he’d been worried about you seeing? It couldn’t be.

He felt so real, and he was so much a man – his body spoke to some animal need in yours.

“You’ve got to remember,” Clint said. “I got most of these more than twenty years ago.”

Right. The tattoos. You could see them in all the places he’d promised – fading blue ink, without color, in that old-school traditional style. A wolf’s head. A burning heart.

You gestured to a large, pinup-style portrait on his forearm. “Is that one the reason you always cover up?”

The girl was barefoot, and she wore only a high-cut swimsuit. She stood up on her toes, posing in a way that showed off a particularly thick set of thighs.

Clint grinned. “Kind of. But I don’t regret it. She’s good company.”

“I like her,” you said. “I like all of them.”

Especially the one inked above his hip – a knife, you thought, but you could only see the hilt of it.

Clint followed your gaze. “My body wasn’t like this when I got that one,” he said. “I was a cocky idiot. Didn’t really think it through.”

“No?” you murmured. You couldn’t stop looking at the knife. You traced it with your eyes until it disappeared beneath his belt.

Clint shifted his weight. “I know,” he said. “It’s –”

“Hot?”

How far did the blade go? If he fucked you tonight, the tattoo would point right to the place your bodies joined. Heat dripped into a pool between your legs. You squeezed your thighs together and forced your breath to steady.

“Fuck,” Clint whispered. “You turned on by it?”

You met his eyes, and the air around you seemed to pulse with static.

“Yeah,” you breathed. “Yes. You… you look good.”

“Me?” Clint said. “Fuck, gorgeous. Look at you.” He gestured roughly to the top of your legs.

Over the course of the conversation, you’d leaned back against the cabinets. With the hem of your dress rucked up as it was, you realized Clint had a direct line of sight to your panties.

By instinct, you shifted your legs closed.

“I didn’t say to do that,” Clint said. His voice was low and smooth all of a sudden.

You hesitated, then let your legs fall back apart. Clint’s eyes fixed on the place between them.

“Could you…?” he asked quietly.

He wasn’t looking at your face, but you nodded anyway. You took ahold of the hem of your dress and dragged it up until it sat around your hips. You took a breath, and spread your legs wide.

A low sound fell from Clint’s mouth.

“Fuck,” he muttered. “Can see your cunt right through those panties.”

Your pussy throbbed with heat.

Without lifting his eyes, Clint moved as if drawn forward and rested his palms on either side of your hips. The long rectangle of his body surrounded you.

The room fell quiet but for his breath and yours. Surely he could see what he was doing to you – the wetness that was sticking to your panties.  

“Clint,” you said.

He nodded. His eyes were still glued between your legs.

“Do you want to take a break from your break?”

He nodded again.

“Good,” you said. “That’s… good. Do you know what you want to do instead?”

Maybe he’d be ready to try again with the blowjob – yes, your mouth, on that weighty cock of his.  

“You’re so fucking hot,” Clint muttered.

“Um. Thank you. But that’s not exactly an answer to – ”

“I want to watch you cum,” Clint said. “I want you to be my real life porn tonight.”

“Yeah?” you breathed.

Clint nodded. He grazed his thumb along the hem of your dress.

“I want you to take this off,” he said. “And I want to have a good, long look. And then I want you to fuck yourself, and I’m gonna watch.”

Oh. Oh, yes. Arousal flooded through you, and your nipples made stiff peaks against the mesh of your bra.

Clint’s eyes traveled in a line up your body, and a slow smile spread across his face as he took in your reaction. At last he met your eyes.

“Can we do that?” he asked. “I don’t know if I’m ready to touch you.”

You managed to nod.

“We can do that.”

Clint’s mouth twitched. “Good.”

He stepped back, and you slid to the floor.

“Here?” you asked. You turned to face him.

Clint nodded. He leaned his hips the counter.

With shaky fingers, you undid your zipper. You’d taken this dress off dozens of times, but tonight somehow felt like the first.  

It was hard to look at Clint again, so you focused on his hands where they held the edge of the counter. You let your dress fall to the floor, and Clint’s knuckles whitened.  

“Fuck,” he whispered.

You met his eyes, and his chest rose and fell. His gaze traveled down to your mouth, to your breasts, where the shadow of your nipples pushed against your bra. It trailed over the place between your legs, down the length of your thighs and back up.

You felt a needy flicker in your core.

Clint nodded to your garter belt.

“Take that off.”

You undid the belt, and it dropped on top of your crumpled-up dress.

“Better,” Clint murmured. “You’re so fucking pretty.”

Maybe it was just that honest voice of his, but it was easy to believe that he meant what he said. For a moment you felt a strange clutch of sadness.

Clint brought a broad hand to his crotch and began to palm himself over his jeans. Oh, fuck.

“Show me your tits,” he said. “Play with them for me.”

You took off your bra, and Clint groaned when your breasts spilled free. Was he always this expressive?

You slid your hands up over your stomach – it was prickled with goosebumps – and cupped your own breasts.

Clint took in a heavy breath.

You kept your eyes on him and rolled your thumbs over your nipples. It wasn’t much, but your body was wound tight, and you shuddered at the bolt of pleasure.

“Yeah,” Clint murmured. “That’s it.”

He was stroking his erection now, and you could see it, swollen and taut against the front of his jeans.

A whimper drifted from your mouth.

Clint followed your eyes, and a knowing look spread over his face.

“You like him, huh?”   

“Just… just a suggestion,” you said. “You wanted real-life porn. If you were watching porn, wouldn’t you be...”

“Go on.”

“I mean, you wanted to feel good tonight, didn’t you?”

“Uh-huh,” Clint said. He was grinning now.

“So you shouldn’t… hold back… from that.”

Clint’s grin widened, and he brought his hands to his belt.

“Okay, gorgeous,” he said. “You want a better view?”

“Please?”

“You gonna keep giving me what I want?”

“Clint,” you moaned. “That’s literally my job. Please.”

A laugh spilled from his mouth, and he began to unbuckle his belt. Anticipation pooled between your legs.

Clint shucked off his jeans, and his bare thighs slid into view. They were corded over with muscle, and some big animal was inked onto one of them. A panther, maybe, or a bear?

You didn’t look long enough to tell. You couldn’t, because Clint was wearing dark gray briefs that hugged tight to his hips. They were made of a soft, stretchy material, and the outline of his erection strained pornographically against it.

Oh, God, he was big. Even beside his massive hand. And at his tip, oh fuck, the fabric was stained dark. He was leaking already for you.

The ache between your legs was almost painful now. You acted without thinking, and slid your fingers down to relieve it.

Clint sucked in a breath. “Look at you,” he muttered. “Oh, fuck, baby. You’ve got no idea what you do to me.”

You shot a glance at his hard-on. You had some idea.

Clint seemed to follow your thoughts, and his eyes sparked with amusement.

“Yeah, okay,” he admitted. “Little tease.”

Something warm curled up inside your stomach. A small smile played around Clint’s mouth.

“Alright,” he said. “That’s enough of that. Next time you play with her, I want a better view.”

Reluctantly, you slid your fingers from your panties.

“Clean them off,” Clint said. His hand dipped into the waistband of his briefs and began to move along the outline of his cock

You didn’t move. You couldn’t. Desire throbbed in your throat, and thoughts slipped from your mind like water.

Every time Clint stroked his fist, the veins in his forearms rippled.

“Come on, sweetheart,” he said. “Put your fingers in your mouth. You can pretend it’s him if you want.”

You did as he said, tasting your own slick, and Clint made a low, approving noise. The sound seemed to shiver through your body.

Clint gestured with his chin. “Turn around for me now.”

As soon as you did, Clint let out a loud groan.

“Oh, yeah,” he muttered. “Fucking perfect body. Even hotter than I thought you’d be.”

You heard him push up from the counter. He stepped so close you could feel the heat of him, his hand hovering behind your ass. The cadence of his breath had grown heavy.

You squirmed with the need to do something, to jump forward to the main event.

You hooked your fingers in the waistband of your panties.

“Do you want me to take these off?”

“Not yet,” Clint said. “Not here. Go lie down on the couch.”

He walked behind you the whole way into the living room, then had you lie down on your stomach, with a pillow beneath your hips. The leather was cool against your skin, and the pillow tilted your pelvis up, so your soaked-through panties were on full display. You rested your cheek on your hands, and kept your eyes on Clint.

Maybe you were imagining it, but he seemed to be unraveling. He’d stopped stroking himself, and his voice was ragged now, more rasp and need than substance. His eyes slid over the length of your body.

You scanned him for any of the warning signs you’d seen before – for the tic he had with his fists. You didn’t find it, but that didn’t mean he was okay.

“This isn’t too much?” you asked. “We can stop anytime.”

You weren’t actually sure if you could stop – your core pulsed so needily that you were half-convinced you were dying – but you’d figure out how, if you had to.

Clint looked you in the eye, and shook his head no.

“Not too much,” he rasped. “Ain’t nearly enough.”

He walked up to the middle of the couch. It was hard to see him properly from this angle, so you felt the heat of him first, and then the brush of cotton. There was something firm beneath it – his erection, grazing against your hip.

It was nothing. The smallest amount of contact, and he’d probably done it on accident. But your hips still twitched, rocking up and back against nothing.

Clint grew very still.

And then you felt his hand. His touch was warm – finally, he was touching you – and he didn’t bother to be gentle. His hand slid up around your leg, and he squeezed a fistful of your thigh.

“Fuck,” he growled. “Can’t fucking help myself anymore.”

He reached up to manhandle your ass, then lifted his hand and spanked you - a hard, fast slap on each of your cheeks. His palm came down again, and this time it landed squarely between your legs, smacking you hard over the damp patch on your panties.

A hot shock of pleasure sang through your pussy, and a moan dribbled out of your mouth.

You spread your legs apart and waited for more, but Clint only stepped back. He seemed to be catching his breath.

You whined, and Clint met your eyes.

“Was that okay, gorgeous?”

You nodded. “Until you stopped.”

Clint smiled. “Yeah?”

“You realize… you realize you’re torturing me, right?”

Clint’s gaze softened. “I don’t wanna be,” he said. “You’ve got no idea how bad I want to fuck you right now.”

“Fuck,” you mumbled. “The torture continues.”

“Poor girl,” Clint murmured. He walked to your end of the couch and tucked a strand of hair behind your ear.

Something was melting inside you, something important, some structural part of your mind that knew all of this was a job. You held Clint’s eye and tried to cling onto the remains of it.

“I… I understand,” you managed to say. “I only want you to do what feels good.”

“Yeah?” he said quietly. “That’s the only thing you want?”

You hesitated. He was close to you now, and his briefs were at eye-level. You were only human, after all.

Clint looked at you knowingly and took ahold of his erection.

“You wanna meet him?” he asked.

“Oh god,” you mumbled. “Please.”

Clint freed his cock, and your brain dissolved.

He had a man’s cock – long and veiny, and thick enough to split you in two. Precum leaked from its tip, and when you whimpered, it twitched in response.

“Fuck,” Clint muttered. “He likes you.”

Oh, hell, were you in trouble. There was a reason Clint wasn’t going to fuck you tonight. There was definitely a reason. Wasn’t there? Was it a good one?

Clint wrapped a hand around his shaft and began to work himself in slow, long strokes.

“Open your mouth,” he said.

You obeyed at once.

He was so girthy that you didn’t know if you’d be able to take him, especially like this, with your head crooked to the side. But fuck, you were down to try.

Clint stepped toward you. He was close now, close enough that you could lean forward if you wanted to and run your tongue over him. Your tongue slipped from your mouth, and you looked up at him, pleading.

He took a slow breath. Some emotion crossed his face, and he groaned in frustration. He reached out with his free hand and dragged his thumb over your bottom lip.

“Your mouth looks so fucking soft, gorgeous. I bet it feels even softer.”

“Please,” you whimpered. “I’ll do anything.”

“Yeah?” Clint said. “Want my cock in your mouth that bad? Or you just want your holes to be filled?”

He pushed his first two fingers between your lips. Then he added a third.

You could feel yourself leaking through your panties now, making a slick mess on your thighs.

Clint’s fingers were thick, and long, and they felt huge compared to your own. You swirled your tongue around them, and a soft noise vibrated up from your throat.

“This okay?” Clint asked.

You managed a nod. It wasn’t his cock, but it was more than you’d hoped for. You hollowed your cheeks and sucked on him.

Clint began to finger your mouth. He stroked himself with the other hand, and could almost imagine it was his shaft sliding over your tongue.

You looked from Clint’s cock to his face, and felt a rush of warmth. Despite his words, despite the crude way he was touching you, his eyes were soft, full of something like admiration.

“You’re doing so good,” he murmured. “Giving me just what I need.”

You flushed at his praise. He slid his fingers from your mouth and brought his cock to hover right beneath your mouth.

“Spit on him, baby.”

You did as he said, and he moaned softly, fisting his cock tight as he smeared your saliva along his shaft. The tip of him was angry and red, and leaking all over his fingers.

“Please,” you whispered. “Please, Clint. Just for a minute.”

He hesitated, then tapped the tip of his cock against your lips. You opened your mouth and licked up a salty drop of precum.

Clint inhaled sharply.

“Oh, fuck,” he said. “He likes you so much, baby. He’s gonna like your cunt even more.”

He stepped away, and you ached at the loss. It wasn’t enough. It wasn’t nearly enough.

Clint walked back down to stand behind your hips. You craned around to watch. His thick fingers slid beneath the waistband of your panties. He hesitated, and you realized he was taking in the mess on your thighs.

“Look at that,” Clint murmured. “She’s getting jealous, huh? All hot for me, and I ain’t even taken a good look.”  

Desperation coiled tight inside you. You arched your hips up from the pillow, and Clint dragged your panties down. For a moment, the mesh clung to your slick. Then cool air hit your aching pussy.

You were bare before Clint. He let out a moan.

“Oh sweet girl,” he muttered. “Fuck, is she pretty.”

He pulled your panties all the way off, then got onto the couch and kneeled in between your thighs. His bare legs brushed warmth into yours.

His cock glistened between his legs. That slutty knife tattoo pointed right to his base, where Clint was wrapping his hand at this very moment. He slid his fist over his shaft and stared at your pussy.

“I want you to spread her open.”

You did as he asked and reached your arms back. The angle was awkward, and you had to face forward to do it, so you couldn’t watch Clint’s face as you pulled your folds wide for him to see.

It was enough only to hear him – the heavy groan that tore from him, and the lewd, slick rhythm of his fist on his shaft, his strokes becoming ever more frantic. A fresh wave of arousal leaked from your entrance, and Clint sucked in a breath.

“Wettest little cunt,” he said. “You been like this for me all night?”

You’d never in your life been turned on like this. Your body felt so hot, so frayed with passion, that it was all you could do to breathe. Your clit pulsed sharply, and your entrance clenched around nothing.

“Oh yeah, she wants him.  That needy little hole, just needs to be fucked, huh?”

“Clint,” you gasped. “Please. I need it.”

“Turn over,” Clint gasped. “Roll over, baby. I wanna see your face.”

With some maneuvering, you adjusted to lie on your back, the pillow still propping up your hips. Clint settled back between your legs, and your whole body ached at the sight of him – broad and bare, his mouth parted and his eyes dark, and his fist working over his length.

“Oh, God,” you mumbled. “You look so good right there.”

Clint grinned. “I look good? You look fucking perfect.”

Warmth pooled inside your chest, and you felt a hazy urge to sit up, or, no, to pull Clint down, to feel the press of his body over yours. You blinked it away.

“Tell me what you want,” you said.

He answered at once.

“Touch yourself, baby. Anything you want. Make yourself cum for me.”

“I want your cock,” you complained. “Want you to give it to me.”

Clint closed his eyes for a long moment, and a breath slid out of him. His fist slowed, and you realized with a surge of arousal that he was trying not to finish.

His stomach tensed, and veins stood out in his forearms. He was close, and you felt drunk on it – this huge, gorgeous man, coming undone at only the sight of you. He made you feel perfect.

You brought both your hands to the slick between your legs, and gasped. You were so sensitive now that the slightest brush of your clit sent a ripple through your body.

Clint opened his eyes, and they flashed with appreciation.

You drew a tender circle around your clit and sighed with relief. For easier access, you spread your legs wide, hinging an ankle on the back of the couch. The pose was obscene, but you were too far gone to care – and yeah, you wanted Clint to see.

Clint let out a strangled grunt. You were spread-eagle now, your pussy just one thrust away from his cock. That tattoo on his hip quivered with tension, and you ached to trace it with your fingers, to take ahold of Clint’s base and guide him into you.

A bright knot of pleasure began to tighten inside you. You knew what you liked, and you knew you’d finish fast tonight.

Clint stared, trancelike, at your pussy. He was jerking himself even more slowly now, his fist hardly moving, and you realized he was waiting for you to catch up. It felt a little sweet, and more than a little filthy – like he needed to see what he’d done to you.

“You feel good?” he asked. “Tell me how good you feel, baby.”

“Yes,” you panted. “And no. I’d feel better with your cock inside me.”

Clint shuddered. His fist sped up again, like he couldn’t help himself anymore.

“Yeah, gorgeous? He’s a lot bigger than that needy cunt of yours. She’d have to stretch real big for him.”

“I can take it,” you breathed. You worked your fingers faster over your clit.

“That – fuck – how you like it, baby? Like your holes stretched all the way open? Want my cock so deep you can’t even breathe?”

Oh, fuck. Your legs shook with pleasure, and you slowed your fingers.

You closed your eyes and took a slow breath. Not yet.

“Don’t stop,” Clint begged. “Wanna see you.”

You held his eyes and resumed your pace on your clit. He was breathtaking, really – all tense muscle and rippling blue ink, panting now, and jerking himself fast.

“God,” you mumbled. “I wish you could cum inside me tonight.”

Clint shuddered. He grabbed one of your thighs and held on tight enough to hurt.

“Fuck,” he panted. “Oh, fuck. If you – nngh – keep talking like that, I’m gonna fucking cum.”

“Yeah?”

Clint nodded. His jaw clenched.

“Yes,” he moaned. “Oh, fuck, you’re so hot. I wanna – fuck – I want –”

“Tell me.”

“I wanna cum on your cunt,” Clint gasped.

Holy fuck. Oh, God.

“Yes,” you said. “Yes. Oh, fuck, please. Please.”

Clint’s hand sped up, and the slapping of his fist filled the room. His whole body was shaking now, and when he opened his mouth to speak, it seemed he had to strain for the words.

“Yeah? You want my cum all over her?”

He was so goddamn hot like this. You angled yourself so your pussy was right beneath him and held yourself open with your fingers.

Clint’s fingers tightened on your thigh. His chest heaved. He let out a final strangled moan, and then you felt the hot spatter of his release.

He came for a long time. His cum coated not only your pussy, but your inner thighs and low belly. It dripped down your center and ran up onto your stomach.

Clint’s breath evened out, and he looked up, dazed, at the mess that he’d made.

“Oh, yeah,” he panted. “Look at her.”

Need fogged over all your senses. You slid your fingers back between your legs, and smeared Clint’s cum over your clit.

“Yeah,” he murmured. “Your cunt was made to take my cum, huh? I wanna –”

He cut himself off.

“What?” you asked. “Tell me.”

He met your eyes. “I want to take a picture,” he said. “Shouldn’t have said anything.”

An image popped into your mind of Clint, home alone, jerking himself off to a picture of your pussy – to a picture of what he’d done to your pussy.

“Fuck,” you gasped. “Do it.”

Clint stilled. “Yeah?”

“Please,” you said. “I – fuck, I’m close – I want you to. Just don’t get my face.”

“Good thing I didn’t cum there, huh?”

You moaned. “Stop – stop putting ideas in my head.”

Clint grinned. He leaned over to the end table and grabbed his phone, then aimed the camera in between your legs.

He stared at the screen, and his eyes darkened.

“Goddamn is she pretty.”

The shutter clicked, and you whimpered. You worked your clit frantically, and felt your orgasm mounting. Your hips twitched on the pillow.

Then Clint touched you. He reached out with two broad fingers, and spread your pussy open.

“There I am,” he muttered. “Dripping right into your cunt, ain’t I?”

He held the camera close, and it clicked again. Your body began to shake.

Clint trailed his fingers through the mess on your thighs, gathering up his cum on his fingers.

“Gonna put this all where it belongs,” he said. “Okay, baby? Can I give you my cum?”

Oh, fuck. Did he mean –

“Wanna fuck you with my hand,” Clint said. “Fill up this hole like she needs.”

White spots flickered on the edges of your vision.

“Please.”

Clint rumbled in approval and pushed a single, impossibly thick finger inside you. The stretch seared through you, deep and perfect.

“So soft,” Clint murmured. “So fucking tight. She’s taking it so good.”

He curled his finger upward and the pad of it found that sensitive place. He began to stroke you, pleasuring you from the inside, keeping time with your own rhythm on your clit. Tension coiled between your legs.

Clint worked in a second finger, then, without waiting, a third. He felt huge inside you – so thick it would have hurt, if you weren’t so wet.

Your toes curled. Your back arched up off the couch.

Clint held up his phone once again and centered the camera on your entrance.

“Oh, fuck, baby. Your cunt is pretty when she’s full.”

The shutter clicked, and the tension inside you snapped.

You came all at once, a thousand nerve endings dissolving into pleasure. Your thoughts fuzzed, your blood blazed, and a broken whine fell from your throat. For a moment, you thought you might be crying.

Your orgasm burnt itself out, and you collapsed, breathless on the leather. Clint slid his hand from your pussy, and you took long swallows of air as your pulse steadied. Your face was wet. You really had cried.

The strange sadness you’d felt earlier had somehow worked its way into your chest. You looked around for Clint.

He gazed back at you from the other side of the couch, his phone forgotten and his eyes soft. He leaned back in his seat, and you realized he was caught in between your legs.

He didn’t seem to mind. You’d stretched out one leg across his lap at some point, and his hand rested just beneath your knee.

“God,” you said. “You made me cum so fucking hard.”

“I saw. You looked real good doing it.”

“You… you looked real good doing it, too.”

Clint let out a low chuckle, and you felt his chest vibrate between your legs.

“I hope… I hope you’re not too attached to this pillow,” you said.

Clint grinned. “Hated it.”

You laughed. Clint’s hand slid gently down your leg.

Since when was he touching you? And since when did it feel normal?

You sighed. Your body felt so heavy now, and Clint’s hand was so very warm.

“Are you sleepy?” Clint asked, and you realized your eyes had closed.

“A little. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. You should rest for a minute.”

You shook your head. “Can’t. Unprofessional.”

“I won’t tell,” Clint murmured. “You’re doing what I want tonight, and I want you to feel good. Take a break, baby.”

Baby. It felt different, hearing him say it like this, outside the heat of the moment. Good, and a little painful, right in the center of your chest.

You’d think about it later. Clint was touching you with both hands now, drawing warm lines up the side of your body.

“Okay,” you mumbled. “You win this time.”

You closed your eyes again. Then something occurred to you.

“Clint. Was this an okay first step?”

You felt his laugh more than you heard it this time.

“Yeah,” he said quietly. “This was okay.”

You sank back onto the soft leather and let your mind float. The lulls between your thoughts grew longer and longer. You could feel the steady rhythm of Clint’s breath.

A sound blared from somewhere. An alarm. Your alarm?

The glow slipped from your mind, and you remembered where you were – a client’s house, and you’d burned through all the time he’d paid for.

You opened your eyes and pushed yourself up to a seat. Clint met your gaze, and his brow creased.

“My phone,” you said.

“Is it in your coat?” he asked. “I got it.”

He began pushing to his feet, untangling himself from in between your legs. Your body felt cold in all the places he’d been.

You were being ridiculous. You had to get up.

“It’s okay,” you said. “Let me.”

Clint didn’t argue. You followed the ringing to the closet and fished your phone from the pocket of your coat. You stared at the time. 1:08 AM.

“Everything good?” Clint asked.

You closed the closet door, clutching your phone in your hand. “Yeah. It’s my alarm. I’ve been here for two hours.”

Clint nodded. He glanced at your hand, then directed his words at a lamp on the end table.

“Right. We’ll get you out of here fast.”

“Okay,” you said. “Yeah.”

“There’s a bathroom down the hall where you can wash up. Towels are in the cabinet.”

“I don’t have to. You’re not a dick if you send me home like this.”

“Yeah, well. Agree to disagree.”

You had a routine for the end of your dates. Settle up, get dressed, get home, get showered. It didn’t involve going deeper into your client’s homes, and it definitely didn’t involve caring whether or not they met your eyes.

But a moment alone would be good. You could get your head on straight. You made your way down the hall, and Clint stood in silence behind you.

Beside Clint’s bathtub, there was a box of tiny rubber toys – about a million of them. You saw a pair of pastel duckies and imagined Clint, elbow-deep in suds, swimming them around for his daughter.

He hadn’t told you her name, you realized. Or his last name. He didn’t even know your first.

You looked at your reflection and understood why he’d insisted you clean up. Makeup ran in streaks down your face, and there was dried cum all over your stomach and legs.

You found a towel in the cabinet like he’d said. You ran the edge of it under the faucet, then began to wipe the mess away. Maybe he’d meant for you to take a shower, but it felt way too intimate to do that here. Not in that bathtub, not when you were already staying past your welcome.

A sharp feeling pressed up inside your chest.

You knew what this was. You felt vulnerable after sex sometimes – especially after you came. This was only hormones, and it was to be expected. You’d be perfectly fine in the morning.

The hollow feeling clutched suddenly tight inside you, and maybe you knew where it came from, but it wouldn’t go away. Tears burned behind your eyes, and your face twisted. A hoarse noise pushed up from your throat. And then the sobs came, silent and open-mouthed, each one shaking your chest.

You curled your naked body around the towel and waited it out, praying that Clint wouldn’t hear you.

This would pass. Your body was just confused.

You were fine. You were always fine, in the end.

Tonight wasn’t any exception. You rode out the surge and regained control of your body. You checked your reflection, and it was impossible to tell which tears were new. Clint wouldn’t know anything had happened. You ran fresh water over the towel and scrubbed off your face as best you could.

When you emerged from the bathroom, the living room was empty. The pillow you’d defiled was gone from the couch, and your dress and lingerie sat folded in a pile on the coffee table.

A stack of bills had been set on top of your bra. You counted them out. Fifty dollars.

What the hell? Clint had already paid double. You didn’t need more of his money.

You set the cash aside and put on your clothes, minus the garter belt and your ruined panties. The sound of a faucet running came from the kitchen. You followed it and found Clint washing out your mugs.

His back was to the door, and he seemed not to hear you enter. A pair of pajama pants hung from his hips, and he’d thrown on a thin white t-shirt. Muscles shifted beneath it as he scrubbed, and steam drifted up from the faucet.

Why was he scrubbing? You’d only had hot chocolate.

He washed the same mug for a long time without stopping. It wasn’t until you said his name that he switched off the water.

Clint placed the mug back in the sink. He dried his hands off on his pants and brought them to his face for a moment before he turned.

“Hey,” he said.

His voice sounded strange. You opened your mouth to point out the dish towel he could’ve used. Then you saw that his eyes were red.

“Hi,” you said. You walked over to lean on the counter beside him. “Do you want to talk about it?”

Clint shook his head. “Can’t really afford another conversation.”

It had the cadence of a joke, but neither of you laughed. You set the fifty dollars on the counter.

“Then why did you give me this?”

“12.5%,” Clint said.  “Double. It’s almost 1:30 already. I kept you here too long.”

“Don’t be stupid,” you said. “I’ve been cleaning up for the last fifteen minutes, and I fully fell asleep before then. I can’t charge you for that.”

“I took pictures,” Clint said.

“I begged you to take them.”

“I came all over you.”

“I begged for that, too.”

“But that’s your job. I know you charge extra for shit like that.”

You did, actually, but not as much as he’d paid. And it wasn’t the point.

“I’m not charging you,” you said.

“Then call it a tip.”

“Clint. Why are you trying so hard to give me your money?”

He paused, and his eyes found yours.  

“I don’t know,” he said. “I had a good time tonight.”

“So did I.”

Clint gave you a sad smile. "You don’t need to say that.”

“No,” you said. “Really. Do you seriously think Iwould bother lying to you? If I’d had a bad time, I’d be home by now. And there wouldn’t be pictures on your phone.”

“Do you want me to delete them? You weren’t in your right mind when you agreed.”

“Not unless you want to. And it’s fine if you do. I know photos go against our whole ‘what happens here stays here’ agreement.”

“Right,” Clint said.

He fell quiet. His hands were pink from the water. He still wore his ring – he hadn’t even taken it off to do the dishes.

He’d lost his wife only a year ago.

You were standing here too long, weren’t you? You’d done your job.

“I’m going to leave,” you said.

Clint nodded. Then he reached for your hand.

His skin was warm and damp from the faucet. He swept his thumb over your knuckles, and when he spoke, his voice was hoarse.

“What if I don’t want you to go?”

Your throat felt tight.

“I also don’t want me to go,” you admitted. “But… I don’t think you want me to stay.”

Clint’s brows pulled together. He dropped his eyes and nodded slowly.

“Maybe not,” he said. “I don’t know.”

You squeezed his hand.

“We could do this again? If there’s a first step, there’s got to be a second, right?”

“I don’t know if I can afford that anytime soon.”

You’d meant you could do it for free. You opened your mouth to say as much, and a web of questions tangled around you. What were you going to do, half-date Clint while he was still in the throes of his grief? While you were making a living as a call girl? When there was a little kid involved?

Each one of you was kind of a mess. Together, right now, you’d be a disaster.

You swallowed a heavy feeling.

“Maybe that’s for the best,” you said. “When we got started tonight, you told me there was somebody new in your life, right? Somebody who made you want to take this first step. Maybe the second step can be with her.”

Clint looked at you strangely. He was quiet for a long time.

“Right,” he said finally. “That’s right.”

“Good,” you managed to say. “Thank you, then. For tonight.”

Clint didn’t let go of your hand. With single long motion, he pulled you into his chest.

The warmth of him surrounded you. He smelled like clean laundry, and his body was solid. You melted against him with a sigh.

He slid one hand around your waist. The other cupped the back of your head, and he held you close. You tightened your arms and clutched two fistfuls of his shirt.

You stayed like that longer than you should, the drum of Clint’s heart sounding low beneath your cheek.

Saturday afternoon was close enough to Saturday morning that the diner still bustled with the breakfast rush. Bacon sizzled on the grill and hashbrowns flew from the kitchen. A ton of hashbrowns, really. You guessed that most of the patrons were hungover.

A newborn wailed somewhere in Casey’s section, and nobody was happy about it. Two red-eyed teenagers had already migrated over to your tables, and you didn’t think they’d be the only ones.

Every booth by the window was filled, including Clint’s. But the family who’d taken it was almost done – their plates were empty, and when you offered to refill their coffees, all they wanted was the check.

Not that it mattered. You’d promised yourself that you wouldn’t get your hopes up. Last night had been confusing, and Clint might not want to come back to the diner. You had to be okay with that.

And, yeah, on your way out the door today, maybe you’d made one little decision, one thing you thought he might like.

But you’d be fine if he didn’t show.

You grabbed the family’s check and took a look at the clock. 2:10.

This was about to be the only open booth in your section, and it wouldn’t stay that way for long.

Fuck it. You set a Reserved sign on the table.

Casey greeted you with a knowing look when you came back behind the counter.

“We don’t take reservations on weekends.”

“It’s a one-time thing.”

“Uh-huh. A one-time thing that drives a blue Chevy?”

You stacked up an armful of menus. “It’s good business to look after our regulars.”

Casey nodded solemnly. “Yeah, I’m sure that banana revenue is make-or-break.”

“Shut up,” you muttered.

Casey laughed. “I’m not judging. Hot Dad is hot enough that you’re only being a little insane right now.”

You were being a lot insane, but you didn’t want to dwell on it. You got to work taking the teenagers’ orders. Short stack, eggs, double hashbrowns.

The bell over the door rang, and you spun your head around. It wasn’t him – just the three ladies from the nail salon around the corner. It was only 2:13.

By 2:20, Clint still hadn’t come. Your section clattered with conversation, and Casey’s was starting to fill up too. She looked at the empty table by the window, then back at you.

You’d brewed fresh coffee at the start of your shift, but the pot was already empty. You put on another.

2:28. You were being stupid now. Clint lived so close that he couldn’t be stuck in traffic. You needed the tips from his table, and your manager would start asking questions if he noticed the sign.

At 2:35, you opened up the table. Three men in Warriors colors claimed it at once.

You got the kitchen working on their burgers. You weren’t going to think about the pit in your stomach.

“He’ll come by tomorrow,” Casey said.

You nodded, but you felt certain he wouldn’t. He’d probably come and gone already before your shift.

It was easier this way. In a few days, when you’d gotten a little more sleep, the crush would be out of your system.

You considered taking your fifteen, but you didn’t want to strand Casey with the diner as packed as it was. Instead, you kept yourself busy. You double-checked every order as it came in. You refilled the ketchup bottles. You kept the coffee brewing and cleared empty plates before the busboys could get to them. When the punk kids once again paid with coins, you sorted each one out into the register.

You were sliding the last nickel into place when Casey closed the drawer for you.

“I need your help,” she said. “Hot Dad is here and he won’t take a seat in my section.”

You whipped your head up. There he was, taking up an absurd amount of space behind the hostess stand. His daughter squirmed in his arms and grabbed at his collar with chubby little hands. He didn’t seem to notice. He met your eyes, and his mouth lifted into a smile.

He’d come. He was late as hell, and he was getting in the way of the customers, but he was here.

You left Casey at the register and set off across the diner. Customers tried to catch your attention, but you only barely heard. A busboy swerved out of your path. The long row of booths passed behind you, and you came to a stop at the hostess stand.

This close to Clint, everything else faded. He was back in his usual flannel. His chest rose and fell beneath it when you met his eyes.

“Hey.” His voice was a low, warm rumble. You felt it in your stomach.

“Hi,” you said. “I heard a rumor that you’ve rejected some of our finest tables.”

“I don’t like those tables,” Clint said. “They’re not my table.”

“Yeah, well. Your table is full.”

“I noticed. Can’t believe you gave it away.”

“I gave it away half an hour ago. I thought you weren’t coming.”

“I’m sorry,” Clint said. “Somebody threw a temper tantrum on our way out the door. Sugar crash thanks to her babysitter.”

His daughter chose that moment to snuggle up against him, smushing her tiny cheek into his chest. She looked up at you with big, dark eyes. Oh God, they ran in the family.

“I don’t know,” you said. “She looks pretty innocent to me.”

As if to prove your point, her mouth stretched into a yawn.

“Don’t fall for it,” Clint said. “She had me on the ropes ten minutes ago.” He looked down at her. “Hey, Emily,” he said softly. “Tell the nice lady what you did.”

She blinked sleepily. “Da.”

“She’s trying to say she screamed out a lung.”

“Oh, obviously,” you said. “But it’s a hard sound for toddlers to make, right?”

Clint grinned. “Exactly.”

He looked back up to you, then caught sight of something on your uniform. He froze.

You felt a nervous little rush in your chest.

“Hey,” Clint said. “You remembered your name tag.”

“I… yeah. I thought maybe… some customers… would want to know.”

“That’s good,” Clint said quietly. “I’m happy for… them.”

There was no reason for the giddy feeling inside you. Nothing had changed since your conversation with Clint last night. Nothing had really changed since yesterday.

You let out a shaky breath.

“Okay,” you said. “Well. Can I get you set up at one of the other tables?”

Clint looked over to Casey’s side of the diner, where two booths were still free. The newborn had finally stopped crying, but it was taking the crowd a moment to reset.

“Those tables aren’t in your section.”

“No. But it’s the same banana you’d get from me.”

“That’s alright,” Clint said. “I’ll stick with my normal spot. I don’t want any other, uh, table.”

He held your eyes carefully. A warm feeling bloomed inside your chest.

“That table isn’t ready,” you said. “It’s going to be a long time before it’s ready. And you might not be ready. To, uh, sit at it.”

A smile played at the edges of Clint’s mouth.

“I know,” he said. “But I want to stick around. I’ve got a feeling it’s gonna be worth the wait.”

If you enjoyed the story, comments and reblogs make my day! 💖💖

end notes: If you liked the way Clint ordered reader around, I did something similar in part 3 of my completed series what you can't have. Cameraman!Joel is a similar pining-y, flannel-clad dad, so you may like that one.

taglist: @burningnerdchild @okiegal68 @shadowqueen2024 @milla-frenchy @the-sophverse @cozymochaa @pleurspetal @bratty-spicee @pedrit0-pascalit0 @ptolemaea444 @perpetualharpyresonance @littlepedrito @whimsywhisper0899 @copperhalfcent @time-for-my-weekly-spanking @daniel-bruhhl @mcthsman

Not that it mattered much to him. Clint had greater worries than what would occur after his delivery of the magical royal brat. The Count has his daughter. She’ll be released back to him upon handing over the princess.

There’s only one catch. He thinks he has the princess, but he has you.

You’re slumbering peacefully when suddenly a large gloved hand clamps over your mouth, a pair of strong arms pulling you from the satin softness of the bed. Your screams go unheard to the guards napping just outside the door as your wrists and ankles are bound and you’re hoisted underneath those arms and made to hold on for dear life as your captor heaves himself over the window’s ledge and out onto the stony wall of the tower.

“Stop wriggling lest you fall to your death,” a gruff voice warns, putting your physical resistance to an abrupt stop. It matters very little after all, because when you glance down to see how high up you are, you immediately faint.

By the light of the full moon Clint and his beastly companion, cursed Goat-Man of the East Bay, scare off a couple of travelers and take their campfire. Making sure they stay gone, the goat-man growls and tramples a path, keeping it clear from others. Clint ties up his horse to a tree and feeds it an apple, cooing soft words and petting its snout.

You’re still passed out, a burlap bag as a makeshift bed beneath you. Not that Clint did it out of kindness. It’s just easier to roll you up in case he needs to make a mad dash back to the Count’s castle.

There are likely many who would recognize you – the princess – famous for your long silver hair, rumored to possess magical healing powers and light to total darkness. Clint needs to keep your kidnapping a secret. Other henchmen, worse than he, wouldn’t give it a second thought to steal you away.

So he stays awake, the adrenaline of the capture still singing in his veins, and watches you sleep.

“Is she dead?” the cursed goat-man asks. He’s been sent along, momentarily freed of his jester duties to the count, to see that Clint keeps to his task. Nothing gets past him and he’ll report to the count truthfully. Clint has thought several times of kicking him into the river. Surely such a creature cannot tread water.

“She’s alive,” he mutters, taking a bite of the beef jerky he’d kept in his pack. He sighs when Goat-Man sidles up to him, asking for a scrap of his food. Clint rips off a piece of jerky and tosses it into the woods. Goat-Man goes after it without shame.

From your supine position on the ground next to Clint you start to rouse from your unconsciousness. “Mmmmmm,” you moan lightly, stretching your limbs, eyes still closed. Goat-Man hurries to you before Clint can stop him. You yawn peacefully, sighing deeply, smacking your lips as you open your eyes.

“You’re finally awake, Princess!” Goat-Man says excitedly.

You scream in terror at the creature before you until Clint pulls him away and replaces your sight with a better one. “Don’t mind him. He can’t and won’t harm you. He’s castrated.”

“Hey!” Goat-Man shouts.

“I won’t harm you either. But I need you to be very quiet and very obedient.”

A beat. And you scream again. Clint clamps his hand over your mouth. “What did I just say?” he demands. “Now, quiet or I’ll shut you up with something worse. If you try to run I’ll catch you. You’re mine. Understood?”

Shaking, you nod.

“Good. Now, don’t be frightened, Princess. I’m going to bring you to the Count of Alameda, who wants you to do a very special favor for him.”

“Princess? I’m not–”

“You won’t be harmed. The court’s realm has known nothing but darkness for many months. You and your magic.. hair.. can help bring light to the people again. It’s a noble thing, you should be happy to help,” he adds irritably.

“You don’t understand! I’m not–”

“Don’t be stingy, Princess. There’s more at stake here than you know.” Clint’s face darkens as he thinks of his young daughter in strangers’ hands.

Angrily you stand and rip the silver hair off your head, revealing you are not, in fact, the magical princess.

“A wig??” Clint is stunned and angry.

“I tried to tell you – I’m not the princess!”

“What were you doing in her bed in the tower?”

“None of your business!”

“Tell me now. Or I’ll get this little devil to gnaw on your leg.” To emphasize the threat, Goat-Man grins evilly, showing off sharp fangs.

“If he sinks his teeth into you, you’ll die from some nasty infection,” Clint shrugs. Goat-Man chomps his terrifying teeth.

“Fine! Alright!” You raise your hands in surrender, trying to remember what your kidnapper has asked you.

“Who are you, and where is the princess?” he asks slowly.

A frustrated sigh escapes your lips. “I am the princess’s maid and greatest confidant. She tasked me to sleep in her bed as her, a pretense in case the king or queen looked in on her during the night.”

Clint raises a brow, intrigued. “And where is your lady?”

“Meeting the stable lad, mayhap engaging in the fornication of a lifetime. They’re madly in love and forbidden from seeing each other.”

Clint groans. He has the wrong person. He wipes a hand over his face. “I can’t go back to the Count with a maid.”

“Maybe we can kill her and eat her,” Goat-Man pipes up, “then go back for the actual princess.”

You’re already trying to run away, but you get caught up in your ankle restraints. Clint looks on, amused as you fall flat on your face. “You’ll knock yourself out, Maid,” he taunts, arms crossed as Goat-Man laughs with him.

Groaning, you get up, spitting grass from your mouth as you pull yourself up to a sitting position. “Release me now! I am of no use to you, you rotten bastards!”

“I beg to differ!” Goat-Man exclaims. “As I said, you’d be very tasty meat. And I’ve only been given scraps on this journey.”

“All you deserve is scraps!” Clint grunts. “She’s right. She’s of no use to us. Come daylight we’ll make our journey to the village beyond the hills. There’s sure to be a tavern where we can sell her.”

Your eyes are wide in terror and indignation. “Sell me??”

“Relax. By this time tomorrow you’ll either be a barmaid or a whore. Either way you’ll make decent coin.”

Goat-Man adds, “And either way I’ll be your best customer!”

Screaming, you try to run again, but Clint is faster, grabbing your waist and clutching you to him, his chest pressed to your back, biceps straining as he tries to keep you from struggling out of his grasp.

But if he’s honest with himself, the way you’re wriggling against him is working up a disturbance below his belt. He’s careful to try to keep himself away from you, even as you thrash about in his arms.

“Forgive me,” he mutters, applying pressure on your neck until you pass out, going limp in his arms.

“What did you do that for?” Goat-Man exclaims. “I have perfectly good sleeping powder in my bag!”

“And you didn’t tell me?” Clint grunts, laying your unconscious body on the ground.

It’s easier to keep you asleep than for Clint to have to keep you bound the entire journey. Each time you start to stir, he gives you a spoonful of sleeping powder mixed with water from his canteen, or whatever alcohol Goat-Man has on his person. It’s quiet, and Clint realizes he does kind of miss the sound of your voice.

“Too much of that and she could wind up addled in the brain,” Goat-Man warns him.

“You mean, almost as if she’d been kicked in the head by a goat?” The implication in Clint’s tone and the warning in the lift of his brow speaks volumes. He’s had enough of his enforced companionship with this wretched creature and would off him if given the right circumstance.

Your silver wig is unceremoniously perched on your head, the real color of your hair showing in small wisps near your forehead. Clint’s heart does a strange backflip at the sight of it and shoves that feeling way down deep.

You’re a means to an end. Nothing more.

Even if you are pretty. Kind of.

You start to rouse just as Clint’s horse steps through a creek winding through the woods, small droplets of water splashing on your face as he tramps through, getting water everywhere.

“You should get some sleep while you can,” Clint grunts when he sees your eyes open. In all truthfulness their shape and color are a combatant effort in making his heart skip what he’s sure are very important beats.

You say in a sleepy voice, “You must return me to the palace at once. The king will be very upset at my sudden departure.”

“Are you his mistress or something?”

“What? No!!”

“Then I doubt he’ll be wringing his hands in worry at your absence. You’re just a maid, and a replaceable one at that.”

Goat-Man speaks up. “We really should stop calling her Maid, don’t you think?” He turns to you with a ghastly smile. “What is your name, or what may we call you?”

You don’t quite know what to make of this creature. Sometimes he’s kind and sometimes he’s more than willing to either take a bite out of you or fuck you. You answer most politely and give them your name.

“It’s pretty,” Goat-Man says. “It sounds like church bells ringing.”

“That’s sweet,” you say, glad that for once he’s charming and engaging. “What’s yours?”

“Clint,” your captor replies, subtly holding you tighter against him. “I bet you didn’t know he used to be human,” Clint nudges you, pointing at Goat-Man.

“I never would have guessed,” you mutter. “What happened?”

“He was once a great friend of the Count, and a wealthy lord. Lord Maxwell was his name,” Clint relays. “He was caught having an affair with the Count’s wife and had a spell put on him, turning him into what he is now. As the story goes, the Count said if Maxwell wanted to act like a horny goat then he would become one for all eternity.”

You burst into laughter at this, much to Goat-Man’s consternation. “Enough about me,” he snaps. “Or I’ll bite both your heads clean off.”

“Pretty impossible for a little goat to do,” you tease, before realizing you’re being more friendly with your captors than you should be. “Will someone tell me where the devil we are going? I’m sore from the day’s travels!”

“We’re going to find an inn for the night,” Clint mutters, his grip on you stronger after your change in attitude.

“And how will you explain a tied up woman among your company?” you challenge him.

Clint gives a wicked smile. “The type of establishment we’re going to doesn’t ask about those kinds of things.”

Much older than you were led to believe in the feeble, short few days you had to come to terms with the betrothal.

Fear chokes you, holds your lungs in terrible, tight fists, as work roughened hands lift your veil.

This is how you first see him, cloaked in lace quickly scrounged by your mother for this moment, fingers trembling in white sleeves that don't belong to you. You have avoided looking at him, until this moment, unsteady gaze on his shoes instead, the hem of his trousers, afraid that you might lose your composure otherwise. And you will not give anyone the satisfaction of your tears.

The veil softens his features, rubs out some of the lines from his face like charcoal smudged on a page. You tilt your face up as he folds the fabric back. His movements are surprisingly gentle, careful not to brush your face or hair.

You keep your expression carefully composed, stony. He might be your father's friend and peer, but he is certainly older. His forehead is lined; crow's feet bracket his eyes. His beard is mostly gray, and it looks as though his dark hair is following suit. A scar bisects the bridge of his nose, others mark the high points in his cheeks, faint nicks that could have been from shaving or something else entirely. Brawling when he was a boy, maybe, falls taken while drunk.

It's hard for you to pass judgment since you don't know him at all.

Despite that, his shoulders are broad. His chest and arms are thick. He looks strong and capable, and that could bode very badly for you.

Even so, even so much older, he is handsome.

That handsomeness means nothing for you know nothing of him, of what kind of man he is, how he might treat you as a wife.

The chapel echoes around you, empty but for your father and the priest. White winter light spears down from a window set high in the stone wall, cold, high wind whistling just beyond.

His eyes travel over your face, cataloguing your features like you have been memorizing his. Your eyes meet his for the briefest of moments. The touch is not warm; his brows lower over a hardened gaze. He looks to the priest and nods, who begins the ceremony without preamble. Apparently your looks have been found suitable enough to go through with it.

You will yourself not to cry, to keep the bile rising up the back of your throat in check.

The words pass over you in a torrent, meaningless and loud, vows and promises of obedience and faithfulness, humility and deference. All, it seemed, directed at you. Your husband, you gather, would be your shepherd, your judge and jury, your king, dealing out punishment as he saw fit for the mistakes you were guaranteed to make.

Like a child. For obviously you, a girl, a woman, needed such guidance. Your family would.

Your stomach knots at the thought. Children, which meant you would have to endure the act you'd been accused of in the first place to land you here, in this quiet church on a blindingly cold Saturday morning. In shame, in relative secret.

"You have been ruined," your mother had said when you were told of the arrangement, spittle flying in her anger and disappointment. "We have no choice."

"Mother," you had pleaded, "It isn't true."

Her gaze had been cold and hard by necessity, steeling herself for the fate that awaited you. All because jealous girls had condemned you. "The mayor's daughter has spoken against you. Would accuse her of being a liar?"

Bad enough, to have relations out of wedlock; terrible, wretched, that you had done so where someone could see. That you had been caught in the snow, against the side of her father's stables with a farmhand. Loud and unseemly, and, worse, unabashed. The picture of untrammeled lust.

"I did not—" You had protested, throat thick with tears. "I haven't spoken more than a word to the boy." Boy, because he was a few years younger than you. He'd eagerly taken up the story from the mayor's daughter, something swaggering in his voice, falsely humbled by his mistake for which he would not be punished. The only reason you were not being forced to marry him, was his engagement to the daughter's best friend. Though, she had not looked happy to be taking on the embarrassment of being attached to a man with a wandering eyes, something mean had glittered in her face too. "I wasn't even anywhere near those stables—"

"Enough!" Her voice had rung loudly in the kitchen. "It's been settled. You will be grateful anyone would marry you with those accusations hanging over your head. It's this or-or," she stammers over the words, "destitution."

It doesn't matter. You know nothing you could say matters. It's the mayor's darling daughter's word, and all her friends', against yours, and you have spent too many years being untamed for it to matter. You should have been married years ago, instead you disappeared into the forests surrounding the village for days at a time, read when you should have been pursuing the womanly arts of cooking or mending or weaving, argued when you should have practiced humility and silence, skipped Sunday service. Worn trousers only once, because you had received lashes for that.

You were accused of waywardness or sharpness of tongue and ill discipline. Someone, the whispers said, should have beaten it out of you long ago; that a timely marriage and children could have mellowed you out.

Too late for all that now.

"An old friend of your father's has graciously agreed to help us," she'd said casually, bustling about the washing. "You're lucky he is in need of a wife."

It froze something within you. "Mother, please—"

"You should have been married years ago, anyway," she says briskly. "Your father should have never allowed you such wildness and freedom. It does not suit a lady. Look where it has landed you."

Her scorn hurt, and your venomous tongue retaliated. "But to a man I don't know? You would throw me to wolves for this? He might be a brute—"

"You could do with a hard man," she'd said, not looking at you. "It might finally teach you your place."

"I would rather die—" you'd all but choked.

"By all means," she'd all but snarled, throwing down the washing in her hands, "drown yourself in the river if you see fit to. It would spare us the shame."

She had refused to come to the chapel, though she'd helped you dress, done your hair, that morning. She walked as far as the gate at the end of the yard, and you'd sworn as you walked away, through the encroaching blizzard, that you'd heard her sob.

You suspect your father is only present because it is his duty to present you, and give you away. Since the accusation, he hasn't been able to look at you. His darling daughter he'd always been so kind to, so proud of despite the way people spoke of you, your cleverness.

The thought makes your throat ache, that they could so easily lose their only child.

A hand touches yours and you jump.

Your fiance slides his rough palm around your hand and grips it softly in his, squeezing. He says your name, a question in his voice, and you feel faint, dizzy.

The priest clears his throat and you sense that you've been absent from the room for longer than you meant to be, lingering in memories that already seem a lifetime ago. The vows are repeated again, droning and long.

His hand is warm on yours, your trembling, icy fingers.

You are thankful you don't have to repeat the vows verbatim. Saying his name would rot something inside you, falsehoods hidden inside promises. I take thee, Joel—

No. You couldn't bear it.

All you have to do is say—

"I do."

You aren't sure it's your voice but who else could have said it?

Far away inside yourself, you watch in horror as his mouth repeats the same.

"I do."

A deep voice, like his mouth is cave.

You brace yourself for his kiss, his touch, his head bowing over yours, but he only squeezes your hands again and releases you.

Like birds with broken wings, they fall limp at your sides.

The men gather themselves, leave you at the altar along as the descend from the pulpit and cross the chapel.

You hear warnings as you stand there alone in the pale shaft of light that grows fainter with each passing moment, the storm worsening outside, the sun already sinking on this terrible December day.

Headstrong, you hear of your character.

Willful.

Stubborn.

Needlessly reckless, sharp tongued, sly.

A tricky little thing.

"She may require a firm hand," the priest says, "I know her temperament well, have known her since she was a child. But she's a good girl and will learn her place, with the proper corrections. She can learn to be an obedient wife."

Your father doesn't dispute this as help from the church is offered, if needed, to assist you in learning the place and pace of an obedient, good wife. Spending time with godly women, instead of among the trees. "And mother," he adds. "Of course." He chuckles, "Winter is very long here. And she is nearly past childbearing years."

It's bullshit, of course.

It should not be possible for your stomach to knot itself more, but something sours and you have to press a hand to your stomach to keep the empty maw yawning open inside you at bay.

You still stand at the head of the church, listening to this, thinking that the icy water of the river might yet be an option. Maybe you can fling yourself off the wagon as you pass over a bridge.

The priest calls your name sharply, and makes an exaggerated gesture toward your husband. "Off with you, girl. Your husband is waiting or did you not notice?" His expression, when he turns back, says, see? this is the obstinacy I tell you of.

Joel doesn't comment and you can't yet read the expression on his face .

He pushes the church doors open and disappears into the worsening storm, the coming night.

You are not even afforded a wedding band.

.

.

.

Though his home is supposedly only a half day's ride west from your town, it is full dark by the time you arrive.

You have never really left your village before, and to you it seems a world away and terribly lonely. Isolated. A cottage at the edge of the world, hemmed in by bristling fir trees, whispering snow drifts.

You're glad to be there, if only to get out of the snow and wind, away from his body next to yours on the wagon bench that you want to curl into just to warm yourself for a moment.

Joel offers you a hand which you reluctantly take, helps you down from the wagon. He ushers you inside and says something about the horses before he disappears back into the storm, leaving you there alone. The space is small and cold, the hearth only ashes after his day away from home.

Though you're freezing, you can't make yourself stoke the fire.

Although, maybe if you did and he could warm himself, he might not want to warm himself with you. On the other hand, maybe warmth would encourage him, would tempt him.

In either case, you're a wife now and you watched your mother long enough to know what that means. Aside from the rest of it, he will expect cooking, a hot meal when he comes back inside.

But, the priest and your father had called you stubborn, and so you would be. You might as well be all the things they accused you of.

Something petulant pulses in your belly.

Swallowing your anxiety, you perch at the table and decide to wait. You don't want to serve him; you don't want to be his wife. And, besides, you don't know what provisions he has, where the larder is. He may beat you for poking around where you don't belong while trying to find it.

Every choice seems worse than the last, so you refuse to make one. You sit at the table, freezing slowly as the snow on your shoulders melts and bleeds into your coat. You feel a distance from yourself, as though you are literally frozen to the chair, mind pulling apart from your body like sticky caramel leaving looping threads behind. Time crawls by and you aren't sure how much of it passes before the door bangs inward in a swirl of white.

When he comes in, his eyes flick to the cold grate, to the empty stove. He does not berate you. He doesn't look at you at all.

Joel merely passes you at the table and builds up the fire, a process that takes longer than it should because the wood is wet. He hadn't any by the stove and had to bring some in, snow flecked and iced over.

You don't offer him any conversation, and he leaves you to your thoughts until quietly coaxed meek flames sputter into a roar.

It's only then that he speaks to you for the first time.

"You're cold. C'mon over here and warm up."

You're terrified to approach him, and hesitate to buy time. "You've been working so hard," you offer demurely as you can. These are some of the first full sentences you've spoken to him. "You should warm up."

He eyes you for a moment. "You're shiverin'."

There's no denying it. Tremors rack your shoulders, the thick wool of your coat soaked and weighed down.

You clear your throat and stand, steeling yourself to stand next to him at the grate, to surely have his hands press against you. You're his wife now, sold like a pig to slaughter, and he will want to touch you. You might as well stop being prudish about it and get over it. As far as he's been told, as far as your reputation is concerned, you are versed in this anyway.

You smooth out your skirts and approach.

To your surprise, he moves out of the way, giving you a wide berth to stand at the fire alone.

"You can take your coat off," he offers.

"Must I?" You ask, a tad snarkily, without thinking.

"No," he answers, and you swear his mustache twitches, like he is repressing a smile, "might help with the cold, though."

It weighs heavily on your shoulders, cold and wet. You know he's right but shedding it feels like peeling off your skin, all that's beneath is that thin, hurried, second-hand wedding dress.

Even as unconventional a girl as you were, as opinionated and strong willed, you'd always dreamed of a wedding. A love match, in a dress sown by your mother's hands, witnessed by your friends and family, merriment, so many flowers you could drown in them. Instead, this. A fist closes tightly around your heart, squeezes until it feel like something might pop.

Joel opens cabinets, pulls out provisions you hadn't dared to look for earlier. His hands are rough and red from the cold, the brutal weather. The knobs of his knuckles are swollen. You sense he's keeping his back to you, moving slowly, so that you can observe him uninterrupted. Snow is peppered over his shoulders and hair, still unmelted for how cold the room is.

Despite it all, you find you'd like to touch that fine snow, curl a lick of dark hair around your finger just to see if it was as soft as it looked.

You unfasten the buttons and let the coat slip down your shoulders. The warmth is sudden and hot against your back through the thin material of the dress. You turn into it and close your eyes, try to imagine you're by the hearth at home, flames flicking hungrily behind your eyelids.

Joel clears his throat, nearer than you expect, and you start. "I'll hang that up to dry," he says, holding out a hand. "You hungry?"

You clutch the coat to your chest before releasing it to him, careful not to touch his hand. "No," you answer, sure that putting anything in your body would come straight back up. "But please, you should sit," you plead. You hate how simpering you sound, your voice an unrecognizably anxious animal in your throat. But he wields so much power over you, will always now, and should be decide you weren't fit to be his wife he could cast you out, or correct you as he saw fit. You are now this, forever. Nothing but this. "I'm your wife," you continue, the word hot and dry in your mouth, "and it's my duty. Let me fix something for you. I'm a decent cook."

You are a terrible cook. You never had the patience, which had made your mother click her tongue. But there are a couple things you learned to make.

Joel, to your surprise, waves you down, after hanging your coat on a hook by the door. "That's all right. I've been feedin' myself for awhile; one more night won't hurt nothin'."

You hover awkwardly and only sit when he insists that you do, warming yourself by the hearth while he rummages around.

The wind moans outside, rattles the shutters and the panes of glass in their window frames. The front door creaks, like someone is leaning on it, trying to get in.

The sounds are lonely but you don't break the silence of his quick dinner.

He clears the table and then sets about filling a warming plate with hot coal from the grate.

You heart stutters a nervous tattoo in your chest when he disappears with it through a door behind you. Your mind had skimmed over it, not let you contemplate where it might lead.

All the stories you've heard from the many girls that married before you told of pain, that it was just something you endured for your husband's pleasure. It feels okay, you'd heard from one blushing friend, whispering just outside the belfry on summer afternoon, once you get used to it. But it's awful to start.

It does not help matters, that your mother made the man out to be a brute, that he might be the man to cure you of your willful ways.

What wilfulness, you have to wonder.

You simply did as you pleased, which, you suppose was the point. Women were to be obedient and meek, led not leaders. You took your own counsel, spoke your mind. Look where that had landed you. With the mean daughter of the mayor jealous and telling tales of all that time you spent alone.

It had all ended with a husband twice your age, that you did not know, that might be a strict disciplinarian. Your world had always been small, but you were free to roam it. Now it has shrunken to the size of a pin. To this room and this man and nothing more.

And, you are terribly afraid of violence.

Your parents were never strict with you, had hardly ever used corporal punished. You don't know how to endure that kind of pain. Better to be cautious for now, follow each of his whims, bow to any request or demand. You can push later, find the weak spots later, you only have to bear him for now.

Joel returns twice for more pans of coal, lids snapping closed with a metallic clang, before he carries your little suitcase through.

You stand when he gestures you within.

The room is spare and clean, and you have to tramp down the instinct to turn and run, fling yourself into the snow and run until your legs gave out.

The door closes behind you with a soft snick. To contain the heat of the room, you think desperately.

Something rustles and you turn to find him undressing.

You have never seen a man's nude body before, aside from the time you and a friend has spied on boys at the river once when you were young, seeing nothing but murky water and thin, veiny chests, and the curious part of you just wants to watch, to discover it. Instead, you reach for the buttons on your dress and follow suit, fingers shaking.

It seems odd, you think, that he isn't touching you, tugging the fabric loose himself, but maybe this is how it's done. Maybe this is how he does it. Perhaps you should be helping him.

You glance up to find him still not looking at you, redressing in warm underclothes.

You falter, unsure, and let the buttons hang loose at your chest.

The uncertainty is making you feel like a caged animal.

What does he want with you? You can take it into your own hands.

They had called you brave and determined, let that be true.

You let the dress slip off your shoulders and pool on the floor. You step out of the ring of fabric, approach him slowly, presenting yourself to him in your underthings, shoulders bare, nipples perking against the fabric in the bone-deep cold.

His eyes travel the length of your body, eyes eventually landing on yours.

His gaze doesn't seem aggressive, but men are good at hiding it when they liked to. Maybe you're seeing what you need to, to reach for his hands.

Joel curls one hand around both of your wrists, stops the trajectory of your hands toward his chest. "We don't have to."

A confused combination of rejection and relief rushes through you. "I'm your wife. You don't want to have me?"

He exhales, his warm breath ghosting over your lips. "It ain't that. I know you didn't choose to marry an old man," he says, tongue soaked with a bitterness turned inward. He releases your hands, steps back. "I'm sorry I don't have nowhere else for ya to sleep."

"Oh," you murmur, a tight fist clenching around your throat.

You had been prepared for anything but consideration, but this.

None of this is how you imagined marriage, a husband, this long night.

He nods, doesn't seem to expect you to say anything else. You close your hands around one of his. "Husband," you say softly, saying his name feels too intimate. "I can't bear the uncertainty. Please, I would rather have it done."

Joel watches you, his eyes flicking between both of yours. He covers your hands with his free hand and pushes them down. "Nothin' to be uncertain about. I won't touch you."

He moves away, seeming to mean what he said.

The candles are blown out, the room plunged into darkness and you settle in the blissfully warm bed together, a wide space between your bodies.

The coverlet smells of sweet summer hay, at odds with the chill in the room, freezing your nose. It smells of something deeper too, a heady scent of salt and skin and cotton.

You don't dare sleep, despite his words and supposed kindness.

It could be a trick, a test, something to make you loosen your guard, for you to fall asleep only to wake with those rough hands on your body, pulling you apart in ways you can only guess at.

You lie in the dark, missing something you never even really had.

His breathing evens and deepens in sleep, but adrenaline and distrust and worry won't let you follow. You do not want to follow. You watch his shoulders lift through the dark, the line of his nose, the part of his chapped lips.

Eventually the world lightens to a gray muteness beyond the shuttered windows, and only then do you let yourself cry.

Mourning, but relief, too, that at least the first night is over.

.

.

.

While the blizzard abates over the next few days, the snow does not.

It continues down day after day, making the already perilous, winter weathered roads, completely impassable. You are stuck, trapped, an animal with it's foot caught in a snare.

For the first three days, you don't sleep at all, forcing yourself to stay awake and vigilant by any means, pinching your skin until you bled to forego sleep. But eventually exhaustion forces you to, shepherds you into dreams where it's warm, there are no men, no churches or mayor's daughters, and you walk unmolested through green forests alone, only a leather-bound notebook and leaping fish for company.

You wake and mourn something that will never be.

The land is beautiful, at least, iced white like the little cakes you sometimes saw in the baker's window just down the road from your home, but brutal and harsh, unforgiving.

You become aquatinted with Joel's house and the keeping of it, and feel quietly relived when he spends most of the day tending to the land, the horses, the other animals in the stables you've yet to see. You sense that he doesn't know what to make you of either, what to do with you, how to interact with you, how to fit together now that you're condemned to be stuck that way.

Loneliness infects you like a sickness, an unattractive melancholia that's only broken in the evenings when you warm yourself at the grate and eat dinner with Joel. Even though you don't speak the company is welcome, just the presence of him buoys you a little, shields you from the cold. Your fears that he would be a terror to you pass slowly, though you haven't had the opportunity to do something that might require his retributive, readjusting hand, stuck inside as you are.

A guiding hand, the priest would call it, towards the just path of being a good wife.

You mend clothes, cook to the best of your ability, sweep and scrub and wash until your hands are raw and stinging from the pervasive cold. You yearn to wander as you used to, to walk among the swaying, frozen trees, to at least go outside. You tell yourself that you are working toward asking him, that you won't neglect tasks for it.

As long and terribly lonely as the days are, the nights are worse. You ache with homesickness and betrayal. You are without even the comfort of your own things, since passing the roads are impossible, you only have the small suitcase you'd been able to carry. Your father had been set to deliver your things the next day. You have no way of knowing if he even attempted the journey.

A different feeling has joined that cacophony of confused familial hurt, something like lust and shame.

Joel washes before bed at the basin on the dresser, and you are often subject to this display though he turns his back to you. You are the one to lie out the cloth, the soap, and warm the water he uses to wash away the stink of the stables. Musky leather and hay and heady sweat, replaced with the clean scent of soap and skin. Often, water drips down his broad shoulders, pools at the base of his spine, curves over the thick, twisting muscle in his biceps and forearms.

He is no boy at a river, but neither is he your contemporary. His chest hair is gray as the hair of his beard, wrinkles tucked into curious corners of his body. It fascinates you, so different from your own body.

Betrayal of yourself pulses between your thighs, an ache that you want to reach beneath the coverlet and touch away, though you don't dare.

Each night, you expect to be the one where he reaches for you, claims you and seals your marriage but he never does.

You remember your friend's words. It would hurt and then be okay. You want to know for yourself what okay feels like.

It makes you wonder what it would be like, a curious daydream.

One horrible night, your usual dream of freedom morphs into that want, only it's not your hand massaging away the want, but Joel's. Those rough, broad fingers between your legs. You had to roll out of bed and gulp down water at the pitcher in the corner of the room, feeling stupid and wretched. Silly, even. For what would he get out of touching you there? Nothing, just your own desire run amok.

The closest you get to touching him, is bandaging his cold ruined hands, standing between his legs where he sits at the table, looking and not looking at him, his eyes raking over you. He had said thank you so earnestly, it had made your face warm.

Weeks pass into more than a month and a half in this way, one cold, dark day bleeding into the next, the soft humiliation of feeling unwelcome and unwanted and terribly alone, like a butterfly with it's wings pinned. For all your intrigue, he seems profoundly uninterested in you. He leaves you to your own mind, to your own lonesomeness. You are, maybe, just a girl that did his cooking.

You long to stretch your legs, take a walk, explore uninterrupted as you used to, report what you saw in the journal you haven't dared to take out in front of Joel, buried in your case beneath your clothes. You're already trapped, what if he didn't like you to write? Trapped by body and mind might really drive you to drown yourself in a river or go seeking a length of rope.

Things change when he finds you crying one evening, from the ache in your chest, from the caged wounded-ness, from the fear that still occasionally lurched to the front of your mind, for all the cruelties he could inflict so suddenly, if he chose.

You don't dry your eyes quickly enough and the next sleepy afternoon, eyes drooping from boredom, Joel slips inside in a burst of cold, snow peppered in his hair. Before you have the chance to offer him supper from the stove, he's saying your name and giving you pause.

"You want to come out to the stables? Maybe it'd do you good to get out of this house." If you didn't know better, you'd say he sounds worried.

"Are you—"

"I ain't puttin' you to work just yet," he says with a smile. It's a joke, and you find it disarming. "Just to stretch your legs. See another living thing that ain't me."

"Yes, okay," you agree, maybe too quickly and eagerly, because he laughs. You let him hold out your coat so you can slip your arms into the sleeves.

Joel holds the door open and offers his arm for you to balance on as you cross together through the thick icy drifts of snow to the stables. His arm is sturdy and strong beneath your fingers, warm even through all the layers you're both wearing. Fat flakes of snow sticks to your lashes, white flurries drowning your vision of Joel. His strong jaw, the tight squint of his eyes against the white glare of the world.

You glance away, feel that tightness bloom in your belly.

It feels good to walk, to cross a distance instead of pacing the cottage floor in circles all day long. He pulls back the stable door. It's surprisingly warm within, from the combined heat of the animals' bodies and whatever work he'd been sweating over. There are two horses and a cow, a smattering of chickens with their own little coop at the back.

You can't help but rush to them, patting noses, feeling hot breath on your face. The chickens squawk something terrible, but a spotted one rubs against your leg and let's you bend at the waist to pet it.

Joel fiddles around at a bench in the corner, breath puffing before his face. You see the flash of a pairing knife, wood shavings fluttering to the ground.

You tentatively creep closer, trying to peer over his shoulder at what he might be making. You would have never guessed he was creative.

"We only have goats," you say as you stroke the face of the mare whose stall is nearest Joel, as near as you can get without being obvious. "Very mean and terribly stubborn."

He chuckles, puts down his work and leans over the side of the stall. "Well, none a' those here."

It's silent for a long time, the plunk of snow against the roof, the quiet sound of the animals breathing. Joel clears his throat awkwardly after awhile and you stiffen. "Listen, I know we ain't had the best start with the weather and all. That and I'm not exactly the husband anyone looks for."

You turn to him, meeting his eyes, and feel something between you soften. "You've been kind to me. Kinder than I deserve," you answer. "Considering that marrying me will have hurt your reputation."

You wonder what he was promised in return for this. You assumed it was a child, that he was getting older and wanted to continue his line and so needed a young wife. But, he hasn't attempted to touch you at all.

"Ain't really got a reputation to speak of anyway," he chuckles. "Never cared about it neither."

How you wish you had the luxury of not caring about it. You glance away, smooth your fingers down the horse's freckled nose. "Were you ever married before?"

"Once," he answers. "Long time ago."

"When did she die?"

Joel shifts. "Hasn't," he grunts. "Far as I know. One mornin' she was gone, never came home."

You feel your eyes go wide. "Oh. I didn't know."

A runaway wife.

A vast thing you did not know possible.

"It's all right." He shakes his head. "I'm guess I'm askin' what I can do to help you feel better about this whole mess. I shouldn't have—" he waves a hand toward the direction of the house, "just left you on your own for so long. In the house. I figured it was better. That you might not. . ." He doesn't continue and you don't need him too.

He thought he was making you more comfortable, that you wouldn't have liked his company.

You don't correct him, because it's true. When you first arrived it was very true.

"Oh." You think for a long moment, of all the silence and tiptoeing around each other. Maybe there's a better way than that, if not the way of a married couple. "They lied about me, you know. The mayor's daughter and her friends and that boy. I didn't do anything wrong."

He looks a little embarrassed to be hearing talk of your supposed sin of the flesh so bluntly. "I figured," he answers, rubbing his chin.

You blink. "You did?" He nods and you continue. "She was jealous, I think, that I did as I pleased. I guess that's what could help me." You hurry to continue, because he'd only just told you of his first wife disappearing without a trace. "Of course, I would keep up with the work, and I can help here, too," you gesture around. "I'd like to help with the animals. . .But I'd like to roam, too."

He thinks on it for a long minute. "I'd maybe even appreciate work out here more. I can milk the cow, if it's anything like milking a goat. I can chop wood. If you'd allow it."

That earns you a chuckle. "You want to chop wood?" He asks, a little amused.

"If you'd allow it," you cast your eyes down. "Of course I don't want to disobey you."

You aren't expecting him to take your hand and jump when he does. You'd both removed your gloves when you entered the barn and his skin is warm and calloused against your own.

His jaw works as he contemplates you, a fascination in his eyes. "Forget all that nonsense about obeying and whatever else that priest was goin' on about." He shakes his head, "I'm too old to think any of it means anything."

You aren't sure what he means by that, but nod all the same.

"So, how 'bout this. We'll start takin' it all on together. I did my own damn housework for years so I ain't completely useless. And you can help chop wood, if it suits you to."

It sounds too good, so you contain your enthusiasm and nod. "A fine idea. We might know each other better then, to spend some time togeher."

He nods, and something pink rises in his cheeks. "And," he shuffles his feet, squeezes your hand in both of his. "that's enough. Understand? You're might be my wife, but I'm no fool."

You understand what he means. That this thing is more partnership than relationship. It soothes you, if it also disappoints you a little. All those parts of him you think of exploring, suddenly out of reach.

"I understand."

"Good, come spring, when it's warmer, we'll figure something better for sleepin'."

You nod and then dare to ask, "And wandering? If the work is finished and I'd like to walk alone?"

He touches your cheek for the first time, the barest brush of his fingers, a tentative affection. "Always home before dark. That's all I ask."

"I can do that." You cradle the hand that had touched your face against the mare's stall, daring to hope.

You feel like you can breathe for the first time since the mayor's daughter stood and pointed her finger at you in church all those weeks ago.

.

.

.

Spring comes late in the year this far north.

The roads turn to mud that sticks the horses' hooves in place, bogs down the wagon.

Joel watches you lift the ax above your head and bring it neatly down on the splint of wood balanced on the stump in front of you, just the way he'd shown you months ago, in the dead of that terrible winter. If you wanted to chop firewood, who was he to tell you not to?

The shawl around your shoulders flutters in the breeze as you retrieve the fallen logs, reveals the strength in your forearms.

He glances away. You are the most unsettlingly pretty creature he's ever set eyes on, and much too young for him. Much too good for him, much too good for anyone. All the warnings he'd been given on your temperament had sounded only like compliments to him, and he'd been proven right. And now that you'd loosened, he appreciates your unflinching opinions, your sharp pointed tongue.

And, Joel doesn't necessarily mind being bossed all that much. You're usually right, anyway.

If he is worried sick right up until the moment when you return to the cottage when you roam about, no one is the wiser of it. You always return before dark, and he never tells you not to go.

Some creatures just didn't need caging; they'd come home all on their own if you let them.

Preventing you from walking alone, taking time to yourself to explore would be akin to clipping a bird's wings. He's sorry for all those weeks at the start when he left you inside, hadn't realized you thought you couldn't leave the cottage, not even just outside.

It's still cold and your breath unspools in front of you in a pale cloud as you work, sweating and breathing hard through your teeth.

He feels a longing for you that he probably shouldn't. He had made a promise to you and he intended to keep it, wife or not. You content now, at ease, in his presence. The longer he keeps that vow as the days grow longer, the more you'll settle.

Soon, the roads will clear and you can go into the village for supplies that are bitterly needed after such a long winter. He thinks you'll like the town, less haughty and judgemental than the one you grew up in.

The afternoon sun dapples over your skin, makes the sweat on your brow, at the base of your throat, shimmer. He glances away, his thoughts already spiraling toward what you will smell like that evening, coated in a day's hard work. Lying beside you each night in bed is a sweet, unending torture. You dream often, murmuring in your sleep, occasionally pierced with a cry, sometimes a grunt and moan. Mouth parted, chest heaving. He wonders what or who you dream of, and goes to great pains to hide how hard he often is in the morning.

It feels sort of like a betrayal, how quickly his mind conjures up your bare skin, waiting and open, unfolding just for him, the imagined taste of you on his tongue, the plush part of your lips, little pink tongue pressing against your teeth.

He could only endure it. Once summer came, he might be able to take care of it elsewhere and not risk you overhearing, or worse, catching him.

Aside from the torture of sleep, everything else is fine. You're clever and quick; a better chess player than him by far. You best him nearly every evening you plat. You write and draw in a little notebook that you once squirreled away like he might take it. Now, you leave it on the table, let him read little bits of stories, thumb through your drawings of animals you come across. You only have to hear something once to be able to repeat it verbatim, reciting poetry or stories not in your notebook for him when requested.

You've improved his life, the cottage and farm, in way he wouldn't have been able to picture before. This isn't what your father had meant when he came begging him to marry you and save their reputation, said Joel could use a woman's touch, a kind of helper.

It was bullshit, but maybe the loneliness finally got the better of him. After his wife disappeared, he hadn't thought of remarrying. Clearly he's the type you leave.

He continues watching you, brushing the mare, when the sound of an approaching wagon meets his ears. Joel glances up to find the ax abandoned against the stump, you hurrying quickly toward him in the mouth of the open stable.

"Someone's coming," you say, brow creased with worry, reaching for his sleeve. "Joel, I thought the roads were too—"

"Me too," he answers, checking the revolver at his hip. "Let's see who it is." He pushes his hand against your spine and feels your body loosen as you walk together toward the distant road.

The wagon plodding up the road eventually pulls to a muddy stop just at the fence line, a man jumping down from the driver's seat. "Father," he hears you murmur, before starting across the yard without waiting for him.

Joel follows, watches his old friend wrap an arm around you, murmuring your mother's sent greetings. You face folds at the mention of your mother, but you brighten quickly.

Joel hadn't even known your father had a daughter, until he appeared like a wraith at the edge of his land all those months ago, begging a favor.

Joel had told you of his own daughter one late evening when neither of you could sleep. Feeling your comforting warm attention across the mattress as he spoke to the dark ceiling. How his wife leaving, had also been a mother leaving.

Sarah had died very, very young, and though he'd never know for certain, he can't imagine selling her off the way your father had you. A wad of cash offered like you were goods to be traded in service of their name. It had soured his opinion of the man, and any leftover good will he felt toward him when they were younger.

Soiled, now that Joel was a hypocrite, finding comfort, among other feelings, in you, even if you were his wife. You're young, and you've placed immeasurable trust in him that he'd had to very carefully earn.

Joel joins you and shakes your father's well meaning hand as you say, "Stay for dinner, please. We'd love to have you and hear any news from town. We've been alone all winter."

"Of course," he answers jovially, glancing over you. "I thought for sure you'd have a spring chicken on the way, my dear."

It takes you a long moment to realize what he's getting at. A complicated knot of feelings writhes over your face before hurt dominates.

He clearly expected to find you pregnant.

You smile and don't answer, leading them toward the house instead.

.

.

.

The afternoon air is already below freezing again when your father finally leaves, wagon disappearing back down the road, unloaded of your meager things that you haven't missed in months. An odd anxiety has taken hold of you, and though you have too many chores to get done, you tell Joel you're going on a walk and leave without waiting for an answer.

You feel like a lamb put out to slaughter, though what else should your father have expected than to find you a pregnant wife, muted and different than you had been before marriage. It stings that he hadn't even asked after your well being, if Joel was treating you well, was good to you. It didn't matter you suppose, you aren't his problem, and if your husband saw fit to be cruel to you, that was that man's right.

He'd sat at the table and talked only to Joel where once he used to look to you, find pride in his clever daughter's conversation.

Now, you are silent, talked about like you aren't present, about how well you are or aren't fulfilling wifely duties. Clearly you'd failed in at least one respect since you were not pregnant. Never would he guess that Joel had never even stuck you, left the marriage unconsummated. It makes you feel adrift, all the easier to discard, since he could easily nullify the marriage for something like that.

You couldn't read how Joel felt about the whole thing as your father threw out childhood anecdotes about your petulance and reluctance to learn from your mother without care.

Humiliating. It made you seem frivolous and silly. Worse, many times over he implied thanks to Joel for the purchase of damaged goods, your supposed fling with the farmhand referenced repeatedly and only thinly veiled by polite convention.

Joel, apparently a damned martyr for marrying you. He was suffering so greatly by taking your hand in marriage.

Though, your father had said, wiping his chin of the grease spilling down it, good to have a woman's touch, as I told you before. It's no good for a man to take on duties of the home, or be, ah, alone all the time. I don't know how you stood to be without a wife for so many years.

It was a humiliating, punishing few hours. Clearly, your family had not thought of you beyond gladness that your indiscretion no long sullied their name.

You feel foolish too, for the affection you feel for Joel. When you are only a little help mate to him. That is why he draws no closer, doesn't really want to know you as a husband would know you.

You walk and walk, head down, alternating between seething rage and despair in turns. You don't notice the shadows creeping in at the edges of your vision, how quickly the sun has sunk behind the mountains. A horrible shame traces up your spine, making you shiver.

The world is still icy and cold, snowbanks piled high between muddy ruts cut into the earth. You don't notice how close you've strayed to the rushing creek, swollen with melted snow runoff spilling down the mountainside. Your boot catches on the edge of a slick stone.

You grasp at a low hanging tree branch to keep upright but fall into the water heavily, spluttering as it sweeps you into it's rush. Your lungs feel frozen as you gasp and flail for anything to find purchase on. All those times you thought of throwing yourself to a river's mercy, here was God doing it for you, for your ungrateful hardness, a nasty little girl that wanted too much and had no good sense.

Maybe God thought you had sex with that farmhand too.

Or maybe it was the sins of the flesh you imagined with a husband that did not return your desire.

It's almost easy to stop fighting the current and let it drag you down instead. You can't swim and maybe this is fate. No one would miss you, people would sigh and say maybe it was the most decent thing to happen to you, a blight scorched off the town's good name.

The water closes over your head, darkness swims at the corners of your vision.

You aren't sure how long you're under when something hard catches under your elbow, hauls you coughing and spluttering to shore.

A face looms above yours as you try to draw breath into your frozen lungs, coughing until you turn on your side and throw up, first water and then the little dinner you'd been able to stomach. "Breathe," a voice murmurs, which you only belatedly connect to Joel. Then, angrier, "What the hell were you thinkin'?"

You can't answer him just yet, feeling faint, still hiccoughing into the dirt, lungs still spasming from the shock of the cold water.

"Before dark," he growls suddenly when you finally manage to suck in a full breath of night air. "Come home before dark. That is the one goddamn thing I asked from you."

A new fear steals into you, that you will finally find out what happens when you disobey, and on the heels of your father, Joel's good friend, reminding him that you were dirty and used, beneath him in almost every way.

You cower, waiting for a blow on the black soil of the creek bank. "Joel, please, I'm sorry—" The word sicks in your graveled voice.

It doesn't come right then. Instead, his arms fit beneath your legs, around your back, and lifts you from the ground. "Jesus, sweetheart, no—I got you," he says softly. "Just breathe."

"Joel—"

"'s all right, now."

"Please don't—"

"We're just goin' home, or you'll freeze to death."

Your mind sways in and out of consciousness as he walks, dark branches wheeling above your head in a dark tangle, the world silent and near pitch black by the time you return to the cottage.

He sets you on your feet in the bedroom, yanks your coat down your arms. "Help me here, darlin'," he says, his voice softly desperate, that sweet little pet name a suspected accident. "You might lose fingers if you don't."

You help him wrestle with the fastenings of your clothes. "I didn't mean to."

"I know."

Only a muted embarrassment and helplessness reaches your mind, that he is seeing you nearly naked for the first time like this. His hands seem far away.

Joel tugs the blankets around your shoulders and hastily fills a pan with coal from the hearth. "Too damn cold," he mutters, and you wonder how long and far you'd gone if the fire from dinner was already spent. Distantly, you realize he is peeling himself out of his own clothes. "You'll get warmer faster," he explains. You nod, feeling very tired. "Don't close your eyes," he says, voice suddenly harsh. "Keep lookin' at me."

You struggle to follow his command, watching as so much skin is revealed, then pressed against yours.

His body is so hot, when your skin touches his, that it feels like being set aflame, touched by a scorching fire.

You whimper and he shushes you, presses you closer, head tucked beneath his chin. "You're all right," he murmurs, though it sounds as though he is trying desperately to convince himself. "You'll be all right, sweetheart."

For a long while he holds you in silence, scratchy lips against your forehead, beard pressed against your temple. You feel every part of him pressed against every part of you, the hair on his legs and chest, the muscle of his biceps and forearms, chest and collarbones and feet. The first time his hands are on you this way, because you'd been a little too emotional and nearly drowned yourself.

His broad palms splay over your spine, cradling you as shivers start to rack your body again. You hadn't realized they had stopped.

A relieved sigh climbs out of his throat.

"Were you trying to leave?"

You don't know how he means it, like his first wife had, or like you were trying to die. "No," you answer, "No, I fell in. I was upset." Your teeth chatter, click together so violently you're afraid you might bite your tongue. "I didn't realize how late it was. I'm sorry, Joel."

"Scared me, is all."

"I'm sorry," you whisper against his throat. "For all of it. I'm so ashamed."

He shakes his head. "Should be your father that's ashamed."

"I'm being punished," you continue. "For something I did not do."

Joel's hand pauses in its path down your spine, for just a moment. "Yeah," he agrees quietly. "I'm sorry for it."

"Not you," you nest down against him. Maybe if you were more coherent, you'd feel nervous about it, but it just feels good, his arms around you, his body against yours, finally. "I don't mean you, Joel. You are not my punishment."

"All right now," he mutters. "Enough a' that."

You are sure you move first, though if asked, Joel will say he did. You tilt your chin up and press your cold mouth to his.

Stolen little girlhood kisses amount to nothing compared to this. His heavy hands, his scratchy cheeks against yours. Full and warm blooded. Cradling and caressing and sighing just like you. His breath is yours.

It's all consuming, like a star parting the night sky.

.

.

.

Summer arrives quietly, softly.

You visit your family as a married couple, and Joel holds your hand through the Sunday church service you attend together even though some of the congregants eye you with stony, judgemental stares. You take pleasure in the burning gaze of those girls on you, angry that you don't seem uncomfortable with the man they'd indirectly sentenced you to.

As quickly as is possible, you leave again. It's hard to be there, among the stares but also among a village that used to be your home.

"Sure you wanna go so quick?"

"Yes, Joel."

He mulls it over, hands on his hips.

"What?" It occurs to you that maybe he isn't ready to leave. He has no family; you've only spoken to each other for months and months aside from that visit from your father and once from Joel's brother, who had been taken by surprise at your presence. Maybe he was craving company other than your own. "Would you like to stay longer?"

"No, I don't want you to feel like we're in any rush to get back."

You blink, taken aback. "I don't. I'd like to. . .go home."

His face softens. "All right, girl. Let's get a move on then." Joel helps you onto the wagon bench and starts to climb up when the priest, who Joel had managed to avoid earlier, passes by your parents' house.

"Mr. Miller! A moment?"

"What's he want, I wonder?" He asks, leaning his arms against the side of the wagon, his face close to yours. "I ain't his parishioner. Technically."

You roll your eyes. "Go see what he'd like," you say tenderly, touching his cheek just to nettle the other man. Indecent touching! You can hear the sermon already forming. Lusts of the flesh! Good thing you no longer attend to this town's church and will not have to hear it.

"Yes, ma'am."

Despite the intimacy, he has not touched you, not really, since that day you nearly drowned. You long for him to kiss you again, just once, but fear it may have been an accident borne of your stupidity, his fear of loss.

Joel steps back down from the wagon and approaches. You watch the robin's egg sky instead of the men, counting the crowding of little white puffs on the horizon, pretending that you can't hear every word being spoken, of being tamed, cowed, broken. How is he faring with his new wife?

You mean to hear Joel's answer, but your mother is suddenly laboring onto the wagon bench beside you. You had not heard her approaching and had avoided speaking to her at church and lunch, Joel dutifully standing between you.

"We didn't get a chance to speak."

"Should I have something to say to you?"

You mother catches up your hand, holds it between both of hers. "I didn't want to send you away."

"And yet you did, for something you know I did not do. To a man you knew nothing of."

She huffs. "What's done is done. We did it to protect you, to save your name." You nod and tug your hand away. "Never mind all that," she says gently. "Tell me, how is he as a man? Does he treat you well?"

"I think," you start, watching Joel and the priest. "He might be the best man I've ever known."

She peers at you curiously. "He doesn't hurt you?"

"It would be much too late for your guilt if he did," you answer, "but no, he doesn't."

"You listen to him." Your mother sounds amazed.

"He listens to me. Let's me be." You shrug, "So I do the same."

She seems bewildered by that, that by not holding you down, forcing you to something else, you were better for it.

Your mother doesn't get to give an answer, because Joel is approaching.

She kisses you goodbye and he helps her down from the wagon. "So," you say when the village is finally behind you. "What did you tell the Father? How did you break my restless spirit?"

He chuckles. "I told him there wasn't anything to break."

It warms you to think he believes it. "Even when I fall into creeks in the cold?"

"I think your spirit is what kept you from drownin' so—"

"Oh, ha ha, very funny."

You want to lean into him, but wait until you're on the final stretch of dusty road when the evening sky is beginning to darken at the edges to do so, heavy against his shoulder.

You work together to curry the horses and stable them for the night, exhaustion aching in your bones by the time you turn in. Summer is as bright as winter is dark, and the sky is only just starting to darken, blushing pinks and smouldering orange over the trees.

Joel is saying something about a book, something about chess. He talks so much, now. Even when he's quiet, you know the language of him.

"Why don't you kiss me again?"

He blinks and meets your gaze, looking like a fish out of water. "I, uh—"

"If the first time was a mistake," you say. "It doesn't offend me. I like things as they are."

He clears his throat and bows his head, approaches you slowly, all the time looking down at his feet, brows tilted together. "I didn't mean for it to go like that," he admits. "That's true."

You meant it when you said you like things as they are, but disappointment still burns hot that his affection had been unintentional. "Okay," you agree when he stops in front of you. "That's just fine."

He shakes his head. "It ain't that I don't want that. But I promised you, I wouldn't. Our, uh, marriage vows didn't mean shit. But that, sweetheart, it meant something. I meant it."

"And if I said I wanted it?"

"You don't need to feel like you have to," he says quietly but firmly. "I wouldn't be able to stomach it."

You push your palm against his cheek, stand nearly chest to chest with him. "You have never made me feel like I needed to do or be anything at all for you." You lean against him, "I'd like it if you kissed me. And if, um, you'd like to—" Long held shame, years of hearing about how women were lustful temptresses comes creeping in. "Well, the rest of it—"

"If I'd like to what?" He teases, something wicked in the grin that pulls at the corners of his mouth. "Touch you?"

"I suppose," you say haughtily, flustered.

"Where?" His hot hands press to your sides, over the curves of your hips where no one has ever touched before. You startle and fall against him, your skin alive beneath his hands. "Here?"

You cover his hands, guide them boldly over your body, to your ass and waist and just beneath your breasts, back down to your hips. You lean in so your mouth just brushes his. "You should make more vows to me. New ones that say you promise to never stop touching me."

"That could be arranged."

"Oh wonderful. I should hate to have to hunt down another husband."

He's pulls you toward the bedroom, the bed beyond. He hasn't kissed you again, but he intends to do something to you, that much is clear.

"Hunt one down, huh? I think I fell into your lap."

He fell into your lap. The thought is a nice one.

You nod, bum hitting the edge of the bed. "I should think so. Had those girls witnessed even this behind that barn, I would have been killed where I stood. A happy accident that they didn't and I was given you instead."

His laugh is like a bark. "Ain't you somethin'."

He tilts you back, looks at your coiled body and hums. Your knees are pressed together out of habit, arms folded across your belly now. Still fully clothed and you feel naked as he looks down at you with a reverence and devotion you have only before seen in a pew. You settle your heels at the edge of the bed."Tell me again," he requests.

"I want you," you say quietly. "I want you to touch me."

Just as in your dreams that you thought frivolous and unrealistic, he peels your thighs apart and pushes his hand between your legs. You gasp and fight not to skitter away from his touch, to keep your hips against the mattress. If that's how warm only his hand felt through your clothes, you can't imagine what it will be like without.

He leans over you, moves his hand to tilt your chin up instead, finally presses his lips against yours again after so long.

"Joel," you sigh against his mouth, scratchy cheeks that you cup in your hands. "You'll be gentle with me."

It's not a question.

"Mm." His nose draws a line down your cheek to your jaw, mouth pressing against the underside of your jaw. You gasp when his teeth scrape along your skin, just a little. You tangle your hands in his hair, tug at the graying strands that slip through your fingers until he grunts against you.

Joel settles between your parted thighs, lost to you, apparently. "Joel."

"Sweetheart," he answers, lifting his head to look at you.

"I know it will hurt. Please make it easy on me."

He leans on his forearm, placed above the crown of your head, his other hand yanking the skirt of your dress up. "I will do everything to make it easy on you."

"Okay," you breathe, smoothing the worry. He wouldn't hurt you on purpose, of that you're sure.

He works you out of your clothes as you pull at his. There's only one part of him you haven't seen, one part of him you've never seen of any man. You tug at his trousers until a button pops open and you can push your hand down.

You gasp at the feeling of him in your hand, hard and warm, his skin soft and damp. You aren't sure what to do, not the way he moves with such certainty, thick fingers slipping beneath your underwear, parting the folds of you.

You watch his face as you move your hand, circling your fingers around him seems the natural fit of things, sliding your fist up and down his length. There's friction though and you wonder if it feels good for him.

He is signularly focused on you though, and for a moment you forget his cock in your hand because he touches something that makes your back arch off the bed, a moan yanked from your chest.

"There she goes," he coos, still moving his fingers over you, not even inside you yet.

That will go inside you, you remember suddenly. It feels too big for your hand, let alone your cunt. You squeeze his cock and rub your thumb along the head where you feel something leaking, helping your hand slide around him.

"How does that feel—"

He groans, and you turn your gaze to him, repeating the action, watching him shudder. "Am I doing okay?"

It gives you no small satisfaction to literately have him in the palm of your hand, giving to him. You stroke him slowly, tightening your grip as you reach the tip. "Jesus, girl," he murmurs, and then thrusts into your hand.

"Am I?"

"Little too good," he grunts. "I ain't gonna be much use to you if you keep that up."

You don't know what he means, especially since you want to keep making him sound like that forever. But you trust him, so you release him and kiss him instead, nipping at his bottom lip, feeling like an aching wound as his slips a finger inside you.

There's a little pressure but it doesn't hurt. You can feel how damp you are, easing the passage of his fingers, a second and third following, stretching you to almost the point of pain, but mostly it feels good, his hands working some kind of spell over you in tandem until your world bursts with pleasure.

Waves of it crash over you, slicking your skin with sweat in the warmth of your bedroom. He helps you out of the last bit of your clothes, nude body bared to him, hands scooping your breasts in too warm palms, brushing tentatively over your nipples.

So many thngs that you did not know could feel good.

Your mouth goes dry when you finally see his cock, aching from your attentions, the head an angry red. You have the most bizarre desire to out him in your mouth, that is only vindicated as not odd when Joel puts his head between your legs and makes you come again without his fingers even entering you.

"Please," you whine, beckoning him toward you, so open and vulnerable and never so safe. "Please just do it. I'm ready."

"You are, sweetheart," he coos. "Best I can get you anyway."

He lets you grip him and guide him to your entrance, pushing inside you in increments. You wonder at what brutes the men in your village must be like to have all the girls saying this is only something to endure. For though it hurts a little, it overwhelmingly feels good. Like stretching a sore muscle. He is heavy and warm, your bodies locked together in a way you will mourn when it parts.

Joel holds you close, pushes his forehead gently to yours, breath ghosting over your lips, so warm and present it makes something deep inside you sigh in satisfaction.

Here you belong, you are sure, here you are understood and wanted. You touch him wherever your hands can reach, marveling at the plains of his body as he ruts into you, skin slapping against skin.

He grunts against your neck when he comes and you follow only a moment later, panting into the dark of something that is now yours, clutching him tightly to your chest.

A new vow kept.

.

.

.

He wakes you in the middle of the night with gentle prodding.

The night is a soft sweet song outside your window, the low sounds of the land around you. "Joel?" you ask, pressing one hand over your eyes, rubbing away sleep. "What's wrong?"

"Nothin'," he assures. "There's just somethin' I wanna show you."

"Now?"

"If you're willin'."

Well, you are always willing, with him. Wrapped in only your dressing robe, he leads you outside, across the yard to the stables by lamplight.

He is shirtless, and you are close enough that you can see the flex of muscle in his arms when he rolls the doors open, and the cratered parts of him you finally got to touch.

"Joel—" You complain. "What—"

"C'mon, now," he motions you inside, the red light flickering over his features comforting instead of eerie.

"I'm sore you know," you grumble. And you are, a pleasant kind of pain that accompanies the pleasure he had given you. It's nothing like the girls had described to you. It had only been good. He had only been good.

He just chuckles, no small amount of pride in it, and leads you to the workbench that you can never quite tell what he does at. "You feel okay?" He asks, sincere.

"Okay," you scoff. "You very well know what you did to me."

"All right," he says softly. "Enough of that."

"Show me."

He clears his throat, and nods, pulling you near him at the bench.

There among the softly snuffling horses, he presents you with a tiny wood carving of a woman that looks just like you. You gasp and take her carefully from his hands, holding her up to moonlight and then lamplight, the exquisite detailing of her.

She has your nose and eyes. The shape of her body in movement, the exact way you hold your hands in miniature. An expression on her face of determination and muddled anxiety. Afraid, but getting on with it.

He has adored you, you see, from the moment he met you. He studied you as closely as you studied him. "It's beautiful."

"Yeah," he agrees, hand on your spine, "suppose I've got a good muse, though."

Your face feels hot, your whole body alight. "When did you—" just to confirm what you think you know.

"Morning after we married," he says. "Somethin' about the way you looked, I just. . .I had to get it down somewhere."

You rub your thumb over her silhouette. "She is missing her wedding band."

Joel's eyes flick to your hand, empty. "I suppose she is." He takes your hand and kisses it's fingers. "As you are."

You spend your nights alone, usually curled up on the olive green couch that came with your tiny apartment. Sometimes you read a book. Sometimes you eat icecream from the carton while you watch TV. Other times, like the night before last, you just sit and listen to the symphony of the night life drifting up from the street below your window.

The array of sounds you can hear from the world outside your run down apartment serve as a reminder that you aren't alone. That even with your sparse belongings and uninspired surroundings, you are still enduring.

You had moved in three months ago and there were still some small kinks to iron out, but you were happy to there. It was a humble one bedroom apartment, cheap, with patchy paint work and an air-conditioner that rattled everytime you switched it on, but it was yours. You could overlook the leaking shower head and the rickety kitchen drawers because you finally had your own space, a home you could craft to your own liking, somewhere where you make the rules.

It has taken you some time to adjust to the solitude of living alone, but you're not actually lonely. Infact you are beginning to enjoy the quiet of having only yourself for company. You are gradually learning to be comfortable with your independence.

So much has happened in such a short space of time - a new job, a new apartment, a fresh start in life - that some days you wake up disorientated. Some times it all feels like a dream.

But then you remember.

•••

You are stretched out on the couch tonight, only half paying attention to the movie playing on your TV, letting your mind disconnect from reality for a little while.

You're about half way through watching a movie when you are startled by a rapping at your front door. You pause the TV and wait, thinking it could be your imagination. There is a momentarily silence followed by another couple of knocks.

Someone is definitely at your door.

Pertrubed by who it could be, you glance at the clock on your phone screen. 10.30pm. Who could be at your apartment at this time?

Maybe it's one of your neighbours needing a favour - the girl in number 5 is always running out of milk and the man down the hallway is always getting your mail by mistake. It must be one of them.

You look toward the door now and chew your lip nervously. You have to curse your landlord for not having installed a peep-hole. Fuck. You had expressed your concern about it when you first moved in; you didn't want to come off as paranoid but the thought of not knowing who was at the door made your stomach flip with anxiety. Your landlord had compromised and promised to put in a door chain lock instead, but nothing had been done about it yet.

You make a mental note to raise the issue again on Monday as you pull yourself off the couch and traipse over to the door, your socked feet sliding over the worn floorboards. You hesitate for a moment, leaning your forehead against the solid wood of the door.

"Who is it?"

"Tracy, from number 5," a cheery voice sings back from the other side. You exhale a tiny breath of relief before twisting the lock and opening the door.

Sure enough Tracy is waiting in the hallway, dressed in a halter top and a short skirt, gaudy pink high heels accentuating her slender legs. Despite being alot older than you, Tracy's social life is far more exciting than yours, for she always seems to be dressed up and going out.

"Gotcha the coffee I owe ya," she smiles at you with ruby red lips and holds out the glass jar of instant coffee for you to take. "Thanks doll. You saved my ass the other morning. I'm such a bitch when I don't have caffeine as soon as I wake up."

You take the proffered jar and laugh. She does a little twirl and sashays down the hallway and you close the door. You settle back on the couch and resume watching the movie. But not even five minutes later there comes another knock at your door.

That must be Tracy again.

You spring onto your feet and go to the door once more. You wonder what she might need this time. It doesn't bother you too much -  you like Tracy, she seems fun, a free spirit. Maybe you should ask her to hang out sometime. You need to start making some new friends, after all.

But when you open it this time, you find that Tracy isn't the one waiting outside.

The person on the other side of the door is your ex boyfriend, Joel.

•••

It's like a jump scare in a horror movie. Your heart leaps into your throat and a startled gasp is squeezed from your lungs. Your brain panics and you try to slam the door shut.

But Joel anticipates your reaction. His movements are agile and swift, quicker than yours, and he is able to wedge his boot inbetween the threshold and barrel his way through the door. You squeal and scamper backwards, unable to do anything as he closes it behind him. Your heart thunders in your chest and when you hear the click of the lock slotting into place, your stomach drops.

You've got no where to run.

Joel then turns around to face you. It's the first time you have seen him in three months. Three months since you decided to end your relationship once and for all. Three months since you packed up your shit and left. Three months since you disappeared from his life.

He looks the same as always. Effortlessly handsome, even dressed so casually in his usual jeans and a green flannel. Despite his violent trespass he looks at you now with doleful brown eyes full of yearning, like a lovesick puppy dog.

How did he find you? Your brain scrambles for possible answers as to how he could've discovered where you live. You had been so cautious when surrending everything from your old life, essentially disappearing from the face of the earth (which hadn't been too difficult, considering how Joel isolated you from almost every opportunity to branch out and make friends, or even work).

But you know better. You know that when Joel decides to do something he doesn't rest until he attains his goal; for what Joel would describe as persistence realistically descends into nothing short of obsession. He'd fight tooth and nail to get what he wants.

You should've known he would come after you. You've gravely underestimated him.

Fucking psychopath.

"How did you find me?" You demand loudly, your heart still galloping in your ribcage. You blindly grope for the wall behind you, searching for anything tactile to stablise you.

"Baby," Joel begins, soft and supplicating.  "Calm down. Please, just give me a minute."

"What the hell are you doing here?" You hiss, your face contorting into an outraged snarl. He holds his hands up cautiously, eyes fixed on yours like you're a cornered feral animal ready to sink your claws into him.

"I need you to calm down," he says in that same gentle tone.

"Calm down?" You seethe incredulously, your hands now trembling from the adrenaline. "How can I calm down? You've...you've stalked me! Tracked down where I fucking l-live!"

"Now darlin', I just need you to listen, alright?" He takes a couple tentative steps toward you. You press yourself flat against the wall, wishing you could somehow disappear through it and escape. "Baby, you gotta come back home."

"I don't want to come back," your voice cracks, tears pricking your eyes. "That's why I left, Joel. That's why I packed all my stuff and left."

"I need you, darlin'," he murmers tenderly, using the same alluring and coaxing tone that he does when he is trying to placate you.

"And I need you to leave," you try to sound assertive and commanding but you can't stop the wobble in your voice. Joel just shakes his head gently.

"Baby, you don't understand. I came to get you. You're comin' home with me, where you belong."

"I'm not going anywhere with you," you declare. "We are over! I told you that!"

"I didn't think you meant it," Joel argues back, agitation crackling through his tone as it rises in volume. "Thought you just needed some time to cool off. Then I go to your place to patch things up and find you'd fuckin'...left, totally disappeared. Why did you do that to me?"

"Because I don't want to be with you, Joel," you spit out harshly. "Not after everything you've put me through. How can you expect me to want you, after all your bullshit?"

"My bullshit? What the hell are you talkin' about?" Joel glowers.

"You know what I mean." You feel so small under his intimidating gaze, but you take a deep exhale and soldier on. "Your bad moods and your temper, and all the times you got jealous and acted like an asshole. Your need to control everything."

A flicker of something passes over his face then - a momentary slacking of his features, a split second of a drop in his facade that reveals something like guilt and shame, like he's been hit by memories of his past failures. Like the internal scars in your heart and self esteem have somehow visibly manifested on your skin, reflected on your face in purple mottled bruises.

Like the one he gave you just a few weeks before you left, after he had slapped you during one of your routine arguments about what you wanted to wear to Tommy's for Sunday dinner.

From the very beginning of your relationship, Joel had struggled with communicating his feelings. He was never a man of words and preferred to express himself through actions. It didn't really bother you - you found it kind of endearing in a way. But as your relationship progressed, it became apparent that Joel was more than just emotionally repressed.

You realised that he couldn't handle conflict well and was prone to rage when he felt insecure, especially in situations where you were involved. And it only got worse as his feelings for you intensified.

On the outside, Joel Miller was a handsome man who owned a successful contracting business. He projected an image of power and professionalism. But over time you discovered just what Joel managed to keep hidden under the veneer of a reserved Southern gentleman. You found that he was domineering to the point of obsession, and plagued with a fierce need to control everything that he held dear. Including you.

Especially you.

Joel's jaw ticks and he shakes his head, as if banishing ugly memories from his mind. "Don't act like you're innocent in all this. We both know you love to purposely piss me off."

You dig your nails into your palms to try center yourself. It is like you're in a daze, your mind totally discombobulated. The logical part of you would be screaming for help by now, but you're too blinded by your outrage. How dare Joel Miller hunt you down like this, barrelling his way inside your sanctuary and back into your life. How dare he stand before you and blame you for his flaws.

You ball your hands into fists and let out an exasperated groan through gritted teeth. "You really think I like arguing with you?"

"Sure seems like it," Joel scoffs, folding his arms. "Always runnin' your mouth about somethin'."

"Running my mouth?" You give him a pointed look. "Joel, you didn't want me to see my best friend on her birthday. You pouted and sulked for a whole week. You barely said two words to me the whole time. And then you showed up at the bar drunk and got into a fight with one of her brothers!"

"He was hittin' on you!" Joel argues back, jaw ticking with irritation. "And she's a sloppy fuckin' drunk, just like the rest of those girls she's always with. You know how dangerous it is for you to go out with her runnin' wild like that?"

"Dangerous?" You scoff mirthlessly. "You sound ridiculous! Just admit that you're a fucking control freak."

"You think I wanna control you just because I wanna keep you safe?" Joel hisses, fiery indignation flashing in his eyes.

"Is that what you call not wanting me to have a job?" You challenge back. "And deciding what clothes I wear, who I'm allowed to talk to? You're keeping me safe by constantly checking my phone log and messages?"

"I've been tryin' to guide you," Joel carefully corrects you. "Helpin' you make all the right decisions in your life. That's all." He closes the space between you and reaches his hand out to gently cup your cheek in his palm. "Because I love you," he murmers. "Because you're mine."

"Not anymore," you snap, jerking your head away from his touch. You shove your palms flat against his chest in a bid to push him away but it has no effect on his broad frame. "We are over!"

Joel's brows furrow as he glares down at you. His jaw ticks. "This isn't over. Do you understand me?" He mutters, voice rough and full of warning. "We ain't over. Not till I say so."

You can't stand how close he is. His very presence is suffocating you, pulling all the air from what was supposed to be your safe place. You try to sidestep out from his towering shadow, but he mirrors you, his brows furrowed with determination.

"No, you ain't runnin' from me anymore," Joel asserts, smacking his palm against the wall by your head and blocking your path. "You're mine and I ain't lettin' you go."

You feel your teeth involuntary clench from the frustrated ire coursing through your body. You don't know what pisses you off more; the fact that Joel feels so entitled to ownership over you, or that he doesn't seem to get why you left him in the first place.

"Ain't no one in this world whos gonna care for you the way I do, honey." He leans down to come closer to your face and you can smell his woody aftershave. His eyes shift over the features of your face, drinking you in. "You think I'm too hard on you or whatever the fuck - fine. But just remember that no other man will love you as much as I love you."

The panic rises once more inside your chest. He's too close, overwhelming all your senses. You can't stand to hear his voice any longer. It is no longer the honeyed Southern drawl that could once conjure butterflies inside your tummy and make your cheeks blush. Joel's words now are like a python coiling itself around your body, intent on strangling and pulverising all the fight from your very marrow.

"How you behave..the things you do...that isn't love, Joel." You duck underneath his arm and skirt to the other side of the living room. Joel whirls around to follow you. "And it certainly isn't what I want in a relationship."

"So I ain't good enough now?" He questions bitterly. "Found someone else, is that it?"

"No."

"Don't lie to me. Is it Frankie?"

Frankie. The one that got away. You broke up five years ago when he was struggling to ditch his cocaine habit and get his life together. You both moved on but never forgot one another. By the time he got sober and reconnected with you, you had just met Joel. You and Frankie had stayed friends for a little while - until Joel discovered your history and demand you stop seeing him completely.

You didn't know it at the time, but he had threatened to break Frankie's jaw if he ever spoke to you again.

Needless to say, you hadn't seen Frankie for a long time. Sure, you could've reached out to him in these last three months, but you didn't want to drag him into all this bullshit. It was better to leave it all in the past, including Frankie.

"Oh, fuck off," you mutter. "You know we are only friends. Were."

"He try?"

Your face twists in confusion. "Try what?"

Joel doesn't miss a beat, pinning you with an intense stare that makes your spine crawl. "To fuck you."

You're so tired of his suspicions and accusations, his unfounded paranoia and insecurity. You groan loudly and roll your eyes, which only seems to provoke him further.

"Yeah, he did," Joel surmises confidently, raising his voice. "And I bet you didn't stop him, neither."

"I haven't seen Frankie. And I haven't been with anyone," you say truthfully. "Not that it's any of your business."

"Oh, you haven't, huh?" Joel raises his eyebrows in feigned surprise. "Prove it."

You scoff and shake your head. "I don't have to prove anything to you, Joel."

"Come on," he urges with a tilt of his head. "Neither of us could go a day without sex. Hell, we used to fuck like rabbits. You really expect me to believe you ain't been with someone since me?"

"I haven't." You wrap your arms around your waist, suddenly feeling vulnerable. You don't care if he believes you or not, but you still wonder how a person could possibly prove their celibacy.

You catch Joel's eyes flicker down your body then back up to your face. The tip of his tongue pokes out to lick over his plush bottom lip before he speaks, smooth and nonchalant. "Show me your pussy."

Your breath catches in your throat and you splutter a little. Did you hear him properly? Did he really just tell you to show him your pussy? You blink, stunned for a moment.

"What?" You huff out nervously, eyeing him with caution. Joel stares back at you with a dispassionate expression, one that you can't quite read.

"You heard me. Show me you ain't had a man since you left."

You snort a disbelieving laugh. "No way. You're fucking crazy, Joel."

As soon as the words leave your mouth you perceive a distinct shift in his demeanour. All of the warmth drains from his intense brown eyes, replaced by forboding coldness. The corners of his lips downturn in displeasure. You catch his fingers fidgeting restlessly by his side.

"I'll leave as soon as I see that you ain't got another man's load sittin' inside you right now."

You make a face of disgust at Joel. There's no way you're going to undress and show him your private parts.

He really is fucking insane.

"No," you argue.

Joel's dark eyes remain locked on yours. You try not to let the power of his stare intimidate you but it's impossible when he's so much bigger, so much stronger. Your heart beat kicks up a notch when he takes a couple steps toward you, his boots scuffing along the floor. He looms infront of you now.

"Take your panties off and get on the damn couch." Joel commands, his tone measured and deliberate. "Now."

"You're fucked up, Joel," you sneer. "How dare you come here and demand that. Get the fuck out of my home."

Joel's palm lands a solid smack across your cheek. You yelp and stumble backward. Tears immediately spring to yours eyes and the side of your face flares with pain. You hiss and cradle your throbbing cheek with one hand.

Joel runs his hand over the lower half of his face sighs like he's weary. "See what you make me do?" He laments flatly. "If you just listen to me, I wouldn't have to do shit like that."

You glare up at him, hate etched clearly on your features. He can slap you all he wants - you're not willfully bowing down to him ever again. You're going to stand your ground this time.

"Get on the fuckin' couch," Joel barks out, irritated.

You don't move.

He growls with frustration before grabbing hold of your bicep and dragging you to the couch. He shoves you down onto your back and your head knocks sharply against the arm rest. He ignores your cries of protest and swiftly rips your shorts and underwear from your body, discarding them in a tangle on the floor.

"Now let me see that dirty little cunt," Joel grips your thighs with his large, calloused hands and forces them open. He kneels onto the couch and wedges himself inbetween your legs. You screech and smack your fists wherever you can - his shoulders, his head, his face.

"Quit it," he growls, dodging your blows.

"No!" You yell defiantly. "Get the fuck away from me, you psycho!"

Joel slaps you again. Your head lolls to the side from the impact. Your vision briefly turns static and there's a ringing in your ear. Your body goes rigid from the shock. He spreads your pussy lips open with his thumbs, exposing your hole. He stares down at the apex of your sex and let's out a low whistle.

"There she is," he purrs. "Lookin' just as pretty as I remember." His thumbs stroke gently up and down your labia, almost reverently. He groans quietly, a deep rumble in his chest. "Missed her."

You try to focus your blurred sight on your ex boyfriend hovering above you. Tears pool in your eyes and your lips feel tingly and swollen. "Stop," you manage to whisper hoarsely.

"Just gettin' started, honey," Joel murmers, sliding one of his thumbs up to circle lightly over your clit, making you twitch. "All you gotta do is lay there and take it."

He bows his head and purses his mouth before spitting a large wad of saliva onto your opening. Your muscles instinctively clench as it drips down from your pussy to your asshole. Overcome with humiliation and shock you screw your eyes shut, and your tears finally break free and roll down your cheeks in rivulets.

This can't be happening.

"Last chance to come clean, baby," Joel warns. "Cos I'm gonna know if you let some asshole fuck this pussy. Better you admit to it now."

You have nothing to say. He won't believe anything you tell him, anyway. All you can do is whimper and sob, snot now running from your nose. It intermingles with your tears and the salt stings your lips. His other hand splays over your ribcage, anchoring your torso firmly into the couch.

"Be brave for me, honey," Joel cooes soothingly, like he isn't about to perform such a depraved violation of your body. "Just wanna see if your cunt is still mine."

Then without warning, he shoves two fingers inside your pussy. You're so horrified from the violation and the pain of him stretching you open that your eyes fly open and you shriek loudly. You weakly try to clamp your legs shut but his knees keep you pried open.

"Hold still," Joel demands gruffly. "Be good for me and don't move."

You grip the edge of the couch cushion and grit your teeth as he stuffs his thick digits as deep as he can. There is nothing sexy or sensual about what Joel's doing; the act is far too rough, almost clinical in the lack of finesse, and it is close to agonising when he bumps against your cervix. Your body jolts.

"Stop, Joel," you croak. "You're really hurting me. Please."

You feel so full, your walls squeezing around him, as if rejecting him and trying to push him out. He retracts his fingers half way before pushing them all the way back in. He then repeats the motion slowly, almost experimentally.

"Still tight," Joel murmers. "You tellin' the truth, or are the dicks you takin' just ain't as big as mine?"

He does it again, this time stilling halfway to curl his fingers. He taps up against the sweet spot inside you that he's so incredibly familiar with, and the spark of pleasure it gives you makes you feel sick.

"Yeah, no one could stretch ya like I do."

Your hands cover your eyes in shame, desperately wishing for this whole exercise in degradation to end. "That's enough," you whisper.

"Gotta do it properly, baby," Joel drawls, slightly breathless. You can hear the hint of arousal in his voice, and with horrified revulsion you realise he is getting off on this. More tears trickle from your eyes. "It'll be over soon."

Joel starts to pump his thick fingers in and out of your hole, using that same rhythm he would to prepare you for his cock. You are mortified when you hear the faint squelch of your pussy as it starts to become wet.

"Yeah, she remembers who she belongs to," Joel smirks. He alternates between fucking you with his your fingers and stroking up against your gspot. He knows your body so well, knows the precise angle and the perfect tempo to turn you into a whimpering mess, and now he's using that knowledge to humiliate you. 

And despite everything, despite how debauched and defiled you feel, your body cannot help but respond to Joel. His expert movements evoke pulses of ecstasy deep within your core that only intensify the longer he continues. In less than two minutes he has your toes curling into the couch and your hips squirming, and he doesn't falter for even a second.

You hate yourself for the moans of pleasure you cannot restrain inbetween your hiccuping sobs. He continues his exquisite torture and you can feel an orgasm simmering in the depths of your lower belly. Your thighs begin to tremble. The wet squishing noise grows embarrassingly loud as you gush around Joel's fingers.

"Fuck yeah," he groans. "You hear that, honey? Hear how she's fuckin' cryin" for me?"

Your clit is throbbing at this point, and you believe if he were to so much as graze it you'd probably cum on the spot. Your pelvic muscles contract in anticipation as your orgasm builds.

Please don't, you beg internally. You can't grant him the sick satisfaction; it would be like handing him your dignity on a silver platter. You bite down on your lip, your mind screaming at you to hold on.

"When was the last time you came, honey?" Joel coos. There's no way he doesn't know how close you are to coming. He's purposely taunting you, twisting the knife deeper, and you're grateful that you can't see his face at this moment. "You touchin' this pretty pussy every night?"

Your whole body is quivering from the momentum of his fingers scissoring in and out of you. Your breath hitches in short, shallow gasps and moans.

"You been thinkin' about me, baby?" He croons knowingly, voice silken yet rough with lust. "Rememberin' how good I make you feel? Yeah, bet you been fuckin' achin' to get fucked stupid on my dick again."

You're so close.

So close to falling apart at the hands of the man responsible for so much angst and chaos in your life. The man who, unbeknownst to you, has been tampering with your birth control pills in the hopes of getting you pregnant.

But you don't get to reach your climax before Joel abruptly withdraws from your slit. You groan like the air has been knocked out of your lungs, and your pussy squeezes around the sudden emptiness left behind. Your shaky hands fall from your face and you stare at him, stupefied, your cheeks flushed and your chest heaving.

"That should do it," Joel grunts. He holds his fingers up infront of him to inspect. They shine with your slick. He rubs his thumb over the pads of his fingers, like he's trying to decipher what the substance is. He then brings them to his nose and sniffs.

Joel loved the smell of you just as much as he loved eating your pussy. He would push his aquiline nose into your folds and greedily inhale your scent, like it was his own personal drug. He even confessed how he avoided washing for as long as he could afterwards, just so he could smell your juice lingering in his moustache.

He locks eyes with you now and pops his fingers into his mouth to suck clean. He hums with satisfaction, like he's savouring the taste. "Guess you were tellin' the truth after all. Ain't nothin' in there but that sweet pussy juice."

Your ruined orgasm triggers a renewed wave of rage and shame to wash over you. You wrench his hand off your stomach and wriggle your legs to try scoot away from him.

"Fucking told you," you mutter hatefully. "You got your stupid proof, now get the fuck away from me."

"Take it easy," Joel slips his hands around the outside of your thighs and holds you still. "Don't be like that, baby. You can't blame me for needin' to make sure, can ya?"

"You're sick," you mumble, wiping your dripping nose with the back of your arm.

"Just a man in love," he strokes his thumbs over your flesh, gazing at you with affection. "Are you finished bein' mad at me yet? Got it all outta your system?"

"This isn't some kind of game," you whisper tiredly. "This isn't something you can fix. I don't love you, Joel. You hurt me. And you scare me."

"I'll change," he says nonchalantly. You can hear the hollowness in his words.

"You've said that a million times, Joel, and you never did."

"I mean it this time."

You wipe the tears from your cheeks and shake your head. "I'll go to the police and get a restraining order."

Joel cocks his eyebrow and fixes you with a cynical look. "Honey, think seriously for a minute. Do you really think a little piece of paper is gonna keep me away from you?"

"Then I'll just keep running." You want to sound defiant and strong, but your voice comes out cracked and lacking conviction. You're so tired.

"Don't matter how many times you run. I'll find you everytime, baby," Joel dismisses you simply. He stands up off the couch, his knees cracking as he does. He grabs your hand and hauls you up as if you're weightless. You sway on weak legs, defeated and dizzy.

"Come on, let's get out of this shithole," Joel slings his arm around your shoulder and pulls you into his armpit. "I'm takin' you back home so I can stuff that cunt full of my cum."

He presses a kiss to the top of your head, then whispers in your ear, "and I swear to God, if you ever try to leave me again...I'll break every bone in your body." 

The next time you escape it'll be to a remote cabin across the fucking country.