funny everybody knows something i don’t

You were sure about three things in your life: one, the New York Knicks were the best team in the whole world. Two, coffee was to be worshipped at least three times a day. And three… you had the worst luck in the universe.

You were looking at the last email from your main supplier and the last order you’d made was going to be delivered late. Like really, really late. You’d stubbed your pinky toe on the table that very morning and, of course, there was that small thing about catching your fiancé screwing your friend’s brains out in your own fucking bed, two months before the wedding. You know, minor details.

You snorted as you ran your hands over your face in a futile attempt to calm yourself. You snapped the laptop shut and paced around your empty flower workshop, eventually stopping by the window. Downtown Manhattan was bursting with activity, even at nearly 10 p.m. People walked by your display window, most of them slowing down, giving impressed looks at the neatly displayed flowers and decorations. Not for nothing, your creations had been featured in several high-end wedding magazines, including Vogue. Flowers were your thing. They always had been, as a third-generation florist, specialized in events and weddings. Which was ironic, considering you’d been ditched by a grade-A douchebag right before yours.

“Better before than after, right?” people said. “You wouldn’t want to have to go through a divorce on top of everything else, right?” Sure. How about not going through anything at all, huh, Aunt Muriel? How about that?

Feeling a bit more calm, you made your way to the back and reopened the laptop, typing out a short, albeit passive-aggressive reply when a notification caught your attention. It was from your personal email, not the work one. And the subject line read: Honeymoon in Iceland.

That, alone, was a red flag. The issue with cancelling all the wedding providers was supposed to be over, thanks to your parents, your sister and your best friend Julia, who worked alongside you. There were not supposed to be any loose threads. None at all. So when you clicked on it and started reading, your blood pressure began to rise.

“You have got to be kidding me…” you mumbled to yourself as you skimmed past the polite introduction and straight to the point.

“After careful consideration by our management team, we regret to inform you that your cancellation request does not meet the criteria for force majeure. As the reservation was made under a non-refundable rate, we are unable to issue a refund.

You may, however, choose to proceed with the trip as scheduled, traveling alone, in which case your booking will be upgraded to premium seating and a superior hotel category. Alternatively, you may decline the trip and forfeit the full amount paid.

We sincerely apologize for any inconvenience this may cause.”

You brought a hand to each temple, massaging them slowly. Okay. You had two options. You could burn the travel company’s headquarters down (tempting, cathartic, wildly impractical), or you could accept the very clear message the universe was sending you and get on that plane alone.

There was, annoyingly, no third option.

You leaned back in the chair and stared at the ceiling. Iceland. Solo. Honeymoon suite and all. Nothing says emotional stability like upgrading your seat while your life implodes.

“Well,” you muttered to the empty room, “at least someone’s getting their money’s worth.”

You exhaled, long and slow, already knowing the answer even as you pretended to weigh it. Losing that much money wasn’t an option. Letting them win wasn’t either.

Fine.

You weren’t cancelling your honeymoon.

You were just… repurposing it.

And if you were going to be miserable, you might as well be miserable somewhere breathtaking.

MASTERLIST | PART 1

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A/N: There... this is just the prologue, I promise there's more to come, including Harry who will make his appearance in the next chapter. I'm not sure how long this is going to be... I'm thinking 4-5 parts, but who knows...

The soft jazz music filtered throughout the building. Being the head chef at Dizzy’s Club was nothing you ever thought was possible for you, but here you are. Steam filling the kitchen, orders being shouted to the back of the house, plates and trays being passed over each other’s heads, the sizzling of the pans, and the smell of the food–God, the smell was amazing.

Going home with the smell of different foods, sweat, and grease stuck to your clothes was worth it if you got to work your dream job. If you could tell your twelve year old self that she would be living in the heart of New York City, and listening to the best jazz she’s ever heard while working—she wouldn’t believe you. Hell, you still can’t believe it.

It took you a while to pick yourself up after Nick. But once you did? You were able to live how you wanted to. It was nice being on your own. Not being controlled by a narcissistic man who couldn’t keep a goddamn job, and leeched off of you. He was a man-baby, who assumed you would treat him the same way his mother would.

That was the last thing you would do.

You weren’t anyone's mother, and you weren’t about to be that towards a grown man. 

The city of New York was constantly alive; buses driving by, people catching taxis, various different lives being lived at once. All you felt was sonder–the amount of different lives everyone had in this one city as you walked along the sidewalk. Boot clacking against the concrete as you buried your hands in your trench coat pockets.

Of course, the holidays were your favorite time of year. But God, was it freezing cold. The wind practically punches you in the face, tinting the tip of your nose and your cheeks in a dusty pink as you walk to your apartment.

It was the day of one of your closest friend’s baby shower, and you wanted all the time you could get to get ready for it. Your coworker, Leo, agreed to covering your shift tonight, so you had a good four hours to get ready.

You pick up the mail on your welcome mat before you unlock the door. The sunlight spills in through the curtains as you kick it closed with your foot and toss your keys in the bowl on the entryway table. Shuffling through your mail, you absentmindedly lock the door. Nothing relevant today so you leave it on the table and walk deeper into the apartment. 

Not wanting to waste a single minute of the time you had to get ready, you make your way to the bathroom. The shower handle squeaks as you turn it, putting it to the perfect temperature before you strip out of your uniform. 

It takes you a good hour in the shower to do everything; wash your hair, do a hair mask, exfoliate, shave everything, do a face mask while you wash your body, and then wash out the hair mask. Your legs and arms feel like jelly once you step out, the bathroom now gone cold from using up all the hot water. And you still had many micro tasks left to do.

You finally finish around 6:45P.M., leaving yourself an hour and 15 minutes to yourself. The smell of roses from all your products fill your senses, you just hoped it wouldn’t fade before you even got there. For right now, you put on sweats so you’re not walking around your apartment in your dress. You bought a silky dark green dress with a bow on the back last year, and never got the chance to wear it. Since this is also a Christmas party, you decided that it was the perfect time to wear it.

As you pad out to your kitchen, you realize you never arranged the bouquet of flowers you were going to give to Charlotte and Peter. You had an inkling that they were having a girl, so you bought pink and yellow lilies. Instead of buying a premade bouquet, you were going to make it yourself.

Flower arranging was a small hobby that you’ve picked up over the years. There’s never a time where there isn’t a fresh arrangement somewhere in your apartment. Most of the time, they match the season or holiday currently. Right now, a vase of white roses, red carnations, pine cones, and holly berries sit on your dining table. Christmas was your favorite time of year, and you usually went all out decorating for holidays. It makes your apartment feel more lively.

You grab a vase from a cabinet, placing it on the counter carefully before you place floral wrapping paper inside of it. You have a system that you always follow; vase, wrapping paper, arranging the flowers to your liking, and then you take them out of the vase by pulling out the wrapping paper. It’s easier for you to do it that way, and you can see how it’d look once the bouquet is placed in a vase.

Carefully, you start placing the flowers in the order that you want–pink lily, yellow lily, pink lily, and even grabbing some extra white roses that you had from your Christmas bouquet. Eventually, the arrangement is to your liking, and you pull it out of the vase with its wrapping paper, and tie it with a brown string. 

Standing outside of the big building Charlotte’s family rented out for the baby shower, you feel entirely out of place. You can see the giant chandelier dangling from the ceiling from where you stand and you swallow harshly.

Jesus, her in-laws must be rich.

You pull the bouquet a little closer to your chest, adjusting your coat before you walk through the doors.

“Good evening, ma’am,” a man’s voice catches your attention, and you look over at him with a small, sheepish smile.

“Good evening,” you say with a curt nod.

“May I take your coat?”

A doorman.

A fucking doorman.

“Oh! Sure, yeah.”

You knew Charlotte married rich, you just didn’t know how rich. Unfortunately, you had to miss her wedding because you couldn’t get work off that day–it was your boss’ birthday and the restaurant was packed to the max capacity. But you did make sure to send Charlotte a little honeymoon gift, and she told you in grave detail just how much Peter loved it. Anything to make another woman feel desired you guess.

The doorman takes your coat after you hand it to him, hanging it up on a hanger, and placing the hanger on the rack with the rest of them. He extends his arm out, silently allowing you in.

“Thank you,” you mutter before you walk into the main area of the building. There were several long tables with white cloth draped over them. The tables were covered in different plates of appetizers and food, one table serving glasses of champagne. A big tall Christmas tree in the center, neatly wrapped presents underneath it, and a big red ribbon in the middle of it.

You grab a glass of champagne before you set out to find your friend. There were a good amount of people here–Charlotte and Peter’s family and friends you assume. A lot of unfamiliar faces that you most likely will never properly meet.

You stick out like a sore thumb amongst the crowd of people, making you feel small. These people are dressed head-to-toe in expensive suits, dresses, shoes, and jewelry. “Say hi and congratulations to Charlotte and Peter, and then go home and change into sweats,” is what you keep telling yourself in your head. 

As you take a sip from your glass, you catch a glimpse of red hair in your peripheral vision–Charlotte. Quickly, you make your way over to her, flowers in one hand, and your glass of champagne in the other. 

“You made it!” Charlotte says as you approach, opening her arms for a hug.

You return her hug, careful of her baby bump. “Of course I did. How are you?”

Pulling back, you realize just how much she’s glowing. A bright smile is plastered on her face as she speaks to you, a gentle hand on her bump. “I’m great! I’m so glad that you came.”

“I’m sorry again for missing your wedding last year.”

“Oh,” she waves you off, “nonsense. I really appreciated your gift, though.” She winks at you, making you chuckle softly.

“I know, you’ve told me a million times, Char.”

“And I will keep doing so.”

Just then, Peter walks up to the two of you, wrapping an arm around Charlotte’s waist. “Is that who I think it is?”

Charlotte chuckles, playfully swatting Peter’s chest. Seeing the happy couple makes you feel warm and happy for them, but it also reminds you of how you have no one special in your life anymore. No one to share little moments with, no one to fall asleep next to without worrying that they won’t be there the next morning.

Nick ruined you in more ways than one. He broke you. Shattered the hope that you once had of a happy ending.

“It is. How are you, Peter?” you ask.

“I’m great,” he says, smiling at Charlotte before he turns to you, “I can take those.”

You hand him the bouquet carefully, watching Charlotte’s face light up. “Is this one of your famous flower arrangements?” she asks, lightly teasing you.

“Of course! Only the best for you, Char.”

The three of you chat for a while, catching up and laughing. You met Charlotte before you met Peter. The two of you met a few years ago and instantly clicked. You’ve been inseparable since. It’s a real shame that you couldn’t make it to her wedding, but she’s made sure to reassure you that it was fine.

Peter on the other hand, you didn’t know much about. You knew he was the youngest of two boys, he made Charlotte’s sister jealous, and against your will, Charlotte has told you how good he is in bed. It was an odd thing for you to know, but you’re glad that your friend is satisfied with who she married.

“Have you gotten back out there yet?” Charlotte asks you, causing your smile to falter for a second.

This last year has been for yourself, and you’re not entirely sure if you want to get back out there. Especially if it’ll just end up the same way it did with Nick. “No, why?”

“Peter’s brother is single,” Charlotte suggests, nearly making Peter choke on his champagne.

“Jesus, sweetheart,” he wipes his mouth, “I’m not entirely sure if Harry would appreciate you putting his business out like that.”

“What? He is!” she shrugs slightly, raising a hand in mock defeat. “Look, all I’m saying is that you should speak to him,” she pauses, a mischievous glint shimmering in her eyes, “Maybe we could be sisters-in-law.”

“Char!” Peter says, exasperated.

“He has the same vibe as my Peter. I think you guys would get along great.”

The conversation was amusing to you, but an inkling of fear was swimming around in your gut. There was a very big chance that this ‘Harry’ could be an asshole, but if he’s anything like Peter, maybe it’s worth the shot.

“I’ll think about it, Char-”

She squeals, wrapping her arms around your neck. “We’re gonna be family!”

“I said I’ll think about it,” you chuckle.

“You’ll come around. I’ll make sure of it.”

If you knew how much she meant that at the time, you would’ve gone back on your word immediately.

Once your champagne glass is empty and Charlotte’s been distracted by her sister’s antics, you quietly slip out. You rub your hands together as you look up at the beginning of snowfall. The small flurries are sprinkling down, sticking to your hair and clinging to your eyelashes. You always enjoyed how quiet the city got once it began to snow. Like there was a thick blanket weighing down on New York, making it peaceful.

An unexpected warmth envelopes you, and it’s then that you realize you slipped out without grabbing your coat. “Oh, thank you,” you murmur sheepishly, looking up at him as he stands next to you with his hands in his pockets. 

Something about his appearance seems familiar to you and you realize who he must be, “Oh, you’re… Charlotte’s brother-in-law, right? Peter’s brother?”

His dark eyes stare back into yours. A look of curiosity and interest in them before he nods slowly, “Yeah. Harry.” He extends his hand for you to shake and you do the same, introducing yourself to him as well.

Harry’s hand practically swallows yours whole, and its warmth sends a spark through your body. Like something was finally clicking into place deep within your soul. For some reason, your mind briefly flashes to him wrapping his hands around your waist, surrounding you in his warmth. Slowly, they travel somewhere they shouldn’t for someone you just met and barely even know, and you clear your throat before you pull your hand away.

“Are you friends with Charlotte?” he asks as he puts his hand back in his pocket. If he was cold without his suit jacket, he wasn’t making a big deal about it.

“Yeah, we… met a few years ago.” You can actively feel your skin heating up under his gaze. Or maybe it’s just the blazer he put over your shoulders.

He hums in acknowledgement before the doors behind you open. A tall, willowy brunette walks out, making eye contact with Harry. Her confidence radiates off of her in waves, making you feel smaller. “Harry,” she says, “I thought that was you.”

“Lucy,” he says quietly, looking between the both of you.

Of course.

Why would a man like him pick someone like you when he has… Lucy?

As Lucy gets into conversation with Harry, you slowly retreat from them, wanting to curl up in a ball at home. You don’t even realize that you left with Harry’s jacket.

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The walk was short, though it felt stretched thin with every step, each one carrying more weight than you wanted to admit. Joel didn’t look back to check if you were following— he hadn’t needed to. He moved ahead with that same sure-footed certainty he always carried, like the world bent around the fact of him.

His porch came into view eventually, the light above the door burning soft and amber against the dark. The windows glowed faintly, fogged with warmth from inside, and for a moment you hesitated at the bottom of the steps. It looked lived-in. Claimed. A place with edges and stories, not a waypoint or shelter. He pushed the door open without pause, the creak of the hinges familiar to him in a way that tightened something low in your chest.

The air inside wrapped around you, warmer than you expected. Woodsmoke clung faint beneath the heavier scent of leather, old paper, and coffee grounds long since brewed. It smelled like him, you realized, though you hated the thought for how it lodged itself inside of you, too deep to pry free with trembling fingertips.

Crossing the threshold felt like stepping into something private, a boundary he hadn’t invited many through.

“Sit down,” Joel said, his voice carrying low from the hall as he angled toward the kitchen. He didn’t remove his coat or kick off his shoes, and neither did you. A vague flick of his hand marked the living room, his back never turning. “I’ll get the coffee.”

You didn’t sit. Not right away.

The room was dim, a single lamp casting a warm pool of light over the couch and the worn rug beneath it. Shelves lined the walls, dust-free and carefully kept. A stack of books slouched on the side table, their spines creased and softened by more than one read.

You caught yourself moving slowly through the space, fingers sliding along the wooden mantle as though to anchor yourself in the reality of it.

That’s when you noticed the frames.

Tommy’s face grinned back at you from one, Maria’s steady gaze beside him. In another, there was a younger girl, her dark hair tied back in a rough ponytail, smile wide and sharp-edged, one arm slung carelessly across Joel’s shoulder.

You blinked, unsettled by the casual closeness, by the joy caught mid-moment in a way that didn’t seem to belong to the man you knew.

And then there was another. A different girl, younger still. Her hair was loose, her curls dark and shining, her features softer, almost delicate. She was laughing at something just outside the frame, caught mid-motion, eyes bright with a lightness you didn’t have a name for. It was an older photo, one that had been marked by time. The edges were yellowing and there were scratches across the girl’s face, as if it had been passed through many sets of hands.

You had just begun to reach toward the glass of the frame when his voice came from behind you, rougher for how close it was. “You snoopin’?”

You startled, spinning halfway to face him, the heat of embarrassment rushing up your neck. In his hands he held two mugs, steam curling up from their rims.

You didn’t bother denying it. “Maybe.”

He huffed, not quite a laugh, and crossed the room to set one mug down on the table. Then he sank onto the couch with the kind of ease that spoke of habit, his body settling heavy into the cushions.

You hesitated only a moment longer before lowering yourself beside him. The cushion dipped under your weight, tilting you subtly toward him, until the space between your thighs was barely more than a breath. The heat of him radiated toward you, humming through the narrow divide, and all you could think about was how little it would take to close it.

One of his arms lifted and stretched along the backrest of the couch, wide and casual, but when he stilled, it framed the line of your shoulders. He was close enough, now, that if you shifted even slightly, his knuckles might graze the curve of your shoulder.

Joel held his mug in his left hand, his gaze flicking to you in the low light. “Figured you’ve got some questions for me.”

You shrugged, leaning forward in your seat to reach for your coffee. “And I figured you wouldn’t answer them.”

That earned the faintest curve of his mouth, something between a smirk and a grimace. He didn’t correct you.

For a while, the only sound was the soft clink of ceramic when he set his mug down.

You traced the rim of yours with your thumb, then let the words slip before you could lose your nerve. “Who was the girl? The younger one. In the older photo.”

Joel’s head tilted, just enough that the shadows shifted across his face. For a moment he didn’t speak, and you wondered if you’d overstepped, if you’d pried into something he’d never meant you to see.

He’d invited you here, though. He had to have known you’d see.

But then, low and even, he said, “My daughter. Sarah.”

The name settled between you like a stone tossed into still water, rippling outward. You felt it in your chest, the way it hollowed the air.

Joel, who carried himself like stone, like steel— he was someone’s father. The thought was startling, almost disorienting. You couldn’t picture him that way, not entirely: tucking a child’s hair behind her ear, steadying small hands as they learned, standing watch over someone whose world had revolved around him. And yet, the word daughter peeled something back, showed you a truth so intimate it left you unsteady.

Your throat tightened. “She’s beautiful.”

He nodded once, the movement stiff, his gaze fixed on a point far beyond the lamplight, his voice rasping low. “Yeah. She was.”

The past tense struck harder than anything else could have. Was. It lashed through you like a whip, sharp and merciless, cutting deeper than you had any right to let it. Joel had lost her— his daughter— and somehow he was still here, still breathing, still carrying the weight of that truth inside his silence.

Your chest clenched so tight it hurt. The ache spread outward in ways you didn’t expect, sharp behind your ribs, crawling up the line of your throat until your eyes pressed shut against the sting. You could feel it in your hands too, the tremor of it, your grip tightening around the mug until the heat threatened to burn. You thought of your own loss, of how it hollowed you, and in that instant it was unbearable to imagine Joel had been carved open in the same way— that he, too, knew the particular cruelty of love that ended in ruin.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered at last, the words small, fragile, wholly inadequate against the vastness of what he’d confessed.

Your eyes opened and you turned towards him, watching him in the dim light.

Joel’s mouth pressed into a thin line. He gave the smallest shake of his head, as though to dismiss the apology. “Happened a long time ago.”

The silence stretched, brittle with the weight of what hadn’t been said. You wanted to ask more, but the grief in his profile— etched deep and immovable— kept you still.

So instead, your gaze flicked back toward the mantle, and you asked the other question pressing against your ribs. “And the other girl? The one with you, with the ponytail.”

This time, his lips twitched, something softer flickering across his face— something like the ghost of a smile, though it never reached his eyes. “Ellie.” He paused, the name lingering in the space between you. “She’s… complicated. Family.” 

You nodded slowly, though the words tangled in ways you couldn’t quite tear free. You didn’t understand, not fully, but the weight in his tone made you certain it wasn’t something he said lightly.

“She lives here, in Jackson. Her rooms upstairs. You’ll meet her at some point.”

You blinked, surprised by the casual certainty in his tone, the suggestion of a future where your paths might cross.

Before you could puzzle through what that meant, the corner of his mouth curved in a wry, almost fond sort of way. “She’d like you. She’s a smartass, too.”

A startled laugh caught in your throat, softer than you intended. The idea of Joel tolerating not one but two sharp tongues in his life felt almost absurd. You glanced sideways, searching his expression for a trace of exaggeration, but the faint glimmer in his eyes told you he meant it.

The heaviness between you shifted, not gone, but lighter for the first time. You sipped your coffee to hide the way your lips wanted to curve into something you weren’t ready to name.

That was all he offered, but it was more than you expected. You studied him in the quiet, the way his shoulders stayed tight, the way his arm still framed your back though he hadn’t seemed to notice.

“You don’t talk about them much, do you?”

Joel’s gaze cut to you at last, sharp and unblinking. For a beat, you thought he might shut down, retreat into that wall of silence he carried so well.

Instead, he cleared his throat, letting out a low breath. “Don’t mean I don’t think about ’em.”

The words landed in you like an echo, because you knew what it was to carry the dead everywhere you went. Knew what it was to breathe around ghosts. You didn’t say it aloud, but the truth of it sat heavy in your chest all the same.

Joel’s words lingered in the quiet, the weight of them circling you both. You held onto your mug a little tighter, letting the steam curl against your face, unsure if you were meant to respond or simply carry the silence with him.

“What about you?”

The question was simple, but the way he asked it made your pulse stumble.

You blinked. “What about me?”

Joel’s brow furrowed faintly, like he wasn’t about to let you wriggle out of it. “Before I found you down in that basement.” He paused, his voice lowering, roughened not with judgment but with something closer to curiousity. “What was your life like, before?”

Your mouth curved into a half-smile, brittle around the edges. “Define life.”

That earned a huff from him, a puff of air through his nose that might’ve been amusement, though it didn’t quite make it to his eyes. “Ya know what I mean.”

You looked away, eyes tracing the curve of your mug, the faint ring it had left on the table. The urge to deflect pressed sharp against your chest, to shrug it off, to say it didn’t matter. To keep the ghosts locked tight where they belonged. But Joel’s gaze held steady, unrelenting in its quiet, and the pressure in your ribs made it hard to breathe.

For once, you didn’t have the strength to wall it off completely. He’d offered some of his own ghosts up to you, let you glimpse the fractures in him. It felt only fair that you tried to do the same.

“I had…” The words scraped jagged in your throat. You cleared it and tried again, each syllable a stone dragged over gravel. “I had a sister. Alice.”

Her name slipped out before you could stop it. It hung there fragile and sharp, a blade balanced in the air.

Joel didn’t say anything right away. He only leaned back a fraction, his arm still braced along the back of the couch, his expression unreadable but not unkind. Waiting. Not prying, not pushing— just holding the space you’d given him. Your chest ached as though your ribs were bound too tightly.

You exhaled, shaky, the sound betraying you. “She—” The word crumbled. You shook your head, unable to force the rest through the knot in your throat. The memories of her pressed against your temples and clawed at the back of your throat, begging to be released.

You lifted the mug to your lips, using the burn of the coffee to ground yourself, to scald down anything that lingered. “She’s gone now,” you managed, your voice brittle, shaky. “It doesn’t matter.”

The stove cracked softly somewhere behind you, the wind sighing at the windows.

Then Joel’s voice cut through, low and steady. “Reckon it does.”

The quiet insistence pressed against you, pried at the seam you’d left open. Your hand trembled where it cupped the mug, the reflection of your face breaking into ripples with every shake.

“She was younger than me,” you whispered, your voice thin. “Bright. Loud. The kind of loud that made people forgive her for everything else. She could… she could light up a room, just by being in it. Even after everything.”

The images rose, too sharp to fight back— her tilted head, the warmth of her gaze, that laugh always too big for the walls that tried to contain it. Your chest throbbed with the ache of it, your eyes stung with heat you refused to let fall. You blinked hard, willing it down, but it pressed and pressed until you felt your breath snag shallow in your lungs.

“She didn’t deserve—” The words snagged, splintering apart, cutting you open from the inside. You tried to stop them before they hollowed you completely, but they spilled free in ragged pieces. “I didn’t save her. I tried, I really tried, but it didn’t matter in the end.”

The confession bled into the quiet, a wound laid bare. You braced for questions, for him to press until it broke you open further. That was how it always went— people prying, demanding explanations you couldn’t give. People seeing your darkest parts and turning away.

But Joel didn’t.

When you finally lifted your head, his eyes were already on you, his jaw set, grief etched in the lamplight. He didn’t look away. He didn’t flinch.

“It matters,” he said. “You tried and that matters.” The words were rough, dragged raw from somewhere deep in him, but quiet— quiet like he knew that if he gave them more weight, you’d shatter.

His arm shifted on the couch behind you, the fabric creaking softly. And his fingers moved, just enough to brush the top of your shoulder. It was the barest touch, deliberate in its restraint, yet it reached through the armour you’d wrapped around yourself, steadying and undoing you all at once.

For a heartbeat neither of you moved… but something in the air bent and drew taut like a thread stretched to the point of breaking.

The space between you began to fold in on itself, collapsing until there was barely any left. You felt the solid heat of his thigh pressed against yours, his fingers shifting more firmly on your shoulder, anchoring you in place. His breath ghosted across your skin, uneven, carrying the faintest tremor of something that made your pulse stutter.

Your gaze betrayed you, sliding down to his mouth. The line of his lips was rough, set hard, but then he let out a soft exhale, startled, as though the nearness caught him off guard too.

And still, he leaned closer.

Your pulse surged—

The front door burst open with a rush of cold air, Tommy’s voice tumbling in ahead of him.

“There you are, I’ve been lookin’ all over— figured you’d be holed up instead of—”

The door slammed against the frame, rattling the walls, his boots thudding heavy across the threshold. He barreled down the hall, words rolling unchecked in that familiar drawl that always seemed too big for the space.

You jolted upright, coffee sloshing over the rim of your mug and scalding the back of your hand. The sting shot sharp through you as you hissed under your breath, setting the cup down on the table with more force than you meant.

By the time Tommy rounded the archway into the living room, you were already standing, breath unsteady, your hands clenched tight at your sides. Joel hadn’t moved, not really, but the sudden absence of his arm behind you felt louder than the slam of the door.

Tommy faltered, his stride hitching when his eyes flicked between the two of you— your flushed face, Joel sinking back into his seat like the couch might swallow him whole.

He cleared his throat, awkward now in a way you hadn’t seen him before. “Uh, well, I was just— I thought I’d drag you along to the Christmas Eve thing before Maria sends a search party.”

“I was just leaving,” you blurted, the words tumbling out before anyone could speak. Your hand still smarted from the coffee, but you ignored it, already darting across the living room like you were being chased from the space. “Thanks for the coffee, Joel.”

You didn’t wait for a reply. The space suddenly felt too small, the walls pressing in, your own pulse a roar in your ears. In three quick strides you were out into the hall, fumbling with the zipper of your coat, desperate for cold air and distance.

Behind you, you thought you heard Tommy’s voice again— half confusion, half amusement— but you didn’t stop long enough to listen.

The night air hit you like a shock, sharp and biting, your breath curling white as you tugged your coat tight. Still, it wasn’t enough to cool the fire burning under your skin. Every step away from Joel’s door only seemed to stoke it higher, the echo of his voice, his eyes, the touch of his hand replaying in the dark.

Desire pooled low in your stomach, a heat you didn’t want to name, didn’t want to admit— not to yourself, not to anyone. It tangled with something else, something sharper. The way your chest had clenched when his gaze caught yours. The way the space between you had folded in like it was meant to disappear. You didn’t know what to call it, but it scared you.

Your boots crunched against the frozen ground, carrying you without thought toward the sound that rose from the heart of Jackson. Music floated on the air, laughter too, spilling warmth and light into the snow-choked streets. Lanterns glowed along the eaves, garlands strung overhead, and for the first time since you’d arrived, you realized how loud the town could be when it wanted to.

You slowed, heart still pounding, eyes sweeping the square. The mess hall had opened wide to the night, doors thrown back to let the glow spill into the street. Inside, the long rows of tables and chairs had been cleared away, a band set up along one wall with their instruments cutting sharp and bright through the din. Strings of lights hung low across the ceiling, swaying gently whenever the door shut hard against the cold.

People pressed shoulder to shoulder, some spilling into the square outside, mugs lifted high. Their voices rose in a ragged chorus, laughter slipping loose between the words, the air alive with the hum of it. The sharper tang of whiskey cut through the sweetness of mulled wine and spiced cider, heady enough to draw you closer before you even realized you’d been moving.

You hadn’t meant to come here, hadn’t meant to walk straight into the center of it all. But as soon as someone caught sight of you— a woman flushed pink from drink— she waved you in like you belonged. Another pressed a steaming mug into your hand before you could form a protest.

⤷ crash of worlds - javier peña x f!reader

Javier was so easy to get lost in. He’d make your head all fuzzy, telling you the things you wanted to hear just before he disappeared into the cool night. But this felt different. Weird almost. Like he was searching for a reason to stay, but within you. Almost as if he was wanting to finally grow the seeds he planted so deep inside your soul so early on.

Over time, the hatred you had for him for leaving slowly turned into envy. Envious that he got to leave Laredo while you were stuck here on your own. The two of you made plans to run away together when you were younger, but all of that went out the window when he met Lorraine.

You lost your best friend when she came into the picture. She had some deep rooted insecurities and made it a point that Javier stopped hanging out with you. Deep down, you guess that was the right thing for her to do. Lord knows how close you and Javi were, but that didn’t make it hurt any less.