Land Of Hope And Dreams

You didn’t know what you were doing when you flew out to him. You didn’t expect things to escalate so quickly but you already miss him more than what feels fair.

When he FaceTimes you goodnight and it turns into a three hour call, you think he might feel the same.

Missing him shows up in strange ways – when you find the Louisiana Hot Sauce you bought because he said he liked it sitting in the fridge. When you reach for yourself in the shower and stop halfway through because it doesn’t feel like him.

The silence that used to soothe you now scratches against your skin.

---------------------------

Somewhere in Texas, Joel is trying hard not to miss you so much too.

Sarah’s baby shower’s in full swing by the time Joel slips his phone into his back pocket and grabs another cup of coffee.

The house is too warm and a little too crowded, pastel tissue paper everywhere, sugar cookies shaped like giraffes, lavender-scented candles competing with cinnamon rolls. Someone strung a crooked banner above the fireplace: Welcome Baby Grace. It’s the good kind of chaos. 

Sarah is glowing, at least that’s what everyone keeps saying, and Joel can’t argue. Her bump is round and proud under a soft green dress, her curls pinned back, a daisy tucked behind one ear. Her husband stays close, hand on her lower back like she might float away. Joel doesn’t hate the guy, which says a lot.

Ellie’s across the room with Dina, wrestling a flat-pack bassinet that clearly wasn’t designed for civilians. Tommy and Maria flew into town and are laughing too loud with the neighbors. Someone put on an acoustic playlist, songs Joel knows, slowed down to a sleepy crawl.

He’s doing the part. Smiling. Making jokes. Letting Sarah perch his reading glasses low on his nose for a photo while she holds up tiny socks. Pretending the ache in his chest is just from standing too long and not seeing his baby girl become a mother.

Eventually, he hides in the kitchen, sinks into a chair near the edge of the room and exhales.

His phone buzzes. It’s a photo from you.

Your feet are kicked up on the coffee table. You’re wearing his flannel, sleeves pushed to your elbows, legs bare. The room behind you is dim, the glow of early evening washing everything gold.

The caption reads:

hope you’re surviving the glitter and booties. proud of you, pawpaw.

Joel exhales, a slow, warm thing that settles somewhere deep in his chest. That’s what you do to him. You show up all quiet and teasing in the middle of chaos and somehow make it feel less loud.

He starts to type:

Don’t start with that.(Also thank you.)

But then—

“Whatcha smirkin’ at, old man?”

Ellie leans over his shoulder. Joel turns his phone face-down without thinking.

“Nothin’,” he mutters. “Thought you were buildin’ that bassinet.”

“I gave up. Dina took over. She’s better at pretending the instructions make sense.”

She flops into the seat beside him and steals a bite of his cookie.

“You good?” she asks, voice lower now. “You’ve been kinda quiet.”

Joel nods. “Just…takin’ it all in.”

Ellie gives him a look. “Y’know you’re a terrible liar, right?”

She doesn’t press, just nudges his knee with hers before standing. That’s the thing about Ellie — she’s always known what doesn’t need saying.

“Tell me if you need air. Or whiskey.”

Dina calls from the other room, and she heads off without waiting for a response.

Joel exhales, flips his phone back over, staring at your photo a second longer before setting it down. Sarah breezes into the kitchen, brushing crumbs from her hands, and heads straight for the fridge. She pauses when she catches sight of him.

“You’ve got that look,” she says, eyebrow arched.

Joel frowns. “What look?”

“The one where you think you’re hidin’ something but you’re really not.” She smirks, pulling a bottle of water free. “Spill it.”

“Ain’t nothin’.”

Sarah twists the cap, taking a sip, then gives him a pointed look over the rim. “Dad. I’m pregnant, not blind. You’re grinnin’ at your phone like a teenager. So… either you discovered TikTok or there’s a woman.”

Joel sighs, scrubs a hand over his face, but the corner of his mouth betrays him.

“I won’t tell Ellie,” she says over her shoulder, casually. “Or Uncle Tommy. Or anyone. Yet.”

Joel just watches her. Says nothing.

She leans against the counter, takes a sip, then squints at him like she’s reading a label. “I’m just saying you seem… different.”

Joel frowns. “What’s that mean?”

“Like someone cracked that grumpy little shell of yours an inch. You smile more. Mostly when you’re lookin’ at your phone.”

“I smile plenty,” he mutters.

“Mm-hm,” she hums. “Sure you do. I don’t even think you’ve smiled at Gracie’s ultrasounds like that.”

She pushes off the counter, a water bottle tucked at her hip, and starts back toward the party. Then pauses in the doorway, glancing at him over her shoulder.

“Whoever she is,” Sarah says, a smirk tugging at her mouth, “she’s got you wrapped around her finger. And honestly? ’Bout time somebody did.”

Joel scowls, though it doesn’t stick — not with the warmth creeping up his neck.

Sarah grins wider, softer now. “Don’t screw it up, Dad.”

And then she’s gone, leaving him alone with his phone still lit on the counter and a knot in his chest he can’t quite name.

He glances at his phone screen, catching his own reflection — the creases around his mouth, silver at his temples, the damn readers sliding down his nose.

What the hell is someone like you doing with someone like him? He’s in a house full of baby socks and pastel gift bags, squinting through glasses just to see the nudes you send.

He types it out anyway: I miss you. More than I should, probably.

Deletes it. Types it again. Sends it before he can stop himself.

He leans back in his chair, chest tight, watching Sarah laugh while Ellie hands her baby shoes. When he looks down again, your reply is waiting.

Careful, cowboy. Sounds like you’re starting to like me.

------------------------------------------

He’s still wearing his readers when he calls that night.

You answer on the second ring, the screen tilting slightly above the edge of your bathtub — bubbles foaming around your knees, candles flickering in the background. Your hair’s piled up in a clip, skin flushed from the heat.

Joel’s laid back on the couch, one arm behind his head, his readers still perched low. The lighting’s soft — a lamp behind him, a blanket tossed across his lap like he’d just gotten settled.

“I was cozy,” he says, “but figured I’d rather fall asleep to your voice than House Hunters.”

Your grin almost takes over the screen. “Wow. I beat out overpriced homes and overpaid couples with no taste? I’m honored.”

Joel smirks, eyes on the screen. “You’re FaceTimin’ me from the bath? I’m honored.”

You lift a leg dramatically out of the water, toe pointed. He chuckles, low and warm. He’s so handsome it hits you in the chest. You watch him for a moment — the way his mouth twitches, how relaxed he looks in the quiet.

“You look tired,” you murmur.

“Baby shower wiped me out. Didn’t figure passin’ cupcakes ’round would tuck me in like a twelve-hour shift, but here we are.”

“How was it?” you ask.

He exhales. “It was good. Sarah’s happy. Radiant, I guess. Everyone showed. Ellie, Tommy, the whole gang.”

He goes quiet. Long enough that you almost prompt him again, but then—

“I missed you.”

The words scrape out of him like they’ve been sitting in his chest all day, unsaid. Joel’s not a man who admits things easy, not like this. He hates how exposed it makes him feel, but he says it anyway. And on your side of the call, your chest goes hot, because you know exactly what it costs him to give you those three words.

“I kept wonderin’ if you’d think less of me,” he adds, voice low. “Bein’ a Pawpaw and all.”

You blink, surprised you’re still having this conversation. Like the way you feel about him isn’t written all over your face when he calls. “Joel.”

He doesn’t look at you right away. His gaze flicks off screen to the tiny socks draped across the back of a chair. He rubs at his jaw, slow.

“World’s movin’ on without me sometimes. Ellie’s grown, Sarah’s startin’ her own family…” He pauses, thumb grazing his lower lip. “Didn’t expect to feel like there was somethin’ — or someone — else comin’.”

Your chest tightens. “Joel, I know you’re a grandpa. I also know you make me feel more seen than anyone ever has. So unless all that made you forget how to make me come with just your tongue, I think we’re good.”

Joel groans, chuckling, head ducking like he can’t quite look at you while he smiles. “Jesus.”

“I’m serious. Grandpas are hot. Especially you.”

He huffs a laugh, the sound warm and shy, his eyes soft even as he shakes his head.

Then he mutters, “Well, speakin’ of Ellie, her’n Dina are still in town. Said they wanted to see Hank before their next trip. Figured I could give ’em space at the house, and I’ve got some extra downtime.”

You soften instantly. “Are you asking if it’s alright to come see me?”

“I just—don’t wanna crowd you. I know we just saw each other.”

You look right into the camera. “Come see me.”

Joel nods, quiet. Grounded. There’s a flicker in his eyes — like he hadn’t let himself hope you’d say it so easily.

“I will.”

The two of you linger there, the glow of your screens casting soft light over your faces. And it hits you, hard and sudden: this isn’t limbo anymore. Not a one-off trip, not just sex and phone calls. He wants to see you again, enough to drive all that way, enough to risk the ache in his chest you know he’s been fighting. It means more than either of you have said out loud yet.

You hold his gaze, and for the first time in days, the hollow ache of missing him eases. Safe. Sure.

Then you shift in the tub, grin tugging at your lips.

“Wanna see what you’re missin’?”

Before he can answer, you lift the phone and flash him — just for a second — your bare breasts glistening above the bubbles.

Joel freezes. The muscle in his jaw jumps.

“Jesus Christ,” he mutters, low. “You sure know how to make a man miss you, pretty girl.”

The way he says it — warm, like a secret — sends heat straight to your stomach. You tip the camera back up, biting your lip.

“Just a preview. Incentive.”

He drags a hand down his face, shifting in his chair. “Ain’t right, teasin’ me like that from miles away.”

You smirk. “You like it.”

His eyes lock on yours, voice dropping lower.

“Yeah,” he admits. “I really fuckin’ do.”

—----------------------------

Your hallway smells like dryer sheets, old takeout, and someone’s weed. Joel double-checks the number on your door — mostly to stall. His heart’s thudding like he’s twenty, not fifty-six. He feels every mile of the drive in his back, and every second of it now, standing here.

10 hours ago, he left the house with a blank check for Dina and Ellie, and a bowl full of food for Hank.

Now, he glances down at the modest bouquet and the four-pack of Topo Chico in his hand. Not much, but all he could think to bring. In the reflection of the apartment window across the hall, he catches a glimpse of himself: silver at his temples, lines carved deep around his mouth. He adjusts the collar of his flannel anyway.

Joel raises his hand to knock, hesitates. Part of him half-expects you won’t answer. That maybe last time was a dream, too good to hold on to.

Behind you, the apartment glows warm and amber. You’re grinning like you forgot how to stop, and just like that, Joel forgets what he had to be nervous about.

“Hi,” you say, a little breathless.

Joel clears his throat, holds out the flowers and Topo Chico. “These’re for you,” he says, like it’s the only thing he’s sure of. “Figured I’d bring somethin’ else from Texas.”

You laugh, soft and real, and take them from him. Your fingers brush his — quick, electric. “Get in here.”

He lingers at the threshold for half a second longer than he means to, taking it in. The space is small, but tidy. Warm. Lived-in. Candles burn low on the counter. A glass of wine sits next to your laptop, a pair of house slippers tucked under the coffee table. A deadbolt on the front door. The thick blackout curtains are already drawn.

Joel swallows. It’s not what he expected — it’s better. Not polished, not performative, just… you. The lemons in a bowl on the counter make him smile — like you’d meant to add brightness, even if you didn’t know why. He feels that same pull in his chest: ordinary things that hit different because they’re yours.

You drift toward the kitchen, stirring something on the stove, and Joel finally steps inside.

His shoulders drop a little.

The scent of garlic and something rich pulls him in, and his boots move on instinct toward the kitchen. He sees a pan of gravy on low heat, flour dusted on a plate by the stove, and steaks pounded thin and waiting. Chicken-fried steak. He told you once, offhandedly, about this old comfort meal during a late night phone call. He breathes it in, something so familiar it knocks the air out of him for a second.

You glance up when he steps close, brushing your hands on a dishtowel, your voice quiet. “Is this too much? I couldn’t help myself.”

Joel doesn’t answer right away. He’s watching you and the way you hover near the stove, flushed and fidgeting, looking at him like you’re not just hoping he likes it, but hoping it’s enough. Hoping you are. 

He swallows hard and feels something shift and settle.

—--------------------

Dinner’s easy in a way that still catches Joel off guard. You talk about your day, he talks about his, like you haven’t already shared most of it on the phone the past week. But sitting across from you is so much better.

After you eat, you take him on a quick tour. When you open the door to your streaming room, he gets that jolt in his chest. It’s exactly how he’s seen it a hundred times before, the ring light, the chair, the little corner you’ve made your own — but standing here, it feels different. Like trespassing.

Because it’s not just his view. Other men have seen this, too. Sat in the dark wanting you. Needing you. He hates how easy it is to picture.

You catch whatever’s written on his face and step closer, tilting your head.

“I’m really glad you’re here,” you say, quiet but certain.

Joel exhales, some of the tightness in his chest easing. The way you’re looking at him makes it easier to believe.

In your bedroom, the light’s low, sheets already rumpled like you’ve been here all afternoon. Joel steps inside, his eyes sweeping the space — the sweater draped over a chair, the books stacked on your nightstand, the faint scent of your lotion in the air. Things he’s never seen on camera. Things that make it yours.

For a second he wonders how many times you’ve sat here with the phone propped up, talking to him — or if it was ever for someone else. The thought twists in his chest before you cut through it, telling him the shower’s ready, that you even got the soap he likes.

When he comes back, hair curling damp at the ends, you’re cross-legged on the bed in a worn tank top and soft shorts, lotion bottle beside you.

“Figured you might be sore after the drive,” you say, patting the spot between your thighs. “Let me take care of it.”

Joel smirks, deflecting. “You always give massages to boys you have over?”

“Just the ones with back issues,” you murmur, leaning close enough your lips brush his ear. “Only for you.”

He’s not smiling anymore.

 He sits where you tell him, the mattress dipping under his weight. You squeeze lotion into your hands, rubbing them together before resting them on his shoulders.

The first press of your thumbs makes him breathe out. His muscles are tight from the drive — and maybe from the way he’s been holding himself together all day. You work down the thick cords at the base of his neck, kneading until you feel some of that tension give.

“Not too hard?” you ask. “No,” he says, voice low. “Feels good.”

You swing a leg over, straddling his hips, your thighs bracketing his. His shirt is still on, but the heat of him seeps through the cotton. You dig harder, leaning into the knots between his shoulder blades.

His breathing shifts — slower, heavier — and under your hands his body feels taut, like a bowstring drawn back. Joel tells himself to stay still, to let you work, but every pass of your palms makes it harder to pretend this is just a massage.

The scent of his soap, the faint steam still clinging to his skin, makes your pulse quicken. Your hands slide lower, fingertips grazing his ribs, and you feel the hitch in him — subtle, but sharp.

When he glances back at you over his shoulder, his eyes are darker now, and the heat there makes your stomach flip.

You keep working your thumbs into his back, slow and steady, but something in him has shifted. His shoulders stay tight, his breathing heavier now — less like he’s relaxing and more like he’s bracing. The smallest hitch runs through him when your thumbs press lower, closer to his spine.

“Think you’re doin’ more damage than fixin’,” he mutters, voice low and rough.

You lean forward until your chest brushes his back, lips near his ear. “You complaining?”

A quiet huff of air — half amusement, half warning. His hand drifts back, warm and heavy on your thigh, thumb stroking lazy up and down. When his fingers slip just under the hem of your shorts, you falter.

“Joel…” It comes out softer than you mean, and he hums like he’s pleased by it.

His palm hooks behind your knee, guiding. “C’mere.”

You’re already shifting, pressing closer, before you think about it. Straddling the small of his back, thighs braced tight around him, every inch of him radiating heat. His scent — soap and skin, familiar and grounding — wraps around you.

Then he tilts, rolling beneath you in one smooth movement. Suddenly you’re in his lap, knees bracketing him. His hands slide under your top, palms rough, claiming your skin like he can’t stand the barrier.

“Reckon I like you right here better,” he murmurs, gaze locked on yours. His eyes flick to your mouth, then lower, where your shorts press against the hard line under his sweats — and the hunger there steals your breath.

When his hand finally slides between your legs, it’s unhurried at first, fingers tracing the seam of your shorts until you can’t help the soft sound you make. He leans in like he wants to hear it again, brushing his lips along your jaw.

Then he’s under the fabric, finding slick heat with a rough exhale. “Fuck,” he mutters against your skin, almost to himself.

You rock forward instinctively, chasing more, and he rewards you by sinking a thick finger inside. Before you can adjust, another joins, curling deep until your head tips back.

“Joel—”

“Shh. Let me,” he says, voice low and sure.

His fingers move with purpose, stroking that spot that makes your thighs tremble. The wet sounds between you grow louder, and his jaw tightens like he’s holding back.

“That’s it, pretty girl,” he grits out. “C’mon, give it to me.”

The orgasm hits sharp, curling through you so hard you claw at his shoulders. He doesn’t stop, just keeps moving until your moans break into whimpers—then angles deeper, pressing until something inside you gives way.

Your hips jerk against his hand, and then it happens — sudden and messy, soaking the towel beneath you.

Joel stills instantly. His eyes go wide, breath catching like he hadn’t expected it, like maybe he broke something. His hand stays where it is, steadying you, but his jaw is tight, unsure.

“Jesus Christ,” he mutters under his breath. Not slick, not teasing — more like disbelief, rough and low.

When you glance down at the ruined towel, embarrassment heating your cheeks, you expect him to pull away. Instead, Joel just stares — eyes dark, mouth parted, looking at you like he doesn’t even have words for what just happened.

“Did I—” He cuts himself off, shakes his head, swallows hard. “You alright?”

The question comes out gruff, almost abrupt, but his hand strokes your thigh gently, grounding. Like he needs to be sure he didn’t push you too far.

You laugh, shaky. “I’m fine. More than fine.”

He huffs a breath — half relief, half stunned — and tips his head back for a second, eyes squeezing shut like he’s trying to process it. When he looks at you again, he still seems rattled, softer now.

“Never… never seen anythin’ like that,” he admits finally, voice rough, almost shy. His thumb brushes your skin absently, like he can’t stop touching you. “Don’t think I’ll ever forget it.”

Joel exhales, low, still watching you like he doesn’t know how he got here, how you’re his. And the thought presses deep into his chest — he doesn’t care if he ever comes, not really. As long as he gets to see you like this, he’ll always count himself lucky.

You end up lying side by side, tangled under the covers, skin still warm from each other. There’s no rush to close your eyes.

You talk in low voices, the way you used to on the phone at night. But now your knee hooks over his thigh, his bare chest is against yours, and you feel the faint rasp of his beard when he tilts his head closer. You trace the bridge of his strong nose, the patchy greys scattered through his beard, the curve of his mouth. Somewhere between his story about a job in his twenties and your own half-finished thought, you both drift.

------------------------------------------

You wake with the weight of Joel’s arm draped over your waist, his chest pressed warm at your back. For a split second you almost believe you dreamed him — that you’d drifted off mid-call, the way you sometimes do. But then he shifts, the bed dipping under his body, and the steady rhythm of his breathing brushes your nape.

Joel’s here.

You turn just enough to see him. His mouth is slack in sleep, hair mussed, the early light catching in the silver threaded through his beard. You trace the shape of him with your eyes, the crease between his brows even now. He looks younger in sleep, but also heavier somehow, like every year he’s lived is still in there.

His arm tightens briefly, pulling you closer. “Mornin’,” he rasps, voice low and rough.

“Morning.” You smile, and he tucks a strand of hair behind your ear without opening his eyes. His lips brush your shoulder, a small, quiet gesture that makes your chest ache.

Later, in the kitchen, he appears shirtless with two mugs of coffee, hair still messy from sleep. He leans on the counter, watching you move. His gaze lingers on the hem of the shirt you’re wearing — his shirt — and something in his chest tugs hard.

“Want me to help?” he asks.

“You can sit there and look pretty.”

He huffs, settles into the chair, lets himself watch. And it unnerves him, the ease of it — the scrape of your chair against the floor, the bump of your knee under the table, the smell of your shampoo mixing with coffee. 

He eats slower than he needs to, more interested in the way you talk than the food. And when you look up, catching him watching, he thinks about last night — how your pleasure tore through you, how you shook in his hands. The memory heats his chest in a way hunger never could.

The eggs sizzle, toast pops, and it’s quiet except for the sound of him sipping coffee and your bare feet padding across the tile. There’s something startlingly easy about it, like you’ve done this a hundred times and you catch him watching you like maybe he’s thinking the same thing.

You slide his plate across the table, and he mumbles a quiet “Thanks,” before picking up his fork.

“So,” you say between bites, “what do you want to do today? I figured we could grab lunch somewhere, maybe wander downtown, or—”

“Anything sounds good,” he says and he means it.

You hesitate, eyes flicking down. “Only thing is… I have a sponsored stream tonight. I tried to get out of it, but—”

Joel sets his fork down, his jaw shifting. He doesn’t want to picture you lit by a ring light with strangers in your chat when he’s right here. But he nods anyway, forces the muscle in his cheek to unclench.

“Alright,” he says, voice steady enough. “We’ll make the most of the day, then.”

You smile, and for a second, it almost quiets the part of him that hates the clock already running.

------------------------------------------

By late morning, you’ve got him out the door, walking through the part of the city you’ve been telling him about for weeks. Your favorite coffee shop with the chipped mugs, the bookstore with creaky floors, the thrift strip where you always “just look” but leave with a bag anyway.

Joel doesn’t say much at first. He’s busy watching you — the way you stop to chat with the girl at the café, how you duck your head when she asks if this is “the Joel” you’ve mentioned. The way people glance at you on the sidewalk — a guy lingering at the record store doorway, another at the crosswalk — interest flickering before they catch Joel’s stare and look away.

It does something to him, that little dance of glances. Not jealousy exactly, but a tightening in his chest. He doesn’t name it.

You slip your hand into his as you tug him toward the next spot. It’s the simplest thing — your thumb brushing his once, your smile when you catch him looking down — but it undoes him. His shoulders ease. He squeezes your hand back.

At the corner hardware store, Joel finds a cheap replacement for the busted hinge you’d mentioned on a call. He flips it in his palm, already picturing how he’ll fix it tonight.

You catch him at the register, one brow lifted. “So that’s your plan while I’m streaming? Fixing my door?”

For a second, the word streaming clatters in his chest like he hasn’t already heard it today. But he manages a nod, tucking the hinge into the paper bag.

“Yeah. Figure I can keep busy.”

You grin, bumping his hip on your way out the door. “Good. Don’t want you getting bored.”

Joel just shakes his head, letting you pull him back into the sun.

By the time you’re back at your place, the late sun has gone gold through the windows, catching in your hair while you sort through the little pile of things you bought. Joel’s at the kitchen counter, the paper bag with the hinge beside him, and he’s been staring at it longer than he needs to.

You glance over your shoulder. “You okay?”

He looks up too fast. “Mm? Yeah. Fine.”

You don’t seem convinced. You tilt your head like you’re about to press the point, but then you just smile, moving toward the fridge. “Alright. Just making sure.”

Joel’s hands curl around the edge of the counter.

Fine. Sure. He keeps telling himself that.

It’s not the stream itself. It’s the part where he’ll be in the next room while you do it. The part where your attention, the same attention that’s been on him all day, will shift somewhere else. To people he can’t see and a world he doesn’t belong to.

You come back with two glasses of water, sliding one across to him. You don’t mention the way he’s quieter than usual, but your eyes linger a little too long before you turn away.

Joel clears his throat, reaches for the hinge. “Figure I’ll just get started on that door before you need the quiet,” he says. It comes out steadier than he feels.

You give him a small nod at the counter, like you’ve clocked whatever’s going on but you’re not going to corner him about it. 

So he takes the hinge and the screwdriver to your bedroom door, crouching down in the quiet. It’s a relief to have something to do with his hands, to focus on the little creak and shift of metal instead of the churn in his chest.

He’s just testing the swing of the door when he hears you come back in.

He looks up and stops.

You’re leaning in the doorway, hair falling over your shoulder, wearing a soft black set trimmed with lace. It has smooth lines and delicate straps that make it impossible to look anywhere else. The cups lift you in a way that makes his mouth dry, and the high-cut bottoms show the curve of your thighs like they’re a damn gift.

Joel’s grip tightens on the screwdriver without thinking. There’s a low heat in his stomach before his brain catches up that this isn’t for him.

“You fix it?” you ask, but your voice is softer now, almost distracted.

“Mm.” He clears his throat. “Yeah. Should be fine now.”

You smile a little, close enough that he can smell the faint sweetness of your lotion under the sharper trace of perfume. Then you tip your head, press your mouth to his, a light kiss.

When you pull back, you touch your thumb to his bottom lip. “Didn’t want to get gloss on you.”

Joel’s eyebrows twitch. “What’s this for?”

“Brand deal,” you say with a small shrug, glancing down at yourself like it’s no big thing. “They paid me to wear this on the stream.”

Something about the casualness of it makes his jaw flex, but you’re already moving past him toward your desk.

He turns back to the hinge so he won’t follow you with his eyes.

You disappear into your bedroom for a moment, coming back out with things you’ll throw on later before moving toward the door that leads to your streaming room.

You pause just short of the door, glancing back at him. “I’ll be a couple hours,” you say gently, reading the quiet in his face. “But we’ll hang out after, okay? I promise.”

He nods once, slowly, and it’s not that he doesn’t believe you,  it’s just that “a couple hours” feels longer right now. “Alright,” he says, and it comes out rougher than he meant.

You give him a small smile before slipping into the other room, closing the door with a soft click.

For a while, Joel just stands there. He can hear you faintly through the wall — bright, warm, the same way you’d sounded the first time he ever found you on that screen. He digs out his earbuds, scrolls aimlessly through his phone, turns the TV up louder than he needs. Still, between scenes, he swears he hears you laugh.

He tries not to listen, but that playful, teasing shift in your tone sounds familiar to the way you’d sounded when you leaned towards the camera for him that first night. Every now and then he swears he hears a soft moan or a laugh. 

By the time you come back, the lace is gone. You’ve traded it for his t-shirt and loose shorts, hair mussed from pulling it down. You look like the version of you he gets on late-night calls. The one he likes the best.

Joel’s on the bed, half-propped against the headboard, his phone slack in his hand. He glances up when you walk in, then back down. Doesn’t say anything.

You cross the room slowly, the weight of his silence pressing at your chest. 

It’s not like you and Joel have talked about what this is. There’s no label, no “boyfriend” or “girlfriend” or anything neat you can tuck into a sentence. Just weeks of calls and messages and the way you’ve been circling each other, a want and comfort and something steadier that you haven’t dared name yet.

And maybe that’s why you hesitate now, why your voice stays caught in your throat. Because if you push too hard, if you make the wrong move, you don’t know if he’ll just… leave. You’ve seen it happen before.

“You okay?” you ask finally, keeping your voice quiet, like that might make it easier for him to answer.

“Yeah.” It’s too fast, too sharp. Then, lower: “Fine.”

You sit beside him, close enough to brush his leg. “You don’t look fine.”

His jaw shifts. “Didn’t know there was a way I’m supposed to look.”

You huff, a little sharper than you meant. “Joel.”

He leans back against the headboard, hand dragging over his jaw. “Ain’t nothin’ to—”

“That’s bullshit,” you cut in. “You’ve been like this since before I even went in there. You barely looked at me when I came out.”

Joel’s mouth opens, then shuts again. He shakes his head once, like he’s not sure what the point would be in explaining.

And that’s the part that stings — not just that he’s upset, but that he’s holding it so tight to his chest you can’t get near it.

You cross your arms, feeling that anxious little tremor in your stomach. “If this is gonna be like… a thing for you, you should just say it.”

“A thing,” he repeats, measured.

“Yes. A thing. About my job. About what I do.”

Joel finally looks at you, steady and unreadable. “It’s not–” His jaw tightens. “I didn’t wanna—”

“What? Hear me? See me?” You’re leaning forward now, that earlier hesitation burning away. “Joel, you met me there. You knew what I did. You didn’t seem to mind when it was you paying for the call.”

He lets the silence stretch long enough you start to think maybe you really did just push too far. But then his voice comes, low and rough.

“It’s not the same,” he says. “It’s not… you with me. It’s you with…” His throat works. “With them.”

You want to say something, but there’s a catch in your own chest now.

“It’s stupid, I know,” he mutters, softer. “I ain’t got a right to it. But I can’t stand the thought of somebody else seein’ you the way I do. Hearin’ you sound like that.”

He rubs a hand over his mouth, like he wishes he could shove the words back in. His thumb lingers against his jaw, stalling.

“Sarah’s mom left when she was little. One day it was the three of us, next it was just me and her.” His jaw tightens. “You’d think I’d be used to it by now. People leavin’. Feels like that’s the only damn thing that don’t stop.”

The words hang there, thick. His voice dips lower. “But I ain’t. Not when I—”

Joel’s eyes lift, slow and deliberate. No guard left, just bare honesty.

“Not when I start givin’ a damn,” he says. It’s almost a whisper.

You don’t say anything right away. He shifts in his chair, restless. Rubs his palm over his thigh, lets out a breath.

“This ain’t about you doin’ somethin’ wrong,” he says finally. “It’s me. I know I’m older. I feel it every day. And I—” His voice falters. He shakes his head once, tries again. “Sometimes I look at you and wonder how the hell you’re sittin’ here with me. And I’m scared one day I’ll look up and you’ll be gone. Just… tired of me.”

“Joel…” Your voice comes softer than you mean. You reach out, curling your fingers over his forearm. His warmth steadies you. “I’m not going anywhere.”

His eyes flick down to your hand like he doesn’t quite believe it, like he’s memorizing the weight of you.

“I chose you, Joel,” you say, quieter. “I keep choosing you. This… it’s not like anything else I’ve had.”

His shoulders dip, just a little. He studies you, eyes searching, like he wants to believe but doesn’t trust himself to.

“You think I don’t feel it too?” he says finally, rough. “I do. More than I should. Just don’t wanna mess it up.”

“Then don’t. Stay. Let it be good.”

For a long moment he just breathes you in, his hands hovering at your hips, like he doesn’t trust himself to hold on. Then he leans in, mouth brushing yours — hesitant at first, almost like he’s asking permission.

You keep your hand at his jaw so he can’t pull away, your thumb tracing the line of his beard. “I wanna show you how much I care about you,” you murmur.

His hands come up again, almost automatic, but there’s that pause — like muscle memory fighting against doubt. You press his palms firmer to your sides until his fingers finally settle, heavy and warm through the thin cotton.

You shift forward, climbing into his lap. Straddling him. Your thighs bracket his, bringing you flush against the steady heat beneath his sweats. For a second he just stares, stunned, like moving might break whatever spell put you here.

Your fingers push through the silver at his temples, smoothing it back, memorizing him up close — every fleck of gold in his eyes, every uneven patch of grey. It hits you how much this is yours, how much of him he’s letting you see.

You lean in and kiss him steadily. Not to distract him — but because you need to. The kiss deepens and that’s when his hands shift. Rougher now. He cups your ass, firm and certain, like he needs the weight of you to believe this is real.

Words almost slip out — I’m not going anywhere — but you know he wouldn’t believe them. So you show him.

You pull back just enough to whisper against his jaw, “You don’t have to hold back with me.”

The words land hard. His chest rises against yours like it knocks something loose in him. His grip tightens, fingers digging in, his thumbs dragging rough across the curve of your ass.

“You sure ‘bout that, baby?” His voice scrapes out, low and raw, like it hurts to even ask.

You nod, certain. Whatever weight he’s carrying — you want it all.

Something in him shifts at your words. His chest presses against yours, heavier now, less careful. The hesitation’s still there, but it’s drowned under something rougher — need, plain and simple.

He tugs at your shirt — his shirt — the collar stretched from where you’ve been wearing it all night. When it pulls over your head, he stops for a second, like the sight of you in nothing but his clothes just knocked the wind out of him.

His palms skim your bare sides, warm and rough, thumbs brushing just under your breasts. He doesn’t rush. Doesn’t strip you bare. Just touches, slow, like he can’t quite believe you’re letting him.

“Christ,” he mutters, almost to himself. His hands drop lower, squeezing your ass through your shorts like he’s checking you’re really there.

You shift forward, rolling against him until you feel the hard line of him under you. His breath catches.

“Baby—” It scrapes out, low, like it costs him. Half a warning, half a plea.

You smile, your mouth brushing his ear. “Told you. Don’t hold back.”

The groan that rips out of him is rough, unguarded, and his grip tightens like he can’t help it. His mouth finds your chest, kissing first — hesitant, reverent — before his lips part and he sucks at you, enough to pull a sharp sound from your throat.

Your hands move to his buttons, clumsy with need. One by one you push them open until your palms slide over the heat of him — broad chest, soft give at his stomach, the uneven thrum of his breath.

Then his fingers curl around your wrists. Not harsh, but firm, stopping you. Holding you there, eyes locked on yours like he’s trying to decide if he deserves this.

“Joel,” you whisper, and when you nod, his grip loosens.

You shove his shirt off his shoulders, tug at his waistband, needing him.

The next kiss is nothing like the first — messy, hungry, his hand fisted in your hair while you roll down harder. He groans into your mouth, deep and guttural, like he’s been biting it back too long.

He leans against the headboard, spread wide, staring at you like you’re the only thing left in the world.

You climb higher, straddling him. Your hand slides down, curling around the heat of him, guiding him as you press yourself lower — slow, steady, like showing him you’re not letting him doubt this.

There’s a sharp inhale when you sink down — slow, steady, every inch stretching you open until you’re full. His jaw drops, a rough groan dragged straight from his chest.

Your eyes stay locked on his as you roll your hips. “I want you deep,” you whisper.

Joel’s grip on your thighs tightens hard, like he’s steadying himself. His hands slide up, guiding you — slow at first, like he’s trying to make it last.

“Jesus,” he mutters, voice raw, “you feel… fuck. So fuckin’ tight.”

You rock into him harder, and restraint slips. His fingers dig deep, pulling you down faster, sharper, until his need is written all over the rough way he moves you.

Then he’s leaning forward, mouth dragging at your throat, hot and uneven. His lips press, then bite, a little too hard, and you gasp.

“Goddamn—” He breathes it against your skin, not polished, just need. “You… you’re mine right now.” The words scrape out, like they’re torn from him, low and wrecked.

Your body shivers at the sound of it.

“No one else—” He breaks off on a groan, thrusting up into you, rougher now. “Ain’t nobody else ever—fuck—ever gettin’ to see you like this.”

His hips meet yours with heavy, driving force, so deep you swear you feel him in your stomach. Each thrust knocks the breath out of you, the heat building until your whole body clenches around him.

The room fills with the wet smack of your bodies, the low slap of his thighs and balls against you. Your sounds tangle with his — ragged, unrestrained groans against your neck.

“Shit… you’re perfect,” he grits, voice fractured. His hand slides up your back, dragging you down hard onto him. “Don’t stop. Please—don’t.”

Your fingers twist in his hair, nails scraping his scalp. Every thrust drives it deeper, the way he wants you, the way he’s claiming you without even meaning to.

You sink down against him, foreheads pressed, sweat-slick. “You feel that?” you breathe, voice shaky. “Every inch of you, Joel—” Your hands cup his jaw, holding him there. “Don’t… don’t let me go.”

He groans, deep and ragged, the scrape of his calluses at your thighs so hard that it makes you gasp. His hips jerk up into you, and you feel the stretch all over again — thick, heavy, filling you to the edge of too much. The way he fits inside you makes your walls clamp down, every slow drag of him impossible to take without trembling.

“Shit—” His voice cracks against your throat. “I ain’t lettin’ you go.” It sounds torn out of him, more plea than promise.

The build comes fast, too fast. Your belly coils tight, pressure breaking until you’re shuddering around him, his name spilling from your lips like a prayer. Joel groans, raw and desperate, driving deeper, harder, like he can’t stop, until he’s spilling inside you with a guttural sound.

He stays buried, thick and pulsing, stuttering through the aftershocks, breath hot and uneven against your cheek. “Fuck,” he mutters, shaky, like he can’t believe it. “Baby… Christ.” His hands come up clumsy, cupping your face, thumbs rough against your skin, like he doesn’t know what to do but hold on.

Neither of you moves. Your thighs tremble, your body still stretched around him, every inch of him keeping you full. The silence sits easy  — just your breaths and the hum of the AC. His hands keep circling at your hips, grounding, like he’s making sure you don’t vanish.

You nudge your forehead to his. “You’re stuck with me, y’know,” you whisper, almost teasing, but weighted.

His mouth twitches like he wants to smile, but it comes out quiet, almost shy. “Good,” he says, rough. He tucks a hand in your hair and kisses you once, soft, lingering.

You rest your cheek against his chest, the beat of his heart steady under your ear. His sweat and cotton and the musk of him cling to you, and for the first time in a long time, the quiet doesn’t feel wrong.

When he finally speaks, it’s not with the guarded tone you’ve come to expect when he’s talking about his past. It’s low, almost absentminded, like the words are slipping out without him deciding to let them. He tells you about Sarah — how she was born in the summer, how she was stubborn in all the ways that made him proud and drove him crazy. He doesn’t name her mother right away, but when he does, it’s with a gentleness that surprises you. They’d tried, he says, but some things you can’t fix.

You stroke his chest while he talks, your thumb brushing over the soft scatter of hair there. The rise and fall of his voice is steady, but there’s an ache under it, and you can feel it as much as you hear it.

Somewhere in there, he talks about Ellie. How it wasn’t part of any plan — how plans stopped working a long time ago — but how he wouldn’t trade the day he met her for anything. How taking her in wasn’t a choice so much as something that just… happened, and how she made it impossible not to love her.

You don’t push for more. Instead, you let the quiet linger between each thought, let him decide what’s safe to give you.

Eventually, you tell him pieces of your own story. Your parents — the distance, the way you learned to be self-reliant earlier than you should have. The friendships that burned out quickly, the relationships that left you a little harder each time. There’s an ex you mention without giving him a name, just a shadow in the corner of your memory, someone who left you wary of believing in permanence.

Joel listens in that quiet, weighty way of his, thumb brushing absently at your hip. He doesn’t interrupt. When you trail off, he shifts enough to press his mouth to your temple, not quite a kiss, more like a wordless I hear you.

His thumb drags under your ribs, grounding you. His eyes hold yours, steady and unhurried, like he’s working up the nerve to let something out.

“I don’t… I don’t want this just when it’s easy,” he says finally, voice rough, halting. “I want it every day. Good, bad, all of it. Long as you’ll have me.”

The words land heavy, like they cost him.

You brush your hand over his jaw. “I’m not seeing anyone else,” you tell him, soft, certain. “Don’t want to. Haven’t even thought about it.”

Something shifts in his face — those deep brown eyes catching the low light, edges crinkling like a smile’s fighting to get out.

“I’ve been yours for a while now,” you admit, your voice quieter, more vulnerable. “Just… needed to say it.”

His chest rises with a long breath, like he’s letting something go he didn’t realize he’d been holding. Then the smile finally breaks through — deep, warm, softening the lines in his face in a way that feels rare.

Joel cups the side of your face, pulling you in. You kiss him slow, deep, the answer already there in the way you press into him, the way you linger. His hand stays at your jaw like he’s memorizing the shape of you.

When he pulls back just enough to look at you with no guard left in his eyes - just what you both already knew.

He shifts you gently, laying you back into the pillows, his weight warm and heavy over yours. When he pushes into you again, slow and unhurried, your breath catches — that stretch still makes your eyes flutter, every time. You’re not sure you’ll ever get used to it, the way he fills you so completely it borders on ache.

Joel’s eyes stay on your face, watching every flicker, every change. He dips down, his mouth brushing your ear, his voice rough and low. “Goddamn,” he mutters, like he can’t help it. “You take me so good.”

The words drag heat through you, but his pace doesn’t change. It stays slow, steady — like he’s not just fucking you, but savoring you. His hands don’t leave your body: one firm on your hip, the other drawing idle, grounding lines down your side.

You let your legs fall wider, pulling him deeper, and the groan that rumbles out of him is raw, unguarded.

Every thrust is deliberate, measured. The headboard bumps the wall in a quiet rhythm, underscored by his low sounds — not performative, just honest.

Your fingers curl into his hair, tugging when he finds that angle that makes you gasp. Joel kisses the corner of your mouth without losing pace, like he can’t stop touching you.

It builds again, slow and steady, but neither of you rushes it. This is the kind of pace you could live in, if he’d let you — deep, aching, with the warmth of him at your cheek and his eyes never leaving you.

His hand stays anchored at your hip, like he’s making sure you don’t slip away. You close your eyes, sinking into the steady rhythm of him, into the safety of his breathing. Morning will come soon enough, with all its noise and questions.

Joel and Ellie had arrived back to Jackson after all that had happened, between finally getting to Utah, then Joel finding out how the fireflies were going to get the cure- ending up with Ellie unconscious in his arms as he fled the hospital– it had been a long few months. He just couldn’t let her die, he wouldn’t– she deserved to have a life and a choice, not die on a table as doctors extracted samples from her brain in hopes of creating a cure, they couldn’t even be sure was going to work. She wasn’t dying on his watch for a maybe.

He was selfish, god– he was so selfish, he regretted the decision the second he made it, but he lied to her about everything, telling her they had found others like her and no longer needed her. He shouldn’t have lied, he should’ve came clean– but that little girl meant more to him than he could ever explain, he couldn’t break her trust by telling her the stupid and selfish choice he made, it would ruin not only her, but her trust for him. He couldn't lose her. Now they were back, in the only place he’d ever felt was truly safe, Jackson, Wyoming. The town that he had came across by accident, while looking for his brother, who ended up being there; Tommy was always finding himself in strange places. He had a house now, an actual functioning house, one him and Ellie shared– it sat on the very end of one of the streets.

It was big enough for both of them, the exterior was your average looking suburban house, a mix of white and the original wood colour– though it could’ve used a fresh coat of paint, he wasn’t bothered enough by it to care; it had a good amount of windows and a lawn with a white picket fence and a few large trees on either side of it. There was a porch, he liked that, even made himself a rocking chair just so he could sit out there and take it all in. At first he was wary about decorating the interior, there was furniture but it looked like something you’d see in a book about ’Antiques, a grandmothers guide to furnishing’ . Though he was sick of looking at the bare and old cream walls– something about decorating it as his own filled him with a sense of dread, like if he somehow made it his personal- it would all disappear. Like everything else he touches.

After a few months of being in the house, Ellie had brought up the prospect of painting her room, he could tell she was walking on eggshells when she spoke about the dislike she had for the cream- almost caramel colour that plastered the four walls around her. He was hesitant, but seeing her so enthusiastic about the idea of night-sky blue walls, maybe even hand painting some stars on the roof so every time she lay down to sleep, ‘it would be like I was actually there, in space y’know? so. fucking. cool.’– he couldn’t say anything but yes, all that was coursing through his brain was, ‘you’ve let her down enough, do one nice thing for her.’

So he nodded, gave her a small smile and said “Sure, anythin’ you want, its your room… I’ll talk to Tommy tomorrow, see if he can get me some ’night-sky blue’ paint.” In that moment he didn’t think he’d seen her happier, she practically leaped off the dining table chair across from him and ran off to her room to map out the star pattern on her roof.

Sure enough, he stuck to his word and the next morning stopped by the restaurant in Jackson, Stiegers– Tommy was sat eating his breakfast when Joel sat down in-front of him, set shoulders and same blank expression– Tommy looked up and Joel gave a nod to him. Tommy laughed, then raised a brow. “You’re up early?… everythin’ alright, thought you couldn’t socialise till after one?”

Tommy being the younger brother, and complete opposite of Joel in every regard, was always teasing his older brother about everything. He wasn’t half wrong though, compared to everyone else in Jackson, Joel was a lot less social– that’s just because he doesn’t believe in making meaningless small talk and acting interested in peoples lives when he couldn’t care less. Whereas Tommy was a community man, always helping out and chatting, a true saint for a place like Jackson– Maria made a real man out of him. Joel had his people, they were all he needed, even before the outbreak he wasn’t much of a social butterfly– always too wrapped up in work or Sarah to have a functioning social life, and he wouldn’t have changed that for the world.

Joel looked at Tommy before he lets out a sigh, then beginning his gruff querying about the paint. “You help the construction team out, right? Remember you mentionin’ somethin’ the first time we showed up here… I was wonderin’ if there was a way for me to get some blue paint? Dark blue paint. Its for Ellie, she’s lookin’ to decorate her room like space.”

He was fully expecting Tommy to laugh in his face, but he didn’t, he just nodded and gave a small smile. “Sure… I’ll ask around.” That was that. A few days later Tommy brought the paint around, handing it to Joel with a knowing look and smile before heading back to his house, later that night Joel surprised Ellie with the paint– she was beyond ecstatic, he didn’t think it was possible for one person to have so much excitement over something as mundane as paint.

Now it had been two years of Ellie and Joel living in Jackson, still sharing the house at the end of the street– finally having decorated it as his own, he even made himself a workshop in his bedroom so he could do his carpentry and wood carving; a new found hobby of his. He’d finally been getting more involved in the community, helping out the construction team on building the new houses- even being put in charge of guiding the restoration of an old building into a new library, he’d also been going on patrols every week– but all of the ‘community get togethers’ were out of his comfort zone, the odd time he sucked it up so Tommy and him would have some time together- he was only there for Tommy and to keep an eye on Ellie.

Until last years New Years Party; celebrating the incoming year of 2026, he’d seen you again, and that same thing inside him jittered– a strange warmth that buried itself deep in his chest and wouldn’t shake, one small look at your profile, your hair, even the soft sound of your laugh- made it grow. And it terrified him.

But you never looked his way, never once spoke to him, smiled, waved– even a nod, and it hurt him. You owed him nothing, he knew that much, yet all he thought when he saw you was that same aching feeling in his chest, the one that made it physically impossible to think of anything but you. He'd been feeling like this for months now, but never once mentioned it to you, or even tried to strike up a friendly conversation– why? he was scared.

Scared you'd reject him as stupid– as that sounds for a man like Joel, uncaring and closed-off, but it was true, he knew he wasn't an easy person to be with, to love. He had a past, a dark and unforgiving past, that he couldn't get rid of because it haunted like a ghost with revenge as it's purpose. He wasn't meant for a woman like you, he knew that, and clearly you did too since you never looked twice in his direction– he could tell you were smart enough to stay away, from him and his closed-off nature, but at the same time– all he wanted was for you to see him.

It started getting bad, anytime he'd see you, even if it was just a glance of you down the street– that aching feeling would come back, ten fold. He tried to ignore it, tried to fight it off, distracting himself with random objects if he was shopping and saw you, or focusing on conversations around him if he got a glimpse of your back at a get together.

Nothing worked. Nothing even scratched the fucking surface. If anything it just got worse. He started hoping you'd come around when he was out, searching for your figure in the crowds of the town hall– it was pathetic, and obsessive, and weak- Joel wasn't weak, or so he thought.

So he steered clear of your path for a while, stopped showing up to events completely, walked the opposite way if he even saw a figure on the street that resembled you. Anything to not have to see you in-front of him– and get that feeling in his chest that he can’t get rid of. He just needed a cool off period, a little time to whip his mind back into its closed off and no emotion way, but you’d done something to him– whipped his mind in the complete opposite direction, one that was hard to reshape back to his old way. It also didn’t help that this Saturday was a council members birthday, which meant a party, the whole of Jackson under one roof, as they celebrated Carlton turning 64; he was head of agriculture in Jackson and incredibly respected in the community.

Joel had been invited, seeing as Tommy and Carlton were close, and it would’ve been rude to say no– he was just going to no show and make an excuse later, but that gnawing feeling came back, the one that made him feel all fuzzy inside- purely at the thought of getting a glimpse of your beautiful face and gentle smile. He hadn’t seen you in weeks and it was eating away at him, but at the same time he felt like a massive loser– he should just talk to you if he’s so interested, he told himself. The weakness got the best of him so he got dressed in his best jeans and flannel, which was dark grey colour, like an angry cloud threatening to pour– very fitting for Joel in his latest predicament. Fixing his hair into it's usual messy way by running his fingers through it a few times and cleaning up his beard- ’this is ridiculous,’ he kept muttering to himself, you don't look at him so why is he getting dressed up? but he never stopped getting ready.

’This is pathetic… I am pathetic,’ was all that was coursing through his messed up mind as he walked down the main street, Septembers late afternoon breeze hitting his hair gently as he kept his head down– the last thing he needed, was some chirpy drunkard walking up to him to have a brain-melting conversation. Once he made it to the corner of the street, where the town hall sat, he could already hear the noise of people laughing and muffled voices– he could even hear the music bleeding out from inside the hall.

He walked up to the entrance, giving a few people polite nods on the way by, slowly opening one of the heavy, wooden double doors– loud music, conversations and the sound of shoes dancing on wooden floors immediately hit his ears, he moves past a few people and heads towards the bar. Once he gets to the makeshift bar at the back of the hall; it would only come-out for gatherings, he orders a whiskey and turns his head slightly to scan the room for Tommy, or so he told himself. His eyes fail him until he sees that familiar back of someones head, and its definitely not Tommy’s– unless Tommy had suddenly grown a head of hair that fell down to his mid back like a waterfall, or soft curves that looked beautiful in those jeans. His mouth went dry just at the sight of your back across the room from him. He is incredibly fucked.

He was pulled out from his guttered mind by the bartender clearing his throat from behind the bar, Joel quickly turned back around and muttered a gruff, “Thanks.” with a short nod before picking up the short tumbler, one fourth of it filled with dark amber liquid. As he walked off he spotted Tommy in the back corner of the room, sat at a table with a few of the construction guys, their partners and his wife Maria; Joels nephew, Benji, sat on her lap.

He makes his way over, once he nears the table theres a few ‘Hey man!’ from the guys and some smiles from the women, his usual small, short smile gracing his face for a second. Tommy offers him a seat and he nods and sits down– taking a sip of his drink and nursing it in his hand as he listens to the conversation between the men, sometimes giving the odd comment or gruff laugh.

After an hour and a half, but it felt like three to him, he was about to get another drink when he saw someone nearing the table, someone who looked eerily familiar.

He was listening to Danny rant on about some of the guys on the last wall patrol, that’s when he heard your voice, incredibly close, his eyes immediately bolted to the direction of where he could hear you– and there you were. Stood to the side, in-front of him from across the table as you spoke to Maria, leant down slightly so you could interact with Benji a little, letting the toddler mess with the ends your hair and hands like it was the most interesting thing in the room.

In that moment, you so close, profile of your heavenly face mere feet away from him, being so soft with his nephew- that same warmth spread through his chest like wildfire, and suddenly he forgot all of his thoughts, no longer listening to the men yawn on about patrol and building plans- you flood every sense in his body with just your presence.

Just as a smile was threatening to appear, he was jolted out of his longing daze by the clearing of Tommys throat, his eyes veer back to Tommy beside him– his eyes land on Tommys face, his brows are furrowed in an almost concerned manner. “You good?…” Tommy queried in a curious voice, and Joel just swallowed that soft feeling back before nodding, back to his heady-self in a matter of seconds.

“All good.” Plain and to the point, that was Joel, that should always be Joel– none of this ‘soft longing, warm, lovey-dovey’ bullshit; or at least that’s what he kept uttering in his mind so his eyes wouldn’t look back to you.

Then you mentioned to Maria about a broken stair board from a few weeks ago and Joels interest was immediately peaked. “It was a shock..” You laughed out as you let Benji continue his game with your hands– you were so amazing with kids, no wonder you were such a good teacher. “One minute I was walking upstairs, the next thing half of my left calf was hanging underneath me as I held onto the bannister for dear life– still have to remember to skip a step every night till I find someone to fix it.” Maria laughed, so did everyone else– Joel didn’t.

All those men sat there, perfectly capable of fixing a singular stair board in an hour, not one of them offering to help out a neighbour– someone like you, the only reason any of their children could properly form sentences and use critical thinking, and they just laughed. It pissed him off, beyond belief, so much so that he looked at you– and declared something he knew he would regret the minute he uttered the words.

“I’ll fix it.” That was it, that was all he said, a smile on his face– you glanced at him with a taken-aback look, but it sounded like a promise, a solution to a problem, a way he could show he was fully capable… but what was he trying to prove? Or who was he trying to prove it to? That he cared enough to fix something, something so simple as a stair? As if that would somehow make him an important figure in your life.

But for him it wasn’t simple, it wasn’t just a stair, it meant you could live comfortably– to not have to consciously think about something as simple as walking up your stairs to bed after a long day, you didn’t deserve broken stairs- you didn’t deserve to have to think twice about safety. Jackson was supposed to be as safe and worry-less as possible in this cruel world- so if he had to fix that stair for you to walk up it care free and unharmed, then. he. would.

By that point you had nodded appreciatively at him, he nodded once back then looked back to the men, who were utterly shocked that Joel Miller was offering to help someone; willingly– of his own fucking volition… Though the interaction was brief, and practically nothing, it made that warmth in his chest the same temperature as the sun, it burned, it hurt- but–god–if it didn’t make him feel good.

That night, was the same as every other– accept it wasn’t, cause you had acknowledged him, never-mind acknowledging you fucking nodded. He was glad he could fix something for you, that was how he showed his care, by fixing small things that had a big impact. He hadn’t even asked when he could come over, or what time, he was so wrapped up in your interaction he didn’t even figure out when he could fix the stair– so he plucked up the courage, two days later, to go to your house.

He waited till the evening, seeing as it was a Monday and you’d be teaching till 3, probably staying a little after to clean up and set the classroom for the next day. At 5:35pm, he shrugged on his jacket and pulled on his heavy boots, had he gotten freshened up a little before he showed up to your door? Maybe. That day he opted for a mid-afternoon shower rather than his usual morning one, even though he was clinical about his routines, having to give it up so you’d see the best version of him was a compromise he was willing to make. Maybe then you'd look at him for longer than five, measly seconds.

But if thats all he got, then he'd take it with a grin on his face– well maybe just a small smile, Joel didn't grin– he was a grown man.

His hair still slightly damp as he stepped out onto his porch, shutting his front door behind him, he picks up his tool box that he had left sitting there from earlier this morning- deciding that it would be easier to remember it that way, he was pretty terrible at remembering things and it would embarrass him to show up with no tools and somehow offer to fix your stair. With tool box in hand, freshly trimmed beard and the second nicest flannel he could find, not the same one from Saturday- a forest green one, he began his walk to your house, having asked Tommy for your house number yesterday. He needed to make an impression.

After five minutes, he was there, in-front of your house, it wasn’t far– one street over from his, sat on the edge of the street just like his. It was quaint and smaller, the exterior all dark wood and a navy door- you had a small lawn, half the size of his and a small pebbled path leading to your porch. Once he had walked up the path and the singular porch step, he hesitated- maybe knocking randomly wasn’t the way to go about it… but you sounded like you needed the stair fixed as soon as possible? He was so lost in his contradictory train of thoughts that he hadn’t noticed you at the door.

When he did his brain immediately quieted, all of the overthinking disappearing as you smile at him in the doorway of your house– the first thing to snap him back to functioning was your confused tone as you question his reason for being on your porch, tool box in hand. “Hi?… is everything okay?..”

He simply nodded, then realised he should explain instead of standing, staring like you were the one randomly standing on his porch instead of the other way around. He lifted the tool box in a ‘see’ manner and mustered up the most gentle smile he could, explaining in a gruff murmur, but a soft natured hint seeping in the more he looked at you. “Didn’t mean to disturb you… jus’ had some free time, thought I could fix that broken stair of yours… I offered on Saturday but we never made a plan- assumed as soon as possible was the plan?” Did he just try to make a joke? Now he was really surprising himself.

A moment of realisation hit you, and you nodded with a smile – he made you smile, which in turn made him smile, and internally gloat at the fact you smiled at his stupid attempt at lighthearted sarcasm. “Right!.. I remember now... I honestly forgot. I would really appreciate it- it’s starting to become a slight hazard.” You stepped aside so he could walk in, and he did, he looked around and nodded approvingly, admirably at the decor– you can tell a lot about someone from their house decor, he picked up on the coziness of the space, warm lighting and darker colours– it truly felt like a home from the moment you step foot inside.

You showed him to the stairs which were just down the hall and he got started, he never really realised that fixing your stair wasn’t going to be like hanging-out, but now your absence was hitting him– he was halfway through the job when you appeared in the doorway, immediately his gaze went to you and he gave you a polite nod- a sign he’s aware of your presence, before he turns back to pulling out the old nails from the previous board.

“Do you want anything?… I have coffee or tea? I have water too..” You asked with a polite tone, he shook his head and you nodded once again– it went silent before you spoke up.

“Sorry about this, usually I’m a better host… this was just unexpected– but incredibly appreciated.” You smiled at him again, and he turned his head– his eyes softened as he shook his head reassuringly– if only you knew how much he appreciated the fact that you even let him in here, in your home, your space, without barely knowing him- yet trusting him with your stair.

“Its alright, I ain’t the best house guest either… I’m all good here, nearly done gettin’ this board off then just have to nail the new one down– should be done in… 10 minutes?” The questions rhetorical, you nodded understandingly before walking away again– he should’ve said something, asked about your day or complimented your hair so you'd understand how he feels. He shakes his head to himself, like he’s trying to shake away the what-ifs of a conversation that had just ended.

And surely enough, ten minutes later he’s all packed up, picking up his tool box and slinging his folded over jacket across his forearm– walking across creaky floorboards till he hits the doorway of your kitchen, he halts when he sees you slightly leant over the kitchen counter, forearms rested in-front of you. You’re reading something– probably some kids homework, but seeing you leant over like that, in those jeans that drive him insane already, his mouth goes dry along with his brain. That sight would never leave his mind, ever.

He cleared his throat, to get your attention but also so you’d stop standing like that– he doesn’t even wait for you to turn your head to him, he had to go now- he knew if he didn’t he’d do something stupid, so he utters in his gruff and hurried tone as he walks to your door. “It should be good now… don’t want anythin’ for it, did me a favour by gettin’ me out of the house- was my pleasure.”

God, he sounded pathetic, before he even let you insist and argue over his terms, he gave you another short nod, walking out of the front door and into the cool breeze, that’s what he needed after that. A rude awakening. A slap from mother nature because what he was thinking in there was wrong. He isn’t right for you, he’s too rough, and harsh, and far too fucking old, he doesn't know you and he’s never even tried to. You barely look his way and never would, so his feelings are one-side and meaning-less– thats what he keeps repeating in his mind as he walks back to his house, jaw set. Assumptions were Joels way of coping, its easier to assume than to get the truth and be hurt.